Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (3 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen, would you please bow your heads as Sasha Lee Dees surrenders, and we give honor to her name.”

Sasha?
Fran sucked in her breath.

The entire march halted. A deafening silence reverberated through the courts followed by horrific gurgling sounds. Then, Sasha dropped to the floor. Not more than a few feet from where Fran sat tucked into the venting, her chestnut head rolled from side to side and her eyes shone like polished black orbs.

Back when Fran still lived in the Old East Wing, Sasha had visited their pod once or twice to work with Ted on his macros. Fran remembered spying on them from her doorway, hoping to catch her brother making a move or something. She could almost hear Sasha’s easy laughter and witty remarks.

Now, however, her eyes locked onto Fran’s as if screaming for help. Her face contorted, and her body trembled. Fran felt a vibration move through her own body as her nerves quivered in sympathetic pain. Sasha’s arms and legs splayed and spasmed as her back arched and head thrashed about. A sickening, acrid odor, like a mix of poison and death, wafted from the velvety robe, and bile rose in Fran’s throat. Finally, Sasha’s eyes rolled back into her head, and her movement terminated.

A cheer erupted from the crowd who loitered on overhead balconies and platforms, and Fran clasped her hands over her mouth stifle the scream that roared through her body. All Accountable residents of legal viewing age watched the event. It was a big deal. Although some probably scrutinized from a small screen in the comfort of their living pods, too many just couldn’t resist the sick urge to watch it live.

The cheers finally died down, and when reverence returned, the swishing slippers resumed. The seven forfeitures in line behind Sasha tiptoed over the fallen body and continued the march, leaving Sasha where she dropped.

Fran could see this pilgrimage would continue until all twelve fell. She also knew she couldn’t stomach another fall.

After throwing a quick elbow into Pete’s side, she inched backwards until the opening became wide enough to turn around completely. She moved through the darkness with a million questions haunting her mind.

Why choose to end your life before even turning twenty, Sasha?

Fran already knew the answer… and hated it.

Anyone not born to be a Superior had two choices. One: lose your mind and evaporate into oblivion, or two: trade your life for a half-year of fame and fortune as well as a smidgeon of the highly-coveted antidote.

Anger burned Fran’s cheeks. The Epoch—the notion that one day they all might be freed from this city and its accompanying illness—remained the single hope that kept her alive, no matter how far-fetched it sounded. And for all it was worth, Sasha could have missed it by one day.

Chapter Three

Fran sprawled in her metal alcove and chewed the ragged skin around her nails. Since the procession yesterday, she’d spent ample time ruminating on the condition of her old mentor while spitting dead skin onto the low ceiling overhead. She hadn’t checked on him in a few days, so she ought to pay him a visit.

Fran shivered, but not from the prospect of seeing Chan. Rather, at the thought of revisiting the Beast―the invisible face of death which pervaded every hallway of the Ranch. Its malevolence pricked at her skin and left a stench in her nose.

She spit one more hangnail onto the ceiling before rolling onto her side and, on a groan, moved away from her comfy niche.

Visiting Chan felt serious. Solemn. Reverential with no leeway for malarkey. Therefore, she opted not to invite Pete to this one. Not to mention the fact she knew she was stronger and more agile than Pete and didn’t want him to slow her down.

She wriggled through the tight confines of the obscure passageway, maneuvered over a support housing, and then shimmied through a sluice bridging the Old East side of Impervious to the upper class West Wing.

Because of her social standing, OE had been her official stomping grounds. She preferred hanging out with Eastsiders to the high-ranking gamers, political superiors, and First-Gen money holders that lived in the west wing anyway. As a matter of fact, even when moving through the guts of the city, Fran typically made it a point not to wander outside of her old east neighborhood.

From the east side, however, the only venting to the surface floor involved a perilous journey straight up a long shaft. Chan had been the only one she’d known to make that climb. The west wing ventilation system, however, had recently undergone renovations and now boasted a step-like configuration —apparently to allow for a fresher air-flow or something.

She took a deep breath and noted the luxurious aroma, like fresh flowers and cinnamon, maybe. Shaking her head, she continued moving upward. As long as it made her climb easier, she could care less what kind of air the snobs choked down. Of course, had she been Accountable, she could have taken an easy ride in the elevator from the sixth floor to surface level.

Whatever.

Notches lined the metallic walls every few feet, allowing for a handy foothold. Fran pressed her hands hard against the bulwark as she climbed three vertical steps before the shoot zigged to a horizontal tunnel. She scurried through, happy for the short reprieve, before the shaft zagged, again, straight up again for another five or six feet.

