Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Ten

“How do you feel?”

Fran lay still, eyes closed, with a throbbing skull. A headache couldn’t encompass the sensation—too small of a word for too big of a pain. She didn’t know who spoke but also didn’t care.

“Shoot me in the head.”

It took great effort to get the words to push up her raspy throat and past sticky lips.

“Rebel, your season of unaccountability has ended. You have been entered back into the system.”

Graphie or real man? The voice sounded real enough without the audible reverberations of a Graphie, so she placed her bet on the latter. She wanted to peek—just to see—so she peeled heavy lids from her sticky eyeballs and tried to focus on the face. She felt cross-eyed. The room spun. She moaned and closed her eyes.

“It won’t take long. Give it another hour or so, and you should feel like your old self.”

Old self? Which self? She didn’t even want to go there. Especially since her head would soon explode. All over the room. And this strange half-life would be over. She kept her eyes clamped and drifted away.

Before long, a small recognition of sound filtered into her unconscious mind, followed by the glimmer of awareness of her body, which eased into full cognizance of her location. And situation. She opened her eyes. Her headache had ceased. As a matter of fact, unlike waking in the niche, where her eyes would shoot open and a small panic would fill her chest, Fran experienced the feeling of gradual awareness.

To a white ceiling.

And white walls.

Mummified in white sheets, all sanitary and smelling like soap. Fran wriggled an arm out from her freshly laundered confines. A spotless hand boasted neatly trimmed nails.
What?
How long had she been out? She lifted the manicured fingers to her head, unsure what to expect. Soft hair tickled her fingers, and a fine curl brushed over her wrist.

How did they?
She touched a ringlet and enjoyed the light tugging sensation as she combed through the stray lock. But her fingers slipped through to the ends way too soon.

After the third grade, when Mom had taken her to the butcher who had chopped her hair into a babyish bob, Fran had vowed never to cut her hair again. And other than dusting some frayed ends now and then, she hadn’t wavered from her pledge. Her hair, although ratty and untamed on last inspection, had touched the center of her spine. But now? Now, as she tried to pull her strands into a low pony, the short curls sprang loose. Her heart thumped as she yanked her left arm free from the sheets. A metal bangle encircled her wrist. Fran swallowed hard to rid the lump forming in her throat.

In spite of the wave of nausea reeling through her body, Fran rose from the bed and moved to a reflective panel on the sliding door. Loose ringlets framed her face like a white puffy cloud. They dangled over her ears and brushed along her jawline. Maybe one or two touched the collar of her gown, but not one reached her shoulder.

The bangle glinted with a sarcastic wink, and Fran realized the device to be a locator. Which meant security would be aware of her every move.

She huffed and her jaw tightened. Her blue eyes held the cold stare of an animal. This fight had just begun.

.~.

A few hours later, after signing on to official Accountable status and re-pledging the Impervious Oath, Fran was released from Holding to her own care, although the bracelet ensured she was never quite alone. So concerned with her well-being after all of the scrubbing and snipping, the Council imparted her with a few credits for clothing and restored her food allowance. Fran licked her lips, eager to do something she hadn’t done in a very, very long time.

Although super self-conscious in the skirt they had given her to wear, she felt a strange liberation. Maybe this new status would allow her to sleuth with greater ease. She could even visit the Ranch via elevator. Maybe Accountability could work in her favor. Of course, one small sticking point remained. Fran gazed down at the metal bracelet encircling her wrist and then shrugged. She’d figure something out.

She headed to the hub of the city, moseyed into line at The Lunch Hut, and scanned the menu as it scrolled across a floating screen. Sandwiches with a hundred different combos, salads, pasta, pastries, gelato, lattes…

Before Fran could wrap her brain around all of the choices, a female Graphie appeared by her side, smiling like they always did.

“Hi there! What do you have a taste for today?”

Everything.
Fran knew that wouldn’t fly, as voice-rec accepted specific menu items only. No chitchat. Instead, she began to recite a list:

“Turkey sandwich on a bun with mayo. No. Make that two…
two
turkey sandwiches on buns with mayo. A large mac’n’cheese. Chocolate milkshake…”

She squinted as the menu scrolled, moving faster than she could process.

