Dreaming Awake

by EF Joyce

  "It's not meaningless," Faifax corrected, standing and straitening his uniform coat. "They view The Guard as a nest of traitors, men of the Old World who've turned against their people for Arcadian table scraps. That's how the rebellion sees it, anyhow. We have some damage control to do if we want to avoid another attack."

  "What does the rebellion want? What's the point?" she asked, imagining all the people below, living their lives underground, working for Arcadia. Sure, they didn't have the same luxuries Rozlyn did, but why were they fighting so hard? What did they think was worth dying for?

  "They want what they can't have. They want to be Arcadians. I have to go...I'll see you later?" he kissed her and she squirmed as the rough fabric of his uniform rubbed against her naked skin. "You can let yourself out."

  Rozlyn sighed as the whoosh of the automatic doors announced his departure. So much for breakfast in bed with her man, who would soon be hers for real – he'd promised they'd tell her parents about them as soon as the rebellion calmed down. Things are stressful enough for your family right now, he'd said, but she hadn't argued, thrilled enough that he imagined a permanent future with her.

  Disappointed, Rozlyn slipped on last night's dress and silver stilettos and slinked back to her apartment. She dashed from alcove to alcove in an attempt to avoid paparazzi, only to run into Fallon, looking totally prepped in a Bellini jumpsuit and heels, her chocolate-colored skin brushed with gold powder.

  "Feck, Rozlyn, I'm so vexed with you!" she snapped as Rozlyn pressed her thumb into the reader outside her front door. Fallon followed her into the sitting room furnished with two Robert Thurm velveteen sofas, an 80-inch teloscreen, a room service window, two Veleria end tables topped with John DeMint vases and a Lorena coffee table displaying her Alice Lace tea set (a gift from Inari she never used). The princess collapsed onto her sofa, peering up at the furious model.

  "Where the Old World were you last night? You totally messaged Ira and said you were coming! I read it on his comm myself!"

  "Oh yeah, the party. My parents made go to this lame dinner meeting–"

  "Oh don't even give me that!" Fallon argued, glaring down at Rozlyn. "You were out all night! And I know you weren't with Ira, so who, Roz? Who is so important you would miss my birthday–"

  "Oh, shit Fallon, I totally–"

  "I know you did!" she shouted, pacing, her steep heels imprinting tiny circles into the lush carpet. "So who is it? I've never pressed you about your fecking secret lover before, but this is so trite, Roz. Like, unforgivable. You owe me, serious."

  "I can't–"

  "I'm your best friend, remember? It's been so vexing me that you won't trust me with this, you know? But I like, let it go, because everyone has secrets, right? But seriously, you better come clean, for missing my birthday. And if it's totally scandalous I'll never tell anyone and I'll even forgive you, ok? Because that's like, what best friends do?"

  Rozlyn groaned and buried her face in her hands. She needed coffee. And sleep. And a hot shower. First Faifax bailed on breakfast, now Fallon was heckling her about the party. Could she tell her? She didn't have much of a choice; either give up her secret or lose Fallon for real.

  "Ok, fine, sit," Rozlyn said, patting the deep blue couch cushion next to her (the same blue as Faifax's eyes in the dark) and ordered coffees from her automated room service box (triple-shot caramel vanilla lattes with cinnamon) which appeared a minute later. "You have to swear not to tell anyone, serious," she warned, her heart pounding harder than the time she'd snuck into Inari's apartment and destroyed her Dioli original ball gown, because she'd copied Rozlyn's design and convinced their mom that she would be the one to wear it, being future queen and all.

  "You know I won't, Roz," Fallon swore, blinking her feathery surgically implanted eyelashes over her gold-flecked contacts. "This must be serious big, someone important!" she squealed, her previous vexation with Rozlyn's party lacking behavior obliterated at the thought of a scandal. The princess took a deep breath; once the words were said they could never be unspoken.

  "It's Faifax," she confessed, her voice barely audible. Fallon gasped.

