The harsh electromagnescence, coupled with the name the Graphie had employed, elicited a sensory and emotional overload.
A spasm rippled down her spine. “Yes. Thank you.”
A red light flashed. “Sarah Monde, you have 10,950 food credits remaining. Please be seated, and your meal will be delivered.”
Fran sat at the nearest café table and gazed about the Agora. Same stuff, different day. She looked up the sides of the sparkling walls surrounding the court and counted the floors. Eleven. The twelfth floor—the Surface where the Ranch lay—wasn’t included in the picturesque cityscape. The vaulted silver dome of a ceiling appeared to be top of Impervious. Although the remarkable feat of architecture hid the shame, everyone knew one more floor sat nestled above the arch. She moved her eyes back to the bustling crowd and sighed. Impervieites sure enjoyed their games of pretend.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the moving treadmill delivered her food. Much like the previous night, her body responded with excitement to the mountain of treats. Unlike last night, however, Fran employed a modicum of table manners. By the time she decided to call it quits, an entire turkey sandwich remained uneaten. Fran stood, tucked the sandwich into the pocket of her hoodie, and moved with the river of residents.
Chapter Eleven
She sat on a bench and perused her bag of new purchases, just a little ashamed of the contentment lingering in her gut. She knew the feeling would be short-lived. A few new gadgets could not squelch her need for freedom. At least she felt more like herself now after ditching the embarrassing mini skirt and replacing it with a new pair of multi-colored Canvies and a pretty cool hooded t-shirt. The Graphie said the color made her eyes ‘pop.’
Whatever.
She must have grown over the last year because it clung tighter than her old hoodie. In any event, the new one smelled better. A smile flicked across her face as she looked down at her new boots outfitted with side pockets for gadgets and stuff. She unwrapped a set of newly-purchased wireless buds and tucked them into one of the pockets.
Finally, she heard the hum of a nearby vent opening—just like she hoped. A few knotty nerves rippled as she turned to face the shaft. Pete wiggled through the opening and took a moment to stretch his back before standing to his full height. Wow, what a bean pole. I guess you just don’t notice these things in the shaft.
As if he could sense Fran’s presence, Pete turned in her direction. As a well-trained Rebel should, he kept his eyes to the ground.
“Psst.”
Pete flashed a peek her way, and his face lit for a split second before he trained his gaze downward again. He strolled to the bench and scooted in next to Fran.
“I heard about your arrest. Can they really force you to be Accountable?”
Fran tapped her clunky new bracelet onto the bench.
“Looks like I either stay out of the vents or lead the authorities to our hiding spots.”
“Well for Pete’s sake...” Pete wiggled a brow, but after a moment of silence, realized his joke had fallen flat.
“They cut my hair,” she groaned.
“I noticed. It looks good.”
Fran’s face grew warm, and she snorted, thankful Pete had to keep his gaze to the ground.
“I brought you a sandwich. I’ll leave it on the bench.”
“Thanks. Do I owe you anything?” Fran envisioned his arced brow. Warmth moved from her cheeks down to her neck.
“Um, I need my reader. Can you get it for me?”
“Of course.”
Silence.
“Anything else?”
They both knew what he meant. Fran tried to sound cool. “Bring it to 3-4-2. I’ll be there at 1700 tonight.”
She placed the sandwich on the bench and walked a few yards before the sea of humanity sucked her into the tide and she moved with the flow.
Where would be a good place to waste some time?
After tiring of the first floor eateries and specialty shops, she swam with the flow of residents up the escalator to the second floor, and meandered to the Spa Art Wing—creative designs for the flesh. She moved past the row of upscale spas whose Graphie-Greeters bragged of their specialty koi ponds and mineral scrubs. Who would offer their feet to a school of fish and allow them to nibble the dead skin? Fran snorted and rolled her eyes as she continued through the crowd. Soon, she happened upon a storefront that warranted her attention and headed in for a closer look.
