Esteemed forfeiture? I never thought I’d entertain the thought, but what are my options? I remember the face of my mother as she declined, and my heart breaks. I can’t do it. I need to take the more dignified path. Tomorrow, I will sign the papers.
A single tear trickled down Fran’s cheek. She tried to lock up the ensuing flood, but pictures of Sasha’s pinched expression and painful death spasms blossomed under her closed lids. Who knows? Maybe Sasha wrote this note. Then again, Cheyenne the Shy One or any other forfeiture could have written it.
Head throbbing, Fran stood and moved to the kitchen cupboard. She pulled out a dusty glass and filled it from the sanctioned water tin. She lifted the vessel to her lips and sucked down the cool water while remembering Dr. Leiben’s last entry… Sure enough to stop ingesting the clean water that has allowed me to live while others die.
She contemplated the glass in her hand and felt the rhythm of her blood as it pulsed through her aching brain. Fran counted the beats, knowing they ticked off seconds of her life.
Chapter Thirteen
With the match between Behemoth and Queen Xyphon now just a day in the history books, the entertainment industry stood at momentary lull. Therefore, today’s performance― Sentencing of a Rebel—held top billing. In addition to the three judicial members in the shadowed courtroom, the civilian viewing loft teemed with spectators. This audience, mostly made up of the straight-backed do-gooders and ones who couldn’t fathom missing an opportunity to wag a finger, eagerly awaited the sentencing. Finger-pointing seemed to feed their self-righteous spirit and mask personal feelings of inadequacy by proclaiming the foibles of others.
But Fran, happy to perform for the group, played the part of a repentant Rebel like an actress cast into the role of a lifetime. Her costume―a crisp button-up, draped with a simple cardigan and complimented by her new, gray mini—seemed appropriate. Humble yet fashionable. She kept her gaze to the floor and hoped her curls would do most of the talking.
Judge number one—a tired looking woman in her early twenties whose expression appeared pained by the tight knot in her hair—spoke first.
“Rebel. What was the reasoning behind your Unaccountable status?”
Fran’s confidence this woman could be bought with a sob story led her into Act One.
“My mother. She had declined.” Fran’s soft whisper had the crowd leaning forward in their seats.
“Say that again, Rebel. And please, use the voice expander provided.”
Fran placed the small cube onto the lapel of her blouse. “I’m sorry, Your Honors. I said that my mother had declined.”
A stray tear traveled down Fran’s cheek and dripped onto her sweater. Soft murmurs and clucking moved through the crowd like a wave. Judge number one cleared her throat. She was allowed one more query.
“And that warranted a breach in your Accountability?”
Her response seemed hard and uncaring—a sentiment that would garner more sympathy from the onlookers in the loft. However, the Committee wanted to see repentance, so Fran responded in kind.
“No, Your Honors. It was foolish.”
“Thank you for your candor, Sarah,” Judge one finished.
Judge number two— Superior, advanced in age—looked up from a reader. Fran wondered if he even cared about this nonsense anymore. “Rebel. You state your mother declined. Do you have other family?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, my father declined when I was still a baby. However I did—I mean I do—have a brother. He married and was on a cybernetic honeymoon at the time of my mother's decline.”
“I see.”
Judge two looked down at his reader, and a very long pause followed. Had he fallen asleep? Fran bit her lip to contain her amusement. After a few more moments of empty silence, Judge three stepped in.
“And, Rebel, how do you feel penance should be paid?”
Time for her big number. Fran envisioned a smoky spotlight and a soft piano playing in the background as she raised innocent blue eyes to Judge three—a nondescript, black-haired nobody. She squared her small shoulders and cleared her throat.
“My heart is heavy because of my betrayal to the Council and my fellow man. I deserve nothing good, yet you found it in your hearts to restore my food allowance and provide me with a new home. I’ve thought judiciously of how I could repay this debt I owe.
I ask you for forgiveness, your Honors, and request you allow me to serve my sentence on the Surface floor. Allow me to take the job that would bring comfort to those who devoted their lives to our city. I would be honored to be a servant to those who suffer at the Ranch.”
