***
Fillion Nichols, the Internet-famous eco-prince and 17-year-old son of Hanley Nichols—the CEO and owner of New Eden Enterprises, and famed ecopreneur and visionary—was found guilty earlier this morning of a Class C misdemeanor for selling falsified identifications to minors in the state of Washington. He was sentenced to 90 days in a juvenile Community Service Rehabilitation Program and one year of probation. Although many teens use fake IDs, even the daughters of a previous millennial U.S. president, most are not in possession of nearly twenty IDs upon arrest. The typical sentence for a Class C misdemeanor is a slap on the wrist and probation, but the legal system wants to ensure that Nichols does not become familiar with the judge’s gavel like his father, according to sources close to the family.
Community Service Rehabilitation Programs have replaced juvenile detention sentences for low-level convictions, acting as a detention facility with work programs and a central focus of giving back to society. Under the Youth Restart Pact of 2043, which aims to help ease overcrowding in youth detention facilities, time for crimes committed in the state of Washington can be served in Idaho, Oregon, or California.
Fillion Nichols graduated high school two years ago at the age of 15 and was valedictorian of the computer engineering and physics department. He reportedly will become majority owner of New Eden Biospherics & Lab on his twentieth birthday. This is his first offense and he is scheduled to check into a Community Service Rehabilitation Program within the week.
—Paul Sands, “Another Nichols Faces Crimes in Court,” GreenTech Blog, September 29, 2054
***
Mercer Island, Washington State
The world from his bedroom window held all his attention, and Fillion’s introspection became hypnotic as the water lapped against the pebbles along the banks of his family property. The Nichols residence was nestled along the shores of Lake Washington, across the bridge from Seattle.
He wondered again how Fate could be so vicious. He no longer questioned if there were forces of good and evil at work. He knew firsthand. In his life, he would make important strides toward goals society applauded, only to be patronized and belittled due to his age once the goals were achieved. Fillion’s own intelligence earned titles such as “prodigy” and “gifted.” But his dad, as well as the rest of the world, failed to recognize the motive behind the internal drive to finish high school. Hanley enjoyed the praise of having a son such as him. He always absorbed the glory and agreed with the general masses that the future looked promising. It didn’t matter in the end. Nobody in the white-collar science and technology community wanted to work alongside a “child.” And nobody wanted to hire Hanley Nichols’ son and business heir.
Humankind—a race so completely deceived by its own self-importance.
Three years ago, his dad shared a family secret after realizing his son possessed an aptitude for physics, computers, and engineering, and was on track to graduate high school two years early. It was the same exact path his dad had experienced. The Legacy was drafted before Fillion was born, and he was loathe that one day New Eden Biospherics & Research and New Eden Township would be his. He was to become fifty-percent owner while his dad retained twenty-five percent ownership. The Aether received the remaining twenty-five percent ownership. It was a position and Legacy that would remain even after project completion, passed down through The Aether’s family line. Fillion swore he would never become like his dad, and working in the dungeon felt like a betrayal to his self-made promise. Owning his dad’s kingdom—one that continued to destroy his family—would be the same as suicide.
His heart swore profusely at Fate, then at himself for giving in to his darkest feelings. What other lives could his dad single-handedly destroy? Apparently, his dad wasn’t meant to be a life-giver, despite his claims to be just that. His Midas touch didn’t turn things to gold, but to a golden death, ablaze for the world to witness and to judge.
The Watson children supposedly died nearly six years ago from salmonella contamination, just two years after their mother died of puerperal fever—both easily curable bacterial infections in his world. Journalists and activists knocked on his family door once again, demanding answers. They pointed to the mass-media gallows of social justice they had built, proclaiming their sentence over his dad. Hanley was framed as a villain, hung by an online viral rope campaigned and strung by the women’s and children’s rights activists. Mobs led by an organization that promoted women’s causes and children’s health nearly forced their way into the private township. Arguments and emotionally charged debates flamed across the Net with their propaganda, fueling the agenda to sabotage the experiment. If they had succeeded, the project would have failed.
Fillion was twelve at the time, and he remembered with clarity the moment his life changed. While walking home from school one day, he was attacked by three older boys who were determined to see if he would become a child-killing psychopath like his dad. They beat him up while hurling insult after insult. When they were bored with the results, they left, leaving him bruised and bloodied, his ribs and arm broken. Hanley extended zero compassion, instead his dad asked what Fillion did to make the other boys so upset. That moment was the last time he cried, the tears drying up as he began dying inside. He felt the shame and anger powerfully, even to this day.
His thoughts returned to his Cranium, and he continued reading about John—his dad’s childhood friend and attorney—once again winning another case on his dad’s behalf. This time, he proved that man’s rights were protected by their personal and religious beliefs under the U.S. Constitution. The government couldn’t require anyone to receive medical attention, not even children. That was a parent’s choice to make. The parents of New Eden had made the choice to receive naturopathic intervention with the knowledge that they could leave and seek additional medical attention should they so choose. New Eden Enterprises had even gone so far as to install a communications room to alert the company of any immediate needs they may have. Not a single soul had chosen to leave the walls of New Eden, not once, for any reason. This raised additional questions and allegations from the media and public.
