Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty Four

She knew Ted was only joking, but his words resonated with a deeper truth. Was anyone in this buried city trustworthy? Before Fran could respond, Nissa strolled into the room, cloaked in flowing silk.

“Mmm, I smell coffee.” She spied Fran. “Oh hey, Wickerbug. Back on the grid?”

Fran’s blood boiled. “I need to go now.”

She walked to portico and waited for the door. Ted followed. Fran gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, “Meet me at The Waltonian at 1700.”

The door breezed open, and she turned to Nissa. “And by the way, it’s Wick
worm
.”

Fran moved down the hallway with the greeter in her wake, “Thank you for visiting Ted and Nissa Monde. Have an enjoyable day.”

She hurried off to the Ranch, and after checking on John and Bob, Fran spent the remainder of her afternoon jumping Doc’s diary to the unsuspecting until her grumbling stomach reminded her that it had been several hours since her morning calzone. Fran moved to the long lunch line behind a pair of freshly-inked, gossiping femmes.

Their snug, silky frocks demonstrated the beginnings of basement-belly—a newly coined-term indicating too many lattes at the Agora. Small lights twinkled as they tapped fashionable toes.

“I heard Jean-Claude’s reader was hacked.” The first femme’s sing-song voice and gleam implied that Jean-Claude’s misery brought her a slice of joy.

The second femme rolled heavily lined eyes. “I’m sure a Rebel is at fault. Don’t they have anything better to do with their pathetic lives?”

“You think?” The first clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Apparently, they deposited a story onto the hard drive. Some crazy tale of a Superior gone rogue.”

“I’m sure it’s just a cover for a virus. Poor guy. His whole system will probably crash in a day.”

Conflicting feelings surging through Fran’s veins warmed her cheeks. On one hand, the message had provoked chatter. On the other hand, were they rejecting the truth? Maybe, once they realized no virus had been attached to the message, they might reconsider. Then again, they also might write off the whole thing as a hoax. Fran shrugged. Each person had to believe on his own accord. Except for Ted. She
had
to make Ted believe.

Hearing the femmes discuss the Rebel reminded her of some more work she needed to handle, so after procuring a large frosty drink, Fran moved to her and Pete’s old meeting bench and slid another DJ from her boot. Well-trained Rebels learned the hunt went best when conditions, such as a crowded lunchtime Agora, allowed them to go unnoticed. Fran knew if she lingered by a vent, she’d run across a few like-minded brothers.

After a short wait, she heard the old familiar hum and perceived movement behind the plastic palm. Fran waited until the Rebel secured himself into the safety of the fold, a few feet from where she sat, before trying to catch his attention.

“Psst.”

He looked up and held her stare. Fran cringed at his rookie mistake.
Eyes down.
Sure, she wanted to get his attention, but a well-trained Rebel knew better than to stare. That’s how the beginners got caught.

Fran laid the DJ onto the floor and placed her boot on top of it. While holding the stare, she launched it across the floor, landing it at his feet. The Rebel’s eyes lit up. He bent down and snatched up the device. Fran placed her smoothie onto the bench and walked away.

.~.

The Waltonian, perched high above the Agora on its own premiere pedestal revolved in a slow circle, affording a glimpse of the cityscape to chic diners. Fran sat in a fancy, velvet chair listening to the excited clucking of residents on the far side as their windows snuck past the Council’s Viewing Loft. Of course, the loft remained empty at the moment, but the crowd seemed titillated, nonetheless. A commingling of disgust for the nonsense mixed with sadness for these people.

A waiter dressed in a black tuxedo appeared at her table. Not an overly enthusiastic, pixilated Graphie but a flesh-and-blood man, complete with a white linen draped over his arm.

Fran smiled. “I’m still waiting for my guest.”

“Excellent, mademoiselle. Would you care for a sparkling cider or perhaps a smooth elixir while you wait?”

“Sure. Cider, please.”

So what was she going to say? “
Hey Ted, I saw Mom and Dad. They said you should come home.”

That probably wouldn’t fly. Of course, her reputation for being a reasonable sister had been lost awhile back. Yet, she
had
relinquished Rebel status. Would that be enough to convince him? Did she dare just whip out the DJ and say, “
Hey take a look at this, bro.
”

On one hand, she wished she had a more solid plan. On the other? Maybe a well-thought proposal might have sounded too contrived anyway.

The waiter placed a long-stemmed glass onto the table and poured the sparkly beverage. Fran watched the bubbles scatter about the liquid, all frantic and wayward, doing an imperfect dance. She lifted the glass to her lips and experienced the sting of fizz.