As light penetrated through occasional mesh covers, Fran caught glimpses of the trendy pods. She paused at each opening to take in the sleek designs. Most sat empty, as occupants carried on their distracted life of opulence. How ironic. The nicer the digs, the less they hung out at home. Fran snorted and began a clumsy scramble forward. The metal walls vibrated with her blunder, and a flash of red shot through the living area of the pod.

An automated voice rang out. “Motion detected. Intruder suspected.”

A moment later, a wide-eyed femme entered the living space.

“Hello?” Her voice shook. “Is anyone in here?” With arms extended, the woman turned in a slow circle and tiptoed to the corner of the room to peek behind a low-backed settee. She opened a closet door and lifted mammoth pillows from a sitting-nest. Fran held her breath, afraid the West-Winger might get a little too close to the vent opening. Once satisfied no intruders lurked in the corners, however, the femme stomped over to the sensor panel, swiped in a series of numbers, and exited the room.

Hot breath seeped from the corners of Fran’s mouth. Now, mindful of the super-sensitive motion detectors, she slithered past the opening, making a note to use caution at all vent junctions.

The already difficult climb slowed to a snail’s pace as she now scaled the venting with softer, unobtrusive maneuvers. By the time she pulled herself onto the landing that marked the surface floor, Fran welcomed the opportunity to give her shaky legs a rest.

Legend said the Ranch lay so close to the surface, Geiger Zombies wandered the hallways at night. The idea seemed laughable, yet pixilated depictions of castoff radioactive humans made more than one kid lose a night’s sleep. Bald heads with patchy hair remnants, gaping gum holes, and half-melted faces haunted most nightmares. During her own juvie years, Fran and her friends shared stories of raspy moans, charred lips, and gooey hands, be-speckled with oozing sores. In those days, zombies determined to grab a healthy child in an effort to transfer their radioactivity had been quite believable.

“Melodrama,” Fran huffed.

However, a more believable rumor―that poison from the open air permeated the area—could be legit. If so, no one seemed to care since Post Primers were already sounding their death knell.

Visitors and workers were few and far between in these parts, leaving most of the care to automated devices. Graphies greeted the few guests that showed, and outside of the residents, the only real people Fran had seen at the Ranch consisted of hard-luck workers assigned to the hands-on jobs. Like changing undergarments.

The one upside to this cold environment? Fran was able move around unhampered and unnoticed. Even the palm-sized, airborne, RIT’s (roaming image transmitters) which buzzed hallways below, didn’t fly through these parts. Fran figured the Council didn’t have a strong enough stomach to peek in on these declining residents. Her constitution, on the other hand, had adjusted to the sights and sounds.

She peered through the mesh covering marking her exit. In the hallway, a mechanized arm spoon-fed a line of lifeless residents wedged into high-backed chairs. Fran found the thick air, riddled with the scent of the Beast, as hard to swallow as the gloppy porridge that dribbled from the Post-Primers’ mouths. Although affronted by the stench, Fran let out a sigh of relief that she had at least completed the climb undetected. She watched the feeding trolley for a few minutes before waving a hand past the beam of light and swiping in the code.

*S*3*4*

Surface floor.

Third hallway.

Fourth opening.

Thanks, Chan.

After exiting, she crept past several pods before reaching Chan’s, and then hovered by the opening, almost afraid to peek around the corner—like always. With feet planted and neck extended just enough to allow a glimpse past the metal door frame, she saw the top of the bed, but no Chan.

She took a tiny step forward and craned her neck a little more until she could see the whole bed.

Still no Chan.

After choking back another mouthful of fear, Fran lifted her chin, placed hands on her hips, and stormed into the room. A bluish glow from an old fashioned video display illuminated an empty bed on the far side of the chamber. Outside of the occasional whirring of a nearby food trolley or med dispenser, a hushed silence filled the room.

Fran’s heartbeat picked up, and she turned in a slow circle. She must have missed something.
Bed. Video display. Closet.
No Chan.

As she pivoted in the panicked circle, her eyes blurred.
Gray. Blue. Gray.

No Chan.

“Chan?” She croaked out his name which sounded too loud reverberating through the silence. Fran rushed to the single bed and touched the gray coverlet.

Cold.

              Pointed corners created sharp right-angles―a task perfected by a robotic arm—leaving the bed snug and unwrinkled. She dropped to her knees and checked underneath before running to the free-standing locker which housed Chan’s belongings, but all traces of her mentor had been erased. The presence of death lurked in every corner. The Beast had moved in.

While holding onto her breath, she backed away. Her leg bumped into the tight mattress of his bed, and Fran fell onto the mattress with a quiet oomph. She scraped the tears threatening to spill. She wasn’t going to be like the drama queens who bawled at the feet of loved ones. That’s not how a wolf behaved.