A collective gasp rang from the viewing platform. Murmurs rippled through the courtroom and soon escalated to chatter as each voice elevated in an effort to be heard. In a grand gesture, Judge three slammed his meaty gavel. Judge two jolted awake. Judge one wiped a watery eye.
Victory.
“Punishment accepted.”
Judge three’s rushed verdict made Fran wonder if he feared she’d change her mind. Maybe he was just eager for the gruesome punishment to commence. Whatever. She’d won this battle.
His voice droned on. “…and let this be a lesson to you, Sarah Monde, in the event that your Rebel spirit ever desires to re-emerge…”
Fran stopped listening—her mind too busy formulating the next phase of her plan.
Chapter Fourteen
Fran waited on the bench—the one now designated as her and Pete’s meeting place. Her toe tapped an impatient rhythm while she nibbled the ends of her nails. Yes, of course the trip was easier for her than it was for Pete, but that didn't override the impatience she felt. After a short wait, the vent sounded, and Pete slithered out head first. He stood, wiping his pants before coolly wandering to the bench.
“Mini skirt and pocket boots?” He snickered and waved a hand around like a snobbish West-Winger. Fran ignored his attempt at humor and got right to the point.
“I’m working at the Ranch starting tomorrow.”
Pete winced and trembled with an overly-dramatic shiver before pinching his nose with a thumb and forefinger.
“Smell you later.” He laughed.
Fran blew out an exasperated breath. “You don’t get it. I’m going to find the portal.”
“Huh?” Pete dropped his hands onto his lap. “It’s just… I mean… What about what Chan wrote?”
“Chan? What are you talking about? I didn’t see anything written by Chan.” Fran shook her head, at a loss for words.
Pete turned to Fran and looked into her eyes. “You didn’t see the testimony he added to Doc’s diary?”
With his clean face and wetted, mashed-down hair, she suspected Pete thought this meeting constituted a date or something. Fran ran a self-conscious hand through her own hair as a little heat crawled into her cheeks.
Pete cleared his throat. “If you haven’t read Chan’s notes, there's some stuff you probably don’t know yet.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to get out.”
“So it wasn’t all just madness?” Fran felt a moment of relief. Then when she realized what Pete had just said, her heart raced. “Wait. He got out? Chan escaped?”
“Um, sort of?”
Fran didn’t like the look on Pete’s face, and, even more, didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark. She held a mint tight between her front teeth ready to give Pete a verbal spanking.
Then, they both felt it. The static electricity.
“I’m outa here,” Pete whispered. He hurried from the bench, swiped the code, and disappeared in less than four seconds.
Fran thought about Pete’s words for half a breath and then burst into the stream of residents. She shouldered past a group huddled around a gaming board and past a cluster of chatty femmes. As she rode the lift up to the third floor, she tapped an impatient toe, and upon reaching her residence, raced through the doorway, straight to the flip-flop.
She yanked the balled up blanket from the mattress as she searched for her reader, and located it tucked into the crevice by her pillows. What was her problem? Was there a small piece of her that didn’t want to believe? Self-chastisement continued until the reader came to life.
Fran scrolled past Doc’s signature line and through ample white space, before she saw her mentor’s handwriting. She choked back a sob like she’d been hit in the gut. She remembered how he used to tap his stylus onto his thumb when deep in thought and then tuck it behind his ear between notes. Grief tore through her as she looked upon the meticulous lettering and she ran a finger over the familiar handwriting.
My beloved brothers and sisters,
I know my decline has begun. I must pass along the word to you before I am no longer able. Dr. Benjamin Leiben is indeed a sane man. I knew him well, hired after he lost his sight at the hand of the Council—by order of Marcus—not long after voicing renewed interest in the portal.
Of course, Marcus could have simply finished him off, but as Doc already mentioned, Marcus' soul had turned wicked and his lust for power insatiable. I will not get into the gruesome details of the disfigurement, but I will say that Marcus reveled in Doc’s torment.
