Impervious

by Heather Letto

  “But what?” Fran stared at her brother in disbelief. Too bad, so sad. Move on, little sis.

  “But nothing.” Ted looked down at the linen napkin and placed it onto his lap before returning his attention to his sister. “You were saying?”

  “The Epoch. It’s here.”

  Ted’s eyes shot open before he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “Nice one. You almost had me.”

  “No, really.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Fran heard the resonance of Nissa’s influence and hated the way Ted looked down his nose at her. She remembered the words her father had said just a few nights ago at the river. This world had become Ted’s oyster. He’d found his treasure and had surrendered his personal search for truth. She wanted to scream, wanted to shake him. She wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him to the secret venting, shove him between the mammoth blades and into the open air.

  Instead, she held her breath to allow the wave of grief to pass. Then with a phony laugh, she added, “Just kidding.”

  Ted chuckled. “Same old Wickworm, huh?” He held up his own glass of sparkling cider. “Welcome back, little sister.”

  “Thanks.” Fran took a sip of the fizzy drink. “So, here’s a hypothetical question for you.”

  Ted nodded for her to continue as he dipped focaccia into a pool of infused oils.

  “What if the Epoch was here? And… what if Mom and Dad were alive out there somewhere?”

  Ted laughed and crumbs from his bread spilled onto his chest. “Sure. And what if Graphies could have babies.”

  “Good one, Ted. Baby Graphies.” Fran parroted his laugh and took another sip of juice as he brushed the crumbs from shirt.

  “But if they were alive, wouldn’t you want to know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Fran felt a moment of hope.

  “And I’d also like to know how a Graphie managed to make a baby.”

  He wiggled his brows and winked at his sister. A sickness settled deep into her gut. Fran redirected the conversation to more mundane matters and everyday gossip as she tried to think of a different angle. Something that would help her brother see the light. As they continued their meal, futility coursed through her body. Like poison dripping into her veins, every off-handed comment and rude gesture from this guy who looked like her brother seemed to destroy her hope. The Council, or Nissa, or somebody had stolen the real Ted and replaced him with this imposter―a West Wing sellout.

  The restaurant continued to revolve, and soon, they turned just a few feet away from the Superior Viewing Loft. Hushed exaltations and giddy excitement grew from neighboring tables. Fran didn’t bother to look. She couldn’t give honor to the ones who held her brother in their invisible clutches. Yet, something flickered in Ted’s eye―a sudden gleam of surprise—and she lifted her gaze with the others.

  The Council had arrived and taken their seats.

  What in the world?

  “I wonder what’s going on. Want to check it out?” Ted asked.

  Before Fran could answer, her brother, along with a dozen other Waltonian patrons, rose and moved to a nearby balcony. Fran followed, three steps behind, unsure she wanted to be party to what might be in the works. A few impatient residents elbowed past her, hoping to get the perfect ringside seat. Ted lifted a hand and waved to her over the crowd, but Fran looked away, satisfied with her back-row view.

  As she looked out over the Agora, she spied Graphies corralling pedestrians to the East Court, leaving the stage and surrounding area barren. A crackling spike of electricity circulated through the air, and a Graphie, several times larger than the average man, appeared center stage. A hush fell over the court.

  “My fellow Impervieites, we come to you today with sad news.”

  A wave of chatter moved through the crowd. The people around Fran speculated as to what might have happened.

  “An extreme act of treasonous terror has been committed within our city walls. We know it to be the act of a troubled soul. One swept up into the arms of a dangerous coup d'état.”

  Loud gasps and hissing tsks trailed throughout the restaurant. A moment later, a ratty Rebel, the same one she had seen earlier, was brought to the stage. Fran stood paralyzed while visions of the DJ sliding across the floor and an untouched smoothie flashed through her brain. The Graphie droned on. His words rebounded off the high ceilings and echoed throughout the Agora. “We have asked ourselves, how do we handle this treachery? What is good and proper?”

  Fran’s heart rattled hard and fast.

