Impervious

by Heather Letto

  She moved past the mismatched desks of the staffers and small offices of the lower ranking Superiors. To date, two-hundred cronies who had 'avoided the plague' made up the Council—the ones with such exceptional DNA they lived past the standard shortened life span.

  Fran wondered if the Council members even knew of the sham or if they believed themselves to be genetically superior. The Seven, made up of Marcus and The Sons of the Generations as well as four of Marcus’ closest cohorts, were the big dogs. The revered ones. Genetically and politically superior. The thought nauseated Fran.

  The Council Meeting Chamber sat behind the wall of offices in a mix of velvet, leather, and glossy wood. Smells of pipe-tobacco and hard liquor filled the air. Hundreds of high-backed chairs surrounded a central platform. Fran scurried past the first venting and took a few turns until she maneuvered to an optimal viewing space.

  After a few quick minutes, a crony entered the room, holding a reader and mumbling, in conversation to a cohort. She couldn’t tell what they discussed, but then again, she really didn’t care. From the red suit jackets, she knew these guys weren’t the high rankers on the food chain—probably mid-hierarchy. If she remembered correctly from Social Studies, staffers wore green, middle-management red, and the top dogs―all black.

  Just another visual opportunity for Marcus to assert status. As she waited, more and more red jackets filled the room. Some wandered about, greeting buddies with a hard slap on the back. Others sat in chairs examining readers or nodding off. Then, a hush fell upon the room, and the sea of red parted as a line of black jackets snaked through the center.

  Marcus, the final man to enter, looked even more gruesome up close than Fran had imagined. Gravity wrestled with the skin on his face, pulling everything downward. Hundreds of lines meandered through leathery cheeks, and the sparse white hair on his head reminded Fran of wispy cotton. His rounded shoulders and jutting head created the illusion of a hunchback as he shuffled into the room and took his place on the platform. For the briefest of moments, Fran felt sorry for this pathetic man. Until he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Members of The Council, please be seated.”

  A shuffling ensued, followed by reverent silence. After a lengthy pause, Marcus continued.

  “I will get right to the point. Two Unaccountable Rebels have been captured within the last forty-eight hours. Each Rebel had a DataJump on his person. After closer investigation, the DataJumps were found to contain notes from the life of Dr. Benjamin Leiben, our fallen brother.”

  Mumblings and chatter rose from the sea of red coats, and Marcus waited for the wave to settle before he continued.

  “As you know, Benjamin was a close friend of mine. One of the original creators of Impervious. However, poor Ben didn’t possess the same wherewithal of those of us gathered in this room. Too many years underground changed him, and he commenced with a rebellious behavior that still festers in our bunker today.”

  Two hundred heads nodded and murmured their agreement.

  “We can’t let his words infect our city. We must erase the existence of this madness. And I do believe I hold the key.”

  Marcus nodded to his closest cohort, and the doors of the Council Chamber whooshed open. Fran gasped before she could clamp a hand over her mouth. Two guards ushered in Pete—bound and gagged, eyes bulging with fear.

  “What we have here, Council Members, is an official Rebel rat.” Marcus’ venom spewed into the room. “Just like his brother from yesterday, he will be used to display to the city the fate of those who oppose the Council. Marcus clasped his hands together as if in prayer, and words hissed through tight lips.

  “My subordinates have been working a technology I’m sure you will find as delightful as I have.” He laughed. “And, the Rebels have nothing. No weapons, and certainly no leader who could battle against us. I daresay, unless every single Rebel came forth and stormed the stage, the group has no recourse.”

  Marcus’ gaze rested on the vent. Fran could have sworn his aged eyes locked onto her own for the briefest of moments.

  “Please present yourselves to the viewing loft at 1400. I think you’ll be interested to see what I have in store.”

  Fran clamped her lids and leaned deeper into the shadows of the pipe. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Like when she had assumed Retter to be a cannibal? Or did Marcus somehow know of her presence? With eyes shut tight, she inched backwards and then scurried deeper into the tunnel.

