Dechipped: Iris: (Book Fourteen in the Unchipped Dystopian Sci-Fi Series)

by Taya DeVere

  He reaches for her hair again. When Iris shies away from his touch, Tim’s hand freezes midair. Something dark flashes in his eyes when he pulls his hand away. “You know…” he starts with a low, raspy voice, “Considering what happened in that arena today… seeing your dedication and willingness to go the extra mile… I might have to reconsider who’s going to ride Alfred in the Cup.”

  The feeling starts deep in her stomach, traveling slowly up toward her chest. Butterflies. Ants. Something. Millions of tiny vibrations spread all around her body. Iris feels as if she’s suddenly five inches taller.

  “Oh, you’d like that,” Timothy says, watching Iris’s reaction. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Iris parts her lips to speak, but the excitement is too much for her to form words. All her hard work. All her sacrifice. The sixteen-hour shifts, mucking, grooming, cleaning, fixing, carrying water, cleaning drains… Not to prove her mother wrong. Not even to show Timothy what she’s made of.

  But to ride in the last ever Dressage World Cup. To win it.

  “Well,” he says and stretches his tall, slim frame. He gets up and takes a step toward the door. “Let me sleep on it. A night or two. I mean, we both know that Tina turned out to be a major disappointment.”

  While he takes a break to theatrically shake his head, Iris tries to remember what Tina did wrong during the two tempis. She had a few minutes to watch her ride while picking the manure up off the track. But nothing Tina had done seemed to have gone wrong. Tina might not be as good as Iris, but she’s still damn good. But tonight, nothing she did seemed to please Timothy. The more she tried, repeating the same movements over and over, the more Timothy yelled, making Tina more and more flustered. That’s when she started to make mistakes.

  Deep in thought, Iris starts when Tim’s hand cups her chin. His fingers clamp onto her face with a bit too much force, causing Iris to freeze in discomfort.

  “But at the end of the day,” he says slowly, staring into Iris with borderline hostile eyes, “I want to see you prove your commitment. Not just to Alfred, but to me. I want to make sure this wasn’t some kind of a one-night thing—a magical mishap that caught me off guard.” He leans even closer, his breath hot on Iris’s face. “At the end of the day… it all comes down to how you and I get along… on a personal level.”

  CHAPTER 4 — KNOCK ON THE DOOR

  Tears burning her eyes, Iris stares at the message on her phone. It’s from her mother, the only person who ever messages her anymore. She reads the words one more time, trying to convince herself that the tears are from relief, not from pain or sorrow.

  I’VE BEEN SELECTED FOR THE RETIREMENT PROGRAM. I’M LEAVING TOMORROW MORNING, TEN O’CLOCK, SHARP. I WILL SEND YOU MONEY FOR RENT, BUT THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME.

  She wipes her eyes on the backs of her palms. She’s not crying because her mother won’t lend her money again. Anyone who moves away from Iceland is banned from staying in contact with those who have stayed put. Iris is not sure why, but she knows this will also be the case with her mother, now that she’s retiring to one of the billionaire villages.

  The pillow feels rough when Iris presses her face into it. She screams, trying to let out the pain that bubbles against her chest. With clenched fists, she squeezes the pillow, then tosses it aside and grabs her phone off the mattress. As hard as she can, Iris throws the phone against the wall. The screen cracks, but that’s not good enough. With a few quick strides, she makes her way to her bedroom door, kicks on her steel-toed boots, and heads back to the phone. She steps on it hard. Twisting her feet from side to side, she pushes the phone against the hard floor, then stomps on it once, twice, three times for good measure.

  The hollow feeling grows in her chest. Her knees give in, sending Iris down to the floor to sob uncontrollably. She’s all alone. Everyone she ever cared about—gone. Anyone who could help her if things were to go terribly wrong has left Iceland and fled to places where Iris can’t reach them anymore.

  “Gutless traitors…” she says aloud and swallows hard. The sobs subside, and a new feeling takes over, first her body, then her mind. The feeling tickles the bottom of her stomach, then spreads like wildfire around her body, making it hard to breathe. Narrowing her eyes, Iris stares at what’s left of her phone. She lets the rage engulf her, feeling its power thickening her skin as it burns her from inside out.

