Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (18 page)

She hid herself within the light and edged around the perimeter of the Agora, making sure to stay within the illumination of the rocky walls. When she reached the stage, she crept up the stairway, and slithered to the center. Then, like a ridiculous avatar, Fran lifted to her full height and stood, hands-on-hips, staring at the animated Queen.

Queen Xyphon barked from her throne. “Who is this Rebel in my midst?”

Fran did not reply as she inched her way to the edge of the stage.

“Dare you sully my royal palace with your Rebel presence?” The evil voice rose in anger.

The cheers faded. Zombies stood at ease, and a hush fell over the courts. Behemoth landed in a corner and remained still. Even her remaining Rebel comrades stopped moving.

Fran assessed every nook, every cranny, every stationary object, and every hallway leading away from the courts. She knew exactly where to go. And she had the Queen’s full attention.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Queen bellowed from her throne, “Zombies, ravage this Rebel!”

That was her cue. Fran jumped from her elevated position on stage. Her eyes blurred as the nine remaining zombies raced cross court. She turned in a slow circle and watched as they approached the perimeter. 

She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes for a half a second, opened, and exhaled. The intense sensation engulfing her body made it hard to breathe. The zombies came close enough for her to make out their gruesome details—mangled faces and decaying flesh. Hair rose up from where it lay on her head. The prickliness morphed into a burn and then a stabbing, knife-like pain spread through her chest. A tear traveled down her cheek. The landscape blurred.

She closed her eyes, held her breath, placed her hands over her head, and curled up into a ball. Then with a moment-and-a-half between her and the nine holographs, a breath before they collided with one another and burst into a self-destructive power bomb, she hit the floor and rolled like a bowling ball away from the stage.

One somersault, two, three, and four. A crackle pierced the air as the surge of electricity consumed its own self, like a cannibalistic rat snake. The Agora lit up as if the sun had found its way inside the metal dome before it plunged into blinding, suffocating darkness.

At that moment, Fran began to count.

And run.

Chatter rose from the surrounding viewers.

One second.

She sprinted past the resting fountain, the smell of the rusty minerals surrounding her.

Two seconds.

She zigzagged past the stationary tables, their crumbly sandwich residue giving away an otherwise hidden location.

Three seconds.

Drawing a straight line in her head, she followed it like a beacon in the darkness.

Four seconds.

The heat from the moving stairway up ahead reached for her.

Five seconds.

She launched and stumbled as she climbed the frozen stairs two-at-a-time.

Six seconds.

Seven seconds.

Gripping the rubber railing, she pulled her weight to propel herself upward.

Eight seconds.

Reaching the landing, she felt the hard epoxy flooring.

Nine seconds.

She raced until she careened into the glass doors of the Le Petite Spa and used the hard, cold windows as a guide to move her to the hallway.

Ten seconds.

Eleven seconds.

The lights flickered.

She burst through the corridor, her throat and heart glued together with fear as she headed for the elevator.

Twelve seconds.

The crowd roared as the de-pixilated Agora came back to life. She imagined the cries came from the shock and repulsion as the crowd witnessed the littering of bodies across the epoxy flooring.

The doors of the elevator hummed closed. She jabbed the “S” button with her thumb. Her breath came in ragged sobs and agonizing wheezes. She clasped her chest, resting her head against the wall of the elevator.

By the time the elevator arrived at the Surface floor―Fran’s breathing had almost normalized. Her throat and chest still burned from the thick EMP. The muscles in her arms and legs intermittently spasmed and twitched as they reeled from the intense magnetic overload. But she was alive.

Just as Mr. Englehardt had warned, the power collision did produce the synergistic blackout, and the cloak of darkness had acted as her personal tunnel to escape the Agora. Darkness was a friend to every Rebel and she hoped they’d all used their twelve seconds as she had.
Just find a place to hide,
she thought.
I’ll be back for you.

The doors slid open, and Fran poked her head into the quiet vestibule. Were they scouring the hallways looking for her? Did they even know, Sarah Monde, had been in the Rebel crowd, or was she just one of thirty-one faceless Rebels? She still needed to get through the doors of the Ranch, but then after two lefts and a right she’d find her cover.

Fran looked down at her wrist.

My bangle!

It was gone.

How would she re-enter the Ranch? If she knocked on the door, Freddie or another guard would answer. Considering the deactivator plus showed her inside and at work, how would she explain? Fran had no doubts Freddie had watched the game on his reader. He’d figure it out. After all, she did kind-of have a history.