Ted showed up a moment later. “Who’s paying for this one?”

Fran smiled. “Your baby sister, of course.”

The waiter pulled out a chair for Ted, and he slid in across from Fran. “I’m impressed.”

Fran released a nervous laugh. “Yes, I’m working for a Superior now.”

She figured it wasn’t a
total
lie since Doc had been a Superior at one time. Ted responded with a nod and chuckle.

“Aren’t we all?”

“Ted, you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Listen, Wickworm, I know life has dealt you a few blows. I know you were really close to Mom. I miss her too, you know. I understand the reason for your rebellion. But―”

“But what?” Fran stared at her brother in disbelief.
Too bad, so sad. Move on, little sis.

“But nothing.” Ted looked down at the linen napkin and placed it onto his lap before returning his attention to his sister. “You were saying?”

“The Epoch. It’s here.”

Ted’s eyes shot open before he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.

“Nice one. You almost had me.”

“No, really.”

“And you know this how?”

Fran heard the resonance of Nissa’s influence and hated the way Ted looked down his nose at her. She remembered the words her father had said just a few nights ago at the river. This world had become Ted’s oyster. He’d found his treasure and had surrendered his personal search for truth. She wanted to scream, wanted to shake him. She wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him to the secret venting, shove him between the mammoth blades and into the open air.

Instead, she held her breath to allow the wave of grief to pass. Then with a phony laugh, she added, “Just kidding.”

Ted chuckled. “Same old Wickworm, huh?” He held up his own glass of sparkling cider. “Welcome back, little sister.”

“Thanks.” Fran took a sip of the fizzy drink. “So, here’s a hypothetical question for you.”

Ted nodded for her to continue as he dipped focaccia into a pool of infused oils.

“What if the Epoch
was
here? And… what if Mom and Dad were alive out there somewhere?”

Ted laughed and crumbs from his bread spilled onto his chest. “Sure. And what if Graphies could have babies.”

“Good one, Ted. Baby Graphies.” Fran parroted his laugh and took another sip of juice as he brushed the crumbs from shirt.

“But if they were alive, wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fran felt a moment of hope.

“And I’d also like to know how a Graphie managed to make a baby.”

He wiggled his brows and winked at his sister. A sickness settled deep into her gut. Fran redirected the conversation to more mundane matters and everyday gossip as she tried to think of a different angle. Something that would help her brother see the light. As they continued their meal, futility coursed through her body. Like poison dripping into her veins, every off-handed comment and rude gesture from this guy who
looked
like her brother seemed to destroy her hope. The Council, or Nissa, or
somebody
had stolen the real Ted and replaced him with this imposter―a West Wing sellout.

The restaurant continued to revolve, and soon, they turned just a few feet away from the Superior Viewing Loft. Hushed exaltations and giddy excitement grew from neighboring tables. Fran didn’t bother to look. She couldn’t give honor to the ones who held her brother in their invisible clutches. Yet, something flickered in Ted’s eye―a sudden gleam of surprise—and she lifted her gaze with the others.

The Council had arrived and taken their seats.

What in the world?

“I wonder what’s going on. Want to check it out?” Ted asked.

Before Fran could answer, her brother, along with a dozen other Waltonian patrons, rose and moved to a nearby balcony. Fran followed, three steps behind, unsure she wanted to be party to what might be in the works. A few impatient residents elbowed past her, hoping to get the perfect ringside seat. Ted lifted a hand and waved to her over the crowd, but Fran looked away, satisfied with her back-row view.

As she looked out over the Agora, she spied Graphies corralling pedestrians to the East Court, leaving the stage and surrounding area barren. A crackling spike of electricity circulated through the air, and a Graphie, several times larger than the average man, appeared center stage. A hush fell over the court.

“My fellow Impervieites, we come to you today with sad news.”

A wave of chatter moved through the crowd. The people around Fran speculated as to what might have happened.

“An extreme act of treasonous terror has been committed within our city walls. We know it to be the act of a troubled soul. One swept up into the arms of a dangerous coup d'état.”

Loud gasps and hissing
tsks
trailed throughout the restaurant. A moment later, a ratty Rebel, the same one she had seen earlier, was brought to the stage. Fran stood paralyzed while visions of the DJ sliding across the floor and an untouched smoothie flashed through her brain. The Graphie droned on. His words rebounded off the high ceilings and echoed throughout the Agora. “We have asked ourselves, how do we handle this treachery? What is good and proper?”

Fran’s heart rattled hard and fast.

