Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (2 page)

In spite of her heavy boots, she reached her exit in less than eight seconds. She brushed the beam, entered the code, and drummed her fingers on the stiff screen. Her heart thumped twice for each second that passed as she ticked off the time in her head.

Nine. Ten…

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. A hum preceded the body buzz.

Come on.

Eleven.

A popping and crackling sound danced at the edges of her brain, and a semi-pixilated human figure ordered Fran to halt.

Twelve!

Chapter Two

Fran dove through the opening and scurried off on hands and knees like a rat through a maze. The Graphie’s field must have nipped her toes and her feet tingled as she crawled.

Too close
.

On an exhale, she shook her ratty dreads.

Sixty paces to the ‘T’ and take a left.

Fran moved to the beat of the loud pulsations in her head as the muffled chaos from the Agora faded, and her heart settled. With her mind still in the Agora, she rounded the ‘T’ and ran headlong into another Rebel. The air woofed from her lungs as their bodies collided.

“Who’s there?”

“Derrick. You?”

“Wolf.”

Most Rebels knew the Wolf. She’d been Chan’s right hand man for the past six months earning her due respect.

“Sorry, Wolf. I’ll try to be more careful.”

“No worries, Derrick. But, hey, the Agora’s hot right now. Remember—Get out and blend in.”

“Thanks, for the heads up, Wolf.”

After a clumsy shift of positions, Fran continued moving away from the Agora and Derrick thumped his way to the hub. While she crawled through the vent, she whispered the sequence of strides, and the map embedded in her head came to life. The complex configuration wasn’t a place for the fainthearted, and if not careful, a Rebel could get turned around and slink through this maze to her death.

She continued creeping through the network of pipes with a cool seventy-two-degree draft at her back until she came to her usual resting place where she kept her canvas blanket and a Light-Genie.

With a wave of her hand, the Genie came to life and while illuminated in its pale light, Fran pulled out the food pack and peeled back the aluminum. She inhaled the heady aroma, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. No burger, but it looked like a double order of fries lay in her near future.

Fran snatched a fistful of the greasy gems and proceeded to chomp and slurp her way to the bottom of the tin. After licking the last granule of salt from her fingers, she leaned back into the metal wall and let out a hearty belch. With her belly now satiated, she allowed her head to rest. Ketchup encrusted the corners of her mouth, and Fran’s eyes drooped with sleep. Soon, the Genie faded to dark.

.~.

What seemed like only a few minutes later, Fran bolted awake and, on instinct, smacked at the hand touching her arm.

“Whoa, Wolf.” Pete recoiled.

He smelled like dirty hair and yesterday’s cologne sample, which somehow soothed Fran’s racing heart. She smiled a secret smile, almost sorry she’d slapped his hand away.

“What’s the matter with you, Pete? You’ve been a Rebel long enough to know, ‘Sleep light, wired tight.’ For crying out loud, we’re survivalists!”

“Yeah, sorry, Fran… Lost my head.”

Although glad Pete had aligned himself with the Rebels, Fran wondered if he understood the arrangement. After all, with him now Unaccountable, Pete’s greedy big sis had full claim to the family coin. She shrugged and powered up the Light Genie. Pete’s stupid grin greeted her from the shadows.

“What do you want?” Her nerves bristled—partly because of the interrupted sleep and partly because of Pete’s moronic expression. He clasped his hands and their silhouette resembled a gaping mouth on the overhead pipe. He moved the shadow to the edge of shadowy frizz that rose from Fran’s head while making chomping and growling sounds.

“Pete!” She glared hoping to look intimidating. Maybe even ruthless.

Pete’s eyes remained lit with amusement. “You don’t know what day it is, do you?” He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back into the pipe before giving Fran a sideways glance and adding, “It’s Procession Day.”

Fran bit her lip. “Seriously? Today's the fifth?”

“Yep.”

She sighed and dropped the canvas coverlet from her shoulders unsure of the moment she’d begun to lose track of time. Then again, she didn’t care much either.

“Let’s go.”