She would just have to wait it out. Sooner or later, someone would exit. Someone would leave for the day, and she would breeze through the door as they exited.

She crept through the hallway and sat on the bench outside of the facility―the one used by relatives of the post-primers as they waited for clearance. The one that stayed hidden behind a big phony ficus to block the distasteful view. She had no reason to fear, right? As far as the Council knew, her status showed Accountable, right?

The beady eyes of Marcus glaring into the venting haunted her imagination.

Just breathe.

She focused on her breath and closed her eyes.

Bad idea.

The gruesome faces of the Zombies filled her mind’s eye, and the essence of charred bodies filled her nostrils. Her eyes popped open. She stared at the floor, working to block out what had transpired over the last few hours, nowhere near ready to process it all. Maybe she never would be. She hadn’t gotten through to Ted. And what about Pete? She hadn’t rescued Pete.

A sob lodged in her tight chest. So many Rebels had lost their lives. Fran felt her soul falling. The Beast. Failure. Hopelessness. 

She remembered Marcus’ cold stare as she watched from the venting. He had known. He’d used her like a pawn in his sick game. Maybe she should have never come back. Maybe she should just turn herself in and take the hit of a forfeiture.

Her mother’s face came to mind, and a tear pinched the corner of her eye. Fran remembered the shriek that had erupted from her mother when their eyes had reconnected for the first time. The surprise and elation. The joy.

She’s going to lose one son. Don’t make her lose a daughter as well.

For her mother’s sake, she had to go back. But not because she deserved to be free. She heard a thumping and Fran turned her head. John, one of the two remaining wards of Team-Fran, stood on the far side of the glass wall waving to her.

She laughed.

She cried.

As she stood to move toward the door, a buzzing filled her ears. She turned around just as an RIT zipped past. It stopped mid-air and circled around her head. She lifted her face. A flash of red. The RIT zoomed off. She continued toward the door, where John still waved, and smiled at her old friend.
So you do get up and walk around after all. Let’s see what else you can do.

Fran pointed to the door handle and mimed to John the motion for opening the door. John laughed. He didn’t get it. Fran tried it again.

The hair on her arms began to rise, and a prickly sensation crawled upon her skin.

Huh?

It took longer than it should have for her to piece it all together. The RIT in a Surface floor hallway? And the electromagnescence of a Graphie? Had she forgotten their ways? Was her brain completely fried?

She looked back to John with renewed terror. The smile vanished from his face as he noticed the change. He looked down at his feet and began to shuffle away.

No!

Fran pounded on the glass. She shouted his name. She mimed the motion to open the door.
Please, John, please.

Twelve seconds. She had twelve precious seconds to convince him, and she’d already wasted two. She bent down low so he could see her face as he gazed at his paper slippers. She caught his eye. She smiled and waved.

He smiled and waved.

She stood up.

He smiled and waved.

She mimed opening the door.

He opened the door.

She dove through the opening.

Chapter Twenty Nine

A Graphie materialized on the far side of the glass wall. Fran stared as the rippling holograph flashed red from his sockets before slowly de-pixilating to nothingness. She woofed out a breath and put her hands to her mouth as nausea rolled through her belly.

“Hi.” John still smiled and waved.

“John, when you get outside, I’m going to give you a big kiss.”

John puckered up.

“Oh. What the heck.” Fran moved forward and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips.

John giggled. “I’ve got a girlfriend,” he mumbled as he shuffled away.

Fran took a last, disbelieving, look over her shoulder and then sprinted down the hallway. She skidded to the left when she reached the first turn. Her head reeled and her heart beat much too fast. And too hard. Her eyes began to blur and she missed second left. Colliding with a wall, she slid to a stop and spun back around to the last hallway.

One more right
, she reminded herself and soon saw the final turn up ahead. The swishing sound of paper booties filled her ears as she neared the supply closet. Was someone behind her? Was she hearing her own footsteps? While holding her breath, she lunged at the door, and with trembling hands entered the code twice before she got it right.

After the door closed, she leaned her head against the wall and slid down its slick surface. She coiled into a ball on the floor. She might be there an hour or a day; she had no way of knowing. Overloaded senses shut down. Her world went black.

.~.

She awoke with a start, ready to fight. Her heart raced as she looked around at her surroundings. Cleaning supplies and folded smocks rested on the shelves. The memory of her fight returned.

She rose, put an ear to the door, and listened… to the muffled laughter of the Superiors as they dropped off a package. Adrenaline and relief spilled through her veins. A shaky smile crossed her face as she kept her ear to the door. The vestibule doors hummed open. She counted to three and poked her head from the door.

