Implant

by J. Grace Pennington

  The first window he saw was dirty, but glass. Without stopping he raised his foot and kicked, harder than he would have thought he could. Glass shattered. A piece of it sliced his cheek while a couple more shards scratched his arms. He gripped the window frame and climbed onto the sill, took a deep breath, and leapt to the ground.

  Thankfully, no one had bothered to pave most of the Academy grounds, and he landed in soft dirt. But the impact still jarred him, and a dull pain pulled at his chest. A quick touch of the stitches under his shirt told him the suture held.

  A glance ahead showed him that Allison was running towards the exterior of the field and he ran after her, not to catch her, but to get out himself.

  Clearly, she thought he had more hostile intentions. When she caught a glimpse of him, she screamed, “Get him!”

  But before she’d even finished the second word, Gordon started a cry of his own. “The Control Center is going to blow in just a few seconds! If you value your lives you’d better get outside the field now!”

  He repeated the basic message until he went hoarse. As he’d expected, most of the goons were more afraid for themselves than concerned about Allison.

  Because, he realized, they had no idea who she was. That was one of the downsides of anonymity.

  Black-suits stampeded all around him, heading for the barrier.

  He looked ahead. The force field sparkled several feet away. He’d given up counting, but it had to be almost five minutes by now. He watched Allison jump through and turn to watch as her men poured out like ants from an anthill.

  Ten feet away and a blast sounded behind him. It rumbled as he ran. Five feet—smoke filled his nostrils and he coughed. Two and a half—the heat reached him—

  Then the electric buzz passed over his body and he ran into one of the goons. He panted, each breath pulling at the ache in his chest.

  Everyone faced the same direction. Allison, goons of all ranks—he recognized Pete and Tanner—and yes, Dagny Dalton. He must have escaped in the confusion when the rebel base had been shut down.

  Gordon turned too. The force-field contained the explosion, but the dome lit up with flame and smoke. Gordon watched the blue-tinted fire swim fiercely under the bubble, and shivered at the thought of those left behind in that inferno. Then he came to his senses and turned away.

  “Get back!” he shouted over the roar. “It’ll get to the shield generator before long!”

  They made a mad dash for more distance from the Academy. When they’d gained about thirty feet, another boom shook the ground.

  They stopped then, and stood watching the remainder of the unshielded buildings glow with crackling flames. Smoke and ash drifted towards them on the warm morning breeze.

  Silence reigned among those gathered there. Then Allison drew herself up to her petite height and pointed at Gordon.

  “He’s the one!” she cried. “He destroyed our life, our work—our pride! Kill him!”

  No one moved.

  “What are you waiting for?” she screamed.

  Finally one of the goons stammered, “Who—are you?”

  Dagny Dalton stepped forward. There was silence again as his powerful presence overwhelmed them. “That is the Head of the Academy,” he said in a voice that was no longer flat.

  A murmur went through the group.

  After looking around at the group in one sweeping motion of his head, Dagny Dalton reached up and pulled off his glasses.

  Gordon shouldn’t have been surprised to see Ben Branson’s dark, deep-set eyes looking at him, but he was. It made complete sense. Who had better reason to fear Allison than the bully who had been her greatest tormentor? Evidently Allison had subscribed to the adage “it is better to be feared than to be loved” in trusting Dagny—Ben—more than Doc—Gordon. Maybe she’d been right—then.

  But that was then, and this was now.

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Gordon for a moment, then at Allison.

  Allison shrank from his gaze. “B-Ben,” she stammered.

  “Go, Gordon,” he said, still looking at her. “We’ll take care of this.”

  But Gordon stepped forward and shook his head. “Just a minute.

  Ben listened.

  “I recommend confinement and treatment,” he said, speaking to Ben but looking at Allison. “If she can live with herself after what she’s done—let her.”

  Ben nodded. He’d had a long time to reflect on his part in this, as had Doc. Maybe that was why he hadn’t killed Gordon when he had the chance. “Go on, Gordon, really. I’ll take care of her. You need to go check on your men.”

  His men. He choked. Neil. Nodding, he turned and ran, leaving Allison, the man he’d known as Dagny Dalton, and the rest behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  He ran, amazed at his own strength and stamina.

  A week ago he would have given anything for this. To be rid of his pain and fatigue, to be able to move free of cramps and shaking vision. It was so freeing. Freeing—yes. He sighed inwardly, still running. But that freedom came at too high a price. A price so high it was no longer freedom.

  And he wasn’t willing to pay that.