“We have decided to treat rebellion with love. What the Rebels meant for evil, we will use for good. We have chosen the most dignified of endings for this man.”

Boy!
Fran’s heart cried out in silence.
He’s not a man, he’s a boy. Just a boy!

A femme in an iridescent gown moved forward and cloaked the rebel in a velvety robe.

No!
Fran choked on her own terror.

The Rebel stared straight ahead, not even squirming, and Fran realized he had already been poisoned. The femme led him down the stairs and off the stage, and one small boy in a big velvety robe began a silent parade. She knew his slippers swished. She also knew how this single Rebel procession was bound to end.

Fran turned and ran.

Out of the Waltonian. Through the back hallways of the West Wing and along the bridge that joined East and West.

In her mind, the screaming never ceased.

Chapter Twenty Five

Face down on her flip-flop, Fran lay in a tangle of sheets, weeping for the boy whose name she didn’t even know and the brother being held hostage. Was it an impossible task? Was there hope for the truth? She wept for Fiona and Marie and the sickness that had stolen years from their lives. Cried out for Bob and John and the misery they still faced.

Fran wept until her soaked pillow clung to her face. Her eyes burned, and she lay on her bed listening to the silence, punctuated only by a throbbing in her temple.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she would jump the truth onto as many readers as she could. Then she would watch Pete’s hearing, walk with him to the Ranch, and, united, they would exit this hell.

And never come back.

.~.

The next morning, Fran spent a few hours in the Agora with her DJ’s before heading off to the courtroom to catch Pete’s trial. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowded civilian viewing loft.
Another slow day in the city.

She ran a finger along the names on the docket until she came to Pete’s case—fourth in line. She spotted him down on the hearing floor, awaiting his turn looking trendy and chic in a plaid kilt.
Nice touch, Pete.

Fran noticed his muscular legs. She’d never seen them unveiled before, and their definition surprised her. It made sense, of course. All of the crawling and climbing? Great lower body workouts. She admired the way he sat―tall and confident. A flicker of warmth returned to her belly. With the ample time afforded outside, she did look forward to getting to know him a little better. Maybe tonight they’d sit by the fire, and she’d introduce Pete to her Mom and Dad. Holy cow… and what about Pete’s parents!? She’d completely forgotten about them. How long ago had they declined? Were they at Village Number One, or had they ventured off? An easy smile meandered across her face as she considered the reunions.

When the trials began, she listened with partial interest. The first defendant had hoarded. Apparently, of the 100,000 lifetime meal credits, he’d only used 5,000. Fran looked at the full figure even a pleated kilt couldn’t hide. Obviously, this guy had not starved himself. Total moocher.

Sentencing? A charge of 50,000 meal credits and a strict warning to eat three meals a day. A woman in the front row cried.
Seriously
?

Defendant number two: Slothfulness. According to Impervious Entitlement Law, adequate food, housing, and—depending upon family money line—spending credits imparted to each resident allowed for a comfortable life. However, Community Service credits, a system devised to encourage and reward volunteer work, also played into the culture. Child-minders, the work Fran’s mom did, fell into this under-paid category. Fran didn’t know if one credit had been equated the same dollar amount from the ancient, pre-war era, but it didn’t matter. In most cases, when the family money ran out, a resident joined the ranks of Community Service workers—which made up most of the East Wing.

Yet, even though those with family money still rolling around their accounts didn’t need to dirty their hands on a daily basis, slothfulness was discouraged. So much so, a law had been put in place requiring every Accountable person over the age of thirteen to work at least one hour per week or be in violation of slothfulness. Fran remembered caring for the juvies at the ICS with her mother and loved the few hours a week she’d donated. The job gave her something to look forward to. A purpose.

An hour a
week
to donate to a worthy cause. Why would anyone break that law? In her mind, loads of words described
that
type of person, and none of them included the politically-correct term of slothfulness. She hoped they found a suitable penance for this one. She listened to the case and couldn’t help but roll her eyes as the trendy West Winger whined to the judging panel over why she hadn’t been able to fulfill her Community Service obligation for the last half year. Her body hugging dress shimmered as she lifted her hands in exasperation. Embarrassing cleavage revealed more skin than Fran cared to see as the girl continued her spectacle for the sour looking crony.
At least he’s not sleeping this time.
Finally, the committee announced punishment: Two hours of Community Service per week until a penance of ten total hours had been paid.

Chatter rose in the viewing loft as residents pooh-poohed the ruling. Then again, they came for the show, so in reality, Fran figured they were satisfied with the entertainment.

