The Fractured Prism (The Prism Files Book 1)

by Brendan Noble

  My quiet stroll was abruptly interrupted, though, by what sounded like a scuffle around a corner near Smith Avenue. I crept to a tree at the corner and peaked around it. Two middle-aged men were arguing with a woman who they had pushed up against an abandoned brewery warehouse. An expensive handbag hung from her gloved hand and she wore fancy ice-blue neck-wrap peacoat: she wasn’t from around here, though I couldn’t see the color of her tag through her hair. Tonight just got even more interesting…

  From behind the tree I analyzed the two men: one Orange and one Yellow. Their ripped, muted jackets and tattered jeans hung loosely on their bodies. Muggings weren’t uncommon among the Reds and Oranges, but with the levels of starvation spiking over recent years, the Yellows were getting desperate too. A rich girl like that was too easy of a target.

  Yellow Tag had her arm and hissed. “Come nice and quiet and we won’t slit your throat.” His partner pulled a knife.

  She looked around, searching for a way out, her eyes full of fear and her voice smooth but panicked. “What do you want? Money?”

  Well if this isn’t the classic Damsel in distress. Obviously, a rich girl, but that doesn’t mean she deserves this. Maybe I can do something good tonight. I snuck around the corner while the attackers bickered with her.

  The girl noticed my approach and I put a finger to my lips as her narrow eyes screamed for help. When I was about three meters way, I spoke sarcastically, “Excuse me, good sirs. Isn’t it a little past your bedtime?”

  The one with the knife turned to me, his voice like gravel. “Turn your ass around and go home. She’s ours.”

  “That’s not a nice way to talk around a lady.” His hand shook as I stepped closer. Wimp. Swiftly, I drew two of my knives from my pockets and charged him, knocking him over with my shoulder and the knife flew out of his hands. As he stumbled back, he grabbed my burned arm and I yelped, falling on top off him. While I knocked him out with a few swift head punches in the resulting struggle, his partner scrambled for the knife, still gripping the girl’s forearm. I lunged at him and cut his forearm, forcing him to scream in pain and release her. He grabbed the knife as I drove my own blade into the side of his neck. Crimson blood spurted from his neck as he gasped and fell. I collapsed next to him. I didn’t want to kill him, but I’d learned the hard way not to wait and see what the other guy would do with a weapon in his hand.

  Exhausted, but triumphant, I struggled to my feet. The girl was gaping at my stomach, and I looked down to see what she was staring at. Well, shit. My abdomen was bleeding, a lot. I reached down and felt the knife as a sharp pain shot through my side. “Ack!” It was in deep and pulling it out without a doctor was just going to make things worse. I looked up at the girl and reached out my non-bloodied hand, speaking weakly, “Ivan, pleased to make your acquaintance m’lady.”

  She just stared at my hand before looking back at me in shock. Do rich women not like handshakes? Or maybe it’s the blood… “You need a hospital!”

  “Was, ahh, was that a question? Because yes, yes I do.” My hood dropped as I said that, revealing my red dog tag earring.

  Her ice-blue eyes filled with surprise. “Oh, you’re a Red.”

  “And you’re obviously not. So, are you going to help me out or not?” Where is her tag?

  Shaking her head sharply, she broke out of her shock. “Oh, yeah.” She made a call on her cellphone, giving directions to someone. “My driver is coming to pick us up.” Oh, she’s “my driver” rich.

  Once she was finished, she put my arm over her shoulder to support my weight, and we made our way towards the main road. Once we were under the light from the street lamps, I could see her heart shaped pale face, and she failed to hide her discomfort as some of my blood dripped onto her fancy jacket. She looks familiar. Or am I just that woozy? I could have sworn I recognized her, but from where?

  The world was spinning in my head as we waited, and I could feel my mind slipping. Stay awake. I muttered to her, “Keep me talking or I’m going to pass out.”

  Shock was plastered over her face, but she pulled herself out of it, feeling my urgency. “Thank you… thank you for helping me. I’m not sure what I would have done.”