  "Like, Army Commander Faifax Hale?" Rozlyn nodded. "Holy Old World! If your parents found out...Roz! Wow...I mean, he's way hot for an old guy, but he always seems so serious! I never imagined...don't give me that look, I meant older. How long have you been hiding this!?"

  "Two years," she said, and then told Fallon everything; how they got together, how they could talk until dawn about nothing, how he always listened, every romantic gesture he'd done for her and even his promise that they would tell her parents as soon as the rebellion was quelled. The feeling was like a dam breaking inside of her, every drop of emotion she contained rushing out all at once, declaring her love for him. Telling was amazing, and she longed to skip down Arcadia's halls and make certain everyone knew how happy she was.

  The serious look he'd been wearing before he'd left that morning – clouded with worry and determination – flashed in her mind like a photo. The rebellion was wearing on him, on her family. It was stopping them from moving forward. But she was the princess, was she not? She could do something. She could help.

  "Hey, Fallon," she said, her full lips twisting into a devious smile. "Do you want to do something crazy with me?"

  "Always," her friend answered, a matching grin on her face.

  "Are you sure about this?" Fallon asked two hours later, adjusting the black backpack's strap over the shoulder of her plain green maintenance coveralls as they made their way down the white-painted, pipe-covered halls of Arcadia's lowest level, which Rozlyn had used Kaelor's code (stolen from his comm when he wasn't paying attention – take that, asshole) to gain access.

  "Of course. Kindness is repaid with kindness and cruelty with cruelty. We're going to fix everything. Or at least make it better," Rozlyn reassured her, fully confident in her plan. Soon the whole city would see what kind of princess she was; not the party girl the mags portrayed her as, or heartless warmongers like her family, but someone who stood up alone to do the right thing. Maybe the Old Worlders acted like animals, but that was only because they were lacking. If the princess gave them what they needed, things would calm down and the rebellion would be nothing more than a history blog.

  She imagined herself playing on every Smart Wall; Rozlyn the Generous, the Hero of the Impoverished. The rebel attacks would end then and there; her parents would acknowledge her superior wisdom and invite her to join the inner family circle instead of casting her out like an unwanted Old Worlder, and Faifax would propose on screen so the whole world could see how in love they were. Ok, so maybe that was a little over the top, but her actions would at least get things moving in the right direction.

  The hall curved around, following the circular shape of the indoor city, ending in a set of sham-glass automatic doors with two burly guards planted in front. Fallon lifted her eyebrows in an expression that said what now? Rozlyn pulled off the hat that had kept her red hair covered and sauntered up to them with authority.

  "Excuse me, let us through," she demanded in her very best entitled princess voice. The guards exchanged puzzled glances.

  "I'm afraid we can't–" the one with the beard started to say.

  "I am the princess, and you will let me through! My father has given me a very important task in the Old World, and considering the recent attacks it's imperative that I get down there immediately!"

  "We'll have to check with our supervisor-"

  "Are you questioning royalty?" Rozlyn snapped. "Go ahead, check with my father if you must, but he is not going to be happy about the delay." Please, please, please, Rozlyn thought as she stared down the guards, who traded another look before nodding at her.

  "Very well, Princess. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you." The second guard pressed his thumb onto a wall reader, the doors sliding open at his command. Rozlyn stepped through and into a wide, empty room furnished with nothing more than white tiles an
d paint. A pair of brushed silver elevator doors stood opposite the ones she'd just come through, with two more guards standing rigid in front of them.

  Wordlessly, the guards pressed their palms simultaneously to two hand print reader panels, one on each side of the elevator doors, which opened silently. The two girls stepped through, breath held as the doors closed, dooming them to continue their journey downward. Perhaps this plan was crazy, idiotic. Rozlyn had never been to the Old World. Soldiers swapped stories, but no feeds or streams of the place were allowed to air on the Arcadian Network.

  The last time she'd tried to sneak down had been almost a year ago, after hearing Faifax talk about it. She'd been dying of curiosity and desperate to see it all for herself. Sneaking into the shipment area, where goods and technologies put together in Old World warehouses were raised in giant freight elevators for Arcadian workers to count and double check, Rozlyn had tried to hide in one of the enormous shipping crates, only to be discovered and tossed out by a worker. Her parents had been furious, warning her of the many dangers of that evil and toxic place. Even Faifax had reprimanded her.