  No more crying, her inner voice says, making Iris nod in agreement. No more wallowing over cowards who give up on their home country. Their lives. Their dreams. Their freedom. Let them. Let her mother choke on her margarita by the pool. Let the rest of her family rot in some gray, concrete-box building in a place where it always rains. Or scorch their skins in a ripped tent that can’t protect them from the blazing sun or the raging wildfires that destroy one country after another. Or wherever else those weaklings now weep and bow their heads.

  Not Iris.

  With steady steps, she gets up from the floor and picks up the lump that used to be her phone. She runs her fingers over the cracked surface, almost admiring its damaged new form. Her chin set higher than before, Iris kicks off the steel-toed boots, then steps to the window and sits on the sill. Downstairs, a horse whinnies in its sleep. Iris sets the phone on the windowsill like it’s a trophy—a reminder of the only person who refused to take a bow in this new, fucked up world.

  A reminder of the new Iris.

  Powerful Iris.

  Strong-willed Iris.

  Winner Iris.

  ***

  She pushes the wheelbarrow up the wooden plank, careful not to slip on the icy edge. At the top of the muck pile, she places her boot on the wheelbarrow’s tire to keep it steady, then tilts it over to empty the manure down the pit. Then she backs up, turns around once back on solid ground, and starts pushing the wheelbarrow back up toward the barn.

  The last few days, Iris has worked harder than she’s ever worked before. Tina’s on sick leave for a cold, or flu, or something else Iris doesn’t really care about. Personally, she believes it’s Tina’s shattered, broken-down ego that made her sick, demanding its time to heal. Though Timothy hasn’t announced his decision on who will ride for him at the Cup, Iris feels confident about her chances.

  Because something has changed.

  While Tina’s on sick leave, Timothy’s given the horses some time off too. With the exception of light lunging work, Iris hasn’t trained any of the horses for two full days. He’s also stopped yelling at Iris. Or better yet—he’s stopped talking to her altogether. But it’s not a sulking kind of silence. It’s more like his mind is occupied. Too busy for conversation or the latest updates on Van Dijk’s algorithm.

  Iris takes it as a good sign. A new way of being. Their relationship is morphing, finding a calmer form so she can take over riding Alfred—and win them a luxury future right here in Iceland. Timothy’s giving her a chance. She can tell. And just the fact that his overstepping his boundaries in the viewing room a few nights ago hasn’t happened again proves Tina’s warning about him wrong. Whatever those two used to have going on at the main house has nothing to do with Iris, or the working relationship she has with Timothy.

  Humming a tune that’s been stuck in her head since the morning, Iris pulls the wheelbarrow with her into the last uncleaned stall. She grabs the pitchfork and starts shuffling the wood shavings, separating the manure balls from the clean bedding. The sun streams through the stall’s metal bars. It’s about eleven o’clock in the morning, she gathers from the sun’s position. That means she’s an hour early with her chores.

  Her humming changes to whistling as she piles more clean bedding into banks against the stall’s wall. After picking out every poo and wet spot in the box, Iris pushes the wheelbarrow back to the aisle and starts spreading the clean bedding back across the stall floor. She now sings aloud, struggling to remember the words to the old jingle. Iris shakes her head at herself and gives a small laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  His voice gives Iris a s
tart, sending her spinning on her heels. Tim stands by the stall door, leaning against the chewed wooden frame, holding a metal flask. He takes a long gulp, then offers it to Iris, shaking the flask while raising his brows. “You want a drink?”

  “I’m good,” Iris says, her voice calm and collected. Her new confidence doesn’t go unnoticed by Timothy. He runs his tongue on his lower lip and narrows his eyes at his working student. Iris gives him a quick smile, then returns to flatten out the bedding. “Won’t do us much good if Tina’s out cold because of flu and I’m drunk or hungover, unable to work.”

  “I bet you could be drunk out of your mind and still have this barn done in half the time that little wimp ever could.” He stops to take another sip. When Iris glances over, she sees something predatory flashing in his eyes. How drunk is he, exactly?

  “Have you thought about the Cup?”