He looked out his window, pulled by the water currents. Fillion already felt restless from being under house arrest. Nerves continued to torment him as he waited to hear where he would be sent to provide community service for ninety days. Mack had to leave for work, something Fillion was grateful for, not wanting company or to talk. He turned off his Cranium and walked out of his room, across the hallway, stepping down the ornate stone staircase.
The stone wall flanking the stairs had become green with climbing ivy rooted in square marble pots, positioned artistically on every other step. He laughed inwardly at the irony of bringing the outdoors inside. At the pace humankind was establishing, his dad would say, it may be the only way to preserve any form of the planet’s habitat. Living in a biodome may become a necessity.
Fillion scoffed at such a notion. It was a Green Moron justification to live how they please while manipulating the rest of society into believing it was evil simply by existing and being co-dependent upon earth’s resources. Somehow, scarring the earth with Greentech and eco-architecture—erecting habitats that exude a natural earthiness, but are man-made nonetheless—was better than the traditional buildings created by those lower on the environmental caste system. Each man-made item, regardless of engineering, disrupted nature, displaced animals, and added to the carbon emissions crisis. Who cared if the Greenies did slightly less harm than the rest? Both groups were guilty. Fillion simply couldn’t see the logic in such environmental-social wars.
“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, and then shook his head when realizing that he was talking out loud again.
“Where are you going?” a female voice asked quietly.
Fillion turned and saw his sister in the sitting room near the stairs. “Are you my keeper?”
“Pinkie isn’t doing well,” Lynden said.
Fillion steppe
d into the room as his sister cringed. Pinkie kicked the divan, declaring something was crawling up the cushions.
“How much did she drink?” he asked with a resigned sigh. One look at Pinkie and he knew it was more than just alcohol. “Did she try and shoot her brains out?” Lynden shrugged, increasing Fillion’s irritation. “Brain or crystal meth?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Brain?” Lynden kept her eyes on the floor.
“Did you try any?”
“No!”
“Good. Finally something smart.” Fillion was relieved his sister wasn’t completely stupid. Her ignorance on either drug boosted his spirits a little.
“Hey, sexy.” Pinkie stood up, and sauntered over to Fillion clumsily.
The tweaking made her movements jerky and uncoordinated and he took a deep breath, willing patience. He looked at the mantle clock, 5:39 p.m., and wondered how long ago she shot up. God, he hoped it was Brain so this phase wouldn’t last as long.
She moved her shaky hands up over his chest to his neck. “I still think you’re hot.”
Fillion took a step back, refusing to make eye contact, and made his hair fall over his eyes. Something inside of her snapped at his lack of interest in her come-on and Pinkie jumped back. She looked over her shoulder in a paranoid move, muttering something about whether anyone heard that noise, and then tried to punch him as if in self-defense.
She screamed, “Don’t threaten me! I hate you!”
He caught her arm, which she yanked away violently and then darted her eyes around the room nervously. Pinkie began babbling about meaningless, random things, sharing thoughts as they came to her mind. He hated the constant talk of tweakers. Fillion closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing calm and even. His impatience with his sister’s choice of friends brewed once again.
He turned around and whispered harshly to his sister, “Seriously, Lyn. Is there another pool of genius to pull from than hers?”
Fillion placed his arm gently around Pinkie and guided her toward the divan. It was probably pointless if she was still restless while coming off of the drug, but he wanted to try anyway. Lynden gave him a hurt expression, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m not so lucky as you. I don’t have what it takes to be accepted into the winner’s circle. I know I’m a loser, so get over it.” Lynden brushed a tear away, and then hardened her expression, glaring at him when Pinkie started laughing.
He gave his sister a sad smile, forgetting she was affected by their dad’s actions just as much as him.
“You need to call her parents.”
“I don’t know their number.”
“What’s her real name?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve always just called her Pinkie.”
“Your intelligence is so inspiring.” Fillion rolled his eyes at her. “God, Lyn!”
He felt a new rush of fury for his parent’s lack of involvement. Where was their mom, the famous relationship psychologist? Their dad who spouted tomes of peace and harmony?
“I’m right here,” Pinkie said with snappish annoyance. “I don’t live with my parents.”
“Yeah? Let me guess. You live at a convent.”
“You can tell?” Pinkie gave him a coy glance, and he narrowed his eyes at her.
“What’s your real name?”
“I suppose you want to know how old I am, too?”
He gave her a disinterested shrug, looking away. Anything that appeared too eager might encourage more come-ons.
She leaned into him, and placed her shaking hands under his shirt, whispering in a low, sultry voice, “You don’t fool me. I know lots of guys like you.”
“Doubt it.”
In response, she pressed her body against his in such a way that it exposed most of her breasts, leaving little to the imagination. Fillion went still and harshened his look as he met her eyes. Her hands continued to inch up his torso slowly, trying to tease him with her touches as her fingers shook. He didn’t like to be touched by leeches, and he didn’t like to be touched by tweakers.
