Impervious

by Heather Letto

  Could thousands of people live below their feet, eating, drinking, and carrying on as if no other life existed but their own? The thought seemed preposterous now that she saw it from a different angle. A strange claustrophobia shook her body, and hundreds of prickly needles moved over her skin.

  The earth seemed to growl, the trembling reverberations wandered up her legs. She turned to Retter.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Mm hm. We call it the cries from below.”

  Fran shivered and wondered if she had the fortitude to go back there.

  “I need to get up on the roof.”

  His eyes narrowed. Fran placed her hands on her hips. “Let’s just say I forgot something inside.”

  Ret his eyes trained to the ground while Fran held her breath unsure if he planned to help her or rat her out.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Fran placed a trembling hand upon the rope.

  “Thank you, Ret.”

  Knowing if she didn’t move fast, she’d risk losing her nerve, Fran scaled the rope, tossed the end back to Ret, and scurried to the mouth of the air vent. After lowering herself into the darkness, she crawled toward the roaring fan and waited for the eventual stop. As she lingered, fear consumed her thoughts and heading back to the village entered her mind more than once. But Chan’s voice echoed through her mind. “Wolf. Go back.”

  When the blades halted, she bellied underneath the sharp edges and then remained concealed within the darkness only a few feet from the final opening. How long would she have to wait? She chewed on her nails until the ends bled and revisited her plan at least a hundred times in her mind.

  .~.

  A hum preceded the sounds of their voices. Fran held her breath as muffled conversations accented by the creaking of wheels and pulleys marked the countdown.

  She snaked to the edge of the vent, and the instant the doors to the elevator closed, she sprang from the shaft. She moved breathlessly across the hallway where her bangle still hid on the shelf in the closet. With a surreal realization that nothing had changed while she was away, she clicked the bangle back onto her wrist. As she reached for the door, Fran caught a glimpse of her feet.

  “Oops.”

  She untied Ret’s booties, stuffed them back behind the shelving, grabbed a new pair of paper gems, and swished down the hallway.

  She went to Bob’s room first. He sat in his chair, talking to the invisible classroom. He should be good for a few hours.

  She moved on to John’s room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, he shared with her the story of how he stubbed his toe the week before. Since he hadn’t been out of his chair since she had known him, she figured he had made the story up but still brought John a cooling pack for his toe before she left.

  Fran deactivated her bangle, exited the Ranch and made a quick stop to her favorite pawn shop before hurrying back to the OE.

  Employing razor-sharp incisors, Fran ripped the plastic seals off the new and trendy, DataJump, palm-readers, as she rushed into her allocated residence. The charge indicator progressed, one blue dot at a time, as the wireless amps booted up.

  Fran wiped sweaty palms onto her Canvies and held the first DataJump over her reader. With a simple flick of her wrist and a brush of an icon, pages of testimony from Dr. Benjamin Leiben began to scroll first on her reader then, a moment later, onto the DataJump as well.

  One down.

  While the remaining DJ’s loaded, Fran traded her soiled trousers for the gray miniskirt from Holding and a hooded t-shirt. Then, she tucked the three new DJ’s into separate compartments of her pocket-boots, and with a quick fluff of her hair and a swipe of gloss, she headed back out to the hub of the city.

  She passed a few women in shimmering metallic dresses along the way. One even boasted iridescent stockings that lit with each footstep. Fran shook her head. Eastsiders mimicking the elite? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry for these people and their ridiculous costumes. Then again, not everyone dressed weird. Some folks dressed like Fran, opting for a cheap pair of Canvies or skin-hugging Lycra. As she waited for the elevator, Fran peeked at the imitation leather pockets-boots she wore and shrugged off her own moment of fashion conviction.

  Once down the elevator, and on the periphery of the Agora, a kiosk advertising markdowns on select electronics caught Fran’s eye. She wanted to purchase a few more DataJumps but also wondered how many she could accrue before her purchases raised suspicion with Account Analyzers. Then again, she felt a responsibility to her Rebel brothers.