  But that was all in the past. This time, as her and Fallon raced downward through the unknown darkness, she had a plan, a purpose. Fallon's breath was heavy in the silence and Rozlyn reached over, taking her friend's hand, the same fear racing in her veins. Finally, I am doing something right. Something with meaning.

  When the elevator lurched to a stop, neither of them were ready. Soundlessly the doors parted, revealing stained cement flooring, flickering yellow lighting and a chain link fence that separated her and Fallon from the seething, stinking crowd of the underground marketplace. Six men with high powered rifles paced the space between them and the fence, clad in the gray jumpsuits of the Old World guard.

  One of them waved them forward, as if he'd done this job a thousand times, completely unfazed by her royal red hair, making her wonder. How often did her family come down here, and for what purposes? The guard had greasy hair, pock marks on his face and imperfect yellowed teeth that made her cringe. She hadn't expected the Old Worlders to have glam doctors, but what about dentists? Or shampoo?

  Reaching into his pocket, the guard pulled out a tiny, gleaming metal scrap and somehow fit it into a heavy metal cube. There was a popping sound and the cube released, allowing him to remove it and open the gate in the fence. Rozlyn couldn't help but be amazed that they didn't even have thumb print readers down here, that the only thing standing between the elevator to Arcadia and fifteen-thousand stinking Old Worlders was a hunk of metal. But now they were through, on the other side of reality, deep in the underworld.

  Chatter in the marketplace, which was really just a bunch of people swapping nasty crap from their pockets and stained packs, slowly ceased as they noticed her, the princess, standing on the doorstep to hell. Hollow eyes stared out at her from sunken faces with spotted, sagging skin. If she'd thought her eyes had been darkened by the abyss, then these people had never seen the light. Dressed in oily rags that hung limply from their starved bodies, they picked at their clothes, hushed their grubby, skeletal children and then, when the whole cavernous room had silenced, they fell on their knobby knees before her, worshiping their princess; princess of the dead, she thought.

  Her brilliant plan shattered like Inari's favorite Alice Lace tea set had when Rozlyn had dropped it last year, turning her sister into a permanent enemy. She had planned to stream her experience on the A-net, interviewing Old Worlders, asking them what kind of change they wanted to see, what she could do for them as their champion. Rozlyn would have flitted about like a butterfly in the Sealed Gardens, capturing every second, showing the people that they were equals, that she could help them, that rebellion wasn't necessary. She'd planned to show Arcadia the Old World wasn't so scary, so foreign, but filled with people just like them. She'd always known they had less than Arcadia, but she'd never imagined...this.

  "Um...please rise," she said, her voice strangled as she choked back a sob. "I am the princess Rozlyn Lucia-Agresta and I have brought gifts for you."

  The princess removed her back pack, Fallon copying her movements. They unzipped the bags, reached in, and yanked out fists full of her best jewels; Scire, Beaulieu, Freni, Viselli, Goe, Favre, some of them even rare enough to sustain an Arcadian for a year. The jewels twinkled in her eyes as she tossed them to the crowd, time slowing as they fell, the hollow complacency in the eyes of the living dead replaced with amazement, then determination, then ruthlessness, and then something else altogether – a razor sharpness that obliterated the few remaining shreds of their humanity.

  Chapter 10

  I

  Drexel raced into the darkness, ready to face the soldiers, ready to kill if they'd harmed his people. Surely he would be capable of killing then, wouldn't he? He stumbled over a group of soldiers, two Arcadians and two rebels, grappling in the darkness. A gun went off with a flash and bang, briefly illuminating the scene, one of the rebels collapsing to the floor.

  "Stop! What are you doing?" Drexel yelled, imbuing himself with his own illusions; friend, authority, commander. The soldiers' attention snapped to him immediately, the split-second distraction all the time second rebel needed to shoot both soldiers in the face.