She stood and lingered by the bed, her gaze drawn to the depression she'd made on the scratchy covering. She liked the implication. Someone had been here. Someone had cared.

The ugly, tight-cornered, scratchy abomination once housed her mentor. It held him to its fetid bosom and watched him disappear. She trembled with emotion, lifted her leg and shot a worn boot into the carcass of a bed.

The metal screeched and the bed shimmied. Fran hopped back, and with lifted fists, switched her stance to unleash a ferocious side kick. Dead on. The bed careened into the far wall.

Her body hummed with rage as she chased the retreating abomination. Front kick, side kick, left and right. Crisp sheets softened and carefully-tucked corners unfurled. The thrill of a small victory belong to Fran as the mattress shook and shifted from her lethal assault. Tiny beads dotted her forehead as if she had transformed weak tears to angry sweat. Fran celebrated the small triumph as she looked upon the unkempt bed. Of course, the mechanized arm would soon return and erase her efforts. But for this round anyway, she emerged the victor.

On a huff, she turned to exit. As she did, Fran could have sworn the ravaged coverlet winked a goodbye. She turned back and moved closer to the bed. A glint of light reflected off a nub sticking out between the mattress and metal frame. She touched it.

Her heart raced.

Seriously? It couldn’t be.

Fran pulled the small, shiny rectangle from its hidden confines and brushed the surface. Most residents owned one. It carried the daily news and special events and was used for games, and mail, and all sorts of things. She’d even rented one back in her school days. But this one was different. This was
Chan’s
cherished reader. The one he had kept from her view. The one of which he had claimed, “
There’s things in here you’re not ready to see, Wolf. Not yet.
”

But now, he had left it for her.

Right
?

Somehow, even in his declined state, he had remembered to pass on the legacy. Fran’s mouth lifted into a shaky smile. Chan’s final act as the perfect mentor. Dwarfed by the enormity of his action, she hugged the reader to her chest, and felt her heart dance upon the hard surface.

She remained until the silence of the room grew in size and soon the drumming in her chest sounded too loud. A tingle moved through her body, just like when a Graphie was close at hand. However, this presence wasn’t of the holographic nature. It heralded a unique malevolence, and it wanted to consume her.

The Beast.

Fran tore out of the room and raced through the hallway. The thought of being spotted by a low-ranking worker never entered her thoughts. The cruelty of the Beast chased her down the hallway as Fran sprinted toward her escape. She had to get away, far away from this place. If the Beast could consume her sharp-edged mentor, Fran knew it wouldn’t hesitate to pull her into its decaying embrace. She panted. No, she couldn’t even breathe. Her lungs refused to move. Was she dying?

*S*3*4*

The venting hummed and a roar from the Beast’s leathery lips engulfed her head. Heat from its breath seeped in through her pores. The grating slid open. She shoved the reader down her shirt and dove for cover.

She zigged. She zagged. Sightseeing forgotten, Fran scurried across the sluice and back into the OE. With movements as mechanical as the cold arm feeding the residents, she pressed on, not stopping until she reached the compartment she called home.

Once enshrouded in her canvas blanket, she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her own labored breath. The rise and fall of her chest slowed, and the essence of the Beast began to dissipate. When she finally felt safe, Fran tugged the canvas from her head and sat in the darkness rubbing its frayed edges.

The reader poked into her skin and she pulled it from its sweaty confines. As she waved a hand over the power sensor, a glow from the screen lit up her niche as bright as a Light-Genie. She brushed a thumb over various icons which held Chan’s most prized information. Venting schematics, stats on each Rebel, black-market movies, communication software, and at least twenty other random folders stood at the ready. Her eyes darted around, her thumb eager to brush over each and every icon.

She swiped a folder labeled
Diary of a First-Gen
and after a quick blip, words appeared on the screen.

We hadn’t heard the missile strikes but instead felt them—vibrations so profound as if the core of the earth writhed in pain. And below the surface, although sealed up tight, undue panic spread among the residents.

Excitement lifted the tiny hairs on Fran’s neck. A real first-generation account? Sure, she knew the story of Impervious’ beginnings from the mandatory studies in her school days. However, those texts were nothing more than a list of facts weaved together with a few conjunctions to form boring sentences. This account read differently. Like a story.

She held the reader close to her face—too close, probably—with her nose but a few inches from the screen. She’d always loved to read and had gobbled up story after story throughout her era of learning. However, it was all Sanctioned stuff
like The Laws of HAZMAT, The History of the Council, and The Sons of the Generations
. The idea that she’d unearthed a pirated, unsanctioned story gave her goose bumps. And not the kind that Graphies caused, but ones elicited by delicious excitement.