  “We have decided to treat rebellion with love. What the Rebels meant for evil, we will use for good. We have chosen the most dignified of endings for this man.”

  Boy! Fran’s heart cried out in silence. He’s not a man, he’s a boy. Just a boy!

  A femme in an iridescent gown moved forward and cloaked the rebel in a velvety robe.

  No! Fran choked on her own terror.

  The Rebel stared straight ahead, not even squirming, and Fran realized he had already been poisoned. The femme led him down the stairs and off the stage, and one small boy in a big velvety robe began a silent parade. She knew his slippers swished. She also knew how this single Rebel procession was bound to end.

  Fran turned and ran.

  Out of the Waltonian. Through the back hallways of the West Wing and along the bridge that joined East and West.

  In her mind, the screaming never ceased.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Face down on her flip-flop, Fran lay in a tangle of sheets, weeping for the boy whose name she didn’t even know and the brother being held hostage. Was it an impossible task? Was there hope for the truth? She wept for Fiona and Marie and the sickness that had stolen years from their lives. Cried out for Bob and John and the misery they still faced.

  Fran wept until her soaked pillow clung to her face. Her eyes burned, and she lay on her bed listening to the silence, punctuated only by a throbbing in her temple.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, she would jump the truth onto as many readers as she could. Then she would watch Pete’s hearing, walk with him to the Ranch, and, united, they would exit this hell.

  And never come back.

  .~.

  The next morning, Fran spent a few hours in the Agora with her DJ’s before heading off to the courtroom to catch Pete’s trial. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowded civilian viewing loft. Another slow day in the city.

  She ran a finger along the names on the docket until she came to Pete’s case—fourth in line. She spotted him down on the hearing floor, awaiting his turn looking trendy and chic in a plaid kilt. Nice touch, Pete.

  Fran noticed his muscular legs. She’d never seen them unveiled before, and their definition surprised her. It made sense, of course. All of the crawling and climbing? Great lower body workouts. She admired the way he sat―tall and confident. A flicker of warmth returned to her belly. With the ample time afforded outside, she did look forward to getting to know him a little better. Maybe tonight they’d sit by the fire, and she’d introduce Pete to her Mom and Dad. Holy cow… and what about Pete’s parents!? She’d completely forgotten about them. How long ago had they declined? Were they at Village Number One, or had they ventured off? An easy smile meandered across her face as she considered the reunions.

  When the trials began, she listened with partial interest. The first defendant had hoarded. Apparently, of the 100,000 lifetime meal credits, he’d only used 5,000. Fran looked at the full figure even a pleated kilt couldn’t hide. Obviously, this guy had not starved himself. Total moocher.

  Sentencing? A charge of 50,000 meal credits and a strict warning to eat three meals a day. A woman in the front row cried. Seriously?

  Defendant number two: Slothfulness. According to Impervious Entitlement Law, adequate food, housing, and—depending upon family money line—spending credits imparted to each resident allowed for a comfortable life
. However, Community Service credits, a system devised to encourage and reward volunteer work, also played into the culture. Child-minders, the work Fran’s mom did, fell into this under-paid category. Fran didn’t know if one credit had been equated the same dollar amount from the ancient, pre-war era, but it didn’t matter. In most cases, when the family money ran out, a resident joined the ranks of Community Service workers—which made up most of the East Wing.

  Yet, even though those with family money still rolling around their accounts didn’t need to dirty their hands on a daily basis, slothfulness was discouraged. So much so, a law had been put in place requiring every Accountable person over the age of thirteen to work at least one hour per week or be in violation of slothfulness. Fran remembered caring for the juvies at the ICS with her mother and loved the few hours a week she’d donated. The job gave her something to look forward to. A purpose.

