AQUA (The Elements Series Book 1)

by Korn, Tracy

  "I wish they had sports here, but I suppose that wouldn't be very practical. Did you play any at your school?" I ask, relatively confident that this doesn't sound too stupid. His smile widens. I guess his teeth aren't that strange.

  "G-ball, mainly," he says, brushing a strand of loose hair behind my shoulder, "but I like everything. Did you pla—"

  "We're going to be late, come on," Arco says to Tieg, abruptly standing. He crosses behind me and grabs Tieg's bicep, which makes him nearly fall off the bench. He catches himself immediately and gives me the rest of his smile as he stands.

  "Will I see you at lunch?" he says to me on the cusp of a laugh.

  "Everyone will be here at lunch, let's go," Arco answers him, the edge in his voice growing. I raise my eyebrows and nod, trying not to laugh. Tieg's eyes widen with a surprised grin as he shrugs under Arco's marshaling before they turn to leave. I watch him until he looks back at me over his shoulder, and then quickly turn away, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest. After a deep breath, I set my eyes on Vox.

  "Can I please help you get kicked out of here somehow? Seriously, what do you need me to do? Can you just hijack a submarine, or maybe go play with that matter board again and create a transfer booth that will put you on the moon? Please?" I spill at her as soon as the boys are out of earshot.

  "You like him," Vox says, popping a piece of orange into her mouth. I throw one of my grapes at her.

  "Stow it. I do not. Let's go. We're going to be late too if we don't leave now. Room 30B," I say into my bracelet, and a glowing arrow appears at my shoulder.

  CHAPTER 26

  Empathy Class

  The lecture hall isn't far, and we're there in a matter of minutes. Students in the same blue jumpsuit as the rest of us scurry around like ants trying to find seats among the smooth, white amphitheater rows. I scan for anyone I know without any luck until I hear my name called from across the room.

  "Jazz!"

  Myra Toll is waving her arms above her head, strawberry blonde hair flying everywhere as she jumps up and down, drawing stares. I look behind me and all around to see if anyone notices she's calling to me. Vox, of course, is laughing.

  "Stow it. Go away," I hiss at her, but she follows me as I walk toward Myra, holding my hand up in a weak wave so she stops the sideshow.

  "Is she always like that?" Vox breathes into the back of my hair, which sends a shiver down my spine.

  "Will you get away from me?" I say to her over my shoulder. Vox holds up her palms to me and throws her eyes open wide in mock fear as she takes a few steps back…right into Liddick's chest.

  "Ladies," he says, and lowers his chin. "You'll do me the honor of sitting next to me, won't you, Vox?" he says to her, maneuvering so she is on the other side of him, and he is in the seat next to me. I roll my eyes and turn back to Myra, who is suddenly about five inches from my face.

  "Hi! How was breakfast?"she asks, taking a seat.

  "A little stressful, actually," I say, darting a glance at Vox. "I was late. How was yours? I didn't see what the prepared meal was because I was hurrying," I answer.

  "It was some kind of porridge with toppings and spices. I tasted something called an agate fruit; it's from somewhere down south. Isn't it nice that they try to bring in something from everyone's culture to keep it neutral—make everyone feel represented, you know?" Myra's big blue eyes flit from me to Liddick, then pause, fascinated on Vox before she turns them back to me.

  "They can keep that thick green sludge I saw in someone's glass," Vox says, leaning forward over her knees and jabbing herself into our conversation around Liddick.

  "Oh, that's kelp puree. Joss's people have that all the time. Remember Joss, the Fisher? Anyway, it's not half bad!" Myra continues over my shoulder to Vox, whose eyes light instantly and color hits her face like a slap. So it's still Joss she's into then, not Arco? I think.

  "On your recommendation, I'll make sure to try it tomorrow," Liddick says, beaming every watt of his smile at Myra until our instructor enters and quiets everyone.

  "Good morning," the woman now standing down at the front of the room says. "Welcome to Empathy and Psychosomatic Systems, First Years. My name is Luz Reynolt."