All clear.

Fran tiptoed across the hall and the moist, warm, healing balm touched her skin. She breathed in the sweet air as the blades rotated in a blurry circle, offering her the breath of life. The motor ceased, and silence filled the vestibule.

She ran.

Jumped.

Gripped and pulled.

Bellied under the fan.

The light from beyond beckoned, and she crawled toward freedom, every tortured moment, her heart wrenched and turned in her chest.

Pete. Sweet, brave, goofball Pete. He’d believed in her. He’d loved her. He’d given her a gift that no one else ever had, yet she’d discarded it like a cheap toy. On a sob, she remembered the day he’d breathed life into her tired soul and the way he had whispered her name.

Not Wolf.

Not Fran.

But Sarah, her real name.

She hardly felt like a princess, yet mercy poured into the venting as if welcoming royalty. She thought about Ted. Would she see him again one day in the distant future, or would he be swallowed up as well? Although she’d managed to disarm her personal Beast, a monster still existed down there. A mere twelve floors below, this Beast still gave children nightmares and stole hope from the aging. Until the truth could be told, that paralyzing fear of death would continue to prey on them all and, for some, consume them wholly.

At last the light shone overhead and she lifted her eyes toward the blue skies. She took one last look behind her.

“You will be crushed,” she whispered to the darkness and then crawled to freedom.

Chapter Thirty

Ted marched the length of his living pod.
That couldn’t have been her.
His blood boiled cursing her stupidity.
What were you thinking?
He rubbed his forehead as if would help untangle the jumbled thoughts and make sense out of what he’d just witnessed.

She had no business being out on her own. 
Next time
, he would not let her out of his sight. Next time his iron hand was going to come down on with that curly-haired terror.

Like a lion waiting to be fed, he patrolled the entry to Nissa’s chamber. Since she manned Behemoth, Ted was sure she’d be able to clarify the parts of the show he’d missed. As he paced, the door hummed open. Nissa burst through, all smiles and giggles.

“Did you see that, Teddy-Bear?”

“Oh I saw it, alright.”

“Wasn’t that spectacular?! Nissa and Ted’s voices collided as he growled. “What was she thinking?”

They paused to examine one another. Nissa perched her hands onto slender hips

“That was one of my best games ever. You
are
proud of me, aren’t you?”

Ted shook his head. “My sister almost died.”

“Was that
Wickerbug
? I thought it looked like her. But then again, all of the Rebels started to blur into one, so I wasn’t sure.” Nissa shrugged. “I will totally need to thank her when we see her next.”

“Holy indifference, Nissa! You don’t understand, do you?” Ted slapped the hallway table. “It wasn’t just a game. The deaths weren’t simply avatars. They were real people.”

Nissa waved a slim hand and began to saunter away. “Oh I know. But they were Rebels, anyway—“

She recoiled as if being hit by her own words.

“I mean, except for Frannie. I would definitely have felt bad if our little Wickbug died.”

She turned back to Ted wearing her best pouty-face.

Ted’s nostrils flared as he pulled in a controlled breath. He allowed the oxygen to take up residence in his lungs while examining her sappy expression.

“What? She didn’t die, did she?” Nissa drummed her nails onto the table.

He waited until his lungs cried, “
Uncle
,” before allowing the breath to whoosh forth. “No, she didn’t
die
,” he growled. “I mean I don’t
think
she did. After the lights went out, she was simply gone.”

Nissa placed her hands onto Ted’s shoulders. “Oh Teddy. I hope she’s not dead.”

That
word. Ted felt the ripple move from his gut to his spine and down his legs. He’d already felt the punch of that word two times in his short life. Ted looked down at this feet and shrugged away from her hold. “I hope not.”

The mechanized, door greeter interrupted the conversation.

“You have a visitor.”

Ted growled with frustration as he moved toward the doorway. The greeter commenced the next cycle of alert. “Ted and Nissa Monde, you have a visitor.”

Ted swiped the display icon next to the door, and the face of security—the human kind, not the typical holographic version—appeared on his flat-screen.

“Can I help you?”

“Ted Monde?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I have official business of a grievous matter to discuss with you. May I come in?”

If sending a human in place of the standard holograph hadn’t sent Ted’s alarm clanging, this statement would have. Ted’s entire body felt weak as the guard lifted his com device to auto-scan, and the greeter announced his credentials.

“Officer Gregory Reynolds. Order of the Council.”