“Is that all, Sarah Monde?”

The harsh electromagnescence, coupled with the name the Graphie had employed, elicited a sensory and emotional overload.

A spasm rippled down her spine. “Yes. Thank you.”

A red light flashed. “Sarah Monde, you have 10,950 food credits remaining. Please be seated, and your meal will be delivered.”

Fran sat at the nearest café table and gazed about the Agora. Same stuff, different day. She looked up the sides of the sparkling walls surrounding the court and counted the floors.
Eleven
. The twelfth floor—the Surface where the Ranch lay—wasn’t included in the picturesque cityscape. The vaulted silver dome of a ceiling appeared to be top of Impervious. Although the remarkable feat of architecture hid the shame, everyone knew one more floor sat nestled above the arch. She moved her eyes back to the bustling crowd and sighed. Impervieites sure enjoyed their games of pretend.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the moving treadmill delivered her food. Much like the previous night, her body responded with excitement to the mountain of treats. Unlike last night, however, Fran employed a modicum of table manners. By the time she decided to call it quits, an entire turkey sandwich remained uneaten. Fran stood, tucked the sandwich into the pocket of her hoodie, and moved with the river of residents.

Chapter Eleven

She sat on a bench and perused her bag of new purchases, just a little ashamed of the contentment lingering in her gut. She knew the feeling would be short-lived. A few new gadgets could not squelch her need for freedom. At least she felt more like herself now after ditching the embarrassing mini skirt and replacing it with a new pair of multi-colored Canvies and a pretty cool hooded t-shirt. The Graphie said the color made her eyes ‘pop.’

Whatever.

She must have grown over the last year because it clung tighter than her old hoodie. In any event, the new one smelled better. A smile flicked across her face as she looked down at her new boots outfitted with side pockets for gadgets and stuff. She unwrapped a set of newly-purchased wireless buds and tucked them into one of the pockets.

Finally, she heard the hum of a nearby vent opening—just like she hoped. A few knotty nerves rippled as she turned to face the shaft. Pete wiggled through the opening and took a moment to stretch his back before standing to his full height.
Wow, what a bean pole
.
I guess you just don’t notice these things in the shaft.

As if he could sense Fran’s presence, Pete turned in her direction. As a well-trained Rebel should, he kept his eyes to the ground.

“Psst.”

Pete flashed a peek her way, and his face lit for a split second before he trained his gaze downward again. He strolled to the bench and scooted in next to Fran.

“I heard about your arrest. Can they really force you to be Accountable?”

Fran tapped her clunky new bracelet onto the bench.

“Looks like I either stay out of the vents or lead the authorities to our hiding spots.”

“Well for Pete’s sake...” Pete wiggled a brow, but after a moment of silence, realized his joke had fallen flat.

“They cut my hair,” she groaned.

“I noticed. It looks good.”

Fran’s face grew warm, and she snorted, thankful Pete had to keep his gaze to the ground.

“I brought you a sandwich. I’ll leave it on the bench.”

“Thanks. Do I owe you anything?” Fran envisioned his arced brow. Warmth moved from her cheeks down to her neck.

“Um, I need my reader. Can you get it for me?”

“Of course.”

Silence.

“Anything else?”

They both knew what he meant. Fran tried to sound cool. “Bring it to 3-4-2. I’ll be there at 1700 tonight.”

She placed the sandwich on the bench and walked a few yards before the sea of humanity sucked her into the tide and she moved with the flow.

Where would be a good place to waste some time
?

After tiring of the first floor eateries and specialty shops, she swam with the flow of residents up the escalator to the second floor, and meandered to the Spa Art Wing—creative designs for the flesh. She moved past the row of upscale spas whose Graphie-Greeters bragged of their specialty koi ponds and mineral scrubs.
Who would offer their feet to a school of fish and allow them to nibble the dead skin?
Fran snorted and rolled her eyes as she continued through the crowd. Soon, she happened upon a storefront that warranted her attention and headed in for a closer look.

“Welcome to Inked and Linked. Do you already have your design picked out, or would you care to view a catalog?”

