Iris (The Color of Water and Sky Book 1)

by Andrew Gates

  Before he could salvage supplies and ammo from the bodies, Tracey heard voices echoing from the corner behind him. Those bastards were trying to flank me.

  He raised his rifle in preparation and before he knew it, two men ran into sight at full speed. One was another whitecoat grunt, better at running into bullets than aiming his own gun. The other was an older man out of uniform, not the type of person Tracey expected to see running towards him in battle. After a closer look, Tracey realized that this was Commander Hugo Alvarez of the Atlantic Navy.

  Tracey killed them both.

  More sounds came from behind him in the other direction. More whitecoats this time, along with Commander Linda Faulkner. He continued to fire, mowing them down like dummies in the training facilities. Then came more and more. His feet were submerged in a pool of red. Peter Skylar came next. Tracey gunned him down like all the rest.

  The red pool grew higher.

  The bomb has exploded. I cannot be stopped. I will not stop until the Atlantic Federation shatters into fucking pieces. I am the bomb!

  Then President Ortega himself stepped out from the hallway. He was unguarded, all alone amongst the corpses with his hands up in the air. Surrender, Tracey thought, I think not. He raised his rifle towards the President and squeezed the trigger with a smile on his face.

  Nothing happened. No shots were fired. No blood was spilled.

  Out of ammo. Fuck! Tracey quickly pulled the empty clip from out of his rifle and searched among the corpses for a usable one. Why didn’t I bring more goddamn bullets? He started to feel very hot. The sweat on his face was almost unbearable. It was as if he were taking a shower in his own body oils.

  He removed his jacket and his shirt as he continued rummaging through the bodies. His bare chest was scarred with marks he did not remember having.

  So damn hot. Tracey continued searching. Why can’t I find a fucking clip? Tracey’s skin started to glow like a lamp. He felt hotter and hotter. He threw his gun aside and quickly unhooked his belt, pulled down his pants and stripped until he was bare naked in the hallway, his skin glowing more and more each second. He turned to make sure the President was still there, and to his surprise, President Ortega was now standing less than a meter away from him. Tracey tried to hold up his gun, but forgot that he had already dropped it.

  “You!” Tracey shouted. “I will kill you!” he pointed his finger right at him, but the President stood motionless and unaffected.

  “You are the bomb,” the fat man said.

  “What?” He could not believe what he just heard.

  Ortega took another step forward towards Tracey.

  “You are the bomb,” he repeated.

  Suddenly the walls began to crumble around him. Metal flew every which way and water filled the hallway, turning the red pool at his feet into a dark pool as black as the ocean. Or as black as these goddamn shit walls. The ceiling burst apart and the water levels rose so high that Tracey was caught in it. The water pulled his naked body upwards, up and up until he was through the ceiling, rising through all the levels of the station. He was surrounded by water, cold black water. Up he went, up and up. Eventually the water turned from black to white and he could no longer see anything but a world of white all around him. There were no walls or metal or paint, nor was there ground or fish or rock. There was nothing but white. He could feel himself floating.

  This is it, he thought to himself. The sea above the water.

  “I’ve made it!” he shouted. “I’ve escaped!”

  He saw a 12-year-old girl playing with a red ball, bouncing it and catching it in the air with a grin on her face. Ophelia, I knew she would escape, Tracey thought. She’s a smart girl.

  The girl turned and stared at him. The smile washed from her face and the ball disappeared from her hand, dissolving into the white abyss.

  Beep, Beep, Beep!

  The buzzer rang loudly as Tracey Saljov opened his dreary eyes. A fucking dream, he thought to himself. The glowing numbers taunted him again. Another dream.

  For the first time in a long time, his dream had not been about the head of his brother’s investigation, the asshole of a contractor named Dr. Sanja Parnel. The two of them had only met for a few hours that day, but the memory kept replaying in his mind. Tracey tried to cope with it through the only means he knew, but SLI only made the memories stronger and alcohol just led to more alcohol.

