The turbulent feelings surfaced with alarming intensity, and her brother’s arms sheltered her from all the recent fears that invoked a sense of isolation and confusion, tightening his hold as if reading her very thoughts. Never had she truly believed in the reality of portals, nor that there were layers of secrets and mysteries to the private township she called home. The Elements had hidden a way to interact with the Outside world, perhaps to safeguard the community against Outsiders.
Master Fillion was terrifying, his ways uncouth and unfeeling. How was his hair able to reflect dark blue through the black? Were the Outsiders a different species of human? He did speak a strange language besides English, something he expressly wanted her to know, looking at her pointedly after he spoke. The sounds did not belong to a classic Romance language.
Oaklee was convinced that he was indeed a Dungeon Master and wondered if she and Leaf were the girl and boy he said he held captive. Why did New Eden connect to a dungeon? The strong emotions Master Fillion labored to control upon hearing their name connected with her own emotions. It was an experience she did not understand nor expect but knew to be true as sure as she breathed. She felt his anger and a deep brokenness, the dejected tones behind the arrogance.
After a few heartbeats, Leaf found his voice and cut through her thoughts as he continued to embrace her. “I am not sure what will happen to us, to the life we have always known, but I promise you this—I will not allow anything to harm you or Laurel.” He pulled away to look in her eyes. “Do you trust me?”
His words were spoken with a level of strength she had never witnessed in her brother, dropping a plumb line through her heart. Her words in French had hit their intended target, and now Leaf asked her to pick sides. She was either for him, or against him.
Oaklee nodded vigorously and crossed her heart, returning the gesture Leaf gave her above in the rainforest. He smiled with relief at the sign of her trust and blew out his candle before walking toward the ladder. She stared at the wispy smoke that reached Heavenward like a prayer, then snuffed her own candle. Empty darkness cloaked the room, and she blindly groped for the ladder, longing for familiar terrain.
***
The world is passing through troublous times. The young people of today think of nothing but themselves. They have no reverence for parents or old age. They are impatient of all restraint. As for the girls, they are forward, immodest and unladylike in speech, behavior and dress.
—Peter the Hermit, 11th century A.D. *
We live in a decaying age. Young people no longer respect their parents. They are rude and impatient. They frequently inhabit taverns and have no self control.
—Inscription, 6,000-year-old Egyptian tomb *
Rebuilding relationship roads requires courage and determination. Accepting the person you fear or the situation you fear will help you overcome the obstacle that is derailing you from love.
—Dr. Della Jayne Nichols, “Love vs. Fear Mentality,” Psychology Today, November 2029
***
Seattle, Washington State
Fillion felt a headache brewing. It had been nearly an hour and he was still searching for a suitable clip to record over the video footage of the medieval hippies. He continued to refer to them in his mind by that nickname. It was safer that way. They were like eco-lifestyle idiots with a Dungeons & Dragons twist. At first, he enjoyed messing with them by mocking their ignorance and playing up his greatness. But later, he took on their idea of a Dungeon Master for everyone’s protection. He may laugh at the expense of others, but he wasn’t cold and heartless.
They’re alive.
No matter how many times his mind screamed those three words in his head, he couldn’t shake the fear that he was being punked. Or that his dad was hiding something.
His eyes strained as he thumbed through vintage recordings of The Elements discussing their revelations, problems and decisions. Fillion swallowed back his fear that he wouldn’t find what he needed to cover up his trail. He rubbed his throbbing temples and closed his eyes tightly, willing the archives to reveal something useful. There had to be something. His fingers still trembled from adrenaline, and he desperately wanted a cigarette. But he refused to leave his post until he swapped out one recording for another. A yawn escaped, and he shut his eyes for one minute, forcing himself to open them and not give up.
An image popped up on his computer screen and he did a double take. He blinked back the sleep, struck by footage of a woman who looked like Willow. She stood beside a man who looked like Leaf. The resemblance brought relief—doubts about Leaf’s and Willow’s true parentage disappeared seeing the older Watsons on the screen. He would use this video as a glitch, and his fingers immediately went to work, furiously typing commands and bringing up prompts.
Skilled fingers moved deftly over the holographic keyboard. He edited the log entry and looped the video feed while overwriting the existing material recorded nearly sixty minutes ago. The changes were accepted and a progress bar appeared as he backed up the holographic memory onto the holocard. Fillion let out a slow breath as he fell back against his chair with an exhausted thud.
Hacking was like walking a tightrope with no net. Any reported offense would add to the crimes he had already committed. He and his friend, Mack, hacked into the State of Washington Department of Personal Records and issued birth certificates and fake ID’s to themselves and friends. They wanted to ensure their alternate identities were legit. Some of their friends went so far as to get passports using their new handles. During the arrest, the state confiscated all his fake ID's but one, which he had kept buried in the backyard with gold coins in case he was ever busted. It proved a smart plan, and he now kept both his ID’s on him, the fake ID hidden in a secret spot in his wallet.
Mack never had charges brought against him; Fillion had covered and protected that relationship. And, as far as the state knew, Fillion was just a hustler, not a hacker. His dad knew otherwise, but refrained from sharing with the legal authorities.