  "Where's Damien?" Drexel whispered, rushing over and trying not to look at the dead soldiers. "He went that way," Meric replied, pointing deeper into the barracks, seemingly untroubled that he'd just shot two men. He bent down to examine the fallen rebel; a young man Drexel didn't recognize clutching his bleeding leg.

  "We have to get him out of here," Meric said.

  "Just leave me. Go get Damien," the shot rebel insisted. "He's more important than me."

  "I ain't leaving without you," Meric argued.

  "He can wait here, we'll come back for him," Drexel said. Before either could argue, he pushed his magic into the injured man. "There. Now anyone who passes will only see a corpse. Try not to move, it will break the illusion." Meric gave the dead man a gun and they advanced into the barracks' depths, their path dimly lit by the egg-sized emergency lights tacked into the floor.

  "Can you make us look like soldiers?" Meric whispered, a career rebel and familiar with Drexel's magic.

  "I already have, but be careful," he said, having stolen the faces of the dead soldiers at their feet. "The illusion will crumble as soon as we start shooting." Not that Drexel had any intention of shooting – he was no warrior. Because of his magic, the jobs he'd been given were sneak tasks: get in and clear the way for the real fighters like Meric. Which was why he'd been best suited to become a guard; blend in and make certain no one noticed or suspected him. Usually he'd be left behind for this part, but they'd needed his thumbprint to enter.

  And now Damien knew his secret – that he was a coward and could not bear to kill even the enemy. Perhaps Damien had thought to make it easier by forcing him to execute that man earlier, but it had only made it more difficult. Drexel didn't care if the man had been a traitor, a spy, a collaborator, a murderer himself. The guilt of his death crushed him.

  They rounded a corner, slowly, cautiously, guns pointed out in front of them. The two men eased into an empty hallway, still holding out their weapons, Drexel's hands shaking and slick with sweat. If someone came at him now, would he be able to shoot? Could he kill in self-defense or would he just let himself die? Terrifyingly, he did not know. Another flash and bang, smoke filling the hall and suddenly Damien was running at them, flanked by two other rebels.

  "Go, go, go!" he shouted. Drexel and Meric turned and ran, boots squeaking across the slick floor, racing back the way they'd come. Feet thundered behind them, more than just Damien's. In the shadow of the dim lights, Drexel saw the injured man, still clutching his leg with one hand and his gun with the other. They had almost made it. Suddenly the world went bright, too bright, more light than he'd ever seen. He was thrown forward and flipped, his back hitting the wall, the world silent save a high pitched squealing ringing through his head.<
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  In that bright silence Damien stood; bloodied, backlit and brilliant, their glorious young leader. Together he and Meric collected the shot man and the four of them exited the tunnel – all that remained of their forces. They'd lost fourteen rebels, but how many had they taken with them? At least fifty; the entirety of 153, plus however many brigade 34 soldiers the others had killed while Drexel had been guarding the door. More fights, more shooting and more death while Drexel had stood idly by the entrance not killing, not helping, not saving his brothers.

  Coward.

  II

  Drexel's head ached and pounded, his mouth felt filled with sand. He blinked his eyes open into the bright whiteness of the rebel headquarters, the tiled walls gleaming as he squinted. He had no idea of the time, but currently he was alone in his six-bunked room. After the fight through the barracks, everything else had been a blur. They'd stumbled back to headquarters carrying the injured guy, then Drexel had been checked for wounds and sent to bed, where he'd collapsed immediately into dreamless sleep.

  He crawled out of bed, took his daily one minute cold shower, his first in the six months he'd been a guard, changed into a jumpsuit that didn't have blood all over it and scrounged a plate of food from the kitchens. One of the high ranking rebels caught him on his way out, informing him that Damien wanted him in his office. Now.

  Drexel followed the man through the white tiled and spotlessly scrubbed underground hideout, illuminated by harsh glowing lights that reflected from the clean walls with head-splitting brightness. Turning his gaze downward, he watched his scuffed black leather guard boots step over the gray cement flooring, without a single stain or trace of filth. Though he loved the base, he often wondered about it.