  “Dr. Sanja Parnel,” the woman said, holding out her hand. The room was dark, even for a room in the government. The walls were tight, like the inside of an elevator. The chair was uncomfortable and cold. Tracey shook her hand in reply, not thinking anything of it.

  “Uh, hi,” he said.

  “Uh, hi indeed,” she responded.

  What the fuck did that mean?

  The woman was older than he was and had dark skin, probably of Indian descent judging by the name. Her eyes were as dark as the walls that surrounded them and her tone as stern as a Navy man’s pledge. Whoever this was, she thought herself a god. Tracey could just tell. She had higher clearance than anyone else and she loved it.

  “How long will this take?” Tracey asked, still not quite sure what he was getting himself into.

  The interrogator ignored the question.

  “Tracey, do you know that you never formally quit the Navy?” the woman asked, leaning towards him across the shiny black desk between their bodies. “Technically that makes you AWOL, and that’s a crime.”

  “I know that and so does the Navy. They seem to have bigger problems on their hands. They could’ve come after me any time,” he responded. “So I know that’s not what I’m here about. I thought this was about my brother. This is about Damien.”

  She sat motionless and let out a small sigh, unamused.

  “I am simply reminding you, Mr. Saljov, so that you understand the power dynamic between us. If you are uncooperative for any portion of this interrogation, I have full authority to bring you in. I am a government contractor, not an EO, but all I need to do is talk to the right people. Do you understand?” She came right out with it from the start, laying down the rules. “I have top-level security clearance,” she continued. She pulled her pod out from her inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table between them. “I have the President two taps away. So don’t play games with me, sir.”

  Tracey decided to shut the hell up.

  “I see,” he quietly responded. “So… so what is your question?”

  She did not answer. She simply picked up her pod and loaded a document on the screen.

  “I’m going to need your signature,” she eventually explained.

  “A signature?”

  “Yes, for a non-disclosure agreement. Everything I ask in this interrogation is classified. You cannot go to the media, you cannot even tell your daughter. Do you understand?” she asked.

  I’m AWOL and she can ruin me with the tap of a finger. Tracey knew this was not even a choice.

  “Of course,” he said as he signed it. What he wanted to say was “fuck you”.

  Once the document was signed, she wasted no time. She pulled the pod away and immediately started with question upon question about her brother like a fucking psychiatrist on steroids. The questions started out fairly typical.

  “Was your brother involved with any criminal organizations?”

  “He was a fucking scout, doctor.”

  But as time went on, the questions became more and more interesting.

  “Was your brother in contact with anyone outside the station?”

  “What? No, how could he?”

  It was not until the end that the bombshell question hit.

  “Is your brother a traitor, Mr. Saljov?”

  That question hurt worst of all. Tracey knew from the bottom of his heart, whatever disdain he had towards the Federation, he and his brother were two different people. Damien was loyal.

  He simply answered “no”. What he wanted to say was “fuck you”.

  Is this
what they call progress through obedience?

  Tracey knew what she thought of him. She sized him up the second he sat in the chair. She saw a drunk, a misfit piece of shit dropout. It doesn’t help that today I’m hung over as shit, he thought to himself throughout the interrogation process.

  When it was finally over, Tracey’s head no longer hurt, but his frustration with the arrogant contractor had nearly boiled into full outrage. Accusations of criminal activity, collaboration with outside groups and even treachery were too much for him to handle. The mere idea of his brother doing any of these things offended him. Making it worse, this kunda of a woman seemed to have no sympathy. She was metal cold, like the black walls that surrounded them. He could tell his responses were not the ones she was looking for and it gave him a slight bit of pride to know his answers made her no closer to solving whatever mystery she was trying to solve. Anything to make your life harder, he thought to himself.

  Beep, Beep, Beep!

