Darklandia
Authors: T.S. Welti
Tags: #teen, #young adult, #dystopian, #Science Fiction, #Horror, #false utopian, #fantasy, #post-apocalyptic, #adult, #t.s. welti, #Futuristic, #utopian
Synopsis
Manhattan, 2147
Seventeen-year-old Sera Fisk gleefully celebrates the death of her 114-year-old great-grandmother, the last Atraxian alive who still remembers what New York was like before Felicity.
There is only one principle of Felicity:
Suffering is optional
. Those who disagree or forget this principle, as Sera’s father did, are detained and “purified”. Through the use of the Darklandia virtual reality program and mandatory water rations, the Department of Felicity has transformed metropolises all over the country into happy, obedient communities.
Inspired by her great-grandmother’s last words, Sera stops drinking the water rations and is soon recruited by Nyx into a rebel organization in the midst of planning a full-scale attack on Darklandia. When Nyx attempts to override the Darklandia system, he stumbles upon shocking information about Sera and her family. After years of living in a haze of virtual reality and drugs, Sera finds herself running from a powerful surge of raw emotions and a government agency intent on keeping reality a secret.
Table of Contents
For Aunt Bernice, Uncle Adam,
Martha and Dennis.
Without your generosity
this book may have never been written.
“Felicity”
What joy, what Felicity, this morn shall bring.
This speckled light gives cause to sing
A song of sorrow and demons past,
No pit, no pain, no darkness cast.
Remember the day Felicity won.
Devote this day to the rising sun.
Recall this day as most phenomenal.
Never forget: Suffering is optional.
—page 1 in
Celebrating Felicity
by Jane Locke
1
A smile stretched across my face, my body hunched over my great-grandmother’s wheelchair, as I heaved her toward the stage where she would take her last breath. The mayor had bestowed upon me the honor of rolling my grandmother up the ramp onto the glossy white stage in the middle of Times Square. Today, on that stage, my grandmother would be presented for her rapture.
The wheels of the chair squealed as I leaned into it, heaving it up the incline. The only other sound in the square was the sound of the two gray Atraxian flags emblazoned with three blue stars, smacking the air as they fluttered at both corners of the stage. The wheelchair caught slightly on the transition from the ramp to the platform. A puff of talcum powder encased my grandmother’s wispy hair, the only cloud in sight on this glorious summer day.
I gazed across the stage at the crowded square and found myself struck by a sudden notion: Of the eight raptures I had attended in my lifetime, I had never witnessed a rapture from this point of view, onstage looking out across a tranquil sea of smiling faces. It was lovely. It almost made me envy the darklings.
My grandmother’s rapture would be the last in New York City. At 114 years of age, my great-grandmother, whom I had always referred to as Grandmother, was the last of the darklings. Once Grandmother was gone, the city would be clean. Mayor Hillstead said Grandmother’s rapture would usher in a true era of Felicity. I couldn’t wait.
I wheeled my grandmother across the gleaming stage toward the glass podium where the mayor would address tens of thousands of New Yorkers. The enormous television screen on the face of One Times Square showed a close-up of the empty podium. The blue star pinned to the front of my tunic twinkled in the sunlight. I turned my face toward the sun and the corners of my lips curled when I saw the twenty-foot tall poster on the side of the information studio across the street: The gray face, neither male nor female, the peaceful smile, the words in bold block letters across the top, “Smile for the Angels.”
The wheelchair jerked to a stop as Grandmother’s pink shawl, a muted shade of red she was allowed to wear only on this special occasion, became ensnared beneath the tire. Her head toppled forward and her chin banged against her chest as if trying to jump-start her fading heart.
My mother chuckled softly as she knelt to untangle the fabric from the wheel. “Mishaps are good luck—”
“Especially on Rapture Day,” I said, cheerily finishing her sentence.
“Sweet felicity.” Mother smiled as she tucked away the frayed end of Grandmother’s shawl. She stepped away from the wheelchair and Grandmother’s head lolled to the side again as I pushed her toward the center of the stage.
Four steel chairs were lined up across the back of the stage, the two seats on the far left occupied by city officials. Thelma Howard, New York City’s representative for the Department of Community, waved at me. The sleeve of Thelma’s gray dress dangled in the wind, but her smile never wavered. Next to Thelma sat Commissioner Baron. I could never remember his first name; it was so unique. It was surprising he’d won a chief position in the Department of Security with a name like that. Distinctive names made people uneasy; especially the older folks who remembered the names their grandparents were given during the dark phase.
Commissioner Baron wasn’t smiling the way he normally smiled. Today, his grin stretched the corners of his thin lips so wide his teeth were visible—like Grandmother’s smile. Darklings had a different smile than everyone else. It screwed up their whole face, making their teeth look enormous and their eyes all scrunched up. It could be frightening if one wasn’t used to it. But I had grown accustomed to my grandmother’s gummy smile. And though I was glad Grandmother was not allowed to speak of the dark phase, seventeen years of living with a darkling had given me a special appreciation of her facial quirks; an appreciation most of my classmates didn’t share.