“Welcome to Inked and Linked. Do you already have your design picked out, or would you care to view a catalog?”
The hovering Graphie looked a little disturbing. On one hand, the man spoke with the clear diction and impeccable grammar of an executive. On the other hand, he was tatted and pierced beyond recognition. The odd mix sort of creeped her out. Then again, just about everything in this strange city had that effect.
“I already have a design in mind, thank you.”
“Wonderful. Just relax in the chair then. Our artist will see you soon.” The Graphie began to de-pixilate, but then, like a person who just realized he forgot one last thing, his luminescence returned. “Can I offer you a mineral water or maybe an herbal tea?”
Fran’s laugh erupted with more disrespect than intended. “Uh. No thanks.”
She leaned forward in the chair and checked out the floating billboard, just to make sure she hadn’t stepped into Le Petite Spa by accident.
Nope. The sign read Inked and Linked. However, the tagline underneath added “The art of saying I do!”
Fran laughed out loud. She hadn’t wandered into any old tattoo domain but one that specialized in the trendy marriage tattoos of Gen-Four. Fran reflected on the femmes she saw in the Agora just a few days prior who displayed their ink like a trophy. Their giggles as they recited the tag line rang through her ears. “One for him, one for her. An expression of love that fits together like two pieces of an intimate puzzle.”
Nauseating.
A few moments later, a flesh-and-blood human, greeted Fran and copped a squat for the consult.
“So, will your husband be here shortly, or should we just start without him?”
“Sure. Let’s just get the ball rolling.” Fran enjoyed this role playing a little more than she had anticipated. She shared her ideas with the artist who delved a little deeper to better understand Fran’s heart message. The consult lasted about fifteen minutes, and after a few swipes on a QuickReader, the artist created an amazing rendition of Fran’s vision, and, oddly enough, her heart.
Haunting blue eyes with cinnamon flecks throughout the gleaming iris stood as the centerpiece. Then, an ever-so-subtle, mere shadow of a wolf mask rested in the background.
It was beautiful.
It was Fran.
She agreed to finish off the piece in the standard wedding-tat with the tail of the wolf coiled around her ring finger. After the art was drawn up and scanned, the procedure didn’t take much longer than fifteen minutes from first needle to gauze wrap. Freshly-inked, Fran wandered back into the throng of bodies. The lack of space surrounding her person felt oppressive, and since she had some time to burn before meeting Pete for her reader, it seemed like a good time to check out her new digs.
In a way, the notion of having her own place roused a bit of excitement. Upon ditching Accountable status last year, Fran had still been a minor with no legal rights. But now at fifteen, with legal resident status, she received statutory housing. They assigned her to 336-42.
The ancient woman—like more-than-forty-old—who processed her out of Holding named her “Lucky” because a vacant single had just arrived on the market.
Lucky for me. Unlucky for the resident.
Her old neighborhood with Mom and Ted had been in the same sector, one floor up, so it felt odd and surreal taking the elevator up to the third floor in the OE. When she arrived, a light beam shot into her eyes.
“Welcome home, Sarah Monde.” The door slid open.
Fran stepped through the threshold of her small s
tudio and walked the length of the pod in no more than ten strides.
Cozy. Open. Nice.
A few molded plastic tables and a flip-flop couch/bed combo rested along the far wall. Tucked away to the right of the living area sat a three-piece bathroom suite complete, with sink, toilet, and shower. Gee, no steam room? No sauna? Fran laughed. Compared to her prior digs, this place had the layout of mansion—more than suitable for the short amount of time she intended to hang around.
She sagged onto the flip-flop sofa and released an enormous sigh. She could visit Ted with no restrictions now that she didn’t need to enter through the vents, but still felt a weird ambiguity about the whole matter. A West Winger?
It could wait another day. Anyway, after a quick meeting with Pete, she needed to dedicate tonight to rehearsal time.