  Marcus didn’t think the Rebels shared the common thread of unity? Fran begged to differ. She maneuvered back through the venting, fashioning a plan that would blow the Council’s dirty socks right off their knobby feet.

  She moved to the first point. The place Folsom always camped near the East side of the Agora. No yellow light illuminated his space and Fran panicked. Please be sleeping, Folsom.

  She plowed into him. He yelped and growled.

  “Folsom. It’s me, Wolf.”

  “Wolf? I thought you were back on the grid.”

  “I am.”

  “Oh really?” Folsom chuckled. “I like you, Wolf. You’re always up to something.”

  “Listen, I’m here for Pete.”

  “Prankster Pete? I heard you and him―”

  Fran interrupted. “―Folsom. Listen to me.” She wanted to shake him but opted for a deep breath. “Pete’s in trouble. I have a feeling if we don’t step up, we’re going to lose him to the Council. We need everyone on board. Round up the Rebels from Zones One through Six. I’ll get the rest and meet you back here.”

  As Fran inched backwards, she heard a soft snore. She banged on the metal with her boot.

  “Folsom. Now.”

  Fran scurried off banging the metal walls and whooping through venting. It was a siren of sorts. One her Rebel brothers would recognize. As she reached the first “T” she heard responsive banging.

  “Sound off,” she demanded, just like Chan used to.

  “Offrey,” The Rebel stated. “What’s with the excitement?”

  “They’ve got Pete, Offrey. We need everyone to come together.”

  A lighter tapping announced another Rebel.

  “It’s Derrick,” a voice shouted before being addressed.

  “Newbie?” Fran inquired.

  “Yes.” Offrey and Derrick’s voices collided.

  “I’m putting you guys in charge of the Southeast sector. Grab everyone you can and meet me back here in one hour.”

  A short time later, a heavy sweat ran down Fran's back as she moved. A dozen rebels moved in line behind her. Would this plan even work? At least Marcus had sounded afraid it might. Every petitioned Rebel had joined the cause. Julias, Fenwick, and Jasmine she knew. The rest of those behind her, were new, however. It didn’t matter. Everyone loved Pete. He’d made a name for himself in a very short time—his laughter like balm on weary Rebel hearts.

  They met up with Folsom at the large “T” right by the East Side, and the group moved as a unit into the HVAC Systems Hub—a land of twisting tubes, mammoth fans, and the one-ton filtration system. The space was loud and crowded. Fran arrived first and stood by as each and every Rebel exited the pipe. The mood of the Rebels seemed a bit off putting.

  “What are we here for?” Fenwick snipped.

  “I don’t know,” said another. “I just followed you all here.”

  Jasmine rolled out of the vent and readjusted her snug tank. “I hope there’s food.”

  Fran waited until they had all exited before climbing onto an elevated shaft. She counted thirty-one Rebels total, including herself and Folsom. Would it be enough? If they stormed the stage, would they outnumber the available Graphies? At least they had the element of surprise on their side. She shouted out to the assembly.

  “Thank you for coming everyone. In case you haven’t been told, we’re gathering today to help a fellow Rebel fight the Council.”

  “Prankster Pete, right?” A voice called out from the throng.

  “Yes. Prankst
er Pete.” Fran smiled. “He made us laugh, so how about we return the favor?”

  An unexpected silence followed. Then Derrick shouted out. “But we’ll be risking house arrest right?”

  “That’s insanity,” another Rebel added.

  Soon, the rest of the crowd began to raise their voices and Fran couldn’t be heard. She looked at her downtrodden, rag-tag brothers and sisters. She’d been where they are and understood… they were hungry, and tired, and feared the Council.

  Fran also realized she had the advantage. She now knew what the fight was for—blue skies, fresh air, green grass and flowers. Breezes that tickled her cheek and fresh water that tasted strange, but had the power to heal. And just as the refreshing dip in the warm springs had renewed her spirit, knowing she was being given a new life, free to live with the ones she loved most? Well it was like being born all over again. She’d witnessed the truth and knew without a doubt what awaited above ground. They, however, had yet to witness the Epoch.