  Getting the message to the well-outfitted, Accountable crowd would be far easier as it would only take a wave of the hand. After all, everyone owned a DJ… if Accountable. But the Unaccountable? Not so much.

  After deciding upon a half dozen DJ’s Fran moved toward her and Pete’s old meeting spot, hoping he’d show up at some point. As she approached, her steps slowed.

  What?

  She slid in next to him on the bench and caught a whiff of freshly-laundered canvies. Pete turned an expressionless face her way.

  “Where have you been?” His rigid jaw barely moved as he spoke.

  Neatly trimmed bangs swept Pete’s brow, and a crisp, upturned collar brushed the sides of his neck. Her gaze dove to Pete’s wrist and she winced upon seeing the bangle.

  Fran opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Pete scratched at the skin under his bangle while avoiding her shocked expression. After a moment of silence, he continued.

  “I went to the Ranch. Just like we planned.” He looked at Fran with contempt. Did he hold her responsible for this?

  “Freddie found me.”

  Fran found her voice. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t have time before they hauled me off.”

  “Oh, man, Pete.” Fran shook her head. “When’s your hearing?”

  “Tomorrow.” He stared at the floor.

  “What about a deactivator? Can’t Folsom make you one?”

  Pete snickered. “Sure. As soon as I see him, I’ll make sure to ask.”

  Of course. Fran bit her lip. House arrest meant he couldn’t get into the vents. And because she hadn’t been around… Why did everything have to be so hard?

  She was about to offer make the trip for him but another idea entered her brain. She smiled wickedly.

  “Care to join me in some Community Service at the Ranch?”

  Pete lifted a brow.

  “I got out, Pete.”

  “What? It's real?”

  Fran laughed. “It's as real as the nose on my face.” She lifted her brows and tapped the tip of her nose. “Chan asked me to spread the word.”

  Pete’s mouth hung open. “You’re messing with me.”

  “Nope.” Fran crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall.

  “What was it like? No zombies, right? Is Chan okay? Come on, Wolf, don’t leave me hanging. What the heck?” He got all fidgety, and it brought Fran some relief to see the old Pete make an appearance.

  “It’s hard to explain. You’re just going to have to see if for yourself.” She hesitated to draw out the suspense. “How about tomorrow after your sentencing we leave together?”

  Pete stood. “How about now?”

  Fran shook her head. “Not yet.” She tapped the bangle on his wrist. “Tomorrow, you can get there legit. And for now,” she handed a DJ to Pete. “We have a mission to accomplish.”

  “A DataJump?”

  “Not just any DJ, but rather a DJ loaded with Doc’s truth. We’ll use the next twenty-four hours to spread the word.” She stood. “I’ll take the East Court, and you can Jump the West.”

  As she walked away, Fran checked her shoulder. Pete remained on the bench, rolling the Data Jump in his palm.

  “Tomorrow, Pete. I promise,” she shouted before being caught up in the human river which she rode to the East Court.

  Before long Fran hovered by a café table where a reader sat unattended―the owner a step away lis
tening to a Graphie pitch a sale. Fran reached down as if adjusting her boot and slid the DJ from its confines. She swiped the ‘jump’ icon and watched pages of testimony scroll on her hand-held screen. The nearby, abandoned reader hummed to life as Doc’s and Chan’s testimonies launched from her DJ to the nearby drive.

  Her hand shook as she waited.

  Once completed, she swiped ‘finish’ on her device and moseyed off. After a few solid hours meandering through the Agora, jumping Doc's diary onto reader after reader, she plopped down on a nearby bench and slid the DJ back into her boot. A satisfied smile inched across her face. Now, off to Ted’s place.

  .~.

  Fran stepped off the lift feeling a little queasy. This visit marked her first-ever encounter with the West Wing. From outside of the venting confines, anyway. The trendy, decked-out hallway boasted a colorful arc of light moving right along with Fran and gentle sounds of the ocean surf filled her ears. Once she turned a corner to a new hallway, however the ocean morphed into the soft chirping of birds. Opulent flower arrangements, straight from the greenhouse, added an ambiance of sweet rose and honeysuckle. Along the walls, inlaid video display units boasted Council messages and advertisements for trendy home décor.