This knowledge didn’t fool Fillion. He knew his dad did it to avoid scandal, not because he cared about his son. Usually, those with charges were under house arrest unless they faced felony crimes. Yet, the judge allowed Fillion to continue life as before, granting freedoms he shouldn’t have. His dad obviously had manipulated the system, just as he manipulated everything. Fillion tired of all the legal back-and-forth, and he was almost relieved that he would soon face a judge. He wanted to know his future and move on.
With a sigh, he turned back to the task at hand. He looked around the room in search of an explanation that would justify the glitch naturally. Fillion wanted no indicators of corporate sabotage. His can of Coke sat on the table, its red aluminum reflecting the overhead lighting. A wicked grin formed as Fillion eyed the can, then knocked it over, sending the brown bubbly liquid oozing into the machinery below his desk.
His employer would certainly have some choice words for him, but Fillion didn’t care. His dad always had choice words for him. And no matter the screw-up, he was always sent back to his post. Down below, in the dungeon as he called it, he sat and waited for something to happen—which never had until now—essentially being paid to do zilch. Maybe this was his dad’s idea of a jail sentence, putting him in this stupid, meaningless job. He should be grateful. His position was far better than the various jobs his friends fielded and drifted through—when they had jobs. Instead, he felt it was tainted.
New Eden Enterprises worked upside down, so the lowest of employees reported to the very top. Fillion was led to believe this was standard policy for some time; however, it appeared this flipped management scenario began when he was hired six months ago. And it fed the flames of his personal feelings toward his boss, who happened to be the top dog of the company. And his dad.
The smell of a fried machine wafted up to Fillion’s nose, eliciting another wicked smile. He leaned over the desk and watched the vaporous life blood of the electronics puff into the air like smoke from a
just-rubbed genie’s bottle. The “accident” had worked its magic. The collage of hardwired monitors instantly flashed blue and then black. Fillion internally rejoiced, wanting to do a funeral march out of the building with triumphant relief and light a cigarette in a moment of silence to honor the machines that took his secret to the grave. The medieval hippies wouldn’t be contacting him for several days. He had time to replace the core processor for the surveillance equipment after getting chewed out. If he was found innocent in court, that is.
He already knew the argument his dad would give: “To waste is to mock the tree that gave its life for our currency.” What paper currency? Money was all digital or in gold and silver coins. His dad was a Green Moron, Fillion’s nickname for those who cared more for the environment than the people who were right in front of their faces. What a stupid argument. His blood pressure had elevated, and he hadn’t even been summoned yet.
“Fillion, sending a phone call through to you. Stand by,” a female voice said through a small speaker in an upper corner of the room. Famous last words, he thought, as he swiveled in the chair and rolled his eyes. He placed his company-issued Cranium device back onto his ear and against his skull. The corporate ring-tone blared and he cringed.
“Volume down,” Fillion said in an even tone while moving his hand down slowly, like a conductor before an orchestra. Once he had the desired level, he gave another monotone command. “Receive.” He heard the line open up as the Cranium obeyed his verbal instructions. “Fillion here.”
“What happened this time? I was awakened by the emergency team. They say the New Eden communication room has malfunctioned. Are they there yet?”
“I kicked in the processor with my boot, then hurled the monitors across the room in a fit. No, they aren’t here yet.”
Silence. Fillion knew his dad was fuming. How he hated Hanley’s voice inside his head, and the bone induction device aided the fury he already felt inside.
“Very funny. You think you are so hilarious, so smart. I believe you would sabotage, but not violently. That is not your way. You are much cleverer. Now tell me what really happened.”
Fillion rolled his eyes again, shaking his head. “I spilled my Coke. Plain and simple. No sabotage, just the stupid fingers you hired, fumbling with boredom.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? No respect for your fellow man. No respect for your place of work. And no respect for the environment. I had hoped this job would help you grow up, but you are still bent on mocking the people and life that continually sacrifice for you. I am done with this game, Fillion. Pack your things. There will no longer be a job waiting for you, no matter what the verdict is today.”
Done with this game? A smart reply formed in Fillion’s head, but he held back when a new anger flushed through him. Fired? Now he was seriously pissed.
He abruptly changed the direction of his thoughts. An hour ago, he would have welcomed being fired. Now, he had a date to keep—and, well, he didn’t want his dad to win, as petty as that was. He was livid and wanted to have the upper hand. What could he do? A thought hit him and his insides curled, understanding what he should do next, what another had done for him earlier.
“Sorry.”
Silence again. Fillion knew his apology was the last thing Hanley expected to hear, because he had never given one before.
“Look, it was an accident. I meant no disrespect. Give me another chance?” He tried to sound as contrite as possible, even though it made him want to gag.
He heard a frustrated but resigned sigh. Exactly what he hoped would happen.
“You may not have another chance, depending on the judge’s verdict. If it is in your favor, then fine, one more chance. You blow it again, or cop an attitude with me, and you are out.”
