Impervious Page 4

  Fran blew out a breath and reached into her pocket for a few of the scraps she’d yanked from the café tables. She felt sad for the author, knowing he never had the chance to smell the grass again. Then again, what if she never had the chance either? The reader dimmed with inactivity and Fran sat in the dark for a long moment burdened with melancholy.

  Her thoughts bounced between the anonymous First-Gen and her brother. Did she despise Ted, or did she just feel sorry for him? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Emotions, once so easy to separate, now converged into globs of darkness and shafts of light.

  Her brother was alive.

  Her brother was a sellout.

  Anger and disappointment had long ago woven together into a dark cloak Fran often tossed over her naked shoulders. Fear and loneliness combined to create a snarky mask she didn’t like to peel away. Sarcasm painted any light in her life a dark color, and joy? Pretty much packed up and moved out. Of course, she still clung to hope, but every day even that thick lifeline frayed a little more.

  Fran wondered about the aroma of fresh cut grass. She had visited a park reproduction once long ago with Mom and Ted. Mom had guarded her credits until she saved enough for the cybernetic outing—Fran’s tenth birthday present. The simulated park seemed as real as anything. She remembered laughing with Mom as they chased colorful holographic butterflies while the sensation of a warm breeze brushed past her face. After shedding her thick boots, she’d trounced through lush grasses, enjoying the cool slipperiness between her toes, and plunged her hand into the icy depths of a simulated river. She splashed, swam, and lifted fistful of the water to her lips to taste the sweetness. After a full hour of delights and surprises, just before the scene de-pixelated, a lone butterfly landed on her outstretched hand, tickling her skin with its delicate wings. Although at the time that experience had satiated her curious mind, now she wondered…

  Did everything smell right? What about the temperature and the strength of the breeze? Had she experienced the world as a First-Gen would have on any given day? How would she know?

  On the heels of that thought, she remembered one of the morbid CyberTrain videos she’d experienced in Advanced HAZMAT. It had been a lesson for her and her schoolmates titled Realities of the Open Air.

  In a much darker way, it had felt as real as that day in the park. The landscape of her classroom morphed into a mottled-appearing earth with mounds and mounds of ash under a murky gray sky. A cold wind whipped through the air, scattering the dust in a swirling storm, and Fran felt the sting of acrid-smelling flakes.

  The head of a holographic man emerged from a hatch-like opening where her teacher’s desk had sat. As the holograph climbed into the atmosphere, his eyes grew wide and his hands went to his neck as if he was choking. His skin sagged as he transformed from the image of a young man into a hideous, aged person. Within seconds, the sagging became more intense, and like gelato running along the edge of a crunchy cone, his chin dripped onto his chest. The man roared in agony until a skeleton, with gaping holes where eyes and a nose had once been, stood frozen in his place. Then… poof! He disintegrated and joined the heaping mounds of dust. The wind picked up his remains, pulling them into the storm, and

  Fran remembered a sickness she felt as the computer-generated ashes of the holographic man touched her face.

  With vomit in her throat, she closed her eyes, laid her head onto her desk, and waited until the show ended. The intense mock-up, although nothing more than an artistic rendition like the simulation in the park, achieved the desired effect. She and every classmate vowed never to go outside.

  Yet now she wondered. Could the earth repair itself to the pre-war state? The idea seemed as far-fetched as her day in the park. Yet this guy―this First-Gen scientist―thought so. If still alive today, he’d have seventy or eighty years under his belt. Fran laughed at the thought. No one, except Superiors, lived that long. And since Superiors didn’t write black market tales, this guy remained just a cool piece of history, as lifeless and dried out as the ashes in the storm.

  Too much thinking made her brain hurt, and she paused to rub her temples before reaching into her front pouch for a water packet. She sucked down the contents in a huge, hearty slurp and then waved a hand over the reader.

  When the device came to life, a huge skull-and-crossbones hovered mid-screen. She knew the Rebel brand and tapped the icon. A welcome screen morphed into an E-vite to an all-nighter. She sighed and considered her options. Nope. She just wasn’t in the mood. She hit the “decline” box, and laid her head onto the hard venting floor, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine what the earth would be like when the Epoch came. Would it be like the movie she'd seen or like what this First-Gen described? Her thoughts faded, and sleep took over.

