Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles) (12 page)

Until three days ago, they were clueless as to the burden and responsibility their family would continue to carry forward. As the ceremony continued, Oaklee succumbed to the surreal sensation of free falling once more. Her fall gained speed as she envisioned Leaf embracing the secret Legacy he inherited upon their father’s death. Did Hanley Nichols know they were awaiting instruction? Did he know that his Earth Element leader had passed away? What would Hanley do if they arrived on his doorstep with instruction from their father to seek out Della Jayne, the same Della Jayne she learned only this morning was married to Hanley Nichols himself?

Fingers still in her pocket, Oaklee released the piece of paper and instead sought the leaf and brought it out, forgetting about the gathering and the ceremony. She twirled the stem of the long and narrow leaf mesmerized by the golden hues—a sacrificial offering from a willow oak, gifting a piece of itself so that life may continue. Oaklee felt she and the tree had more in common than simply a name.

***

    
Major studies have shown that in the last twenty-five years, the crime rate among juveniles has dramatically spiked. Leading psychologists and sociologists believe this to be the result of two factors. The first is a lack of jobs and, more specifically, the lack of jobs after graduating college. Recent graduates are left with large debts and only a small chance of finding a career, much less one that relates to their degree. The second factor is a lack of physical community. Most children attend cyber schools from home, most adults work from a home office, and a very small fraction of the population clings to such traditional values of religious communities and social clubs. Internet communities exist on a large scale, but physical groups that exercise traditional roles, values, and support are nearly extinct. The results have shown a massive decline in the family unit, higher education, as well as youth morality and conduct.

    
Sociologists agree that there has never been a time in history that reflected such a significant lack of physical face-to-face community as today’s world. Many claim that humankind is breaking down from depression and psychological disorders similar in nature to isolation, confinement, and extreme environment syndrome, or ICE, a term that used to be coined for astronauts and those wintering over in Antarctica. With more people staying indoors and strapped to their electronics, it is a type of social breakdown with modern application, as well.

    
The conclusion: Youth are left with no support and no future—two major ingredients for social decline. Will meaningful community and human interfacing ever return to humankind?

—
Sarah Sommers, “Community’s Impact on the Human Condition,”
Demographica Blogspot
, September 29, 2054

***

R
ain streaked against the window panes behind the judge’s bench at the King County Juvenile Courthouse. Fillion shifted in his seat and refused to meet his dad’s eyes. He was disturbed after walking through the media preying upon him while he was escorted by police into the facility. The son of the notorious Hanley Nichols was meeting his fate today and the parasites outside waited in ebullience for their gossipy feast to plaster all over the Net.

Once inside the courtroom, Mack tried ribbing him privately that he should be sure and flirt with the camera every so often, give those fangirls something to drool over—the misbehaving “eco-prince” who could make all their dreams come true. His friend was joking good-naturedly, and Fillion tried to smile. But he found little humor in the media’s treatment of “The Watson Trial” and their nickname for him as the “eco-prince.” They, like everyone else, only wanted things from him.

Mack was an elite kid like him and came from big money, but his friend’s home life and future were entirely different than his own. No other young man his age would go through such a trial or invasion of privacy over fake ID’s. Only Fillion was reserved this special honor, and all because of his dad.

Since he was still a juvenile, Fillion didn’t have to face a trial by jury, rather the judge alone. And as this case garnered public attention, he didn’t need to join other youths in a larger courtroom and wait his turn. Typically, low-level misdemeanor cases go to diversion, forgoing the courtroom experience. But he was being examined for possible felony charges when found in possession of so many fake ID’s upon arrest.

It was such a stupid mistake that night. He sold an ID to an undercover cop on an illegal immigration sting. Fillion only served his underground friends and their friends, the cop being a supposed friend of a friend. Looking for a thrill, and something to stimulate their minds, he and Mack couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing how far they could go—but never with the idea of becoming a national threat. In their minds, they were having fun with friends by manipulating the system they were born under, not nationalizing illegal immigrants or potential terrorists. The determination between misdemeanor and felony conviction rested on whether the prosecutors were able to prove that he manufactured any of the ID’s.

Personal files, hard drives, and emails were court-ordered, and Fillion was required to hand over his electronic devices to the judicial system. Fillion kept a low profile online so he didn’t care. The next day, he marched out and purchased a new Cranium. He and Mack were meticulous, especially as they were playing with the big guns by creating birth certificates and legal documentation, a crime against Homeland Security.

