This document, though, looked as professional as the ones that came from the era, stamped and signed by a one Janice Kendall, midwife. It included signatures from her imaginary parents, Robert and Joy McLain. It included her birthday, and it actually was her birthday—May 27—perhaps so Nova would be less likely to give the false date should anyone ask for it.
And, printed in neat handwriting in the center of the page, was her name.
Almost.
Nova Jean McLain
“Do I look Scottish?”
“Your father was Scottish,” said Millie, opening the bed of a scanner and pulling out a sheet of paper. “You take after your mother.”
Nova opened her mouth to refute—her dad was Italian, her mom Filipino, and she liked to think she was a strong mix of them both—but she stopped herself. What did it matter what the world thought her name was, or where she got her blue eyes or her black hair? What did it matter if anyone thought her parents were Robert and Joy … whoever they were.
She couldn’t walk into the Renegades trials with the name Artino, and Nova Jean McLain was as good a secret identity as any.
She lifted the birth certificate. The next page was the required application to participate in the Renegade trials. It had been filled out using an old typewriter.
Name: Nova Jean McLain
Alias: Insomnia
Prodigious Ability （Superpower）： Requires no sleep or rest; maintains full wakefulness at all times without any decline in aptitude from sleep deprivation.
“Insomnia,” Nova muttered. It wasn’t exactly the sort of name that would strike fear in the hearts of her enemies, but it wasn’t bad, either. She wondered if Leroy had come up with it, or Millie.
“There’s a spot on the last page for your signature,” said Millie, holding out a ballpoint pen. “Don’t sign the wrong name, now.”
Nova took the pen without looking up. Outside, the waves drummed a steady, crashing melody against the side of the boat. “I live on East Ninety-Fourth and Wallowridge?” She frowned. “Are there even habitable homes in that area?”
“Would you rather I put ‘subway tunnel off the defunct Mission Street station’？” said Millie.
Nova glanced up. “I just don’t want anyone to come investigating me and find out the residence in my paperwork is actually some convenience store that burned down twenty years ago or something.”
Millie cast an annoyed look at Leroy, who returned a placating smile.
“I am not an amateur,” she spat. Bending over a nearby desk, she started to sort the scattered pens, sticky notes, and razor blades into a collection of tin cans. “Should anyone come looking for you, they will find a two-bedroom row house that has been owned outright by Peter McLain for more than forty years.”
“Who’s Peter McLain?”
“Your uncle,” she said. “On page three, you’ll find a two-hundred-word personal essay on how grateful you are that he took you in after your parents’ untimely deaths.”
“Okay, but who is he really?”
“No one. A figment of my imagination. A phantom, existing only in paperwork. Don’t worry—all the paperwork will match up. As far as anyone knows, the house really is owned and occupied by Mr. McLain, and now his niece.”
Nova glanced at Leroy, but he was watching Millie. “The application required personal references, I believe? What did you find for those?”
“A grade-school teacher who thought Nova was a delightful student to have in her class,” said Millie, “and an old boss who saw it as a horrible loss when Nova chose to leave his employment, but who is thrilled to see her pursuing her dream of becoming a Renegade.”
“An old boss?” Nova flipped to the next page, where she saw that Nova Jean McLain had been working at Cosmopolis Amusement Park up until a month ago. “I’m a ride operator? Come on. A chipmunk could do that job.”
“Both references,” continued Millie, as if Nova hadn’t spoken, “are legitimate sources. True working civilians in this community who have graciously agreed to praise Miss McLain quite highly should they receive further inquiry about her.” Her gaze slipped toward Leroy. “Of course, you’ll be paying them for the honor.”
“Naturally,” said Leroy, looking down at the application. “Winston used to operate a side business out of Cosmopolis Park. I think he might have known this gentleman.”
Millie nodded. “His personal dealings fared much better under anarchy than the Council. It was not difficult to persuade him to this cause.”