  She's dressed in a jumpsuit like ours, but hers is light blue like the sky. Her auburn hair reminds me of Fraya's, and even falls in loose waves around her shoulders like Fraya's as her smile both lights up the room and calms it when she holds up her hands.

  "Wow, she's beautiful," Myra whispers to me, and I nod.

  "Some of you may not be aware, or have only recently been made aware of the many different cultures here at Gaia, and I hope you are excited to learn about the similarities and differences among the many wonderful backgrounds. I, myself, am a native, born and raised in our fourth homestead quadrant like others in this room. We also have topside cultures such as Seaboard North, South, East, and West, as well as Skyboard and inland communities within those borders represented here today," Ms. Reynolt says, trying to look at everyone around the room.

  Pictures of landscapes begin appearing behind her from floor to ceiling against the bowed back wall—underwater homesteads made of different, odd shapes that look like blown glass with uniform window pockets near the tops. They're all connected by air tunnel tubes with a big domed building in the center of the ring of pods that all the air tunnels funnel into. The next slide is of the woods, of rough construction houses with no seams or riveting of any kind. People start murmuring again, and Vox suddenly raises her voice over everyone.

  "They don't call us inland culture. They call us Fringe," she says, startling those around us into silence, then pushing up her sleeves. "And those are stone houses, you tuhao, not clay. Maybe if you'd gotten off your mountain once in a while you'd know that," she adds over the row of chairs in front of us where one girl suddenly elbows another hard in the chest, stopping her giggling.

  "Hey!" the girl gapes at the one who has just struck her, then rubs her sternum.

  "I'm sorry! I'm—I don't know why I did that," the other girl says, scratching the back of her head, confused.

  "Vox!" I hiss over Liddick's lap, somehow feeling responsible, but Liddick puts his hand on my knee to stop my chastising.

  "Yes, that is the colloquial term indeed, and I believe there is also a term for Skyboarders, and Shorelanders?" Ms. Reynolt extends her arm to us, palm up. Is she actually asking us to call them out?

  "Cloudies," a blonde girl a few rows over says. I strain to see her teeth, but can't make out if they are barred or not, though her eyes nearly glow the same ice blue as Dez's. Low murmuring starts all around the room again.

  "Cred-Feds," Liddick says above it all, surprising me. What is cred-fed already? I think, and in answer to the question I didn't actually ask, he looks at me and nods. "That's what they call us," he whispers.

  I just stare at him, wondering why, and who calls us that? Fringe?

  He turns back toward Ms. Reynolt. "People think Shorelanders don't have to work for their credentials…that they're just given to us. That the tests are all written specifically for us, so they're easy. They just don't know about the pressure we have to pass, or that it's why so many of us do. We have to," Liddick talks like he's practiced this speech, like he's trying to rally the room.

  "Well said, thank you," Ms. Reynolt beams. "And what's your name?"

  "Liddick Wright. And I apologize; I just thought the term may need some clarification."

  I realize my mouth is open, and quickly close it. He's really good. The feeling in the room has gone from the paranoia of petty gossip to tolerance, even compassion.

  "Of course. I believe it did." Ms. Reynolt looks around at everyone. I follow her gaze and see that several students are nodding. "Why do we have labels for people?" she asks us. "What do categories provide for society?"

  No one answers for a very long time, and the murmuring starts again. The pictures on the back wall rotate through the familiar scenes of the shore and our box style habitat
complexes, our covered greenbed with its clear walls and ceiling, which runs the length of four or five of our habitat complexes and the height of at least a few stacks. Then we see the scenes of the wooden, sun-bleached wharf with docked fishing boats and small wooden cabins, and finally, it scrolls through the factory complex where the Tinkerers live, which never seemed this gray and dirty back home.

  "Security," Vox spits out of nowhere. I tense, and Liddick's sudden grip on my knee makes me realize that his hand hasn't moved from before. His eyes fix on mine.

  Let her go… I hear in my head, and feel myself flinch. It's his voice right there in my ear, but he hasn't said a thing.