  “No, ack… uh, no problem. What was someone like you doing out in St. Paul at this time of night?”

  She hesitated and blushed, embarrassed. “I was at a party with some friends and was planning to meet my driver a few blocks away. I didn’t want him telling my parents where I was.”

  “Ah, well, I’m not sure if you’re naïve or just stupid, but a young, attractive girl like you walking through dark alleys in the west end of St. Paul is not the greatest decision you’ve made in your life.”

  “No, no it isn’t.” She pondered for a second before responding with a bit of insistency, “Why are you out here? A Red past curfew is really risking it with the UPF.”

  I groaned in pain. “None of your business.”

  She insisted. “Well, I told you my secret. You have to tell me yours.”

  I shook my head weakly. “I promise you, a secret that gets you yelled at by your parents is nothing close to what I’ve got.”

  “Well, you…” She was cut off by a fancy black SUV pulling up. A Green Tag man rushed out, opened the door and pulled me into the back seat. Julia climbed in the other side and helped me sit up.

  The car screamed rich, with authentic wood paneling, an engine that didn’t shutter every few seconds, and leather seats that punched me in the face with their aroma. Wow, this is a nice car. I hope they like red seats… I was feeling increasingly light headed and couldn’t sit up, even with Julia’s help, and my vision slowly faded to black.

  Chapter 6

  Bright light burst into my eyes as the smell of antiseptics knocked me awake. Where the hell am I? Panic surged through my chest as I saw the tubes attached to me. I was a few seconds from tearing out my IV and throwing a few people against the wall, but the stitches stabbed into my side as I tried to stand. I pushed back against the large arms trying to hold me down, but they injected me with a serum that knocked me back out.

  Did I overreact? Probably, yes. But imagine being in a high-class hospital with all sorts of fancy stuff you haven’t ever actually seen in person before. The Reds didn’t get special medical care; we were replaceable.

  When I awoke the second time, it was slow. The straps they had added rubbed abrasively against my arms, and I couldn’t move. A Blue nurse, female this time, was watching nearby. Her upturned eyes were wide with a bit of fear, though shrouded in exhaustion. She was sharp in getting to her feet, though, and would have been ready if I had actually tried to put up a fight.

  I coughed weakly. “What time is it?”

  She looked relieved that I wasn’t feeling violent. “Four in the afternoon. You’re lucky that they got you here as fast as they did. You could have died, especially if you had pulled the knife out. How did you know not to?”

  I tried to sit up but was held down by the straps. “Ack! Well, when you live in the slums, you’ve dealt with enough people being stabbed that you figure out what works and what kills you. You know, because we aren’t allowed to visit an actual doctor.”

  “That makes sense…” Her voice almost held a bit of guilt. “Since almost all the royals’ servants are Blue or Green, you’re the first Red that we’ve ever treated here.”

  Royal servants? Holy crap… I’m in THAT hospital? “Wait, this is the Royal Hospital?”

  She looked confused why I didn’t know. “Yes? Princess Julia brought you here.” She wiped a strand of black hair away from her face. Princess? I saved a Princess? That explains the lack of a tag. Screw this. I’m out. I started fighting against the straps. “Please don’t do that.”

  I insisted and continued struggling against the straps. “I need to leave, now.”

  She grabbed my arm and gave a disapproving look. Even when you didn’t grow up with parents, you know what a mom glare looks like, and it was frightening. “You need more
time to rest. Besides, you can’t leave yet. The King has requested your presence once you’re ready to walk.” This must be a weird dream…

  “You must have given me the good stuff, because I thought I heard you say the King wants to see me.”

  “That’s correct. We washed your clothes. They are on the table when you’re ready. Press the button if you need anything.” She removed my IV and the straps, striking another glare at me.

  “Uh… thanks.” What is going on?