  He slowed for an instant to check his watch. Just twenty minutes left, and he would be pulled back to where he’d come from. No—not yet. First he had to see if Neil was still alive, see what had happened to the rest of the rebels.

  With the blue bubble gone, the base was just a sad conglomeration of tumbled-down buildings in the middle of nothing. His heartbeat accelerated as he approached, though with anticipation rather than effort. With his newfound strength, the distance closed rapidly. Still, when he slowed to a walk a couple yards from the collection of structures, he found he was tired—but a healthy, normal tired, like he remembered from when he was a little boy.

  Where was Neil? He darted into the streets looking frantically for any sign. The place was deserted, and he wondered if they’d all gotten underground safely. All except—

  “Neil!” he called, cupping his hands to his mouth.

  No answer.

  “Neil!” he screamed again.

  Nothing.

  Then a mild cough drifted through the dusty air. Straight ahead. He hurried towards the sound. “Neil!” he tried again.

  “Gor—” came a weak voice, then another cough.

  Rounding the corner of a dilapidated building, he found him. He stopped short, a sob rising in his chest as he stared.

  Neil lay on his back in the dust, his body limp, his shirt splattered with blood. There was blood on the ground, on his face, in his mouth. Too much blood.

  As he watched, Neil coughed again, and blood rose in his mouth, some of it spilling out, the rest nearly choking him.

  Gordon rushed forward and gently turned him over so the blood could drain from his mouth. His heart ached as he did it. It was true, then. The Implant had detonated, rupturing the heart. How he’d managed to live even this long was a mystery to Gordon.

  “Thanks—Gordon,” he whispered, letting Gordon pull his head into his lap. “We—did—it…”

  “Yes,” Gordon choked. Tears stung his eyes, making Neil’s form blurry. He shook them out. “We did.”

  Neil coughed again, and Gordon gritted his teeth as more blood came. This wouldn’t last long.

  “Free—dom…” Neil whispered, his eyes closing.

  Tears spilling freely, Gordon gripped Neil’s thin, pale hand. “No, Neil, please…”

  A spasm of coughing shook Neil’s whole body, spewing blood.

  “No!” Gordon screamed. He clutched Neil close, letting the crimson splatter onto his hands, his arms, his clothes. “You can’t go.”

  Neil’s head fell back, his lips moved without sound, and his fingers faintly squeezed Gordon’s. Then his hand went limp.

  For a second Gordon felt nothing. Then another sob rose inside him and he clutched Neil’s hand to his wet face. He was gone. Gone.

  They’d chide him for his grief if they were
still alive. Both of them. There was work to be done. He had responsibilities to face up to. He had another world waiting for him.

  Still pressing the cold hand to his face, he said, “I won’t forget, Neil. I promise.”

  He wasn’t willing to let go. He didn’t really want to go back alone. How could he do what he had to without Neil?

  A breeze swept by, causing the blood that covered him to turn cold. It lifted his hair and toyed with it, and he looked towards the horizon, tears still trailing his cheeks.

  The sun hung well above the edge of the earth, radiating a harsh light on the barren world.

  Gently, he laid Neil’s hand down. Even as he let him go he felt a lurch in his stomach. Like someone grabbing his insides and squeezing them.

  He remembered that feeling.

  The ground dropped from beneath him, leaving him suspended in midair. He took one last look at his dead friend’s face and whispered, “Goodbye,” as the face swirled, faded, and washed away like paint.

  For a fraction of a second he just hung there in the dark. Then he shot through the air, speeding up until his ears popped and his eyes pulled back into their sockets. He cried out as something pierced his head.

  Then he stopped moving.

  He stood on firm ground. The air smelled clean and pure, free from dust and blood. He felt clean and oddly rested. Footsteps and a vague buzz of voices swept into his consciousness.

  Someone was gripping his arms.

  “Hey!” a voice called, and the hands on his arms shook him. “Are you all right? Do I need to call 911 or something?”

  Gordon forced his eyes to open. Yes, the barren landscape, the tattered base, and Neil’s body were all gone. The bright, clean Academy that he remembered from his own time was all around him. His clothes were fresh and clean, and there was no blood on him anywhere.

  “Seriously, are you okay?”

  He looked in front of him. Yes—the geeky kid he’d met in the waiting room before he was pulled away.

  “I’m—I’m fine,” he said slowly. He felt like laughing. How could the kid suspect what he’d been through in those few seconds—however long it had been. He was not the same Gordon Harding who’d sat there and argued about Implants. He smiled. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  The boy blew out and let go of Gordon. “Good. I thought you were going to faint or something.”

