by H C Edwards
IMMOGEN BOOKS
Cover art by Frankie Serna
sernaillustration.com
All characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons or events are coincidental.
Copyright © Immogen Books and Akropolis.
All rights reserved by author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
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express written permission of the author.
For my father
Akropolis
Table of Contents
The Beach 8
The Secret 13
The Rod 32
The Soldier 59
The Successor 95
The Savior 119
The Confession 139
The Camel’s Back 164
The Dilemma 182
Sanctuary 195
Akropolis
Book 1
An interview conducted by psychiatrist Dr. Phillip Blatty
December 24th
11:26 pm
“Can you recall the last dream you had?”
“Do you mean daydream or nightdream?”
“A dream is a dream…do you recall?”
“I do.”
“And what was the dream?”
“I don’t think you would understand.”
“What makes you believe that?”
“The fact that you don’t think it matters.”
“…I do not understand.”
“I know…there is a fundamental difference in day and night. On a certain level your consciousness is aware. A dream in the light of day is not the same as the one in the dark.”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Are you?”
“This is about you.”
“I know…believe me I know.”
“The dream.”
“Oh yes…the dream...I recall it.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Maybe…maybe I want to tell you everything. I’m betting I know some things about this place that will boggle your mind.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you have to respond to everything I say?”
“…………”
“Thank you for that…anyways, I do want to tell you about the dream…I want to tell you because I don’t understand it…and I feel that I should.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
“Because I remember things and I don’t…and the things I remember are not real.”
“Dreams are not real.”
“I knew you were going to say that. But here’s the thing…my dreams often feel more real than this place. So what does that say of me? Am I real or is what I know not?”
“I don’t-“
“Please…please don’t say it. I know you don’t. You never will. Dreams are fickle things to you, projections based on memories and experiences. What I’m saying is what if the memories themselves are flawed, unreliable? Does that mean we can only rely on our dreams to tell the truth?”
“The memories you have are not flawed. They are a part of the Cloud. All our memories are. They are recorded as experienced.”
“Why don’t you just get it over with…do what you came here to do?”
“I am here to help you.”
“Are you?”
“I am.”
“That’s funny, because I think…I think you’re here to kill me…”
The Beach
The last thing that felt real was the beach…
That was a great day, maybe the last great one; the grainy feel of the warm sand between his toes, the dark water lapping at his ankles.
It was one of those days betwixt summer and fall, what they used to call an Indian summer. At least that’s what his father said, who when asked the meaning of the phrase could not quite recollect its origins…just something he had read in a book once upon a time.
The boy could hear his mother’s laughter on the beach behind him, like the musical sound of chimes on a windy day. It tapered off into a girlish giggle that made him smile and feel more at ease.
Dad was good at that…making her laugh. The boy didn’t realize until he heard it how much he had missed it. As of late it seemed like a dark cloud hovered above their home, choking off the sound of laughter before it even found its voice, stifling the very air surrounding them. Something had changed in the last few months; a sinister presence had taken up residence in their home. It darkened the hallways in the middle of the day, crouched in the shadowy corners of each room, naked and hairless like an albino ape, and when it sunk its fingers into his mother the boy would catch her staring at him in such a strange piercing way that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
On that day at the beach, however, the sound of her laughter chased away all of those shadows. For the first time in a long time everything felt normal again.
He glanced back at the two of them. It was almost as if the world slowed down for a moment, just long enough for his brain to capture the scene…a forever picture.
They were both dressed in white, Dad in his linen beach slacks and shirt, his immaculately combed black hair molded around his skull like a caricature. His face was a little thin; cheekbones too sharp with gray just starting to pepper the three day beard he always seemed to have, but he was strong…invincible.
Dad lounged on his side in the sand, Mom cradled in the crook of his half bent midsection, dressed in her linen summer dress. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, arms crossed and resting upon them. Her green eyes were squinted against the glare of the sun and the pockets of freckles on her cheekbones were like dozens of fairy kisses. At that moment she tucked away a strand of her curly raven hair behind an ear and squinted at Dad in that half amused smirk she wore so well.
His parents found moments throughout the day to smile and laugh, to pass each other those knowing winks they thought he didn’t see. But those moments were becoming infrequent as time passed and whatever shadow was cast upon their home began to lengthen and grow. Today, though, they were truly happy…today everything was just fine.
Maybe that’s why they didn’t see the boat.
It appeared on the horizon, outlined by the reds and oranges of the setting sun, stark white sails rippling in the sea breeze. It was too far out to speculate on its build but the boy recalled reading that they were made of wood.