  An hour a week to donate to a worthy cause. Why would anyone break that law? In her mind, loads of words described that type of person, and none of them included the politically-correct term of slothfulness. She hoped they found a suitable penance for this one. She listened to the case and couldn’t help but roll her eyes as the trendy West Winger whined to the judging panel over why she hadn’t been able to fulfill her Community Service obligation for the last half year. Her body hugging dress shimmered as she lifted her hands in exasperation. Embarrassing cleavage revealed more skin than Fran cared to see as the girl continued her spectacle for the sour looking crony. At least he’s not sleeping this time. Finally, the committee announced punishment: Two hours of Community Service per week until a penance of ten total hours had been paid.

  Chatter rose in the viewing loft as residents pooh-poohed the ruling. Then again, they came for the show, so in reality, Fran figured they were satisfied with the entertainment.

  Defendant number three: Xenophobia.

  Considered a hate crime, this offense carried quite a bit more weight, and the Council exercised zero tolerance. They claimed this attitude to be the cornerstone of hate that led to the final war—a fight cloaked in prejudice and racism. The Council considered the act of intolerance so serious that upon reaching the Age of Accountability, each resident signed a witnessed document proclaiming to uphold the dignity of his brother.

  The Signing, commemorated in sixth grade and most parents hosted big parties with hot hors d’oeuvres after the recitation of The Oath. “In no way will I judge, assume malice, or undermine the ideals and freedoms of my fellow man. As I hold dear my own personal truths, so does my brother. Therefore, for the sake of harmony and peace under our single metal dome, we shall not impose our beliefs upon our brothers.”

  Fran snorted. She, Mom, and Ted had gone out for a celebratory ice cream after her recitation.

  Defendant number three had caused a riot after a night at the pub, slurring the ideals of West Wingers and calling them frauds and sellouts. Ouch. That one stung. His sentencing? A penance of 100 hours of Community Care, cleaning the residences of the very ones he had insulted.

  How ironic. That ought to knock the xeno right out from under his phobia.

  After an eternity, Pete’s turn arrived. Fran wiggled in her seat and glanced at her com device. She had thirty minutes before her start time at the Ranch. Her boot drummed on the floor.

  Judge number One began the questioning. “Peter Katigoruminous. You have been found Unaccountable. What is your response?”

  Fran chewed her nails as she waited for Pete to answer.

  After an uncomfortable pause, Pete stood.

  “I was Unaccountable. I lived as a Rebel.”

  “Yes, Mr. Katigoruminous. We already established your Unaccountability. Do you have anything to add to that? We would like to try to understand your reasoning before we assign penance.”

  “Because I don’t like the mandates of the Council.”

  Gasps rang out from the loft, and a hum of chatter arose. Fran halted mid-nail. She leaned forward in her chair.

  “Mr. Katigoruminous, to what mandates are you referring?”

  “All of them. Accountability being number one.”

  “Rabble rouser.” A women seated near Fran sneered as her eyes lit with delight.

  Her companion added his thoughts. “Such insolence.”

  His eyes flicked to either side, and he pursed his thin lips as if to contain his satisfaction.

  Judge number two, the Superior, sat up in his chair.

  “Mr. Katigor…” The judge bumbled before baling on Pete’s surname. “Peter, please tell us why you find Accountability to be unjust.”

  Fran stared at the back of Pete’s head trying to send him mental messages. Stop! Just take your punishment, and we’ll be home free.

  “Because my life is none of the Council’s business. I should be free to choose where I live, how often I eat…” His voice softened, and Fran leaned in. “And who I kiss.”

  Her face heated. A tear threatened, and she pulled in her breath, holding it tight in her chest.

  The Superior cleared his throat. “Yes, I can see why your kissing should be a private matter. However, Peter, it is, in fact, of great importance to the Council where you live, etc. We find that to be the very thread that sews order into our home.”

  “Our home?” Pete laughed. “More like prison.”

  Jeers and hisses rang out from the civilian viewing loft. Names like traitor and fugitive bounced off the walls of the courtroom. Claws of mortification scratched at Fran’s soul.

  What is he doing? This isn’t anything like Pete. What’s happening?

  “Thank you, Peter. That is all I have.” Judge number two sat back.