  The buzzer still rang. Tracey forgot to turn it off. He was too lost in his memories. As he came back to reality, he leaned over and turned off the alarm. The buzzing finally died away, as did that cold black room.

  Finally that kunda is gone and I don’t feel like shit, he thought to himself, trying to be optimistic. It was a rare thing to be optimistic these days, with his brother missing, the military on his ass and only a few years since his wife walked out on him.

  The worst part of his brother’s MIA was not the disappearance itself, but the lies from Ortega’s whitecoats and his puppet, the private investigator. They know something, Tracey knew. They know something but they won’t tell me. He remembered the way Parnel looked at him accusatively as they spoke. They have no respect. I served. I have the right to know what happened to my brother but they have no respect.

  Tracey pushed himself off his bed, got dressed and headed for the kitchen. Today he was the first one out of bed. He figured Ophelia was still asleep.

  When he opened the pantry, there was nothing but probars and synthetic mush. This was Ophelia’s food. Tracey tried to eat authentic food, real stuff grown from plants and animals. Paying insurmountable prices for real food was a hassle, but it was worth the slight jab to Ortega’s overpaid slop manufacturers. If only I could get her to eat real food, Tracey thought. Sometimes it was just hard to change her mind about anything.

  Accepting that there was no other option, Tracey pulled a red flavored probar from the pantry and opened the wrapping. He calmly bit into the artificially flavored chemistry set and immediately remembered why these bars were so popular. It might be shit to eat, but it tastes good.

  “Dad, what are you eating?” Ophelia asked.

  Tracey spun around and saw her standing outside the door to her bedroom. Her entrance was as quiet as the colored zone halls at 8:00 in the morning.

  “A probar,” he replied with his mouth full. He stopped for a moment to properly chew and swallow.

  Ophelia laughed.

  “A probar,” he eventually repeated. “I need to go to the store. We’re all out of dad’s food.”Tracey liked seeing her laugh and smile. It brought a smile to his own face.

  “You’re silly, dad,” she said as she moved towards the pantry. She got a probar of her own and started eating.

  “Anything fun happening at school today?” he asked.

  Ophelia shook her head.

  “I don’t know. Just a normal day I think.”

  “How is school going?” He looked at her as they both ate standing up.

  “Oh just fine. People are getting mad at the teachers though,” she replied.

  “Mad at the teachers?”

  She nodded as she swallowed a big bite of her orange flavored bar and wiped her mouth with her pajama sleeve. “Some kids got mad and so then some kids’ parents got mad too and are complaining. I didn’t see it but other kids said they overheard it. Darius said he saw Clinton’s dad talking to some teachers through the window and there was fighting yesterday.”

  “What? Which teacher?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Darius didn’t say, but I think it’s a history teacher. Not Mr. Gonzalez though. He said it was a woman, but he doesn’t know her name because he’s not in her class.”

  “I see,” Tracey replied, intrigued.

  This better not he some goddamn manipulation scheme, he thought. Tracey knew all too well that history could be used as a weapon, a tool to convert minds. If someone was complaining, it was probably for good reason.

  “Cedric wants to go to Wanda’s dad’s party this weekend. It’s going to be awesome! Her dad got a VR room and everything,” Ophelia said, excitedly changing the subject. “Can I go?”

  “Wow, slow down Ophelia. You know I don’t like you spending too much time with Cedric. Let’s talk about this history teacher. Do you know what the parent was complaining about?” he asked, trying to bring the subject back.

  Ophelia let out a sigh of frustration.

  “I don’t know, dad. It’s Clinton’s dad. Clinton is stupid and doesn’t have any friends. Nobody talks to him. Why can’t I go to the party? What if Cedric isn’t there? Can I go?”

  “Who’s having a party?”

  “Wanda. It’s at her dad’s,” she replied.

  Tracey shook his head.

  “I don’t know Wanda. Look, I’m worried about this whole thing with your history class, okay? I think I’m going to follow you to school today and talk to your teachers.”