  Fran was certain the authorities monitored every move she made as she traversed this side of town. She would need a sneaky game plan—a way to send Ted the message—and considered her options as she walked.

  When she stood before unit 624, the flat metallic doorway allowed Fran a distorted view of her own reflection. How apropos. Distorted—pretty much summed up how she felt. A moment later, she heard the announcement.

  “You have a visitor.”

  Seriously? She waited a few moments. The door greeter chimed again.

  “Ted and Nissa Monde, 624, you have a visitor.”

  She thought back to her old pod with its single-tone door chime and snorted as the greeter spoke again.

  “Ted and Nissa Monde, 624, your presence is requested at the portal for a visitor.”

  Fran rolled her eyes, but a moment later, they opened wide with surprise as the mirrored door morphed into a video display. Ted’s sleepy face replaced her image.

  “Wickworm?”

  “Hey bro.” Her voice sounded raspy. Was she nervous to see him?

  A moment later, the door whooshed open to a shirtless Ted wearing a silky pair of sleeping trousers.

  “Come in.”

  Fran moved into the same living area she had peeked into from the confines of the air vent just a few days before, and her head turned to the meshed opening. Weird.

  “Nice place.”

  “Coffee?”

  Ted moved over to the kitchenette area, grabbed an acrylic mug from the shelf, and waved a hand over a shiny appliance. A moment later, the aroma of roasted beans infiltrated her senses, and a steamy cup of coffee sat at the ready. Ted repeated the action before carrying both mugs to the table.

  “You look good.” He smiled at his sister and lifted his mug in a mock salute. After a searing sip, he set the mug back down, and chuckled. “I’m glad you’re back on the grid.”

  Fran nodded. How am I going to do this?

  She knew the Council kept its finger on the pulse of every pod, and as the icy digits of security reached out and brushed against her neck, she chewed the inside of her cheek. If she could get Ted to bring out his reader, she could try to jump the diary onto it without removing the DataJump from her pocket.

  “So it appears Monde Cyber Getaways is doing quite well.” Fran held out her hands to indicate the luxurious pod. “What’s the latest and greatest?”

  Ted’s chest puffed, and he sat a little taller. “I’ve been working on recreating Rome actually.”

  Fran nodded again. “Cool. I bet a lot of people will want to go there.”

  “Yep. The trip of a lifetime.” His haughty tone and cockeyed grin felt unfamiliar to Fran. Was he now their puppet? Were the dirty fingers of the Council already manipulating his strings?

  “Can I see?”

  Ted’s brows dipped. His head tilted. “I don’t think you can be trusted.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  She knew Ted was only joking, but his words resonated with a deeper truth. Was anyone in this buried city trustworthy? Before Fran could respond, Nissa strolled into the room, cloaked in flowing silk.

  “Mmm, I smell coffee.” She spied Fran. “Oh hey, Wickerbug. Back on the grid?”

  Fran’s blood boiled. “I need to go now.”

  She walked to portico and waited for the door. Ted followed. Fran gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, “Meet me at The Waltonian at 1700.”

  The door breezed open, and she turned to Nissa. “And by the way, it’s Wickworm.”

  Fran moved down the hallway with the greeter in her wake, “Thank you for visiting Ted and Nissa Monde. Have an enjoyable day.”

  She hurried off to the Ranch, and after checking on John and Bob, Fran spent the remainder of her afternoon jumping Doc’s diary to the unsuspecting until her grumbling stomach reminded her that it had been several hours since her morning calzone. Fran moved to the long lunch line behind a pair of freshly-inked, gossiping femmes.

  Their snug, silky frocks demonstrated the beginnings of basement-belly—a newly coined-term indicating too many lattes at the Agora. Small lights twinkled as they tapped fashionable toes.