  .~.

  Fran jerked upright. Her entire body felt stiff and cold. Her heart raced, and breath came in ragged gasps. Was someone there? She pressed her back into the pipe, trying to become one with the metal while warring to hold her breath.

  She tuned-in to the surrounding sounds. Creaking and moaning―the usual noises of the pipes—filled her ears. The subtle dance of a venting-bug tickled her face. She wanted to brush it away but resisted the urge to move. The muffled sounds of a family in nearby quarters reached her ears. Maybe she had only imagined the intrusion.

  But then she remembered what had startled her awake. Ted in a velvety robe. The whisper of slippers. A spasm of death. A nightmare, filled with color and emotion so real…

  Fran reached up to brush away the pesky bug, but found no dancing intruder. Just a trickle of tear down her cheek. And a desire to shed a million more.

  Chapter Five

  An unexpected sob ripped through her throat, and she placed her hands over her face, hoping no one had heard the sound. Clamping her jaw, she ground her teeth until the taste of salty blood filled her mouth and remained in the darkness until she was sure the weakness had departed. After stowing the reader back into the folds of her jacket, Fran rose onto all fours. She crawled and tapped, mentally mapping out her movements. When she arrived at the “T” separating east from west, she hesitated. Before allowing time to put the conscious thought together, her body propelled her along a westward shaft—away from the OE—into the West Wing.

  Despite the fact Rebel instincts told her to stay away from the sellout wing, she had to see Ted with her own eyes. Just to be sure. It might take a day, or maybe even a week, to search every living quarter, but she had to bear witness to what she only assumed up to this point.

  Had he sold out? Had he turned cold to the notion of hope?

  She shook her head in an effort to disperse the nagging thoughts and, like a creepy peeper, stole glimpses inside the residents’ personal living spaces. Every pod looked the same with white epoxy-coated floors and matching stark walls. In an effort to mark originality, however, each owner outfitted his little slice of Impervious with artistic sculptures, shimmery wall hangings, and colorful pillows onto the trendy, acrylic furniture. But layouts were the same, each residence equipped with a communication room, kitchenette/living room combo, bedrooms, and spa-like bathrooms.

  One couple sat in the com quarter with a trio of Graphies who reported the morning news. Another pod housed a couple still slumbering under a silky coverlet. Smells of fresh coffee and newly-delivered breakfast foods put Fran’s belly into a neurotic state of hunger. For a moment, she even considered a quick break ’n’ snatch to curb her grumblings.

  Every single pod on this side of the city belonged to somebody important. And, as Fran had already witnessed, strict surveillance equipment guarded these prized properties. She knew if she dared open the grating, a Graphie would be on the scene before she could bite into a puffed pastry or swallow a gulp of a frothy latte.

  She moved and peeped, gawked and sighed. Blurs of side tables, vases of fresh flowers, video display units, and holographic children’s toys filled her vision. Mothers clothed fat babies and stuffed them into electronic walkers while fa
thers carried readers in trendy side satchels. As people moved on with their day, the living pods began to empty and soon, the West Wing grew still.

  Fran continued searching for traces of Ted, knowing she would settle for anything that might indicate his presence in one of these upscale spaces. She zigged and zagged, checking out a portion of each unit with practiced calculation. After hours of tedious peeping and with dwindling adrenaline, boredom began to settle it. Every pod began to look like the next and she yawned as she noted:

  Living area, kitchenette, com-quarter.

  Living area, kitchenette, com-quarter.

  Living area, kitchenette… whoa. This one was different. With hardcore electronics resting on shelves, video screens of varying sizes built right into the walls, and a flagship, high-tech, gaming chair in the center of the room, the space looked more like a gaming chamber than a com-quarter. She discerned faint sounds, like faraway explosions and growls of otherworldly beasts. Maybe the sound of a gaming headset with the volume set on high? Although she couldn’t see anyone, the leather chair jiggled, and the metallic clicking of gaming gloves indicated intense tactile maneuvering.