  In a matter of a half-second, the sensation of a thousand daggers pushes away the alert restlessness that has taken over Iris’s stomach. That’s all I ever think about, Iris almost blurts out but doesn’t. She gives the clean stall a final approving look, then turns to walk out to the aisle. But Timothy blocks her way, spreading his long arms on the stall’s doorway, so the only way Iris could leave is ducking under his armpit. She takes a careful step back and forces herself to meet Timothy’s drunken stare.

  “What about the Cup?” she asks, this time with less confidence in her voice.

  “You…” he says. He goes for another sip, but the way he ends up shaking the flask and grunting instead, tells Iris he’s run out. “You riding Alfred, of course.” He takes a step into the stall, then turns around and pulls the sliding door shut with one quick hand movement. The flask falls into the shavings.

  Iris fights the urge to take a step back. She lifts her chin higher and takes a deep breath, forcing a small smile. “You know I want to ride Alfred in the Cup.” She pauses to take a small step closer to the drunken man. “Just like you know I’m the one who will win the whole damn thing. Me—not Tina.”

  His chuckle is followed by an approving nod. One step, and he’s standing right in front of Iris. He cups her chin, his fingertips digging painfully into her face. The smell of alcohol on his breath is nauseating. “How badly,” he murmurs. “How badly you want it?”

  “More…” Iris has to stop to force a sliver of air into her lungs. “More than anything.”

  “Yeah?” His fingers tighten. “Prove it.”

  Do whatever it takes, her inner voice rages at Iris as she’s about to let her mind slip into the mental vessel and travel far away from this stall. Whatever it takes to get your ass in that Cup. The old Iris would run and hide, like the coward she was. But not us. Whatever. It. Takes. I don’t care if it kills you.

  Iris lifts her gaze and narrows her eyes. She focuses on her breath and the pain that Timothy’s fingers cause. That pain feels good, she suddenly realizes. That pain is her new vessel, her way of tolerating whatever this world is to throw at her. She will take it. She will own it.

  She will fucking survive.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  ***

  An owl hoots somewhere nearby. Iris sits against the open attic door in the highest part of the barn building. No one will find her here. For some reason she doesn’t allow herself to think about, she doesn’t want to sleep in her bedroom tonight. Not even with its door locked. She wraps the heavy-weight horse blanket tighter around her shivering body while the images from this morning flash through her mind.

  Her knees landing on the wood shavings.

  Her shaking hands, opening two buttons and a zipper.

  His moans filling her ears.

  Shaking her head, Iris gasps for air. Doesn’t matter now, she tries to convince herself. You did what you had to do. To make sure your future is secured.

  Even her inner voice agrees, never murmuring a word in contradiction. She’s made it. In a month and a half, she’ll ride Alfred in the World Cup. She knows the score she needs, the parts of the test that her strongest competitor will most likely not get right—the parts that she will excel at. She’ll practice all day, all night. Give it all she’s got. And once she’s won, she’ll come back home and no shitty corporation will ever be able to buy her freedom and force her to leave Iceland.

  The images reappear, this time clearer, stronger, louder.

  Her knees going numb as they dig through the shavings and meet the hard floor.

  Her jaw throbbing.

  Her eyes burning as she forces the tears back.

  Pressing her face against the blanket, Iris screams into the horse-scented fabric. No. She will not let this morning ruin it for her. What’s done is done. Timothy got what he wanted. Now it’s her time. Anyone standing in her way will feel her rage and move aside while she claims everything she deserves, and then some. If she needs to deal with some fucked up flashbacks of this morning while she makes all her goals and dreams come true, so be it.

  She can take it.

  The new Iris can take it.

  ***

  Sweeping the floor, Iris hears a loud groan and swearing from the viewing room. Tina freezes, half in and half out of the stall where she’s been changing a horse from a rain sheet to a stall blanket. The wet sheet folded on her arm, she blinks a few times, turns to stare at Iris, raising her brows. Iris shakes her head at Tina, gesturing that she has no idea what’s going on.