The hovering Graphie looked a little disturbing. On one hand, the man spoke with the clear diction and impeccable grammar of an executive. On the other hand, he was tatted and pierced beyond recognition. The odd mix sort of creeped her out. Then again, just about everything in this strange city had that effect.

“I already have a design in mind, thank you.”

“Wonderful. Just relax in the chair then. Our artist will see you soon.” The Graphie began to de-pixilate, but then, like a person who just realized he forgot one last thing, his luminescence returned. “Can I offer you a mineral water or maybe an herbal tea?”

Fran’s laugh erupted with more disrespect than intended. “Uh. No thanks.”

She leaned forward in the chair and checked out the floating billboard, just to make sure she hadn’t stepped into Le Petite Spa by accident.

Nope. The sign read
Inked and Linked
. However, the tagline underneath added “
The art of saying I do!
”

Fran laughed out loud. She hadn’t wandered into any old tattoo domain but one that specialized in the trendy marriage tattoos of Gen-Four. Fran reflected on the femmes she saw in the Agora just a few days prior who displayed their ink like a trophy. Their giggles as they recited the tag line rang through her ears. “
One for him, one for her. An expression of love that fits together like two pieces of an intimate puzzle.
”

Nauseating.

A few moments later, a flesh-and-blood human, greeted Fran and copped a squat for the consult.

“So, will your husband be here shortly, or should we just start without him?”

“Sure. Let’s just get the ball rolling.” Fran enjoyed this role playing a little more than she had anticipated. She shared her ideas with the artist who delved a little deeper to better understand Fran’s heart message. The consult lasted about fifteen minutes, and after a few swipes on a QuickReader, the artist created an amazing rendition of Fran’s vision, and, oddly enough, her heart.

Haunting blue eyes with cinnamon flecks throughout the gleaming iris stood as the centerpiece. Then, an ever-so-subtle, mere shadow of a wolf mask rested in the background.

It was beautiful.

It was Fran.

She agreed to finish off the piece in the standard wedding-tat with the tail of the wolf coiled around her ring finger. After the art was drawn up and scanned, the procedure didn’t take much longer than fifteen minutes from first needle to gauze wrap. Freshly-inked, Fran wandered back into the throng of bodies. The lack of space surrounding her person felt oppressive, and since she had some time to burn before meeting Pete for her reader, it seemed like a good time to check out her new digs.

In a way, the notion of having her own place roused a bit of excitement. Upon ditching Accountable status last year, Fran had still been a minor with no legal rights. But now at fifteen, with legal resident status, she received statutory housing. They assigned her to 336-42.

The ancient woman—like more-than-forty-old—who processed her out of Holding named her “Lucky” because a vacant single had just arrived on the market. 

Lucky for me. Unlucky for the resident.

Her old neighborhood with Mom and Ted had been in the same sector, one floor up, so it felt odd and surreal taking the elevator up to the third floor in the OE. When she arrived, a light beam shot into her eyes.

“Welcome home, Sarah Monde.” The door slid open.

Fran stepped through the threshold of her small studio and walked the length of the pod in no more than ten strides.

Cozy. Open. Nice.

A few molded plastic tables and a flip-flop couch/bed combo rested along the far wall. Tucked away to the right of the living area sat a three-piece bathroom suite complete, with sink, toilet, and shower.
Gee, no steam room? No sauna?
Fran laughed. Compared to her prior digs, this place had the layout of mansion—more than suitable for the short amount of time she intended to hang around.

She sagged onto the flip-flop sofa and released an enormous sigh. She could visit Ted with no restrictions now that she didn’t need to enter through the vents, but still felt a weird ambiguity about the whole matter.
A West Winger?

It could wait another day. Anyway, after a quick meeting with Pete, she needed to dedicate tonight to rehearsal time.

Rumor had it house-arrest went hand-in-hand with community service hours when dealing with Rebel rehab. What, where, and the number of penance hours would be decided at a 10:00 hearing tomorrow. Which played right into her perfect plan. Fran envisioned the probable reactions of the Judges.
They’ll be blown away. I’d bet all my credits they’ve never had a felon volunteer to work the Ranch.
She allowed herself to celebrate the small victory with a flicker of hope.

Until the Beast whispered a reminder of his presence. And the smile ebbed from her face.