  “I heard Jean-Claude’s reader was hacked.” The first femme’s sing-song voice and gleam implied that Jean-Claude’s misery brought her a slice of joy.

  The second femme rolled heavily lined eyes. “I’m sure a Rebel is at fault. Don’t they have anything better to do with their pathetic lives?”

  “You think?” The first clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Apparently, they deposited a story onto the hard drive. Some crazy tale of a Superior gone rogue.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a cover for a virus. Poor guy. His whole system will probably crash in a day.”

  Conflicting feelings surging through Fran’s veins warmed her cheeks. On one hand, the message had provoked chatter. On the other hand, were they rejecting the truth? Maybe, once they realized no virus had been attached to the message, they might reconsider. Then again, they also might write off the whole thing as a hoax. Fran shrugged. Each person had to believe on his own accord. Except for Ted. She had to make Ted believe.

  Hearing the femmes discuss the Rebel reminded her of some more work she needed to handle, so after procuring a large frosty drink, Fran moved to her and Pete’s old meeting bench and slid another DJ from her boot. Well-trained Rebels learned the hunt went best when conditions, such as a crowded lunchtime Agora, allowed them to go unnoticed. Fran knew if she lingered by a vent, she’d run across a few like-minded brothers.

  After a short wait, she heard the old familiar hum and perceived movement behind the plastic palm. Fran waited until the Rebel secured himself into the safety of the fold, a few feet from where she sat, before trying to catch his attention.

  “Psst.”

  He looked up and held her stare. Fran cringed at his rookie mistake. Eyes down. Sure, she wanted to get his attention, but a well-trained Rebel knew better than to stare. That’s how the beginners got caught.

  Fran laid the DJ onto the floor and placed her boot on top of it. While holding the stare, she launched it across the floor, landing it at his feet. The Rebel’s eyes lit up. He bent down and snatched up the device. Fran placed her smoothie onto the bench and walked away.

  .~.

  The Waltonian, perched high above the Agora on its own premiere pedestal revolved in a slow circle, affording a glimpse of the cityscape to chic diners. Fran sat in a fancy, velvet chair listening to the excited clucking of residents on the far side as their windows snuck past the Council’s Viewing Loft. Of course, the loft remained empty at the moment, but the crowd seemed titillated, nonetheless. A commingling of disgust for the nonsense mixed with sadness for these people.

  A waiter dressed in a black tuxedo appeare
d at her table. Not an overly enthusiastic, pixilated Graphie but a flesh-and-blood man, complete with a white linen draped over his arm.

  Fran smiled. “I’m still waiting for my guest.”

  “Excellent, mademoiselle. Would you care for a sparkling cider or perhaps a smooth elixir while you wait?”

  “Sure. Cider, please.”

  So what was she going to say? “Hey Ted, I saw Mom and Dad. They said you should come home.”

  That probably wouldn’t fly. Of course, her reputation for being a reasonable sister had been lost awhile back. Yet, she had relinquished Rebel status. Would that be enough to convince him? Did she dare just whip out the DJ and say, “Hey take a look at this, bro.”

  On one hand, she wished she had a more solid plan. On the other? Maybe a well-thought proposal might have sounded too contrived anyway.

  The waiter placed a long-stemmed glass onto the table and poured the sparkly beverage. Fran watched the bubbles scatter about the liquid, all frantic and wayward, doing an imperfect dance. She lifted the glass to her lips and experienced the sting of fizz.

  Ted showed up a moment later. “Who’s paying for this one?”

  Fran smiled. “Your baby sister, of course.”

  The waiter pulled out a chair for Ted, and he slid in across from Fran. “I’m impressed.”

  Fran released a nervous laugh. “Yes, I’m working for a Superior now.”

  She figured it wasn’t a total lie since Doc had been a Superior at one time. Ted responded with a nod and chuckle.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Ted, you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Listen, Wickworm, I know life has dealt you a few blows. I know you were really close to Mom. I miss her too, you know. I understand the reason for your rebellion. But―”