Defendant number three: Xenophobia.

Considered a hate crime, this offense carried quite a bit more weight, and the Council exercised zero tolerance. They claimed this attitude to be the cornerstone of hate that led to the final war—a fight cloaked in prejudice and racism. The Council considered the act of intolerance so serious that upon reaching the Age of Accountability, each resident signed a witnessed document proclaiming to uphold the dignity of his brother.

The Signing, commemorated in sixth grade and most parents hosted big parties with hot hors d’oeuvres after the recitation of The Oath. “
In no way will I judge, assume malice, or undermine the ideals and freedoms of my fellow man. As I hold dear my own personal truths, so does my brother. Therefore, for the sake of harmony and peace under our single metal dome, we shall not impose our beliefs upon our brothers.
”

Fran snorted. She, Mom, and Ted had gone out for a celebratory ice cream after her recitation.

Defendant number three had caused a riot after a night at the pub, slurring the ideals of West Wingers and calling them frauds and sellouts.
Ouch. That one stung.
His sentencing? A penance of 100 hours of Community Care, cleaning the residences of the very ones he had insulted.

How ironic. That ought to knock the xeno right out from under his phobia.

After an eternity, Pete’s turn arrived. Fran wiggled in her seat and glanced at her com device. She had thirty minutes before her start time at the Ranch. Her boot drummed on the floor.

Judge number One began the questioning. “Peter Katigoruminous. You have been found Unaccountable. What is your response?”

Fran chewed her nails as she waited for Pete to answer.

After an uncomfortable pause, Pete stood.

“I was Unaccountable. I lived as a Rebel.”

“Yes, Mr. Katigoruminous. We already established your Unaccountability. Do you have anything to add to that? We would like to try to understand your reasoning before we assign penance.”

“Because I don’t like the mandates of the Council.”

Gasps rang out from the loft, and a hum of chatter arose. Fran halted mid-nail. She leaned forward in her chair.

“Mr. Katigoruminous, to what mandates are you referring?”

“All of them. Accountability being number one.”

“Rabble rouser.” A women seated near Fran sneered as her eyes lit with delight.

Her companion added his thoughts. “Such insolence.”

His eyes flicked to either side, and he pursed his thin lips as if to contain his satisfaction.

Judge number two, the Superior, sat up in his chair.

“Mr. Katigor…” The judge bumbled before baling on Pete’s surname. “Peter, please tell us why you find Accountability to be unjust.”

Fran stared at the back of Pete’s head trying to send him mental messages.
Stop! Just take your punishment, and we’ll be home free.

“Because my life is none of the Council’s business. I should be free to choose where I live, how often I eat…” His voice softened, and Fran leaned in. “And who I kiss.”

Her face heated. A tear threatened, and she pulled in her breath, holding it tight in her chest.

The Superior cleared his throat. “Yes, I can see why your kissing should be a private matter. However, Peter, it is, in fact, of great importance to the Council where you live, etc. We find that to be the very thread that sews order into our home.”

“Our home?” Pete laughed. “More like prison.”

Jeers and hisses rang out from the civilian viewing loft. Names like
traitor
and
fugitive
bounced off the walls of the courtroom. Claws of mortification scratched at Fran’s soul.

What is he doing? This isn’t anything like Pete. What’s happening?

“Thank you, Peter. That is all I have.” Judge number two sat back.

The third Judge squinted his eyes. Fran saw evil glint from the center. Something was wrong. Somehow they had gotten to Pete. Her brain jumbled, and she wanted to vomit. She had to help Pete but had no idea how.

“Peter, because of an item found on your person today, we have reason to believe you may be party to a coup d'état. Please respond.”

“Coup d'état?” Pete laughed again.

The viewing platform grew silent. Fran looked to her right and to her left. She saw fear. Not the usual fear of the decline, or even a fear of this outspoken Rebel for that matter, but something new. They sensed a shift in the order they had always known. The birth of a new terror— even uglier than the one kept hidden in their vaults. The fear only acknowledged in small doses.

“Yes, Mr. Katigoruminous, a coup d'état. An effort to overthrow the work of the Council. How do you respond?”

“The Council is this city’s worst enemy.” Pete turned around and faced the viewing loft. “Brothers and sisters, I implore you to look beyond the things that can be seen. I beg of you to seek the truth.”

Fran mouthed the word
Stop
!

The Graphie had already materialized beside Pete with enough power to send its electromagnescence into the loft. Static electricity lifted the tiny hairs on Fran’s skin.

Pete stared straight into Fran’s eyes. And then he dropped to the floor.