My children, the Epoch has surely arrived. Indeed, the earth is healed. To date, no one has uncovered the location of the portal, and so we all sit like prisoners in Marcus’s made-up world of power. Yet one discovery has led to an escape from this prison. And the decline is the answer.
You see, the Council does not wish to house our sick bodies. Not the weak ones, the sick ones, the hurting, and the lame. So, they place us at the doorway. They think it is our death sentence. Yet, we know it is the beginning of our new life. The Ranch is merely our waiting room, so lift up your eyes and believe. Take heart and rejoice. My brothers and sisters, you may find the journey to be hard, but be of good cheer because I will be waiting for you on the other side.
Every muscle in Fran’s body quivered. Every nerve hummed. Did Chan mean that each person who endured the decline still lived? Fran remembered the Post Primer from her last visit to the Ranch. Even if the earth wasn’t a swirling heap of ash, he couldn’t even feed himself, never mind care for himself in an undomesticated environment. So, how does Chan think they will live?
Faith?
That was the Rebel mantra, right? They stood on the platform of hope, yet, when being completely honest with herself, Fran realized it had never felt tangible or real. More like trying to grab onto a wisp of smoke, a veritable fairy-tale. Had the Epoch represented little more than a symbol for her? A means to defy the reality of her life and justify her anger? Now that the possibility stood before her as a means to an end, she wanted to believe. But it was all wrong—nothing like she’d hoped. And, the very notion of losing everything all over again…
Fear sniffed out her weakness—a sensitive heart unable to withstand the pain. That’s why she pretended. That’s why she’d built the scab. A tear sprung. One weak, ugly tear. She dangled over the precipice of belief, and fear whispered into her ear, If you pull the scab all the way off, you might bleed to death.
But hadn’t she just learned that good turned out to be bad and death might even mean life? Could that mean weakness might even be strength? Fran pulled back the flimsy covering she had employed to block the voice of fear and looked her enemy in the eye. As she suspected, as the wound reopened, a second tear followed. And then a third. They converged and burned a trail down her cheek, seeping into the corner of her mouth. She tasted the salt and felt the sting of the old mourning and grief.
In a flash, three single tears became a river and the river an ocean as unhealed hurts were exposed once again. The current pulled her in and tossed her about until she was sure she would drown. Could she fight the waves of despair? Would she even be able to stay afloat after having fought for so long?
She stood and paced the length of her living quarters. Her body shook. Every sad goodbye and spasm of death converged into a single mountain of agony. She wrapped shaky arms around her midsection and hugged the pain as it rattled through her body. Soon, she dropped to her knees as the face of her mother appeared in her mind―her beautiful, curly haired mother. The one who had chased butterflies and laughed with Fran until their bellies ached. The one who had nursed her fevers and constructed smiley faces from mundane peanut butter sandwiches. The one who had given her life and cared for the children of Impervious after their own parents were stripped from their lives. The one who had lived in a perpetual place of hope even after losing her own husband.
Fran’s body rocked with grief. Sobs erupted as her soul retched, purging the foulness of her sorrow. She cried for the lost years. Wept at the injustice.
Could there be hope? Was there a place where this pain could be turned back around? Was there even the slightest chance her mother might be alive? And what if Chan’s theory proved wrong? What if she allowed herself to face the Beast only to be swallowed whole? Could she survive?
Fran wept big ugly tears until her soul emptied of heartache and then she laid her heavy head onto the glossy coated gray concrete. The coolness felt good on her tear-ravaged cheeks. She closed swollen eyes, and her breathing slowed to the shivering hiccups of a child.
After a while, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling—a mass of nothing but one tiled square after another. She stared until the pattern converged into a blur of swirling white. Her taut muscles released, and a sigh escaped from her lips. As she became more aware, the back of her hand began to itch, and Fran peeled away the bandage. The eyes of the wolf stared back. Cold, hard blue eyes. Focused and undaunted.