  The third Judge squinted his eyes. Fran saw evil glint from the center. Something was wrong. Somehow they had gotten to Pete. Her brain jumbled, and she wanted to vomit. She had to help Pete but had no idea how.

  “Peter, because of an item found on your person today, we have reason to believe you may be party to a coup d'état. Please respond.”

  “Coup d'état?” Pete laughed again.

  The viewing platform grew silent. Fran looked to her right and to her left. She saw fear. Not the usual fear of the decline, or even a fear of this outspoken Rebel for that matter, but something new. They sensed a shift in the order they had always known. The birth of a new terror— even uglier than the one kept hidden in their vaults. The fear only acknowledged in small doses.

  “Yes, Mr. Katigoruminous, a coup d'état. An effort to overthrow the work of the Council. How do you respond?”

  “The Council is this city’s worst enemy.” Pete turned around and faced the viewing loft. “Brothers and sisters, I implore you to look beyond the things that can be seen. I beg of you to seek the truth.”

  Fran mouthed the word Stop!

  The Graphie had already materialized beside Pete with enough power to send its electromagnescence into the loft. Static electricity lifted the tiny hairs on Fran’s skin.

  Pete stared straight into Fran’s eyes. And then he dropped to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Fran sat frozen in the loft, hands clamped over her mouth to stop the scream that tried to burst forth. The viewing loft emptied of onlookers after a few city workers hauled a half-baked Pete to Holding. The face of the nameless Rebel haunted her thoughts. Would they do the same thing to Pete? What could she do to help him? Stage a rescue mission?

  One Wolf against the Council? Hah!

  She couldn’t just do nothing. But what? Without even feeling her own legs move, Fran rushed out of the courtroom to the nearest venting. A code entry, the hum of the cover, a headfirst dive, and utter darkness—an abyss as deep as the night sky with no moon or stars to light the way.

  The tightness of space and blinding darkness sent a wave of claustrophobia through her body. Panic rose in her chest, and spiky pins moved down her legs like the very first time Chan led her through the short maze. She could hear his voice.

  Calm down, Wolf. You got this.

/>   She closed her eyes and tapped her finger, breathing in the dusty essence as she listened to the creaking and moaning. The schematics blossomed in her brain. She lifted onto hands and knees and began to skulk to the land of the Superiors.

  Her head spun with memories of the last time she and Pete had spied on these hallowed halls. The idea came about after a day of sleeping and eating, when their boredom spurred on the idea of a midnight tunnel run. Fran choked back a weepy snort as she remembered Pete’s strange combination of fear and giddiness and the ditty he’d made up to honor their outing.

  Cronies, Top-Dogs, Velvet coats,

  Faces look like mother goats,

  Eau de Crony fills your hallowed halls,

  And the same smell lurks in the bathroom stalls…

  Fran hummed the tune, and a tear trailed down her cheek and dripped onto the metal. She snaked through the tunnels, trying to keep her mind clear. Too many outside thoughts equaled confusion. Confusion equaled chaos. And chaos? Failure.

  She zigzagged her way up to the top floor and approached the super-long shaft that crossed the Agora. Suspended from the ceiling with thick wires, the tunnel swayed ever-so-slightly as she moved. The hustle and bustle from below echoed through the pipe, creating a maddening mix of noise. Between the sounds of confusion and the blinding darkness, she fell prey to the odd sense of unsteadiness that always accompanied this quarter-mile stretch.

  Once across, she moved past the land of cybernetic vacation pods and caught glimpses of sandy seashores, virtual ski slopes, and evening gondola rides in the canals of Venice. Finally, she traversed the perimeter of the lobby to the Council Offices.

  This air smelled different than the surrounding businesses, but not like Pete implied with his witty lyrics. More like a sort of musty, peppery smell. It looked different than the rest of the city too. Antique, plump furnishings weighed down the thick carpets, so different from the sharp angles and glistening acrylic furniture that spoke of modern day. Some sort of antiquated music emanated from hidden speakers.