  Every Gen-Four considered themselves an amateur gamer. Gaming hubs lined the walls of the city, and minor viewing screens perched on short poles around the Agora. Not only that, readers always carried at least a few games on them. But an entire room dedicated to gaming? That smelled professional.

  Like anyone her age, Fran knew the big name avatars. Broadcast on the super-screen at the Agora, tournament games manned by the experts pulled in quite the crowd. The last competition between Queen Xyphon and Trekkor II had been a real nail-biter. Fran snorted. Of course, the Queen had won, but Trekkor made a worthy opponent. But because they—pixilated heroes and heroines—commanded the show and received all the glory, no one really gave much thought to the intelligence behind the characters. Fran had never met a pro gamer—not in person anyway.

  Soon, the clicking ceased, and the faraway sounds muted. Gloves landed on the floor, a green light surrounded the chair, and a femme’s very loud voice filled the silence.

  “Hey, can you come here?” The green light blinked twice.

  “Right here, Nis.”

  Nis?

  “No, you lazy cretin. I mean really come here!”

  “Give me a sec.”

  Ted?

  A moment later, Fran heard the whoosh of an unseen door. The chair whirled around, revealing her sister in law decked out in a white tank and purple Lycra pants that hugged her body like a second skin.

  “It’s about time,” Nissa whined.

  “So where’s the fire?” The sarcastic comment sounded so Ted. Fran envisioned his lopsided smile—the same smirk he’d always worn when he’d teased her back in the day.

  “Sit down. You have to check this out, mate.” Nissa’s voice trembled.

  “Sure. Wow me.”

  A chair scraped against the floor as the lights dimmed, and much like the virtual experience in her old classroom, the gaming quarter transformed into a rocky, desert-like terrain. Holographic zombies roamed about the room, and although Fran knew Nissa still sat in the gaming chair, both the chair and the master had all but disappeared into the landscape.

  Suddenly, the room filled with a deafening roar, and a fanged reptilian-like creature arrived on the scene. Fran sucked in her breath as she looked upon Behemoth―a well-known avatar who’d been rising through the gaming ranks. As the animal stood on its hind legs, leathery wings unfolded from slick, fibrous skin.

  Frightening, yet majestic.

  Even crouched outside of the pixilated landscape, Fran felt dwarfed by Behemoth’s presence and recoiled deeper into her hidden space. Secretions oozed from his nostrils, dripping from the corners of his mouth while his serpentine neck rotated his head a hundred-eighty degrees. Seeming satisfied with the surroundings, Behemoth released one last snarl and took to the sky.

  Although Fran had to crane her neck to watch him move about the room, she could see he sailed with the grace of a hawk—quite odd for such a ghastly creature. He gained speed as he soared, and gargantuan claws clattered as he descended low to the ground scraping a boulder. The scene looked so convincing, when he reversed direction, Fran’s knee jerk reaction was to duck right before Behemoth spewed a thunderous war-cry and dove into a large rift in the rock.

  “MAN DOWN!” The words lit up on a large video display, followed by the status of Queen Xyphon and Behemoth. Even score. An electronic voice permeated the speakers.

  “Five-minute time out.”

  Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Fran exhaled.

  The landscape faded. The yellowish glow of the room transformed to a bright luminance, and Nissa swiveled around.

  “So? What do you think?”

  Fran pressed her cheek onto the mesh just like Pete, hoping to get a glimpse of her brother. A moment later, Ted moved into view wearing a pair of canvas trousers similar to Fran’s along with white mesh vest. His clothing sported half a dozen pockets housing a myriad of hand-held gadgets. A ringlet dangled over his left eye, and his mouth rested in a lopsided grin. He sauntered toward Nissa in silence and loomed over her chair as if his emotions had tongue-tied him.

  His wife stood with a catlike stretch and wound her fingers through the stray curl before she brushed Ted’s cheek with generous lips.

  “What do you think, Teddy-Bear?” she purred.