He had never seen a boat before, at least not outside of a book, and to his knowledge such a thing should not exist. Yet there it was, riding the edge of the water like a small toy he could almost reach out and pluck off the horizon.
It called to him. He knew it was much too far a distance for him to swim but that didn’t seem to stop his feet from moving forward. He was entranced, eyes eager for more, hands yearning to stroke the smooth sides as one would pet a magnificent horse.
The water was to his shoulders before he thought to stop. The sea had become chilly and he could feel the undertow start to pull at his ankles. He wanted to continue on, kick up his feet and start paddling, but not even the sight of the boat could deter his better judgment.
The boy turned his body back towards the beach, but not his head, afraid that should he take his eyes off the boat it would disappear like a mirage.
He tried to call out to his parents but his voice was barely above a whisper. Clearing his throat he attempted again to garner their attention when he felt it.
At first he didn’t know what to make of it; a cold sensation that immediately turned into a piercing pain in his kidney, so intense that his breath caught in his throat. What came out of his mouth was nothi
ng more than a strangled gasp.
The boy hitched in a short breath but before he could make use of it he felt another stinging pain, then another, and another, and another…too many to count, too quickly in succession to make sense of what was happening. His back, his legs, his chest, a dozen pinpricks that exploded and spread like fire throughout his body, pain so excruciating his limbs seized up and became like wooden sticks.
He couldn’t catch his breath. His mouth opened but instead of air the sea flowed in, washing over his tongue and forcing itself down his throat. He gagged and might have vomited the water out but a moment later the undertow yanked his feet out from beneath me, and the waters closed over his head.
It was then that the boy saw them; dozens of translucent heavenly bodies, a soft glow permeating from their depths like the dying embers of a fire, dozens of tiny tendrils trailing in their wake like gossamer strands of hair. They floated serenely, their beauty in stark contrast to the horrifying realization of what was happening to him.
He thought of his parents on the beach; their casual laughter and genuine smiles, lovingly huddled together in the warm sand on this Indian summer day. He thought of the boat. He thought how it would have felt to reach out and stroke the smooth wood of its hull beneath his fingertips, trailing his hand along its broad beautiful berth and feel it breathe as if it were alive.
It was then the boy realized that the pain of the stings had gone, and with it the fear and the panic. Or maybe he just didn’t remember those things. Maybe those things were taken from him after that day…the day he died.
The Secret
It took a moment to gather his thoughts upon waking. The last remnants of the dream were cascading down into the depths of his subconscious as a waterfall would off a steep cliff. He grasped onto a thread of it and held it there in his mind.
It was that feeling of serenity, that peaceful acceptance of the inevitable. He wondered what would have come after, if that moment of tranquility segued to something else, something…beautiful and wondrous that defied imagination.
He wondered what would have been had his father not pulled him out of the sea.
He didn’t recall drowning…but then he didn’t recall being revived by his father on the sandy beach either. He remembered only waking in the clinic with his parents at his bedside, his mother tearfully squeezing his hand and his father staring at him with an intensity that made him feel like squirming.
The boat…had that been real or a figment of his imagination?
“It was real,” he whispered aloud.
He had begun to talk to himself with frequency, but only when he was alone. It felt…right, helped him to focus…made everything seem more concrete.
“Sia, what is the time?” he asked.
“It is 1:13am.”
Her voice was gentle and soothing, though slightly concerned. You had to listen very closely to notice the clipped ending of the words when she spoke; crisp and artificial.
“You are up very early, Quentin. Did you have a bad dream?”
“The same dream.”
“Would you like me to call Dr. Blatty?”
“No. It’s a bit too early for that don’t you think?”
There was a pause.
“You are correct. It would be inappropriate to call at this time unless it is an emergency. Is this an emergency?”
Quentin sighed.
“No.”
He could tell she was analyzing his sigh. If she was capable of such trivialities he was certain he would have heard an ‘hmm’ in his head as she contemplated.
“Since you are awake would you like to hear your messages?”
He sat up, the last vestiges of sleepiness gone from his mind.
“I have messages?”
“You have one message.”
“Play it for me, Sia.”
There was a slight intonation in his head like a chime or a whimsical bell. A moment of nothing and then he heard the rustle of wind, the labored breathing. He knew it was her before she even spoke.
“Hey, it’s me.”
She sounded excited.
Quentin felt his pulse quicken and sat very still, as if the merest movement would dispel the message.
“Meet me at the edge. I’ll be there at three,” she said. “And don’t be late.”
There was a brief rustling sound he could not discern and then she was gone.
“What time was that message sent?”
“1:02am,” Sia replied.