After completing a job, they would destroy the computer. It didn’t matter if their hacking was completed with cloaking software they personally designed, encrypting the history of their trails through cyber space. It would take a computer forensics specialist of parallel expertise to track their steps and trace any evidence to their original identities.

Fillion felt he had nothing to lose. The future wasn’t his, and the power of outwitting the government was justified reparation for the power his dad had taken from him. And yet, for all his bravado, he couldn’t deny the terror he felt in facing a judge to learn his fate. His arraignment and trial were weeks back. It was an experience that was difficult to face, but nothing like today.

He was a genius, the school declared, proficient in programing languages, computer engineering, as well as Web design and architecture, with additional expertise in physics and engineering. Yet the world couldn’t care less about his achievements or his skills, another example of how society was cruel—building him up with dreams of grandeur only to serve him a harsh reality once he graduated.

There was no point in going to college. It was just another delusion ripe with disappointment. There were no jobs available. Even if there were, his dad would sabotage his efforts. On his twentieth birthday, he had a guaranteed job, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Hanley had ensured that Fillion’s future was set in stone, in line with his brilliant business plan that had likely been plotted out years in advance. An unfortunate trait his dad possessed as a seasoned Gamemaster.

John Abrahms, a family friend and lawyer for New Eden Enterprises, sat beside him along the semi-circle table, which arched around the bench. Fillion shifted in his seat and caught the attorney’s concerned attention. He tried to act calm despite the nerves making his body feel rigid and stiff.

John leaned over to whisper. “You OK?” His dark eyes assessed Fillion carefully.

“Yeah, peachy,” Fillion replied flatly.

John rewarded him with an amused smile.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“No, really. Just wait and see.”

Thunder rolled and the rain pelted the glass, making Fillion smile. He hoped every one of the journalists outside was cold and miserable. If he was lucky, it would rain when they left so he could use an umbrella to further hide his profile from the cameras. Maybe he would even if it wasn’t raining.

John leaned over and said, “The weather is sure melodramatic enough. Serves those bastards right.”

Fillion gave a slight shrug and focused on his hands. The black fingernails gleamed in the overhead lighting, the glossy finish entertaining his boredom. With a loud sigh, he let his head fall back and he stared at the ceiling, studying each water stain that turned the white ceiling piss yellow. His friend would probably make a bad joke about that observation.

Mack was granted special permission to attend the hearing and sat on a narrow bench nearby rather than wait in the hallway. Fillion glanced over his shoulder. His friend rested against the back wall with a bored look stretched across his face, arms folded against his chest. Mack raised a single eyebrow, a hint of a smile forming on his face. Fillion rolled his eyes in reply, a silent communication to his friend that he was over this drama and ready to move on.

“Fillion,” his dad’s voice spoke near his ear.

He acknowledged his voice but refused to meet his dad’s eyes. Fillion leaned forward until his hair fell over his face.

His dad tapped him lightly on the arm, and then whispered, “We have this in hand, son. The prosecution has nothing on you other than the obvious.”

Fillion nodded his head before placing his forehead on the table. He closed his eyes as his stomach roiled and turned with every intake of breath.

“You need to sit up,” Hanley said near his ear.

“Or what?”

“Image. The world can say anything about you, but in the end, you can portray whatever image of yourself you want. Sit up and face the world.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Suit yourself.”

The chair creaked and groaned as his dad sat up straight in the old wooden courtroom seat.

Turning his head, Fillion asked, “I thought mom was meeting us here. Where is she?”

“She is tied up, attending continuing education classes in Hawaii,” his dad stated with no hint of emotion.

“Did you even tell her?”

Instead of replying, Hanley shook his head as if offended and gave a low chuckle. Unable to read his dad’s response, Fillion settled on watching the rain fall again, sitting back up. His mom was missing the hearing. Figured. The only reason his dad was here was because his presence was required by law—and to ensure his future investment didn’t get convicted of anything the family couldn’t recover from in the long run. If Fillion was placed into detention, he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to his mom, or his sister for that matter. Lynden had the luxury of sleeping off a hangover at home. A few choice words came to mind, and he almost voiced them when the bailiff opened the door for the judge.

“All rise. The Juvenile Court of King County, State of Washington, is now in session, the Honorable Linda Wheaton, presiding.”

Fillion rose on shaky legs and moved the hair from his eyes with a quick head jerk. A petite woman waltzed into the room, seating herself behind the bench in a flourish of robes.