She crawled over the empty aluminum carton and began the trek toward the Agora. The Light Genie faded as Pete skittered behind her. Together they followed the twists and turns of the dark labyrinth like blind rodents with heightened tactile senses. Every now and then Pete would “whoop,” alerting Fran that they’d passed another Rebel’s hideout. Fran preferred to save her whoops for the few that mattered most in her world and focused, instead, on the venting schematics in her head.

Because she’d never watched a Forfeiture Procession in person, nervous anticipation mounted in Fran’s gut. As a child, Mom had restricted Fran from such things, and by the time she’d achieved legal viewing age, she had already assumed Rebel status. Yet, for whatever reason, when together, she and Pete couldn’t help but snoop
. 
Anyway, as much as she hated it, she needed to see for herself what the Council had fashioned …which spurred another idea.

“Hey, Pete, let’s get a look at the Viewing Loft first.” Fran had no intention of watching the procession from up there, but figured Pete would get a kick out of seeing the big dogs in their natural habitat. Pete agreed, and they scurried off through the long shaft that ran across the sky-high ceiling of the Agora—their personal bridge from the East to the West Courts. The suspended tunnel swayed as they scampered, and Fran smiled into the darkness as Pete’s breathing picked up. When they exited the bridge, Fran took a hard left and moved to the shaft that sat over the Viewing Loft where the Superiors would be seated.

Pete bellied up next to her, and their bodies mushed together in the close quarters. She started to nudge Pete in the ribs but decided she didn’t mind the warmth emanating from his skin. After all, the air felt a little frosty on this side of the Agora.

“Look. The Seven are being seated.”

Pete sounded like a kid who had just spotted his favorite gamer, and Fran craned her neck to get a better view through the mesh screen. The Elite Seven—the highest of all the Superiors—were ushered in first. Garbed in black from shoulders to shoes, the Seven were escorted to a row of ornate, wooden and velvet thrones. The remaining Superiors filed in behind wearing fancy red suit jackets and charcoal pleated slacks, and took their seats toward the rear of the loft.

The throne of Marcus sat elevated just a hint above the others. From her perch, Fran had a perfect view of the sagging flaps of skin surrounding his neck and jowls. His nose stood out like a mottled trumpet from the center of a skeletal expression. This monstrosity of a face often resided upon the aged. Thankfully, she’d probably never experience that season of life. It looked hideous
.
Like death.

Her gaze flicked over the rest of the dais. To Marcus’ left sat his four revered cronies and to his right, the Sons of the Generations—Marcus, his son, and grandson.

Ethan, the prized grandbaby, sat to his own father’s right hand and wore a smug look of superiority on his pale-white face.

“Is he an albino?” Pete whispered.

Fran shook her head ‘no’ as she focused on Ethan’s demon-black eyes. A tingle of fear danced in her belly. She noticed Marcus lean over his indifferent-appearing offspring to chat with Ethan. They shared in a hearty guffaw and Ethan elbowed his father, whose skin sagged from too many years of wear. His chin wedged onto a concave chest, and thick lids drooped over unseeing eyes. After getting no response, Ethan rolled his eyes and nudged Marcus who responded with a shake of his balding head.

She’d seen enough. Fran turned to Pete, and pointed behind them. Pete understood, and the two caterpillared backwards. She encouraged Pete to take the lead as they crawled along the switchbacks bringing them back down to floor level, but when they came upon a large vent opening, she yanked on his foot.

“This spot looks good.”

Besides the mesh of the screen and a few empty café tables, no obstructions stood between them and the stage. Pete mashed his face onto the solid weave, which—because she knew he would end up with the imprint on his face—gave Fran wicked pleasure. She wasn’t sure if he tried to look stupid or if it was innate. Either way, “mesh face” brought a small slice of delight into her life.

They sat in silence as the moments ticked by, bringing the Procession closer. Fran’s stomach knotted.
One of these days, I’m going to know someone in that lineup. Then what?

Impervious residents had tagged the event,
The Procession of the Esteemed Ones
. Yet as far as Fran was concerned, this pageant celebrated nothing.
Esteemed Forfeiture? Hardly. More like murder. Plain and simple.

The entire West Court had been cleared, forcing a few thousand folks to either head back to their resident pods or remain corralled in the smaller East Court to await the pageant. The billboards displayed simple white screens, and not one Graphie lurked in the crowd. After all, Impervious etiquette deemed advertising and gaming uncouth—irreverent even—during such a hallowed event. Fran snorted at the irony.