  She squatted low on the pipe and pounded on the metal. She shrieked her loudest, “whoop!” All eyes rose to her perch. As the chatter died, Fran dug deep into her soul—deeper than her fear, and around her typical sarcasm—and felt the spirit of her mentor rise.

  “We are not gathered today to wage a war but rather to stop the battle of insanity that has raged on far too long.” She yelled to be heard over the fans. “We have no weapons. We have nothing to our names, but I have news for you, brothers and sisters.”

  Fran took a deep breath and shouted, “The Epoch has arrived. The air is clean, and our suffering is almost over.”

  Murmurs rose like a wave, and Fran continued. “I tell you, truly, I have seen it. I have walked upon the green grasses and felt the warm sun on my shoulders.”

  A few gasps rang out, and a handful of questions shot forth.

  “Were there any Geiger ghosts?”

  “Was the sky gray and cold?”

  “How did you get out?”

  “Are you contaminated?”

  “I know you must have a million questions. I know because I did before I saw it with my own eyes. But you must take it on faith. The open-air is safe. It is bright, alive, and will blow your mind. True healing awaits us out there, and that, my brothers and sisters, is the truth. Though the Council may have the ability to harm our flesh; they cannot take the truth from us. Stand firm in that knowledge as we move forth and see this to victory. When Pete is in our midst, we will all walk out of this place, and we will be healed. We are equipped with the truth, and we must wear it like armor as we face the Council. Remember, we are not here to harm the people of this city but to disarm the evil that holds us all hostage. We are heirs to the world, brothers and sisters. Although we may stand here as outcasts and paupers, this earth was bought and paid for by our ancestors.”

  The Rebels whooped with excitement, and Fran smiled. Her plan would work. It had to work.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Fran waited with her cheek pressed against the venting and scanned the courts. A quick glance cross-court to venting A62 revealed a flicker of light as the eyes of a Rebel-brother blinked. She peeled her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth.

  A commotion overhead captured her attention. They had come. Her stomach tightened. A small part of her hoped her overactive imagination had fabricated the whole thing. Panic began to rise. Focus Wolf.

  A moment later, it began. Like all processions of the Council, Graphies and electrical fencing herded the throng of Impervieites from their activities in the West Court to the already crowded East Court. Once the entire West Court floor had been cleared, an enormous Graphie appeared in the center, his voice thundered while saluting the Superiors and then welcoming the awaiting audience.

  That’s when she saw him.

  On the stage.

  In a velvety robe and whisper-soft slippers.

  The scene unfolded like a dream as her mind attempted to disengage itself from the terrifying reality. Flashes of memories, like clips from a movie trailer, played out in another realm where time did not exist. The arching of his eyebrow, the sound of his howl, chocolate covered peanuts, and turkey sandwiches all melded together into one emotional collage before pulling apart with vivid clarity. Her throat closed up as she remembered his warm breath and the way he’d whispered her name.

  Not Wolf.

  Not Fran.

  But Sarah, her real name.

  Fran flashed her old Light-Genie to cue her team. She was certain the Council would take notice when every venting slid open. She, at least, had prepared to hear shouts from onlookers as thirty-one rebels exited their vents and into the barren courts. What she hadn’t anticipated as she slithered from the darkness, was hearing Pete’s shout from the stage.

  “Wolf. Go back!”

  Her feet froze in place, and her head turned to view the expanse of the Agora. It didn’t make sense. Not a single pixilated presence or computer generated voice declared each Rebel become Accountable. Yet, every tiny hair on Fran’s body rose, and her head buzzed with an intense electromagnetic manifestation.

  Overhead lights dimmed, and a holographic scene unfolded. The smooth flooring of the shopping courts morphed into a desert-like terrain―just like the scene when she watched Nissa perform Mission Perdition for Ted. The Lunch Hut became a jagged butte with sharp rocks jutting out from its face. Hot wind burned her cheeks while pelting sand blew through the air. Artificial warmth engulfed her body. Her hands glowed.

  “Ladies and Gentleman. Welcome to the Desert!” The voice boomed through the court and echoed off of the high ceiling.