He heard the line end, and the dull sound of nothing return to his ear. The sound of his dad’s voice always set him on edge. He closed his eyes, enjoying the silence. What a power hog, hanging up on him to ensure he had the last word.
The dungeon was still his home away from home, at least for a little while. He chuckled, thinking of Leaf’s conclusion that he was a medieval dungeon master. God, he wished. Looking down at his clothes, the chains and straps clanging with his movements, he supposed he looked the part compared to Leaf’s fashion.
Fillion needed to focus his thoughts. He was thankful that he had time to think of a less destructive way to override the activity report for the next time Willow and Leaf connected to the communications room.
He heard a knock, and then the emergency team came in. They first looked smugly at Fillion—there was no love lost between them—and then at the smoke beneath his desk. The core processor wheezed, its death rattle loud for everyone to hear. Fillion celebrated while begging the universe for a fire to break out. High-fructose corn syrup, circuit boards, and lasers—it was a holy trinity of flammable potential. As if on cue, a whoosh of flames sounded behind him as he walked out the door. The panicked emergency team scrambled and he smiled. Hopefully, the universe was still on his side in a few hours when his dad received the full damage report.
Fillion wasn’t ready to go home, feeling too disturbed, even though he knew he should sleep. Instead, he decided to enjoy the companionship of the nightlife, contemplating a pair of green eyes he never thought he would see.
“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered in the elevator while waiting for the door to open. “And now I’m talking to myself out loud like a homeless person.” Is this how it began?
He walked out of New Eden Enterprises with a backwards wave to the security guard, and turned onto Alaskan Way along the Puget Sound waterfront. He headed toward Pioneer Square and The Crypt, an underground bar where he would most likely find Mack. Once out of camera range, he pulled out his wallet and switched ID’s to ensure any trouble he met would be traced to his handle. He lifted his large hood over his head, keeping to the shadows. Fillion reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, then groaned. Only one stick. It was going to be a long, cold walk.
He fumbled in his pockets, searching for a lighter. “Son of a…” A relieved breath formed small clouds in the air when his twitching fingers found the familiar shape. He flicked the lighter with fidgety movements and lit up, shielding the flame with his hands against the breeze. The cigarette shook in his mouth and he closed his eyes as he savored a long drag. God, that felt so good.
The orange glow of the butt seemed unusually bright against the darkness as he looked out over the water. A chill ran through him, and he decided to go up Madison Street to get away from the direct breeze coming off of the Sound. He hung a right at First Avenue, taking long strides. He kept his head low as he passed closed shops and gated parking garages, taking another drag on his cigarette, flicking the ashes onto the sidewalk.
Multi-colored lights flashed and glared on the wet road and cast eerie reflections, reminiscent of artistic surrealism. Fillion imagined that his distress and anger swirled and moved with the refracted lights, creating an urban masterpiece of demented fury. Walking at 3:30 a.m. was a strange experience. There was hardly anyone around or awake. The world was all his to take pleasure in and also to fear, with nothing to distract the thoughts from raging inside his mind.
A police drone flew through the air, and its 360-degree scanner searched with programmed determination for criminals in the shadows. The spotlight locked onto Fillion, and he swore under his breath. A holographic law enforcement officer appeared beneath the drone, looking at him directly, and Fillion rolled his eyes.
“Face the camera and place your hands in the air,” a computerized voice commanded. Fillion complied, glaring at the camera. A light scanned his face in several motions, and then disappeared with a mechanical click. “Identified as Fillion Malcolm Nichols of Mercer Island. Minor. Wanted. Contacting police backup. Halt or I will be forced to subdue you using sonic disruption. Please be advised that this will result in vomiting, loss of bowel control, vertigo, and disorientation, at which point you’ll be
physically restrained until human reinforcements arrive.”
“Mis-identified. Please update your records,” Fillion responded in a clear voice, despite the cigarette that hung loosely from his lips. He sensed it was safe to move, so he slowly pulled out his fake ID. The scanner locked onto the personal-records bar code. He tried not to blink and took in shallow breaths while waiting for the police drone to correct its information.
“Identified as Corlan Nathan Jayne of Seattle. Age, twenty-two. You are clear and your digital recognition records and biometric vitals have been updated. On behalf of the City of Seattle, our apologies for the mistaken identity.”
“Thank you. Apology accepted,” he replied nicely as he lowered his hands, knowing that this recorded incident would be reviewed and archived. God, he hated being polite with robots. The police drones were programmed with conversational skills and to reply appropriately to tone of voice and body language. They picked up on social cues better than some humans he knew.
“You are welcome. Be safe, Mr. Jayne. This is a high-crime neighborhood.” The scanner light shut off, and the holographic law enforcement officer tipped his hat before disappearing. The drone’s search light popped back on, and it continued down First Avenue.
Fillion remained where he stood to allow his heart rate to slow down, taking a long and jittery drag on his cigarette. He needed to keep moving before he was mugged. A moving target was harder to attack than one who stood shell-shocked. His legs continued forward, and soon he found the rhythm in his footsteps. He walked faster, focused on making it to The Crypt without further incident.
Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles) Page 7