That was only about ten minutes past. Perhaps it was a coincidence he had awoken; perhaps not.
Quentin threw off the covers and leapt out of bed. It took only a moment to throw on some linen pants and a shirt from his dresser. He slipped on his sneakers in the corner of the room and paused at his bedroom door.
The house was silent, not even the whisper of a wind to make the walls creak and groan.
“Is something wrong, Quentin?”
Her voice made him jump half out of his skin.
“I’m fine, Sia. What time did my father go to sleep?”
“He is not sleeping at the moment,” was her reply.
Did he catch a hint of exasperation? It was difficult to tell. The algorithms his father programmed into her were made to mimic their thoughts and their feelings but in the end she was just a program. Then again, how many times had he found Sia to be more intuitive than any program should be?
If his father wasn’t sleeping there was only one place he would be.
“He’s at the lab,” Quentin muttered aloud.
“That is correct. Would you like to call him?”
“No.”
He realized his reply was too quick. If Sia felt that he was distressed or anxious she might let him know anyway. She was quirky that way. Sometimes she felt annoyingly like an older sister but it’s not something he would change about her.
“I don’t think we need to bother my father this late. It’ll only worry him.”
Silence again. He knew she was giving him the equivalent of a non-existent frown.
“That is probably wise,” she finally said, seemingly resigned.
“I’m going for a walk; try and get sleepy again.”
Quentin slipped on his shoes, opened the door to his bedroom and ran down the stairs. He made a quick detour into the kitchen and grabbed a snack pack from the pantry and stuffed it into his back pocket then filled up the water bottle he had left by the sink. It only took a few seconds but he lamented each one, almost bouncing in impatience.
Snagging his jacket from the coat hook by the front door and struggling into it, he realized he had put the wrong arm in the sleeve. Exasperated he yanked the coat off and tried it again.
“You seem anxious,” Sia said.
“I’m fine,” he snapped back.
Quentin took a deep breath and steadied himself. He looked at his watch and saw he still had plenty of time if he jogged a good part of the way.
“I’m fine, Sia,” he said more amiably. “But I’d like to be alone for a little bit if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish,” she replied evenly.
He reached up behind his left ear, felt the slight circular protrusion, and pressed down twice in quick succession. There was a muffled one second tone that he felt more than heard and knew that Sia and he were no longer connected.
Quentin closed the front door behind him and started jogging the moment his feet left the porch. He was eager, but more than that, he was excited.
Akropolis was built in concentric circles with interconnecting streets that led to The Pantheon in the heart of the city. From overhead it looked like a giant bicycle wheel. The concentric streets were alphabetized starting with ‘Alpha Street’ and on to ‘Zulu Street’. The streets that formed the ‘spokes’ of the wheel and branched out from the center of Akropolis were numbered one through twenty-six in unison with their accompanying NATO phonetic name, so that the first spoke street at the very center of the city was named Alfa 1st S
treet and the very last spoke street by the wall was named Zulu 82nd Street. Having been consigned by the military in its inception, there never seemed a need to change the names of the streets, even after all these centuries.
Quentin and his father’s house was on India Street and the nearest connecting spoke street was 38th which was called India 38th Street, about a mile and a half away. He had to jog eight minutes just to reach it. Once there he knew he could hop a transport to the perimeter wall; maybe a thirty minute ride, leaving him about twenty minutes to breach the wall and make it to the edge. It would be cutting it close.
Quentin was tall and lean with a long stride so his legs ate up the mile quickly. Once he arrived at the connecting street he looked hastily around. There was nothing but streetlamps and darkened two story houses, peppered here and there with aspen trees and clumps of boxwood bushes. It was completely silent and bereft of any people or transports. The absence of people was not a surprise but all the transports were gone from the charging stations, which was unlucky for him.
He swore beneath his breath, checked the time by the glow of his watch, and preceded at a quicker jog that soon became a run.
As he ran he was conscious of the heavy slaps of his shoe soles upon the street, reverberating so loudly between the houses that he was certain someone would awaken and lean out a window to investigate. If they called his presence in he would surely get picked up for a curfew violation before he even reached the wall, and there went any recreational excursions for at least two weeks.
Thankfully on the next connecting street Quentin saw a lone transport connected to a charging hub, the interior soft blue glow welcoming him with open arms. Its smooth egg-white color and shape stood out sharply against the dimly lit street.
He ran up to it and laid his hand against the window, panting heavily now with sweat dripping from his scalp. The scanner activated and showed he had four transportation points left, just enough to get him up to the Wall and back to within the outer limits of his neighborhood zone. It was a damn long jaunt after that but he’d risk it.