  “Tonight’s debut performance, brought to you by way of the Council, will be the ultimate in the gaming experience. Be prepared to go to the brink. Ready yourself for the show of a lifetime. You will find yourself on the edge of your seat as fantasy becomes reality and reality turns to fantasy.”

  Fran’s mind reeled as every Rebel lit up like a glowing Graphie. A gritty substance scratched at her skin. She rubbed the heated surface and recognized the smell of magnetized dust, an element she’d been allowed to view, but not touch, on her sixth-grade field trip to The Inventor’s Wing. Besides that trip with her classmates, she’d never seen the element that turned a live man into a gaming avatar, getting rid of controllers and screens.

  She had heard this new phase of gaming technology to be underway. Up until this moment, however, she’d thought it was no more than a hopeful rumor. Yet now highly-charged metallic receptacles attached to her skin. And, now, she had become the game.

  Although from her vantage point, Fran clearly recognized each Rebel enshrouded within the glow of their gaming character, she realized that on the video screens and to the spectators watching from the balconies, they all appeared to be nothing more than gaming pieces.

  Thirty-one vents hummed closed as Zombies pixelated in the court—dreadful holographs with open wounds and rotted flesh. Fetid odors surged through the courts; their shrieks and groans became a nightmarish audio backdrop as the announcer continued.

  “Tonight, the battle of Behemoth and Queen Xyphon continues, as well as the fight between the dead and the Unaccountable. The Queen will rule with the Zombies, and the dreaded Behemoth will wreak havoc with the Rebels. Sit back and enjoy the entertainment as we present to you, Mission Perdition II–Nightmare of a Rebel.”

  Music sounded as the words “Mission Perdition II” floated through the air.

  This can’t be happening. Fran’s head whipped from side to side. A few Rebels scurried back to the openings from where they had emerged. Fran shook herself from the shock-inflicted paralysis. Fight or flight—a human instinct as basic as breathing—overtook her senses. She back ran to her venting exit and swiped in the code.

  Nothing.

  Her hands shook. Maybe she swiped the wrong numbers. She tried again.

  The grating remained stone cold. Unmoving. Locked up tight. She looked around as her comrades struggled to return to the safety of a vent. Th
ey scurried as they tried to dodge the ethereal light draped over them.

  She looked up at the Viewing Loft. An opaque shield acted as a buffer between the Superiors and the courts. And the cheering crowd? They believed this spectacle to be yet another gaming experience. Death didn’t exist in this make-believe world.

  About twenty-five feet away, Derrick, huddled against his venting pounding on the opening with balled fists. His face contorted, and his mouth moved as he screamed. The crowd cheered when growls of death rang out from the hidden speakers, drowning out his desperate cries.

  A grisly, yellow-faced Zombie lunged at her Rebel brother and covered him in a mound of snarls and rotting flesh. Holographic blood squirted out from beneath the Zombie, painting a nearby wall with red pixilations.

  Fran’s heart stopped. But it’s not real. She closed her eyes. It’s not real. None of this is real. She repeated it over and over. Maybe, in their insane minds, the Council believed they could use the Rebels as human avatars, but Fran knew it took more than holographic teeth and claws to kill a real man.

  Even so, when the zombie stepped away, Derrick remained on the ground in a helpless pile. Unmoving. A pixilated stream of blood trickled from his body.

  Fran screamed, “Derrick, get up!”

  Her cries couldn’t be heard over the surrounding roar as the crowd went wild. The zombie lifted two hands over his head in the sign of victory as he lumbered away from Derrick, toward Fran.

  “Derrick, get up!” She screamed the command over and over as she raced toward his body. As she lifted her hand, a spade pixilated in the air as if she held it. It stayed with her as she ran, and right when she moved past the zombie, the spade came down onto his head. When it sunk, a deep, gloppy, squishing sound heralded through the speakers. Holographic gray matter oozed, leaving Fran sick to her stomach. It’s not real; it’s not real.

  She continued running blindly toward Derrick and almost collided with Folsom as they both made the approach. Derrick still lay unmoving. He can’t be dead. It was just a holograph.