The bailiff shouted in a monotone voice, “Please be seated and come to order.”

Fillion sat down, and then answered the bailiff’s questions, properly identifying himself. The judge was the same one he had seen in his previous trials. She pushed a pair of bifocals down her nose and looked at him squarely, offering him a kind smile. After a flutter of papers, she began reading through the charges brought before him during his arraignment as well as his plea to those charges.

He stared at the imposing desk as the judge aired before the court his crimes while watching John doodle on a legal pad in his peripheral vision. The heaviness in his heart intensified, feeling that nobody in his life took him seriously or honestly cared.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

Fillion stood and took in a deep breath. Every nerve burned with humiliation as he looked up at the judge. He swallowed against the rising panic and placed his hands into the pockets of his gothic-style utility pants.

His dad wanted him to wear something more respectful and traditional, but Fillion refused. Instead, he wore his typical visual kei-influenced cyber-emocore clothing, standard issue in the Anime Tech Movement. Even though it suggested violence, something his dad and John said may influence the judge’s opinion of him, he also wore the black, brass knuckles pendant around his neck. The piercings all stayed in place, too. The small pins, hoops, and studs pleased his ears with their song of defiance.

Hanley wanted him to feel the indignity of who he was, to change his appearance to appease a courtroom. But he didn’t see the purpose. He was being convicted based on evidence, not by what he looked like, despite what John advised. His whole generation dressed nontraditionally. And his dad couldn’t stop him from showing up to his hearing based on how he dressed. So he went all out. The alternative was to show up naked. Mack would have approved of that move too. He could see his friend laughing and sharing the story with their friends at the next meet-up.

The underground wasn’t the best group, but at least it was one. And a real one that met face-to-face. Hackers bored of always meeting as an online community, forming relationships that essentially boiled down to a meaningless string of code. They enjoyed old-school traditions and ideas, their physical meet-ups becoming a mod to the social-media status quo. The underground hid many different types of cyber groups. Pinkie possibly belonged to an entirely different realm of hell than him. And if his instincts proved true, he worried that she might drag his sister down into the hole she came from.

The judge began speaking, and Fillion snapped out of his thoughts. He darted his nervous gaze back to the petite women behind the giant judicial bench.

“To the Class C misdemeanor charges for being in possession of and selling false identifications, the court finds the defendant guilty. To the Class 4 felony charges brought before the court regarding the manufacturing of false identifications, the court finds the defendant innocent.”

Fillion felt the air leave his body, and the release of pent-up nerves wiped away some of the heaviness. John clapped him on the back, sharing in the relief.

“For his crimes, the defendant will pay restitution of $1,500, and serve ninety days in a Community Service Rehabilitation Program, followed by one year of probation. The defendant will be placed under house arrest until reporting to the CSRP.” The judge gave Fillion a smile, her eyes crinkling in the corners before continuing, “You appear to be a good young man. Don’t throw away your future. Any new charges will land you in prison as an adult.”

“Yes, your Honor,” he replied, unsure of how else to answer, knowing nothing he said would be true. He wanted to throw away his future and reprogram a new one.

Satisfied with his response, the judge pounded her gavel. “Court adjourned.”

Everyone stood as the judge walked out of the room. The files in her hands rustled against her robes, and the heels of her shoes clicked briskly down the hallway toward her office.

“Congratulations,” John said while offering his hand.

Fillion shook it shyly, wanting nothing more than to get home and crawl into bed. He had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. Maybe he could hitch a ride with Mack. And he would refuse police escort out of the building so he could leave as soon as possible.

The bailiff came forward and took his fingerprints and a DNA swab. The official finished by strapping on an ankle cuff, and programmed in his personal information by scanning his ID with a device linked to the cuff. Familiar shame washed over Fillion, and he lowered his head to hide behind his hair.

John spoke in a low, affable voice. “I already prepared the paperwork for community service, figuring you would walk out as clean as it gets, considering the charges.”

“Yeah? Where are you sending me?” Fillion timidly tucked a strand behind his ear, and a wary feeling returned.

“Well, there are a few options we are exploring. I’ll go and file the paperwork, and we should hear the results by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Will it be local or do I have to move in somewhere?”

Mack diverted his attention when he came forward and playfully punched him in the arm. The bailiff shook his head at both of them as he walked away. Mack gave a look of mocked innocence. Fillion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.