“I’ll tell you my name and age if you kiss me.”
“I don’t play those kinds of games.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at girls. You like games. You like power. I can empower you in ways you never knew possible.”
He shifted on his feet in a move of cool detachment, irritated with her innuendos. Was she profiling him? Perhaps hoping to start a scandal by luring him sexually? This fear is why he hadn’t hooked up in over a year. People always wanted something from him, and his family’s wealth and power would be her ticket to a better life. She was definitely using Lynden to get to him, and if he didn’t work out, she would use Lynden to gain status in the underground. He knew her type. She was a common predator, stalking the elite to secure a better meal.
With disgust, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands out from under his shirt, glaring at her as he did so. He knew that strong emotions from him would most likely stir up the paranoia. As expected, her eyes widened as she peered over his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to look, releasing her hands. She began itching her face and then looked over her arms, picking at her skin while babbling away about boys she knew.
He turned faintly to give his sister a side-glance, and then said in a low command, “Moshi mitsukarenakattara, kanojo no Cranium wo motte kitara, ore ga hakku suru.” Lynden nodded, and began looking for her friend’s bag. Fillion turned around, and gave Pinkie a polite smile, resuming his walk to the divan.
They halted their steps before the large couch. Pinkie turned around in a quick move, placing a fidgeting arm around his neck while giving him a suggestive look as she grabbed his belt loops with the other hand and attempted to pull him down. He knew it was her last-ditch effort to win this war they had, and he rolled his eyes at her impertinence, holding his ground. A look passed over her eyes stark with fear as her skin turned green, and he swiftly turned her to the side as she puked.
He felt a strange sense of compassion for Lynden’s friend, holding Pinkie’s hair back, unsure of how to help her, or how to help his sister. As much as he despised Pinkie, he was a part of a community that created and sustained her type. When she finished, a moan escaped her lips, and she reached out to him, not for base favors, but for support. He eased her onto the divan, and placed a blanket over her twitching form as she rocked back and forth, the poison in her system purging and likely reacting to something else she took.
Fillion walked over to his sister and crouched next to her on the floor.
“Call the maid to clean up this mess. When Pinkie has come off her high, passing through the dark side and the crash, she is to leave and you’re never to see her again. Do you understand?”
Pinkie’s comment that she didn’t live at home and her tactic to sexually engage him made several sirens go off in his head. Girls like her take speed for one reason. Lynden nodded in reply as she continued searching Pinkie’s belongings to find a Cranium for him to hack or an ID.
“Why’d she throw up?”
“She probably combined the drug with something else, or she made herself sick from hallucinations and paranoia, part of the whole tweaking thing. Who knows.”
Lynden’s eyes widened, and she looked at her friend with uncertainty as Pinkie babbled away on the couch. His sister was still innocent in many ways, a small marvel considering their culture and her choice in friends.
Fillion let out a deep breath, watching his sister closely, and then said, “If she starts tweaking more violently, let me know, and I’ll carry her up to your room for safety, or maybe I’ll just call the cops.”
He didn’t wait for his sister to reply. He was done with the conversation, and with Pinkie, walking away as fast as he could, slamming the back door behind him. Fillion headed toward the dock briskly, wanting to seek solace from the undulating waves while heaviness settled in his heart for Lynden.
Pinkie hunted his connections and was scouting Lynden to become a CCG. His anger flared
knowing his sister would be a hot commodity as a Cyber Call Girl. She was referred to as the “eco-princess” by the media, daughter of the monarch presiding over the Green movement, a teenage girl with a lot of money and family power, desperate for approval and relationships. God, he despised his parents. He threatened to call the cops to scare his sister, but he wouldn’t. It would do nothing except place a larger target on Lynden’s back, and he wouldn’t be here to protect her.
Lynden used to be playful, quite the tease, but this last year she had become sullen and unhappy. He couldn’t fix her—hell, he couldn’t fix himself. As more things that society embraced and encouraged became computerized, it became more difficult to test what was real and what was virtual, what was human and what was machine, making it harder and harder to feel grounded. Each new Smart-technology device, robot, and machine sucked away purpose, and with it, humankind’s happiness.
A smooth pebble caught his eye and he tossed it into the water, watching his reflection in the concentric circles. Humans no longer looked to nature for inspiration. Fashion and style didn’t reflect the brilliance of autumn, the glory of summer, the vibrancy of spring, or the monochromatic hues of winter, despite all the Green Movement scriptures everyone quoted. Rather, the modern human had become absorbed by the Net and transformed into an anime character, complete with personal otaku followers. Everyone reflected the world of mass media, video games, and electronic entertainment. Individual personas ranged from emo to cyberpunk in appearance, boasting wild colors and style for hair, multiple piercings and tattoos. Nothing was natural anymore. Society still wore the colors of earth, but refashioned their appearance to worship the product of their demi-god labors and creative powers. All the while, the guilt of breaking up with nature fueled society to convince one another that they still worshipped Mother Earth. Like his dad.
Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles) Page 14