Ted held his breath, wishing for the disconnectedness of a Graphie instead of warm body. Nonetheless, he slid the door open and Officer Reynolds stepped inside.

“Ted, we have been informed that your sister, Sarah Monde, has been in violation of her house arrest status. Although we have suspicions as to why, before we make a final decree on her status, doctrine dictates we check with surviving family members as to Accountability.”

“You mean you want to know where she is? Fran?” Ted laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Officer Reynolds shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Monde.” He voice lowered. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

He turned away from Ted’s stare and began to fidget before clearing his throat and continuing his speech.

“Because of her Unaccountability, the Council has declared Sarah Monde… Deceased.”

Air whooshed from Ted’s lungs like he’d been hit in the gut, and he folded his arms around his midsection. The way the horrible words eased from the officer’s lips, nice and easy—like ordering a hamburger at the Lunch Hut—repulsed Ted as much as the words themselves. He eased his breath through flared nostrils and tried to pull in another shaky lungful. His chest locked up on a sob.

Officer Reynolds flinched and looked down his nose as if a sudden stench filled the air. He turned on his heels and moved back toward the doorway.

“You can follow me to collect her belongings.”

Ted’s head snapped up and he glared at the detached officer’s back.
“Hey, your sister’s dead. Come get her stuff.”
He imagined yanking the moron by the collar and unloading a piece of his mind—Officer of the Council, or not.

He spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes, Officer Reynolds. Thank you.”

Nissa’s pouty murmurings followed Ted as he exited the pod only to be silenced when the door whooshed behind him. He followed the officer through the long maze of hallways, away from his upgraded West Wing residence and back to the East Side where he’d been raised. The familiarity ripped at his gut. He could almost hear the pounding of Wickworm’s boots digging into the hard floor, trying to keep up with her big Bro. He swore he could still hear the echo of her laughter and jammed his hands into his pockets, as he stifled the urge to scream in protest.

When they reached Fran’s accommodations, Officer Reynolds stepped aside, allowing Ted entry. He moved into her home, taking note of the scarcity of belongings. The refrigerator housed no icy drinks and the cupboards, nothing other than a few dusty plates. She had left an unmade bed and a bag of garbage. The transient atmosphere seemed to laugh a mocking reminder of his sister’s Rebel behavior.

Ted moved to the edge of the bed, eased onto the hard mattress, and placed elbows onto knees, while he stared at the floor. He reached for a pillow and then pressed his face onto its softness while breathing in the essence of his sister—fast food and sweet honey.

Could this intangible aroma on this pillow be all that remained of the curly haired Wickworm? He breathed it in again, unable to even think of letting her go. At least Mom and Dad had lived a full life before their decline. How could it be? How could his fifteen year old sister be gone forever?

A sob ripped through his gut and seared the hollow of flesh as it shredded through his throat. He balled up the pillow and chucked it at the wall as he bellowed. The rush of blood in his head manifested as black spirals in his vision. He flopped back onto the tangle of sheets and squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to spill, but the lumpy bed offered no comfort.

He reflected on the plush comfort of his own West-Wing bed, and guilt raced through his veins. He hadn’t taken care of his sister like had promised his mother. Sure, he’d tried to bring Frannie into his and Nissa’s world. But when she resisted, he never really pushed back. Was he lazy? Selfish? Maybe both. And now? Now she was gone. Forever.

An extra hard protuberance jutted into the top his spine. Figuring Fran had left a food carton in the folds, he reached a hand behind his neck to push the object aside. Instead of crinkly aluminum, however, his hand brushed against the cool, smooth, surface of an E-reader.

A reader? He almost laughed at the audacity. The girl who couldn’t even afford decent clothes somehow managed to get her hands on a reader. He dragged it around to take a look and as he turned it over in his hands, noted her initials etched into the side. Messy, like she’d used the edge of a knife, they touted her ownership. So Fran.

He gazed at it as if he’d just discovered a historic relic. It bore evidence that Fran had been a part of this room. Something tangible he could hold, unlike the invisible scent on her pillow. Ted held it to his chest and allowed himself the luxury of a few scattered memories; dancing blue eyes, ringlets like paper ribbons, and laughter so riotous it bordered on hilarity.

Finally, he sobbed for the girl he had left behind last year and the hardened teen who had replaced her when she came back. He cried for his own losses and the pain that never seemed to go away.

When he had emptied himself of memories and tears, he stood, and with Fran’s old reader tucked to his side, exited her old residence.