As the spectacle began, loud music filled the Agora and bounced off the surrounding structures. Although Fran assumed the song to be celebratory, from where she sat, the cacophony of music felt like an insult to her senses.

“There they are!” Pete’s whisper came out on a hiss, and he pointed to the edge of the court.

A line of a dozen forfeitures, each garbed in a velvety robe, moved forward onto the main stage. Fran felt a small choke in her throat. They looked so regal, so noble, with heads lifted high and each set of eyes staring straight ahead. These twelve, each a celebrity in their own right, had been the talk of the city for the past six months.

Crafted by the Council to personal perfection, they’d lived as superstars, achieving the type of fame everyone secretly desired, loved, and envied with equal fervor. Six months of celeb-status only told of half of the story, though. Forfeitures also garnered the Superior’s antidote during that time to assure they stayed at their peak. An untimely decline could render the whole charade a failure.

Today, they took their final walk as heroes. Ones who, with the help of the Council, had beat the Beast at his own game.

“Hey, look… third in line, Wolf. It’s Gillius!” Pete shouldered Fran with the excitement of a child and burst into a fit of laughter. Fran responded with a sharp elbow into his ribs, and he swore under his breath before softening his voice.

“Remember when the Council unveiled him as
Corpus Perfectos
?”  Pete snickered. “Hardly perfect, I’d say. He couldn’t even straighten his ripped guns with all that meat in the way. And did you know that his massive legs developed callouses from the rubbing? I personally renamed him Gillius Thunder thighs.”

Pete continued with muffled laughter, and although Gillius did look bizarre, Fran didn’t share his amusement. Instead, she felt a pang in her stomach as she remembered his unveiling half a year ago when she and Chan had watched the spectacle on his pirated reader. In her mind’s eye, she saw Chan’s dark ponytail whipping from side-to-side as he tossed his head back with laughter. His eyes had all but disappeared into his face, only to be marked by tears as they streamed over the hollows of his cheek and dammed up at his strappy beard.

Unlike Chan and her, however, Impervious residents reveled in the Council’s theatrics. So much so, most Gen-Threes, and even a handful of Gen-Fours, clamored for a shot at the gold. The girls at school had gushed about how cool it would be to become a forfeiture one day and bemoaned the new waiting list.

Each forfeiture received a stage name: Gillius the Great (aka Thunder thighs), Roberto the Rock, Cheyenne the Shy One, and so on. Today, however, they would each be revered by their birth name.

Fran spied Gillius, third in line, in front of a girl with a sleek chestnut mane. Like the others, Gillius’ left fist rested on his chest, pinky pointed upward as he gave honor to the great city of Impervious. His glassy stare screamed of the venom already snaking through his veins, soon to bring an end to his life.

A shudder shook Fran as she wondered about corporeal termination. Rumors spoke of an excruciating end where the forfeitures dropped into agonizing spasms of death during the final pageant. Fran shivered again and reminded herself that sensationalism stemmed from useless gossip which, in turn, always led to melodrama. Then again, the entire event was absurd, so why not?

She questioned whether she and Pete should even be there, gawking like a typical resident as the parade worked their way down the stairs from center stage to the outside rim of the circle. They began an official promenade moving as one unit, soundlessly, like a snake slithers through tall grasses. Right behind Gillius, the girl—
what’s her name?
—moved with the grace of a dancer, while glowing hair cascaded about her shoulders like the velvety train of her robe.

Chestnut Peak―that was it.

As the procession moved closer, Fran could make out their facial features with better clarity. Chestnut’s obvious youth surprised her. As far as she knew, no one under twenty-five had ever forfeited, yet this girl still had the look of a mid-lifer, like Fran.

The line swayed with rhythmic motion, and soon snaked only fifteen feet or so away from the venting where Fran and Pete hid. The eerie silence enshrouding the promenade morphed into the sound of rushing air. A dozen pairs of slippers moved in a whisper just a few inches from Fran’s eyes. When the fourth set of feet swished into her line of vision, Fran noticed a hesitation.