Rumor had it house-arrest went hand-in-hand with community service hours when dealing with Rebel rehab. What, where, and the number of penance hours would be decided at a 10:00 hearing tomorrow. Which played right into her perfect plan. Fran envisioned the probable reactions of the Judges. They’ll be blown away. I’d bet all my credits they’ve never had a felon volunteer to work the Ranch. She allowed herself to celebrate the small victory with a flicker of hope.
Until the Beast whispered a reminder of his presence. And the smile ebbed from her face.
Chapter Twelve
Fran peeked into the mirror and fluffed her hair again. Why did she feel so insecure? Pete said he liked the cut, right? But did he? Really? And why should she care what Pete thinks anyway? A quick tingle in her belly answered the question for her.
During the day, she’d stolen several glances at her reflection, just to remind herself what she looked like now, but she still didn’t feel 100% comfortable with the girl staring back at her.
Are my lips too big?
She pushed at the spongy flesh. Her bottom lip protruded, and her top lip dipped low in the middle. Curious, she pouted her lips the same way the West-Wing femmes did… But shuddered at the image. Do not ever do that again.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out her new com device. The digits read 16:40. She’d told Pete to meet her at 1700.
Close enough.
She strolled out of her pod and moved to hallway four. The neighborhood, set up like a stage around a central gathering place, made it easy to navigate. Twelve separate hallways jutted out from the center, each labeled with clear directional markers. Already in hallway three, her simple journey dictated she follow the markers over one corridor and locate the second venting. She snorted at the simplicity.
The light system worked with old-fashioned motion-activated sensors, illuminating a large berth—ten feet in front of and ten behind—as she moved. The high-intensity glow allowed a view of each doorway she passed. Some boasted a family crest over the threshold to announce their domain. Others tried to jazz up their area with plastic statues and fake flowers. Everyone wanted to be different. Everyone wanted to be the same.
A roving image transmitter, RIT, buzzed past her head. On instinct, she looked down at her feet, but upon seeing her new boots remembered her Accountable status. She lifted her face, and the red beam shot into her iris. An automated voice sounded.
“Thank you, Sarah Monde.” The RIT hummed away, continuing its neighborhood watch.
She turned down hallway four and headed toward the arranged meeting place. Just as she arrived, the venting hummed open. Her heart thumped with excitement and she wondered if Pete had been waiting long. As his head popped out, the mesh imprint on his cheek answered her question. A glimmer in his eye made her want to run away, but her feet knew better. They remained glued to the floor as she watched his smile grow.
“Any RITs circling?”
Fran began to answer, but her throat clogged. Though she cleared the congestion, her voice still came out guttural and gross sounding.
“Just one. It’s dinner time. I’m guessing we won’t see another for five minutes.”
“Good.” Pete slithered out of the duct and reached inside his shirt to pull out her reader.
“Did you read any of it?” Fran figured he would.
Pete played dumb for almost ten seconds before he sighed. “All of it.”
“What do you think?”
For the first time since Fran had known him, Pete wore an expression of concern. “I don’t know.”
“It’s somewhere in the Ranch, Pete. It has to be.” Fran held up her bracelet. “I’m going to volunteer.”
His brow began to lift. “At the Ranch?”
Fran nodded. “Makes sense, right?”
Pete’s standard look of amusement melted into a tender smile. “Brilliant.”
Fran moved a step closer until only the reader and the dusty smell she knew so well stood between them. Pete’s hand moved to touch her soft curls. She focused on the chocolate warmth pouring from his gaze and moved the last step forward. Her leftover peanuts lingered on his breath.
She moved first this time. A whisper of contentment circled her brain, and the surge of a storm paralyzed her body. She breathed in the dust, tasted the peanuts. Something unrecognizable tugged at her heart and a tear sprang forth and trickled on her cheek.
Pete’s rough thumb brushed at the tear and Fran dipped her chin to her chest, embarrassed and confused by her sudden emotion.
On a sigh, he pulled away. “I have to go.” He pressed the reader into her hands but hesitated when he noticed the bandage that covered her new art.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
Pete cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s just some ink,” Fran responded.