Chan had trusted her with the truth. He had faith that she would move forward. He believed in her more than she believed in her own self. She looked down at the bangle encircling her wrist. Tomorrow, she would enter the Ranch. Tomorrow, she would find her way out.
Chapter Fifteen
The following day, Fran stepped into the Ranch and met with Jan, the Ranch caseworker.
“You’ve been given charge of four residents, Ms. Monde. Rooms S41-S44.” Jan palmed a reader as she ticked off the information. “Most residential care is automated, so your main task is to keep the declining residents company as you tend to each of their unique needs.”
Jan turned on her heels. “Follow me please.”
Fran clapped a hand over her nose and mouth to ward of the scent of the Beast and scurried along the empty hallway behind the efficient caseworker. They paused in front of a doorway which opened into a closet containing sheets, blankets, and smocks, as well as blue canvas uniforms folded into neat piles and stacked onto metal shelves.
Jan pointed to the uniforms. “Take a set and make sure you are garbed in a clean uniform each day.”
Fran pulled a set of scratchy, low-quality Canvies from the pile.
Jan gestured with a smile. “Across the hall is a changing room. You can leave your clothes in locker 22. At the end of the day when you change back into your own clothes, please place the soiled uniform into the receptacle. Tomorrow, you’ll come in here for a new pair.”
Fran crossed the hallway to where Jan pointed and waved a hand in front of the indicated entry. The portal whooshed open, and she stepped inside of a small chamber containing a few lockers and a single plastic bench. Before the door panel slid closed, Jan poked her head inside.
“After you’ve changed, please check in on your wards—S41-S44. Everything you need to know about them is available on their VDU.” She hesitated a moment and rubbed her brow. “Did I forget anything? Oh yes, of course. When all four residents have fully succumbed, your penance will be considered paid.”
Jan’s cheery expression disappeared as the doors closed. Seriously? You can say that with a smile on your face? Fran shook her head and then changed into her new uniform.
Her stomach balled into a knot as she stood at the entry of the first resident’s quarters. Just like Chan’s, the room housed a bed, locker, and she
lf with an old fashioned computer. An aged man in a wheelchair sat in the center babbling to himself. Fran rapped on the doorway before entering. “Hello?”
His babbling continued without interruption. Fran stepped around the man to the video display and waved a hand in front of the screen. To her chagrin, the screen remained dormant.
“Hmmm.” She tried again with no response before spying the palm-sized device next to the unit. Mom had told Fran about gadgets that Grandma had used with her computer. She snickered as she remembered Mom calling it a mouse, and then rolled the plastic thing around until the screen came to life. She employed the plastic mouse to chase a white arrow around the screen before reaching the icon that read, “Resident Information.”
Once she clicked the buttons at her fingertips, data scrolled across the screen for Bob. Fran smiled and turned around.
“Hello, Bob. How are you?”
Bob continued babbling, and Fran returned to the video display to read through his history. Bob had been a schoolteacher at one time. She faced Bob and scrutinized his mannerisms as he babbled. Although unable to understand the words, Fran did notice familiar gestures like those of her old teachers—a lift of a brow, nod of the head, and occasional pointing of a finger. She experienced a surreal shiver. Although his classroom ceased to exist in this world, Fran had a suspicion that somewhere in Bob’s world, he continued to teach.
She watched him for a few more moments and then shrugged. He seemed content. She moved on to meet her next ward.
Room 242 belonged to John—a fact he plainly stated as soon
as Fran entered. Although he seemed lucid, Fran soon discovered that on John, everything hurt. All the time. And John demanded relief. Pronto. She tended to a few of John’s nonexistent ails before moving on with a promise to return soon.
Room 243 brought a surprise as it housed a celebrity from her childhood. Fran remembered watching Marie Morigeau perform on the main stage a decade prior. With her head resting on Mom’s soft shoulder, Fran had felt as if she could float on the notes of Marie’s lovely music. Now, however, the same woman hummed a continuous monotone note as she sat in her chair with unseeing eyes. Fran felt a stab of grief and moved on to the last room.
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