  Liddick? I say in my mind, feeling a little stupid for doing it, but his eyes widen, and he nods to my surprise. I blink at him and feel my heartbeat suddenly start drumming in my chest.

  After class. Reynolt is looking right at us, he thinks, and I pull my eyes away from his and focus on the teacher, who nods at me.

  "Very interesting. Please tell us your name and where you're from," Ms. Reynolt asks Vox.

  "Vox Dyer. Seaboard North, Fringe. My clan are boundary scouts," she says as she stands, then defiantly pushes her sleeves the rest of the way up to reveal some of the winding bramble of her tattoos. The murmuring begins all over again, and I hear the word cannibal more than once. My stomach lurches, and I brace for something cold to hit me.

  "Wonderful. Could you please elaborate on your answer, Miss Dyer? You'd mentioned we assign labels to people for security?" Ms. Reynolt asks delicately over the murmuring, which then quiets.

  "People are afraid of what they don't understand. Put a name on someone, come up with a set of rules that you think defines them, and you can understand them. Nothing more to fear. But the problem is you still don't understand, you just think you do." Vox bites off her last word, takes a seat again, and spreads her arms wide over the backs of the chairs on either side, one arm extending across the back of Liddick's chair so far that her fingertips brush my shoulder. Her profile is defiant, chin up and out, which seems to dare anyone to contradict her, especially with her clan tattoos outlining the chiseled bridge of her nose, then arrowing down her throat. I'm surprised to feel proud of her, and a little envious too.

  The sleek granite edifices of Skyboard North peek out of the mountain face like they're from ancient Greece on the back wall projection, then give way to their tree lined streets with variations of the same basic two-story single construction house and large swimming pools. The picture shifts again to the stone houses Vox called out, this time flanked by ragged forest and old women giving tattoos to young teenagers.

  "Beautifully said, Vox. What she is referring to, actually, is a concept of self-preservation—even self-defense, if you will—ironically called incorporating abstraction." Ms. Reynolt says, taking a step toward the group and folding her hands in front of her. I lean forward, feeling pulled, despite the unresolved confusion I now have about what just happened with Liddick, who is looking straight ahead when I glance at him. "The human mind craves structure, and context is the vehicle of structure. In everything from our relationships to simply getting directions from one place to another, we are constantly building maps to meaning," Ms. Reynolt continues, looking up at Vox and smiling as she guides a strand of winding hair off of her cheek. "This is why we seek out context so ferociously when we are uncertain of our standing—when we are immersed in the abstract," she continues walking, opening her hands to the group. "If we feel someone may be judging us negatively, we become obsessed with minutia in their tone or body language until we can either confirm or deny our fear. We do this because upon this platform, we can base our next steps. It is no different from when we realize that we have made a wrong turn, and then try to situate the place where we are among all other places to gain context. We must first set parameters like this in order to feel secure because we are not born comfortable in the abstract, and so, we spend our lives trying to define it. To make it concrete."

  Ms. Reynolt then waves her hand behind her, and a graphic of Ms. Rheen and Mr. Styx standing with several other people all wearing the same white Gaia uniform in front of the State building appears in place of the slideshow of our different communities.

  "Who are they?" Myra whispers to me, and I blink several times to pull out of what Ms. Reynolt was just saying.

  "I'm not sure, other teachers and chancellors?" I answer as this picture gives way to a man in a long robe with his hands extended over a large crowd of people.

  "Understanding this principle is the first step in empathic interaction. You all have shown a natural inclination for empathy among your peers, in your interviews, and may have even started to feel strange new sensations since arriving here at Gaia where there is a higher concentration of energies like your own." She waves her hand at the picture of the man in the robe in the slideshow, and it gives way to another man in a suit and tie—President Roosevelt, I think, from when we still had presidents—standing at the base of the Statue of Liberty, actually at the base of it before it was underwater. "Those who can harness the abstract for others who find it difficult provide an invaluable resource—as Vox has illuminated; this resource is security. These people are thus associated with comfort. They are trusted, even loved." She waves her hand again, and the picture changes to a 3-D image of Spokesman Cole Daniels, our silver haired head of State.