Executive Minister Jane Locke, head of the Department of Felicity, the highest-ranking branch of the Atraxian government, was not sitting in any of the chairs on the stage. She never attended rapture celebrations. She was only allowed to attend “dark-free” ceremonies.
I wheeled my grandmother into an open space between two chairs at the center of the stage just behind the podium. Mother had tied Grandmother’s hair into a neat twist on the back of her head with two curly white locks dangling against her wrinkled cheeks. With her head slumped low over her chest, it almost appeared as if the hairdo were pressing down on her. I reached toward her and tucked a strand of hair behind her fuzzy ear.
Her eyes were closed but her left eyebrow twitched, as if she were having pleasant dreams. Her breathing slowed even more than it had this morning. My mother had called the health specialist as soon as we noticed, and the specialist arrived at our apartment within minutes. After assessing Grandmother’s heart, lungs, and brain function, the specialist declared today would be my grandmother’s Rapture Day. An alert was sounded throughout the city, the titanium security bands on our wrists flashed with brilliant blue light, and within ninety minutes thousands had gathered around the stage in preparation of this glorious event.
But for a low hum of anticipation, the crowd was silent as they gawked at my grandmother. Her wrinkled face screwed up, not in a smile, but in an expression she often used to convey pain. We learned about pain in Felicity school. People once felt it all the time, and not just physical pain. Sometimes people felt so much aching in their hearts they tried to hurt one another—as if they were attempting to shift the heavy burden onto another’s shoulders. The darklings were an odd species.
I glanced at my mother as she stared straight ahead. I didn’t know if she was admiring the crowd or pondering something and I couldn’t help but admire her beauty. Her ponytail tucked low against her neck reflected the bright beams of sunshine that ricocheted around us. The white frock she wore was the same white frock she’d worn at her Perfect Union ceremony with my father nineteen years ago.
Something tickled my throat as I thought of my father. I swallowed some saliva and the tickle subsided, but only slightly. It happened a lot lately, every time I thought of him. My mother consulted our family health specialist about this strange sensation, but the health specialist insisted it was a hydration imbalance. She said she would put in a request with the Department of Felicity to adjust the dosage of sodium and potassium in my water ration, but after three weeks of consuming the new dosage the tickle hadn’t gone away.
The mayor climbed the steps of the stage and approached us with two angels flanking him. The Guardian Angels wore the most stylish blue uniforms and glittering silver badges. I often found myself hoping I would be matched with an angel just so I could see my partner in that blue uniform every day. When I told my mother about this fantasy she said I should never have thoughts like that outside Darklandia and if I ever spoke this wish aloud again she would report me to the Felicity department for evaluation.
She was right. Only the Commission for Hereditary Intelligence could decide whom I would be matched with, but it was hard not to wish. Unauthorized breeding was one of the worst offenses one could commit, according to Section 2-13.47 of the
Code of Felicity
. But even with all the mandatory hours spent in Darklandia indulging my darkest fantasies, I still found it hard to bury the longing.
Mayor Hillstead reached out his thick hand and curled his fingers around my grandmother’s wrist to check her pulse. He nodded his head as he counted off the beats of her tired heart. He released her arm and her knobby hand plopped into her lap.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fisk,” Mayor Hillstead said, his globulous belly protruding toward my mother’s smile as she sat up spine straight in her chair. “This is a glorious occasion. So long we’ve waited. I hope you don’t mind if I deliver a brief prayer before the ceremony.”
“Of course, we don’t mind,” my mother replied. “After 114 years, a few more moments won’t add to the anticipation. Please carry on with the ceremony.”
“Sweet felicity,” the mayor said with a quick nod of his head before he set off toward the podium. He shooed the angels off to the side of the stage before he tapped the microphone. “Gentle beings, I am very pleased to announce that the final Rapture Day is upon us,” he said, his voice booming with enthusiasm through the speakers mounted on the buildings around Times Square.
The crowd applauded more vigorously than usual, but no verbal displays of approval or disapproval could be heard. I was glad for that. There was no need to tarnish such a magnificent event with a detainment.
The tickle in my throat returned at the thought of the word
detainment
. My father’s detainment and purification happened quickly, but I sometimes wished I could have spoken to him one last time before they carried him off to Brookside for the procedure. Though the leisure homes didn’t allow visitors, it filled me with joy to know he was no longer suffering.
“Let us all close our eyes and say the Felicity prayer for Mrs. Georgia Fisk,” the mayor continued and the crowd joined in at once. “What joy, what Felicity, this morn shall bring. This speckled light gives cause to sing, a song of sorrow and demons past. No pit, no pain, no darkness cast.”