  “Gordon?”

  Coldness spread through him from his toes. Allison.

  He turned towards her voice and she was there. Young, slender, shy, just the way he remembered her from before.

  Oh, Allison…

  She held a clipboard and spoke haltingly. “My father can see you now. They’re willing to accept you for the Implant.”

  Time stood still as he looked at her. How could everything be the same to her, when everything had changed for him? He fought to wrap his mind around it. Neil—Doc—the Head—the Control Center—the rebel base—and now back here, home. Everything back to normal.

  When he finally spoke, he hardly recognized his own voice. “Please thank your father for me, but I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be trying the Implant after all.”

  Her mouth dropped open. The kid grinned and clapped Gordon on the back. “So I changed your mind! Hey, I’m more convincing than I thought!”

  Gordon smiled at Allison.

  “But—” she stammered. “I thought—what about your leukemia?”

  He remembered what she’d said to him in the Sanctum about touching, and he reached for her hand and took it gently in both of his.

  “Allison,” he said softly, “freedom is too precious to be sold for anything—even good health.”

  She didn’t answer, but she glanced down at his hands. Her lip trembled.

  “Thank you anyway.” He let her hand go.

  “Way to go, old fellow,” the kid said.

  Gordon grinned. “Thanks,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m Gordon Harding.”

  “Pleasure,” the kid said, blinking his big eyes and taking Gordon’s hand heartily. “Neil Crater.”

  Gordon froze. It was—it couldn’t be—but why not? Of course. The enthusiasm, the revolutionary ideas—those huge blue eyes. He looked closer. It was Neil!

  His grin grew wider.

  Neil shifted a little. “Uh, something wrong with that?”

  Gordon laughed. Laughed loud and long. Then he shook his head. “No. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just—that was the name of a very good friend of mine.”

  “Cool.” Shifting his backpack onto his shoulder, Neil walked with Gordon to the door of the Academy. “So, I’m trying to get them to let me into college this year, for science of course! I want to be an engineer. What about you?”

  As he pushed open the door, Gordon breathed in the morning air and answered without reservation.

  “I’m going to be a doctor.”

  THE END

  Special Thanks

  More than any of my other novels, Implant has been a group effort. I originally wrote the story using the One Year Adventure Novel curriculum, so I have to thank Daniel and Carrol Schwabauer for putting that amazing program together, and for their support of me and so many other young writers. But I didn’t come upon the curriculum myself—my mother found it at a homeschool convention, and she and my dad bought it for us. I didn’t go through the curriculum myself, either. I did it with my sisters Hope and Faith, and they, along with my sister Patience and my brother Jacob, listened as I read the snippets of the first draft aloud. They weren’t the only ones to read the first draft—my beloved Aubrey Hansen, also known affectionately as Leah, read it when it was full of holes and I’d left all the exposition out. Then she, along with her husband Joel Greene over at Penoaks Publishing, did the beautiful formatting you see before you.

  But there’s more to a book than a first draft and a layout—there’s beta reading, for example. Elsa Gustafsson, Jonathan Garner, Joel Parisi, and Jeremiah Stiles all did that, and gave me their much-valued input. But Joel also did some editing on the story, especially when it came to weaponry, and Jeremiah edited the whole thing, and made me laugh a lot in the process. Then there’s the drop-down-dead gorgeous cover and the chapter heading art, designed by my sister Patience over at The Brightness Project. Add to that moral support from my brothers Noah, Adam, Elijah, and Levi, a special inspirational song from Tanner Enloe, and a lot of poking from the likes of Timothy Miegs, Katie Erickson, and Morgan Huneke, and you have the book that is now before you.

  There’s more to it, of course—there’s all the years of writing courses and support from my parents, there’s all the other people who have contributed to my writing journey along the way, and there’s God, who gave me my imagination and abilities in the first place. But if I were to write down the name of every single person who has had an impact on this book—it would add a whole other chapter.

  So thank you, everyone who helped. I hope you’re as proud of your work as I am.

  About the Author

  J. Grace Pennington has been reading stories as long as she can remember, and writing them almost as long. She is also a prolific medical transcriptionist, amateur musician, chocolate eater, daughter, sister, friend, and laundry folder. She lives in Texas, and if she was part of the Implant society, her role in the rebellion would probably be monitoring current events and correspondence in the computer center.

  If you enjoyed Implant, or even if you didn’t, would you consider leaving an honest review on Amazon.com and letting other readers know your thoughts?

 

 

 
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