  It’s Tina’s second day back at work, but Timothy hasn’t said a word to her or Iris. No horses have been ridden, no training has taken place. Iris walks around like a shadow, doing her job but also trying her best to stay out of Timothy’s way. Constantly alert and walking on egg shells, Iris and Tina both make themselves as invisible as possible. Though they’ve never been anywhere close to being friends—quite the opposite—these past few days, they work together seamlessly.

  Tina closes the stall door and nods toward the grain room. Iris sweeps the dirt pile into the closest stall and closes the door. She follows Tina to the furthest room away from the viewing room. Once Iris is in, Tina peeks her head out, then lets the swinging door close behind her slowly. Iris sits on a stack of grain bags while Tina crosses her arms on her chest and leans against the wall.

  “Okay,” Tina half-whispers, “What the hell’s going on with Walker? I mean, shitty mood aside, he’s never given the horses more than two days off training. And a month before the Cup… Is he losing it?”

  Iris crosses her legs and takes a deep breath before answering. She wants to deny there’s anything wrong, but Tina’s right. Even if Tim’s decided to switch his top rider from Tina to Iris, someone needs to keep riding Alfred for him to be in top-notch shape for the World Cup.

  “I mean, did he say something to you?” Tina continues when Iris doesn’t answer. She stares at Iris intensely, narrowing her eyes. “Did something happen?”

  Iris’s head twitches as she blocks the mental images from entering. Before Tina can point out her involuntary tic, she hurries to say, “Nothing happened. He’s just on a bender. People do that when they’re under stress. I’m sure he’ll snap out of it soon.”

  Tina keeps staring, investigating Iris’s face. She’s not buying it, Iris can tell. With a small pout on her full lips, Tina pushes her palm against the swinging door and peeks down the aisle, then lets the door swing shut again. “You slept with him. Didn’t you?”

  Iris can’t help the gag reflex Tina’s words bring her. Coughing, she bends over, then jumps down from the feed bags and circles the grain room, gasping for air.

  “Are you fucking insane?” Tina hisses at her back. “You’re, like, sixteen!”

  Iris taps the faucet open and gulps water until the cold water calms her throat enough for her to speak. Eyes filled with rage, she turns to stare back at Tina. “Eighteen. And I did not sleep with him. Just because you like to whore your way to the top doesn’t mean everyone does the same.”

  Two strides is all it takes for Tina to reach Iris. Her slap bu
rns Iris’s cheek, but she’s too unprepared for it to dodge it—or slap back. Out of balance, she stumbles back and hits her lower back against the sink.

  “I don’t need this shit,” Tina hisses, standing in the middle of the grain room. Even if Iris wanted to leave, she would have to pass her raging coworker, and something tells her that Tina wouldn’t hesitate to slap her on the other cheek, then the first one again. “I was Tim’s top girl when you were still in diapers learning to walk. Just because he’s suddenly interested in scoring some Eskimo ass, doesn’t mean it changes my status in any way.”

  Iris’s head jerks back in surprise. A wave of calm travels through her as she stands tall and takes a step closer to Tina. “You might have ridden for Walker longer than I have, but that doesn’t really make you anything special. One thing’s for sure: you’re clearly only rowing with one oar. Eskimos never lived in Iceland. Just like I never fucked Walker. If he’s changed his mind about who’s riding what and where, it’s only because I’m five times better a rider than you ever were.”

  “Changed his…” Tina stops to grit her teeth. “Take that back, you fucking bitch.”

  Iris takes another step toward Tina, leaning in close enough to feel Tina's breath on her face. “Make me, Kanar asshole.”

  Staring each other down, they stand still with their fists clenched, neither willing to give in, but not attacking each other either. It’s not until they hear Timothy’s dressage boots stomping in the aisle that Tina takes a step back and drops her gaze.

  “Tina?!” Timothy yells, loud enough to make one of the horses outside whinny. “Where the fuck is my lunch?!”

  Tina hurries to the door, pushing it open. “In the house, Tim! I’ll come with you!” Before she leaves the grain room, she glances at Iris over her shoulder. “You think you’re so fucking sly, don’t you?” With a small smile on her face, she pushes the door wide open, keeping it from shutting with her boot. “I know what you did. I can tell, because he hasn’t touched me for days.”