Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Fran peeked into the mirror and fluffed her hair again. Why did she feel so insecure? Pete said he liked the cut, right? But did he? Really? And why should she care what Pete thinks anyway? A quick tingle in her belly answered the question for her.

During the day, she’d stolen several glances at her reflection, just to remind herself what she looked like now, but she still didn’t feel 100% comfortable with the girl staring back at her.

Are my lips too big?

She pushed at the spongy flesh. Her bottom lip protruded, and her top lip dipped low in the middle. Curious, she pouted her lips the same way the West-Wing femmes did… But shuddered at the image.
Do not ever do that again.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her new com device. The digits read 16:40. She’d told Pete to meet her at 1700.

Close enough.

She strolled out of her pod and moved to hallway four. The neighborhood, set up like a stage around a central gathering place, made it easy to navigate. Twelve separate hallways jutted out from the center, each labeled with clear directional markers. Already in hallway three, her simple journey dictated she follow the markers over one corridor and locate the second venting. She snorted at the simplicity.

The light system worked with old-fashioned motion-activated sensors, illuminating a large berth—ten feet in front of and ten behind—as she moved. The high-intensity glow allowed a view of each doorway she passed. Some boasted a family crest over the threshold to announce their domain. Others tried to jazz up their area with plastic statues and fake flowers. Everyone wanted to be different. Everyone wanted to be the same.

A roving image transmitter, RIT, buzzed past her head. On instinct, she looked down at her feet, but upon seeing her new boots remembered her Accountable status. She lifted her face, and the red beam shot into her iris. An automated voice sounded.

“Thank you, Sarah Monde.” The RIT hummed away, continuing its neighborhood watch.

She turned down hallway four and headed toward the arranged meeting place. Just as she arrived, the venting hummed open. Her heart thumped with excitement and she wondered if Pete had been waiting long. As his head popped out, the mesh imprint on his cheek answered her question. A glimmer in his eye made her want to run away, but her feet knew better. They remained glued to the floor as she watched his smile grow.

“Any RITs circling?”

Fran began to answer, but her throat clogged. Though she cleared the congestion, her voice still came out guttural and gross sounding.

“Just one. It’s dinner time. I’m guessing we won’t see another for five minutes.”

“Good.” Pete slithered out of the duct and reached inside his shirt to pull out her reader.

“Did you read any of it?” Fran figured he would.

Pete played dumb for almost ten seconds before he sighed. “All of it.”

“What do you think?”

For the first time since Fran had known him, Pete wore an expression of concern. “I don’t know.”

“It’s somewhere in the Ranch, Pete. It has to be.” Fran held up her bracelet. “I’m going to volunteer.”

His brow began to lift. “At the Ranch?”

Fran nodded. “Makes sense, right?”

Pete’s standard look of amusement melted into a tender smile. “Brilliant.”

Fran moved a step closer until only the reader and the dusty smell she knew so well stood between them. Pete’s hand moved to touch her soft curls. She focused on the chocolate warmth pouring from his gaze and moved the last step forward. Her leftover peanuts lingered on his breath.

She moved first this time. A whisper of contentment circled her brain, and the surge of a storm paralyzed her body. She breathed in the dust, tasted the peanuts. Something unrecognizable tugged at her heart and a tear sprang forth and trickled on her cheek.

Pete’s rough thumb brushed at the tear and Fran dipped her chin to her chest, embarrassed and confused by her sudden emotion.

On a sigh, he pulled away. “I have to go.” He pressed the reader into her hands but hesitated when he noticed the bandage that covered her new art.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

Pete cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s just some ink,” Fran responded.

“Good. I’ll take down anyone who messes with my girl.”

With those words hanging between them, she leaned against the wall and watched as Pete crawled back into the guts of the city. Pete’s girl? Weird. But then again…

Just as the venting closed, the purr of an RIT buzzed in her ear then flashed red.

“Thank you, Sarah Monde.”