“Good. I’ll take down anyone who messes with my girl.”
With those words hanging between them, she leaned against the wall and watched as Pete crawled back into the guts of the city. Pete’s girl? Weird. But then again…
Just as the venting closed, the purr of an RIT buzzed in her ear then flashed red.
“Thank you, Sarah Monde.”
The mini security drone took off down the corridor and turned the corner. The sudden silence of the hallway felt way too loud, and Fran hurried back to her room. She moved to the flip-flop, waved a hand past the sensor, and waited for the bed to unfold. Welcoming the thought of mattress under her back, she tumbled onto the bed, kicked off her boots and curled into a ball. After a lengthy sigh, she rolled onto her back and pulled the reader from her side. Nothing new to read since she’d finished the First Gen’s diary, so maybe round or two of Mad Hooligan would be a nice distraction.
With a wave, the reader came to life. It appeared Pete had left the Diary of a First Gen open and the frustration over the ending of the story resurfaced. As Fran lifted her hand to swipe the screen, her eyes couldn’t help but scan the text. Her hand stopped midair.
What??
She frantically scrolled through several pages she hadn’t seen before. What was this? After scrolling backwards through seventeen blank pages, she arrived at the words she read the night prior. Seventeen pages blank? Who does that? Excitement rippled through her body like a holograph as she read the new words.
I know how to escape now. I can’t say I’m fond of the idea, but I know nonetheless. Am I 100% positive? Do I have proof?
No. But I am ready to follow my heart with the hope that it leads me to the woman lost over two decades ago. As of today, I will stop ingesting the clean water that has allowed me to live while others die. As of today, I relinquish the status of Superior. As I write this journal, I’m aware of what my near future will hold. I will become less before I can become more. And, yes, I fear the journey.
To anyone who might be reading these words, I ask two things:
Do not let the fear stop you.
Pass on the legacy.
My friend, it is not with the fear of death but with the hope of life that I bid you adieu. And look forward to greeting you on the other side.
Benjamin M. Leiben, Ph.D.
She gasped. Benjami
n Leiben? From the history books she knew him as the original creator of Impervious. There was even a small statue in the Agora honoring him. However, the history books had always said he had gone mad and, unlike the other Superiors, sunk into the decline. Her head reeled and stomach clenched. So was this all nonsense? The ravings of lunatic? If not, what did he mean? If this diary had been written as a means to give her special insight, why did she feel like she looked into a toy kaleidoscope instead?
Shards of color fell and reshaped with no rhyme or reason. How could she make sense of this confusing moving picture that showed the face of an evil leader, a brother who had sold out his hope and lived like tomorrow was promised, and Chan, her fearless mentor, dead from the decline? Then there was Dr. Benjamin Leiben, the Epoch, an exit portal, as well as a missing second-gen botanist. All of the bits and pieces melded together as one swirling mass of information. She tried to pull apart the pieces and examine them each individually. It didn’t help. Did she want to cry? Did she want to shout? Both, probably. However, more than anything, she just wanted to shake the kaleidoscope until all of the pieces made a pretty picture. One that made sense.
A quick flip of her arm sent her pillow tumbling into the crack between the back of the mattress and the edge of the couch portion of the flip-flop. She reached her hand through the gap to retrieve her pillow and fished it out, along with a few dust bunnies and a crinkly sheet of paper. Fran looked at the simple, white note with girlish loopy handwriting across the page.
Dear Diary,
I forgot my code yesterday―the same numbers that have accompanied me through life. The numbers that rolled off my tongue as second nature as my own name. Poof. Couldn’t remember them at all. Is it possible? Could I be facing the most horrific event in a person’s life?
My heart races as I write these words and realize the implications. I had thought I might be one of the lucky ones. That special remnant who would watch the dismantling of our Impervious roof. I had fooled myself to believe I might see the Epoch.
Impervious Page 7