Romy: Book I of the 2250 Saga
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Romy
Book I of the 2250 Saga
(2nd Edition May 2016)
Draft 2 Digital
©Nirina Stone 2015
Edited by Laura Kingsley
Cover Design by Shardel (selfpubbookcovers)
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Dedication
I’m Going In
Living the Good Life
Auction
Isaac Oh Two
The Family
Captors
Soren City
A History of Apex
Learning
Legacy
Here I go again
Status Quo
Status Quo?
EPILOGUE
THE END
Excerpt from Romy’s Legacy
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Nirina Stone
Synopsis
In the year 2250, life in Apex is built on classification systems. The rich Prospo live a lavish life in skyscrapers. Poor Citizens live underground and Soren terrorists are a threat no one wants to contend with, least of all young, healthy women that are used solely for breeding.
Twenty year old Romy believes she’s done everything right to avoid being put on the Soren auction block. She’s studied hard and attained her robotic certification to secure an enviable job in Prospo City, but when her time comes, instead of the coveted ‘B’ classification, Romy’s status leaves her vulnerable to the Soren terrorists.
Follow Romy as she strives to live the life she’s worked so hard to attain and learns the truth about her name, her past, and her world.Book II is available for pre-order now (special 99c for a limited time!) Get it here.
Dedication
To my family, for you are everything. I love you.
I’m Going In
The car’s engine revs as it accelerates, barrelling down the road. Traffic is never heavy anyway, but this late in the day, the highway is all mine.
Everyone is busy at work. No one—except maybe the Prospo—has the time to do anything else, least of all take a long drive into Prospo City.
Adjusting the seat slightly, I keep my eyes on the road ahead. The car is a huge, powerful silver beast, bigger and faster than anything I’ve driven before—the kind that probably costs more to run than what an average Citizen makes in a year. I imagine the arrogant Prospo that drives this doesn’t blink an eye when he fills it. Hell, he probably doesn’t even notice the credits it eats.
I would have picked something far less—conspicuous—but when the opportunity presents itself, you don’t question the tools handed to you.
Reaching up to adjust the rear view mirror, I catch my determined eyes in its reflection. Father’s big black eyes stare back at me, framed with his ridiculously long eyelashes. They are vastly different from Mother’s dainty hazel eyes with a hint of mischief in them, she’d often say they got her in trouble. Well, look at the trouble I’m in now, Mother, I think with a chuckle.
There’s a fierce glint in my eye, which doesn’t match the quiver in my belly. I have to keep it up though, if I’m to be effective today. I glance back at the disappearing horizon where home is, then focus my eyes back on the road.
I press my foot down harder on the accelerator, and my body is flung into the seat. My head snaps back as street lights in my peripheral vision disappear into lines. I haven’t checked the speedometer. The faster, the better, I say, but do I need to see how fast? Not today. It doesn’t matter if I’m over the speed limit. By the time they catch up to me and dock credits, I will already be where I need to be. Sirens wail in the distance, but I estimate they’re a good seven minutes away as the car accelerates.
If only I could have found another way to do this. I really hate driving. But stealing the car and going through with what I was about to do was the simplest, fastest, least painful plan I could think of. I’m still not keen to hurt anybody, but it’s necessary. Don’t be such a coward! I clench my teeth and wince—the dull pain in my gums is a nausea-inducing, screeching stab. Ignoring the consistent pain in my teeth, I peer ahead.
Prospo City looms up, rising like a mirage, and I am parched. The buildings shine and shimmer, tall silver stalagmites in the distance. It’s been months since I’ve seen sunlight peep through the thick clouds in the sky, a small beam of light pushing through and magnifying the world makes my heart leap. I often wonder what the world is like from the top of one of those tall buildings. But I’m a poor Citizen, likely never to set foot in one, least of all look down on the rest of the vast State of Apex from one of them.
I push the pedal harder, no longer hearing the wheels fly across the road, only wind.
I’m over the Habba Bridge in no time, and see the bank come up around the corner. It’s bigger than I remember, but that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I turn and aim the steering wheel towards the bank’s glass front and with one final push of my foot, hold my breath and drive the car over the sidewalk. No people, thank Odin. Smashing the big silver beast through the double-paned glass, I hear a thundering shatter and a roar fills my ears as the car comes to a sudden stop.
The seatbelt locks and my body is thrown forward, snapping back into the seat like an elastic. The ozone-smelling air bag slams my chest back painfully. I shove it away from my face, forgetting about my aching teeth for a split second. The pain migrates to my shoulders and upper back. At least my neck’s not too sore.
Move move move! I pull off the seatbelt, slam the car door open, and jump out with the gun held out in both hands. I trained for this, so my hands are not shaking though my heart pounds like it’s about to burst out of my chest.
Looking quickly around, I spy only a handful of surprised clientele—perfectly manicured polished Prospo. The room would have been sterile, shiny and clean, but for the dust and debris the car’s dumped on it. Ten bank tellers sit with their mouths agape, and I count one, no, two security guards, hands already reaching for their firearms.