The mini security drone took off down the corridor and turned the corner. The sudden silence of the hallway felt way too loud, and Fran hurried back to her room. She moved to the flip-flop, waved a hand past the sensor, and waited for the bed to unfold. Welcoming the thought of mattress under her back, she tumbled onto the bed, kicked off her boots and curled into a ball. After a lengthy sigh, she rolled onto her back and pulled the reader from her side. Nothing new to read since she’d finished the First Gen’s diary, so maybe round or two of Mad Hooligan would be a nice distraction.

With a wave, the reader came to life. It appeared Pete had left the Diary of a First Gen open and the frustration over the ending of the story resurfaced. As Fran lifted her hand to swipe the screen, her eyes couldn’t help but scan the text. Her hand stopped midair.

What??

She frantically scrolled through several pages she hadn’t seen before. What was this? After scrolling backwards through seventeen blank pages, she arrived at the words she read the night prior. Seventeen pages
blank
? Who does that? Excitement rippled through her body like a holograph as she read the new words.

I know how to escape now. I can’t say I’m fond of the idea, but I know nonetheless. Am I 100% positive? Do I have proof?

No. But I am ready to follow my heart with the hope that it leads me to the woman lost over two decades ago. As of today, I will stop ingesting the clean water that has allowed me to live while others die. As of today, I relinquish the status of Superior. As I write this journal, I’m aware of what my near future will hold. I will become less before I can become more. And, yes, I fear the journey.

To anyone who might be reading these words, I ask two things:

1. Do not let the fear stop you.
   
2. Pass on the legacy.
   

My friend, it is not with the fear of death but with the hope of life that I bid you adieu. And look forward to greeting you on the other side.

Benjamin M. Leiben, Ph.D.

She gasped. Benjamin Leiben? From the history books she knew him as
the
original creator of Impervious. There was even a small statue in the Agora honoring him. However, the history books had always said he had gone mad and, unlike the other Superiors, sunk into the decline. Her head reeled and stomach clenched. So was this all nonsense? The ravings of lunatic? If not, what
did
he mean?  If this diary had been written as a means to give her special insight, why did she feel like she looked into a toy kaleidoscope instead?

Shards of color fell and reshaped with no rhyme or reason. How could she make sense of this confusing moving picture that showed the face of an evil leader, a brother who had sold out his hope and lived like tomorrow was promised, and Chan, her fearless mentor, dead from the decline? Then there was Dr. Benjamin Leiben, the Epoch, an exit portal, as well as a missing second-gen botanist. All of the bits and pieces melded together as one swirling mass of information. She tried to pull apart the pieces and examine them each individually. It didn’t help. Did she want to cry? Did she want to shout? Both, probably. However, more than anything, she just wanted to shake the kaleidoscope until all of the pieces made a pretty picture. One that made sense.

A quick flip of her arm sent her pillow tumbling into the crack between the back of the mattress and the edge of the couch portion of the flip-flop. She reached her hand through the gap to retrieve her pillow and fished it out, along with a few dust bunnies and a crinkly sheet of paper. Fran looked at the simple, white note with girlish loopy handwriting across the page.

Dear Diary,

I forgot my code yesterday―the same numbers that have accompanied me through life. The numbers that rolled off my tongue as second nature as my own name. Poof. Couldn’t remember them at all. Is it possible? Could I be facing the most horrific event in a person’s life?

My heart races as I write these words and realize the implications. I had thought I might be one of the lucky ones. That special remnant who would watch the dismantling of our Impervious roof. I had fooled myself to believe I might see the Epoch.

Esteemed forfeiture? I never thought I’d entertain the thought, but what are my options? I remember the face of my mother as she declined, and my heart breaks. I can’t do it. I need to take the more dignified path. Tomorrow, I will sign the papers.

A single tear trickled down Fran’s cheek. She tried to lock up the ensuing flood, but pictures of Sasha’s pinched expression and painful death spasms blossomed under her closed lids. Who knows? Maybe Sasha wrote this note. Then again, Cheyenne the Shy One or any other forfeiture could have written it.

Head throbbing, Fran stood and moved to the kitchen cupboard. She pulled out a dusty glass and filled it from the sanctioned water tin. She lifted the vessel to her lips and sucked down the cool water while remembering Dr. Leiben’s last entry…
Sure enough to stop ingesting the clean water that has allowed me to live while others die.