  “Such a lovely beast.” Ted’s gentle voice held a wealth of emotion. “And to be honest, I’m grateful the world has no idea what a knockout my Behemoth is.” He paused and gazed at his wife. “So, are we ready for the real Queen?”

  “You bet I am.” Nissa tossed her head back and let out a whoop, morphing from a purring kitten to gloating lion. “I smoked that old woman!”

  “Old woman?” Ted’s amusement rumbled from deep within. “For all you know, she is a ten-year-old boy.”

  “No. I know my players, Ted. She is definitely a fully grown queen.” Nissa lifted a brow, and her nostrils flared. “And I’ve got her number.”

  “That’s the spirit to take into the game tomorrow, Nis.”

  “Can you believe your wife made it to the stage, mate?” Her whisper reeked of standard Nissa melodrama, and

  Fran had seen enough. She knew where they lived, so she could always come back. For now, however, she had to either get out or get sick.

  As she shimmied backwards, the zipper of Fran’s boot caught on a screw. She gave a quick shake of her leg to release the hold.

  Bad move.

  Her toe hit the pipe and the reverberations caught Ted’s attention. His eyes shot to the vent opening and locked onto Fran.

  Chapter Six

  Fran didn’t bother with a quiet getaway. Instead, she scampered through the pipe leaving a wake of vibrations as an automated voice sounded off the intruder alert inside of Ted’s pod.

  Did he see me? Ted wouldn’t betray me, would he?

  Even if Nissa notified the authorities, Fran figured she’d be back on her old turf before security arrived. Nevertheless, even after crossing into OE, she kept a stealthy pace, tapping and mapping with one side of her brain while the other side managed her emotions.

  Nissa? A pro gamer? No wonder they live on the West side. For some reason that fact made Fran hate her sister-in-law even more. She’d stolen Ted from the OE. She’d turned him into a sellout.

  Fran grunted and shook her head. Her brain ached as if every spongy cell of grey matter had been stretched beyond capacity. She welcomed the darkness as she snaked toward her sleeping niche. Maybe tomorrow she’d read more of the first-gen diary, but right now, she just needed to power down and shut the world out.

  .~.

  “Come on, Wolf,” Pete begged in his usual annoying manner. “It’ll be fun. And I bet with everyone watching the big screen, we’ll be able to snag some great chow.” He tugged on the end of a dread with a gentle, “Toot-toot.”

  Fran smacked his hand away,
as she swallowed a mouthful of hard cheese. Pete had been kind enough to wake her with a miniature slice of cold pizza, so she didn’t feel right asking him to leave. Then again, watching the tournament today ranked somewhere below slow dancing with a Superior.

  “Not in the mood, Pete. Besides, remember last time? The sour smell of The Council wafted down from their viewing loft, and the whole Agora smelled like old cabbage.”

  “Whew!” Pete held his nose and waved a hand in front of his face. “Eau de Cronies!”

  Fran fought the urge to laugh. Doing so only encouraged his annoyingness.

  “Come on, please?”

  “No. Go on without me, Pete.” She held up the last bite of pizza. “But, bring me back something more to eat, would you?”

  Pete cocked an eyebrow. He excelled at facials and arched one eyebrow high on his forehead while the other dove down toward his nose. Sometimes he’d even flip from left to right brow, adding a whipping sound through his teeth… just for laughs. This time, however, Fran could see he disapproved of her request.

  “What?” She acted oblivious to her rudeness.

  Pete maintained the eyebrow-pose and then, with precision and ease, lifted the top one a little higher. “What’s it worth?”

  “Whatever I got.” Fran held up the crust of pizza. “Although grateful, this scrap only whet my appetite.” She dropped her brows and hugged the reader to her chest. “Except for this, of course—not for sale.”

  The corner of Pete’s mouth lifted to join the extended brow. “How about--” He somersaulted away and maneuvered until his back was to Fran. Then, he wrapped his arms around his midsection and exposed his hands to look like those of another person. He wiggled his head and added obnoxious kissing sounds.

  Unsophisticated.

  Gross.