Shoot to injure, not to kill, shoot to injure not to kill, my head pleas as I bring my hands around and shoot the first security guard in the leg. He falls with a sigh and a small stream of blood pools under his leg. I turn around, the blood still in my vision—I hope the bullet didn’t hit an artery.
The other guard has frozen in his tracks. If he hadn’t, I would already be dead. He’s young, not much older than me, really. We’re two kids sizing each other up like we’re about to sit on the same swing at a playground.
From this distance, I won’t be able to shoot him with a guarantee of not killing him. I didn’t have long enough time to train for that. So, with my eyes on his hands, I start towards him, keeping my breaths steady—as steady as I can.
He’s not moving though. His eyes bulge out, his mouth is slack, and he can’t hide the tremor in his shoulders. There is a throbbing vein in the side of his neck, and I can count his heartbeats from here.
“Calm down,” I say and continue my walk to him. I hope I sound kind. “I’m not here to kill you, okay?” His eyes dart from my eyes to my gun and back again. He’s clearly not convinced. I am about two feet away, so I train my gun on his right thigh. “Don’t worry, they’ll fix you up. The pain won’t last long.” I put on my most sympathetic smile and shoot him in the side of the leg.
He crumples to the ground, holding his thigh and wailing softly as I turn. “Be brave,” I say, “it’s only a scratch.” Why am I talking so much? I’m never this chatty. Maybe I’m more nervous than I thought.
I collect the guards’ weapons, and throw them into the wrecked silver car. They won’t try to crawl into it. The useless Prospo, standing like statues, are too stupid or too lazy to bother.
They actually look frightened, which is amusing. It must be nice to be so sheltered.
I point a hand to the guards. “Will one of you please bring them a med-kit?” I ask the Tellers. I know the guards will be fine, but why keep them in pain for longer than necessary? When none of the Tellers move, I aim my weapon in their general direction. “Now,” I say, as one startles and shuffles out of his glass case. He walks towards the guards, med-kit in hand. I’m just glad he didn’t think to realize I couldn’t hurt him behind all that bullet-proof glass.
The pain in my teeth seems to double as I pause to study the rest of the people. “Have a seat, or whatever you’re doing.” I turn my back to them and wave a hand. I don’t have much time, so I turn to find their automated joe machine and march up to it with my hand ahead of me, wrist facing up. I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans, and wonder how I kept the gun steady with sweaty palms.
There are only thirty credits left on my wrist Alto. Barely enough for a lovely hot cup of joe. I never like drinking it with cream anyway. A hit of jane would be better for my teeth, but who has the extra credits for a lighter?
Scanning my wrist, I wait patiently for the black tar to drip and steam into the recyclable brown cup. I breathe in the brew like it’s the only smell in the world that counts. Drinking something this hot won’t do my teeth any favours, but it’s well worth the impending pain. I bring it up to my lips and take a long, scalding drink. I sit down on a small gray chair. My entire body is sore.
Mission accomplished, I think and wait patiently, sipping from the cup.
Alright, let’s run through today’s activities: a Prospo and his wife thrown to the ground, with minor scrapes and a bit of a shock, a big ass car stolen and driven over the line, a car crash into a bank, two security guards shot, but no one killed. That should buy me at least five years, which is more than enough time.
Then the sirens echo from the door and bright lights—red and blue, red and blue—reflect across the walls in the otherwise sterile white-marbled bank.
They park abruptly around the corner and rush in, guns trained on me, but I’ve already dropped my own gun on the ground in front of my feet.
I need them to know I’m not as dangerous as my predecessors. Dangerous, yes, but not as dangerous. So I give them my most polite smile and throw back the rest of the dregs of joe into my throat. Then I obediently drop to my knees with my hands on the back of my head as demanded.
They pull me up from the ground, twisting my arms behind my back, and they read me my rights though I don’t pay attention.
“Would you like an attorney?” they ask, dragging me to one of the waiting police vehicles.
“No thanks,” I answer, still smiling. “Take me straight through please. My teeth are killing me!”
“What’s your name?” they ask though they will scan my wrist anyway to confirm it.
“Romy,” I reply, as their car door closes on me. “Romy Fifty Two.”
Living the Good Life
I wake up to lights on, 5:30 in the morning, like every other day over the last three years. I quickly run through affirmations to get rid of my stupid complacent thoughts. They instruct us to keep only positive thoughts during our sentence for “it’s the only way to thrive.” Who am I to question that?
With a long yawn, I stretch my arms up, reaching to the ceiling as high as I can until I hear something crack in my back. I’ve got all of twenty seconds before I need to be up and out of the cot, to head to work, then school, then the clinic, then back to work.
Hearing a noise, I turn to the rest of the room. My three bunk-mates are already up and getting prepped for the day.
“Morning,” I mumble, thinking my teeth need to be brushed. Blech.
“You getting up yet or what?” Knox says. Her face is blank, unsmiling.
What’s her problem? “I am up. Don’t be a shit.” I rub my knuckles hard on my eyes as I sit up.