  "Welcome to Gaia, First Years. I look forward to your contribution to our thriving community," he says before the picture turns back into a cine frame, the vacant gray eyes having now animated themselves with a smile.

  "But what if someone provides false security?" A boy on the other side of the room asks. "What if someone bends the abstract into a concrete that fits his own agenda? Like the dictators throughout history?"

  Ms. Reynolt waits a beat and scans the room for anyone raising a hand, wishing to answer. None appear, so she directly asks us.

  "Who has a comment about this? Is it possible to tell the difference between those who are altruistic and those with a subversive agenda?" Ms. Reynolt scans the room again, which has now fallen completely silent as others start to look around.

  "No, " Liddick says into the void now hanging in the air. "You never see it coming."

  CHAPTER 27

  Biotransfer and Culture

  I turn to Liddick when we're dismissed to figure out how we could both talk without talking back there, but Vox buzzes like a fly around him all the way up the stairs and into the hallway en route to our next class, Biotransfer and Culture. Apparently, they're both in my cohort, so we have all the same schedule. The people who run this place must be trying to get me to kill her.

  She laughs suddenly and threads her arm through his as we walk, and I roll my eyes, too exhausted by her impossible flirting with everyone to bother asking Liddick anything right now. I start walking fast enough to surpass our blue arrow, so I just call up one of my own.

  You know you're the only one for me, Riptide, I hear Liddick say in my head, and whip around before I realize it. His smirk spreads into a full blown smile when he realizes I've heard him, and seeing the bewildered look on Vox's face is too satisfying for me not to smile too. I shake my head and turn to continue walking toward our next class, leaving them behind. Can he hear everything I'm thinking? It must be some kind of channel that I don't know how to turn on.

  Arrived, the neural link arrow says after a few more turns, pulling me back into the moment, then dissipates. This room is bigger than the last, but the amphitheater seating is the same. Down near the front of the class I see Arco, and start making my way down to sit by him when I run into Sarin. Her face folds in on itself in a scowl before a thin smile peels over her mouth and crinkles the corners of her eyes.

  "What are you doing in this class? I thought you were in some kind of humanitarian love and kisses career field," she says, sitting herself down in the middle of the row and stretching out her legs so I can't get through. Crite, how does she get her hair pulled that tigh
tly into a bun and still be able to blink?

  "I thought you were in an ice-blooded vampire fish career field, sucking the hope and humanity out of everyone you meet," I say, smiling back at her and throwing my leg over the row of seats in front of us, then stepping down into that aisle and making my way toward Arco again. "But it looks like we're both going to learn how to turn ourselves into particle dust in here, so maybe I'll do extra credit and figure out how to keep you that way. It's what we humanitarians do," I smile over my shoulder at her and send her an air kiss.

  "Skag," she says to my back. I hold up my hand, fingertips all touching to form a hole without turning around before I unfold the theatre-style seat next to Arco, who looks from my hand gesture to me.

  "Crawl in a hole and die, huh? Ouch," he says, laughing. "What was that all about?"

  "It's Sarin," I say, and he nods.

  "Say no more. How was your first class?"

  "Strange. I mean, good, but strange. I think this place is doing something to us," I say, and he turns in his seat to face me, then looks around to see if anyone else is listening.

  "I know it is," he says like he can't get it out fast enough. "Ever since we arrived, whenever I get too cooked about something—which is most of the time we've been here—I see these number sequences running in the corner of my eye. When I try to look at them, they just move to another part of my vision. The only way I can see them is peripherally. And it's only when I want to punch someone."

  "Wait, numbers? When you get angry? And that's never happened to you before, not even that night at the port festival before we left?"

  He shakes his head. "Maybe the tight feelings started then, but not the numbers. Not physically seeing them anyway. Not like here. What's happening with you?"

  "You won't believe it," I say, then his expression flattens.