  She left, and after a while I struggled to my feet to put my clothes on. It was almost a relief to put on the white tattered jacket and ripped jeans, grounding me back into reality. I stumbled into the bathroom and grabbed the edges of the sink. Holy crap. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to straighten the black mess on my head. How did I get here? In what world does a Militia lieutenant save a princess and get to meet the King? And man, I look awful. I touched my tag hanging from my right ear. Blood red. It felt appropriate now. Ivan 181375. I spat into the sink. “Shit.”

  A few minutes later, a man called for me from the hallway. “We need to be on our way.”

  I didn’t respond and splashed the cool water on my face before looking at myself one last time, my upturned dark blue eyes sinking ever deeper into my pale narrow face. I look exhausted. Grasping my side, I slowly shuffled towards the door. Waiting for me in the hallway was a short, bald Blue man who didn’t seem to know what a gym was.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Ready to go?”

  No. I nodded.

  “Good, follow me.” I shuffled weakly along behind him as he waddled out of the hospital and directed me into the back of a black sedan that was waiting for us.

  Chapter 7

  I had not been in many cars. Red and Orange Tags couldn’t afford them - beyond the few beaters the Militia had hidden away - and there weren’t many Purples, Blues, Greens, or richer Yellows, let alone royalty, willing to have one of us in the backseat. Then again, even the cars most people drove were from the state-owned factories, and those were awful. This one, though, was the kind of car that reminded you constantly how many cows were needed for its seats and was entirely meant to tell other people, “You can’t afford this.”

  The drive was short and quiet. I got the feeling he didn’t want to talk to me any more than I wanted to talk to him. We approached the golden gates that sheltered the palace from the rest of the world. They glided opened as the guards on duty nodded to the chauffeur.

  I stared out the window at the beautiful and serene royal grounds, trying to compare it to the Enclave in my head, not that a comparison was really even possible. Trees stretched across the grassy yards: oak, maple, elm, you name it. It was the closest thing possible to a forest without quite being one, and yet its planned layout seemed to flow naturally. Beyond the trees stretched an open lawn as if nature had left room for the palace itself out of respect. The palace’s white marble shone in the sun, somehow extravagant and meshing into the surroundings at the same time. What have I gotten myself into?

  We pulled around in the circle drive and he put the car in park. “Before you go in, I need to give you some instructions.”

  Here we go.

  He continued facing forward. “Do not speak unless asked a question. You go where you are told to go and will not wander around the Royal Household. You will refer to all your superiors as ‘sir’ or ‘m’lady,’ and will refer to the King as ‘your highness’ or ‘my lord.’ When you enter the throne room you will kneel before him until he tells you to stand. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, uh, sir.”

  He signaled to a Blue butler, and they opened his door for him. I waited for a second, then opened my own door, clutching my side as I stood. This wound was going to take a while to heal - more time than I had to spare.

  The palace felt menacing now as it towered in front of me. It looked like something from a different age. Located on the western edge of Minneapolis in the Calhoun Isles, the Royal Household was the obvious contrast to the rougher parts of St. Paul and the Enclave. With its wide-reaching grounds extending to Cedar Lake, it was an impressive sight, and quite disgusting when I thought about how so many of us struggled to survive. While the royal family lived here, the surrounding areas were inhabited by the other, minor royals. The royals’ influence was much weaker than before the Third Civil War, but they still flaunted what they had.

  I slowly moved towards the grand marble staircase that led to the massive main doors before the chauffeur stopped me. “You are to go through the side entrance.”

  Bullshit. I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He showed me towards the servants’ entrance and unlocked the simple wooden door.

  Before entering, I stopped him. “I, uh. I forgot to ask your name… sir.”

  “Phillip, but you can call me ‘sir.’”

  “Of course… um, sir.”

  We entered into what appeared to be the hallway for the servants’ chambers. Small rooms were scattered along the narrow, grey stone hallway. Phillip showed me the way through, each step echoing through the halls. Eventually, we entered a much larger and fancier room, the Great Hall. A warm aroma, whose source I could not identify, filled the air, with soft pouring through the windows along the sides of the domed ceiling. A Blue Tag royal guardsman, dressed in the traditional blue military uniform, approached us. Each of his footsteps sounded like an army as they echoed throughout the marble room. “Ivan 181375?”