“She’s getting auctioned today,” Jody says, not looking up from her bunk as she tucks her sheets in. “Don’t you be a shit.”
Ah crap. I look over at Knox, remembering she’s a Level C. I mumble a quick “Sorry,” and get up to wash my face at our tiny silver sink.
My face in the mirror is swollen with sleep. Wow, prison really does affect you, doesn’t it? My eyes are bright and shining, my skin glowing under the artificial light over my head. I touch my hair, and am still amazed it’s this soft and silky. It wasn’t this smooth and healthy before the three years I’ve spent in the Hole. If only Mother could see me now. I brush my teeth, still eyeing my pink, supple cheeks in the mirror. I feel vain, staring at myself like this, but it’s still something to get used to.
I’m not beautiful by any means. I have the same generic ‘mixed’ face of most people of Apex—olive skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, thick black hair, and a haughty superiority that we all seem to share, though for what reason? I’m not sure. All I know is, we all have similar strong chins that we keep up in the air, like we’re stubbornly questioning something. We never do, though.
“So ladies,” Arlene says. “Ready for breakfast? Let’s go.”
Arlene is our bunk’s mother hen, and we call her Mama. She’s a lovely lady in her late fifties who had to leave her little girl at home with promises of seeing her and the rest of her family after three years in the Hole. She’s been here for over seven years. She walks ahead of us with a slight limp, heading to the Mass Hall where the daily slop of porridge will be served up. I’m not a fan of the sticky gray substance. Who is? But I always force myself to finish it. Sustenance is free here, why would I pass on it? Besides, snotty glop is better than nothing, and I’ve had a whole lot of nothing before.
I line up behind Arlene, and ahead of Knox and Jody, not paying attention to anyone else around me. I’ve been good at keeping my head down this far, I don’t intend to do anything to change that.
We shuffle forward, marching along with the crowd, all of us dressed in the identical Azure uniform—a chalky blue that matches the walls.
The prison intercom sputters and howls for a split second, before a voice calls over the speakers. “Today’s auction, ladies and gents, will be held in the Grand Auditorium at three p.m. Your attendance is mandatory. For those of you who wish to hold a pre-release auction spot, go to Room one-oh-three on the mezzanine.”
The speakers crackle, and all is silent but for the shuffling forward of hundreds of feet over dusty old tiles, and the occasional cough. We are the Azure army. A silent, shuffling mass of soldiers, like ants that go about their day without question. We don’t speak much. There isn’t much to say.
After breakfast, I make my way through the noisy mess hall to sign in for work. I still remember being late that one day, the first day, and I’ve never been late since.
My first day at the library was to start at nine a.m. the day after my arrival at Azure. I ran into the room in a panic as I lost my bearings trying to make it there on time. Margo stood at the small metal gates at the entrance, her crisp white uniform a stark contrast to the dark browns and blacks of the library behind her.
“You’re late,” she’d said. Her eyes were in slits so narrow, I could barely see their colour.
“Yes, I’m so sorry, I turned left when I should have—” I started.
“You’re late!” The slits were narrower. “You must never be late. Never.”
“I’m so—I’m sorry.” I looked at the clock behind her head. It was two minutes after the hour.
“Let me show you what happens when you’re late.” She turned and led me through the library, past the shelves, and beyond heavy metal doors marked ‘Watch your step’ and ‘Area restricted for inmates’.
We walked through and I felt it immediately—a wall of heat s
lammed into my face and my chest, so hot, I pictured my hair singeing where I stood. Margo stopped in her tracks and turned to me. Behind her was a massive machine, an incinerator, over which was running an assembly line of books, dropped into the top.
“This,” she said reverently, “is where dirty old books come to rest.”
I watched as more books fell into the incinerator, and could smell the strong smoky scent of burnt parchment as it continued to roll. Each fallen book hit the heat with a loud hiss before disappearing. The whole thing took all of three seconds per book. “And this,” she continued, her eyes back on the machine, “is where people who are late come to rest. No one asks questions when an Azure inmate goes missing.”
I don’t know if Margo was serious, but I hasten my pace, shoving a few people out of my way to Heys and Watch Its! until I reach the library. Pushing my thumb firmly on the table’s screen to sign in, I look left and right for signs of her. Seeing no one, I push through the small metal gate and walk in.
The lack of noise in the room always unnerves me. My ears simply cannot get accustomed to the silence. I hum as I get to work, wanting to hear something, anything other than, well, nothing.
“You’re early,” Margo says, pushing through the gate. She stands in front of my trolley, packed to the brim with books and tablets.
“I have lots to do,” I answer, pushing my trolley as I walk away.
Margo puts a hand out to stop the trolley. As she does, I expect her short white bob of hair to sway, but it stays put like a statue’s. Her steely blue eyes narrow as she stares me down, her pointy chin unmoving. Her irises are nearly white, reflecting off the bright white colour of her uniform. It’s never a competition—I drop my chin immediately.
“Are you a participant in the auction today, Romy?”
“No.” I look up and try to keep my voice steady, watching Margo watch my mouth. “I haven’t completed my Certificate yet.”