She contemplated the glass in her hand and felt the rhythm of her blood as it pulsed through her aching brain. Fran counted the beats, knowing they ticked off seconds of her life.

Chapter Thirteen

With the match between Behemoth and Queen Xyphon now just a day in the history books, the entertainment industry stood at momentary lull. Therefore, today’s performance― Sentencing of a Rebel—held top billing. In addition to the three judicial members in the shadowed courtroom, the civilian viewing loft teemed with spectators. This audience, mostly made up of the straight-backed do-gooders and ones who couldn’t fathom missing an opportunity to wag a finger, eagerly awaited the sentencing. Finger-pointing seemed to feed their self-righteous spirit and mask personal feelings of inadequacy by proclaiming the foibles of others.

But Fran, happy to perform for the group, played the part of a repentant Rebel like an actress cast into the role of a lifetime. Her costume―a crisp button-up, draped with a simple cardigan and complimented by her new, gray mini—seemed appropriate. Humble yet fashionable. She kept her gaze to the floor and hoped her curls would do most of the talking.

Judge number one—a tired looking woman in her early twenties whose expression appeared pained by the tight knot in her hair—spoke first.

“Rebel. What was the reasoning behind your Unaccountable status?”

Fran’s confidence this woman could be bought with a sob story led her into Act One.

“My mother. She had declined.” Fran’s soft whisper had the crowd leaning forward in their seats.

“Say that again, Rebel. And please, use the voice expander provided.”

Fran placed the small cube onto the lapel of her blouse. “I’m sorry, Your Honors. I said that my mother had declined.”

A stray tear traveled down Fran’s cheek and dripped onto her sweater. Soft murmurs and clucking moved through the crowd like a wave. Judge number one cleared her throat. She was allowed one more query.

“And that warranted a breach in your Accountability?”

Her response seemed hard and uncaring—a sentiment that would garner more sympathy from the onlookers in the loft. However, the Committee wanted to see repentance, so Fran responded in kind.

“No, Your Honors. It was foolish.”

“Thank you for your candor, Sarah,” Judge one finished.

Judge number two— Superior, advanced in age—looked up from a reader. Fran wondered if he even cared about this nonsense anymore. “Rebel. You state your mother declined. Do you have other family?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, my father declined when I was still a baby. However I did—I mean I
do
—have a brother. He married and was on a cybernetic honeymoon at the time of my mother's decline.”

“I see.”

Judge two looked down at his reader, and a very long pause followed. Had he fallen asleep? Fran bit her lip to contain her amusement. After a few more moments of empty silence, Judge three stepped in.

“And, Rebel, how do you feel penance should be paid?”

Time for her
big number
. Fran envisioned a smoky spotlight and a soft piano playing in the background as she raised innocent blue eyes to Judge three—a nondescript, black-haired nobody. She squared her small shoulders and cleared her throat.

“My heart is heavy because of my betrayal to the Council and my fellow man. I deserve nothing good, yet you found it in your hearts to restore my food allowance and provide me with a new home. I’ve thought judiciously of how I could repay this debt I owe.

I ask you for forgiveness, your Honors, and request you allow me to serve my sentence on the Surface floor. Allow me to take the job that would bring comfort to those who devoted their lives to our city. I would be honored to be a servant to those who suffer at the Ranch.”

A collective gasp rang from the viewing platform. Murmurs rippled through the courtroom and soon escalated to chatter as each voice elevated in an effort to be heard. In a grand gesture, Judge three slammed his meaty gavel. Judge two jolted awake. Judge one wiped a watery eye.

Victory.

“Punishment accepted.”

Judge three’s rushed verdict made Fran wonder if he feared she’d change her mind. Maybe he was just eager for the gruesome punishment to commence. Whatever. She’d won this battle.

His voice droned on. “…and let this be a lesson to you, Sarah Monde, in the event that your Rebel spirit ever desires to re-emerge…”

Fran stopped listening—her mind too busy formulating the next phase of her plan.