  “Yes.” Phillip shot a glare. “I mean… yes, sir.”

  The guard grabbed my tag and held a scanner to it. “Multiple items of contraband were found on your person following your encounter with the princess. They will be stored until the King says otherwise. As a precautionary measure I also need to search you, thoroughly.”

  I hesitated before managing a nod. Bastards. I felt naked without my knives and radio, but that wasn’t as bad as being strip searched down to my underwear in the middle of a giant room with multiple guardsmen and a few servants watching. I was determined not to show any embarrassment despite my awareness of the stares, so I stood still and just looked ahead at the mole on the guard’s left check, focusing on it until they were finished. The servants may have been only servants, but they were Blues and Greens still; a Red in the palace was abnormal. I was sure they enjoyed watching me be degraded.

  He finished his search. “Thank you, Phillip. I will show him the rest of the way.” He escorted me past the other Blue guards and through a few more marble hallways until we reached two large doors with an elaborate ice-blue lion stretched across their face. “I assume he told you the instructions for how to approach the King?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He narrowed his sharp eyes at me skeptically before responding, “Good.” He nodded to a stout Blue man standing by the doors.

  The man entered through the doors and stayed there for a minute before returning. Upon his return, he spoke in a high, nasally voice. “His highness King Timothy will see you now.”

  Chapter 8

  King Timothy Hughes III was the third king of the People’s Democratic Republic of Northern Mississippi. The Third Civil War had split the Kingdom of America into multiple parts following the socialist uprisings, and what had been known as Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa joined into Northern Mississippi following the war. The remnants of the American monarchy ended up with varying amounts of power throughout the multiple newly created countries, despite losing the war overall.

  In Northern Mississippi, the official story was that the “enlightened” socialist movement united with the monarchy to end the fighting and build a “better world together.” In reality, King Timothy III’s grandfather, Duke Timothy Hughes I, gave up almost all real power to the socialists. He agreed to allow the United People’s Front to create the Prism Test and Tagged System, named for the ugly dog tag earrings they forced upon us. In return, the UPF allowed Timothy I to symbolically crown himself King of Northern Mississippi and exempted the royal
families from the test.

  Under the Tagged System, all non-royals were given a black tag from birth, marking that they had yet to “pass through the Prism.” In theory, the Prism Test was meant to determine how “beneficial to the collective” you were through a series of physical, oral, and written examinations. After you took the test on your sixteenth birthday, you were filtered into one of six colored tiers based on your results: Purple, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, or Red, with Purple as the top tier and Red as the bottom. Your color determined rations, priority of work you received via the planning committee, and how many privileges you had. The range between top and bottom was extreme. Purples and Blues lived in relative luxury, while the Reds were stripped of our last names and enslaved: owned by the government, a Purple, or a Blue, as we were deemed damaging to the collective. Meanwhile, due to their agreement with the UPF, the royals avoided the test and lived in luxury only matched by the richest of Purples. The royal exemption created what we called the Fractured Prism, as the royals passed through the fracture in the Prism unfiltered, earning their nickname: the “Whites.”

  The UPF claimed that the Prism was a fair and equal evaluation of a person’s worth to the collective as everyone started as a Black Tag, yet they had manipulated the test over the past century to consolidate the number of Purple Tags into a small group of the most loyal and elite. Over three-quarters of the post-Prism population were Yellows, Oranges, or Reds, and unlike the UPF’s claims, your family and loyalty to the government had the largest impact on your color. It was easy to move down colors from your parents while extremely difficult to ever move up. I was born at the bottom with no last name and had not done myself many favors to gain ground, not that it would have mattered. Born Red, always Red.

  The monarchy was not the focus of the Militia’s missions, but we did not forget what the royals would do when given the choice between status and protecting freedom. They were the lesser of two evils, nothing more.