  Ophelia became visibly upset and put her probar down on the table next to them.

  “What? Dad, it’s no big deal, seriously. It’s just Clinton’s dad. He’s just being weird. You don’t have to come to school,” she replied.

  Tracey put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I just want to talk to the teachers. I won’t bother you,” he said.

  “But dad, there’s no reason to go. You’re overreacting!”

  Tracey took a deep sigh. She might be right. She’s a smart girl after all. But she might also be wrong.

  “History is important and it’s important that you are taught properly. Trust me, you’ll understand when you’re older. I just want to talk to the teachers and see what’s going on. If it’s nothing, then I’ll just leave. All I want to do is talk to them, is that okay?”

  “No,” Ophelia replied stubbornly.

  I can’t say she surprised me with that one.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t even know I’m there.”

  “What about work?” she asked.

  “I can ask to be late today. They don’t need me there.” That’s the fucking truth.

  Ophelia put her head down and picked up her orange probar from the table. Clearly she realized she was not going to win this argument. Tracey could not help but feel sorry.

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’ll be fine. You just go to school like normal, okay?” he said to her. She lifted up her head again and looked at him.

  “Can I go to Wanda’s party?” she replied.

  “We’ll talk about that when you get home, okay?”

  “Dad, you owe me.”

  Only 12 and already a negotiator.

  “We’ll talk about that,” he repeated, “but first, let’s get ready for school. Finish your probar and we can get dressed.”

  Grey.

  The walls were grey. Tracey knew that, of course, but he forgot how the color made him feel. It felt as if the halls were closing in around him like a stranglehold. Is this how we make our kids feel comfortable? Tracey thought, or do they want them to feel trapped?

  Ophelia walked hastily forward, pushing through the other students. She moved like a girl on a mission. Tracey knew she was not bothered by the color of the walls like he was, but rather by her father insisting on coming along.

  “Which way to the history teachers?” he asked, trying to keep up. Fortunately her shirt was bright orange today and easy to spot among the sea of kids.

  “That way,” she subtly replied as she pointed towards the end o
f the hall, trying not to draw attention to the fact that she was talking to her dad at school. “They meet in Mr. Gonzalez’s room a lot,” she continued without even turning her head to face him.

  “Alright,” he said. He grabbed onto her shoulder and carefully pulled her towards him. “Hey, I know it’s weird that I’m here, but thanks for bringing me,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Have a good day, okay? Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you by giving you a hug right here. Just have a good day. I’ll see you after school.” He saw her smile for half a second before she nodded, turned around and continued to her homeroom.

  As much as her behavior bothered him, he could not blame her. I was the exact same way at her age.

  Tracey followed Ophelia’s directions to the room at the end of the hallway. The nametag on the doorway read Jorge Gonzalez, same as the name she told him. He pressed on the door and walked inside, surprised by how easily it swung open.

  “Sorry Jorge, I had to come in early,” a woman’s voice said as he entered. A lady stood by a large desk, facing away from the door. She turned around to face him.

  She was beautiful, the type of woman who could light the screen of Tracey’s pod after hours. She had a tight lean figure, smooth skin and a more colorful complexion than most in the station. She had long brown hair that brushed against the surface of her nice green dress. Shit, Tracey thought to himself, this woman is hot as hell. Too bad we’re physically incompatible. It was that damn brown hair that ruined everything. For someone like Tracey, if she was not blonde, she was definitely illegal.

  “Who the Lord are you?” she said as she saw him, clearly caught off guard. Now there’s a greeting.

  “Tracey Saljov,” he replied, holding his hand out for her to shake, “I’m Ophelia’s father. I don’t know if she’s in one of your classes or not. I’m sorry to walk in here like this, but I was hoping to talk to someone in the history department. Is Mr. Gonzalez here?” Tracey remembered that the teacher causing problems was a woman. Perhaps this was the exact person he came to see.