Transitions: Novella Collection (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2.5)

by Sundin, Jesikah

  “Yes, yes, of course, My Lord.” She invited him with a wave. “My eldest has fallen ill, I am afraid. Will that be a trouble?”

  “No, but I am most sorry to hear of it.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “I did not mean to suggest that perhaps our suffering is greater than yours.”

  Skylar attempted a weak smile through his annoyance. “I had no such thoughts, madam. Please, be at ease. I am only here to care for your needs.” He lowered the yoke and buckets to the ground. With a quick yank, he untied the collection bucket and entered her home.

  The smell of sickness hit him hard. He kept his face devoid of any reaction, though he wished to gag. The woman led him first to her chamber. The dehumidifier hung from an iron candle holder upon the wall, as most were placed in private rooms. A decent pool of water had collected in the base, as he suspected. It was the same in his home. The Blood Rains had saturated the main dome beyond acceptable levels, thus the elevated humidity. The nano panels and venting systems kicked in to recalibrate the air, though not fast enough. He may need to visit all of the occupied apartments.

  Carefully, he lifted the collection bucket to cover the dehumidifier, then unhooked the wooden container. It plopped to the bottom of the bucket with a loud thud. Once outside, he dumped the water plate and placed the sodden charcoal in a different bucket. With one of many rags he brought along, he dried the tarred interior until it no longer wept from the air holes, then filled it with fresh activated charcoal. He repeated this process in the apartment until all dehumidifiers were cleaned and replaced.

  He was ready to leave when a thought occurred. Perhaps he should check the felted wool air filter in the natural heat return as well. The biodome had experienced far more pollutants than usual these past few months. Was this perhaps why so many were falling ill? He surely hoped not, for he could not endure one more scandal linked to his home. Skylar thought over the symptoms being reported and noted, with alarm, that some did indeed align with natural gas poisoning.

  “May I check your air filter?”

  Her eyes widened again. “I wash it twice a year as instructed, My Lord. I assure you.”

  “I have no doubts that you do. That is not my concern.”

  She appeared anxious, but nevertheless showed him the air return in the lower back wall. He crouched on his knees and removed the iron grate. The filter was clogged with debris, what he feared. Skylar ran a finger along the felted wool and left a noticeable streak. Over his shoulder, the woman gasped.

  “Are we cursed with a Black Death?”

  “No, ’tis ash from the Great Fire, fret not. Shall I send Windlyn to wash the filter for you?”

  The woman sank to a chair. “You do not trust me to care for something so simple?”

  “Your daughter is ill, and I did not wish to add to your burdens.” Skylar resisted the urge to sigh heavily. The back and forth was growing wearisome. Did he appear upset or offended? He did not think so. Perhaps his sister was correct and he should smile more. Still, he remained bland as he awaited her reply. Emotions had always invited undesired attention in his home.

  “I shall care for my filter, My Lord, never you worry.”

  “Then I shall take my leave.” He paused at the door with a bow. “Do let me know if you are in need of anything, madam. I wish your daughter a hasty recovery.”

  The heavy sigh finally left his tightened chest when the door shut. Skylar picked up the yoke and carried it a few steps to the next apartment. It would be a long day, indeed.

  He left the Cooper’s shop and flipped up his hood, relieved of the load he had carried all day. His back ached and he rolled his shoulders and stretched. People milled about in conversation while others rushed in the direction of their apartment for the hour of rest. Pleasant savory scents infused the air from the Great Hall and his stomach grumbled. Though in need of a light repast before evening meal, he was eager to return home and decompress from this day.

  Often the villagers forgot that he was in the home and spoke freely of topics and made comments he wished he had never heard or knew. His father, on the other hand, enjoyed the intrusion and would casually drop information to those who breezed by. The villagers repeated that they “heard it on the wind,” as his father would oft say and, thus, the rumor mill continued to rotate at full speed.

  Skylar frowned and drew his eyebrows together. His father resented him for being “too noble” and “pretentious,” and for not doing his duty to ensure The Elements were informed of all goings-on within the community. A few evenings each week, Skylar received a verbal lashing, and was struck or pinched until his skin bruised, all in attempt to gain a confession. But Skylar remained tight-lipped. His mother and sisters believed he was sequestered with Father to debrief the Wind Element on private details only The Elements and First Representatives were privy to know. Or so he thought until Gale-Anne’s comment this morning.

  The last of the bruises had finally faded. Never would he allow another to abuse him again—in any way. Threats and punishments no longer greeted him upon returning home as before. The initial panic still taunted him, however. Perhaps it always would, same as the panic caused by heavy wood smoke.

  “My Lord.”

  He swiveled on his heel toward the sound of his friend’s voice. “Your Majesty,” Skylar said with a bow. His friend limped toward him, though his injured leg appeared to be moving with more flexibility than before.

  “I searched for you earlier in the day, but you must have been making rounds,” Leaf said.

  “Yes. I spent most of the day on the North End, by your apartment, actually.” Skylar waited for Leaf to catch up. “How may I be of service to you?”

  His friend smiled at him. “I simply wished to see you.”

  Skylar ducked his head at the sentiments. How Leaf could seek out, let alone stand Skylar’s company was beyond him. “I am glad to have crossed paths with you, Your Majesty, for a Service Announcement is needed this evening,” he said. Leaf did not appear bothered by the change in subject, but narrowed his eyes as Skylar explained the situation with the filters. “My concern is that those who have fallen ill will blame the air circulation.”

  “Could it be poor filtration? Are the turbines and industrial air vents affected as well?”

  “If the homes are affected, it stands to reason that the larger vents and filters need thorough cleansing as well. But no, I cannot imagine the illness is from poor filtration or higher levels of humidity. Not every symptom lines up with the nature of air toxicity.” Skylar lifted his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “I know workloads are already strained, Your Majesty, but I shall need assistance. There is far too much for me to accomplish on my own.”

  “I shall assist you, My Lord.”

  Skylar took a step back. “No, Your Majesty. You are needed for morale in the village.”

  “And what of you, Sky? Your needs are also valid.” Leaf placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. A corner of his friend’s mouth tilted up as he said, “You cannot stop me. I outrank you.”

  Skylar’s lips twitched and his friend’s smile widened. “That was quite noble of you to point out.”

  “Yes, I am quite noble.” Leaf grinned again.

  The villagers looked on with curiosity, some with nervousness, and Skylar retreated to a more unreadable emotion. Did others still wish he was The Aether instead of Leaf? Or did they now berate themselves and others for the folly of their once-held political beliefs? For following a delusional, aggressive man?

  “I should return home to Mother,” he mumbled. “Windy is needed back in the kitchen to assist with evening meal.”

  Nonplussed by the attention, Leaf slipped him another smile and began walking toward the village path. Skylar relaxed his muscles a notch then fell into step next to his friend. A mild zephyr fluttered the leaves and rustled their clothing. Skylar inhaled with deep appreciation when the bio-breeze stirred up the delicious fragrance of roasted vegetables, which lessened as they tr
aveled north. They remained in companionable silence, even as the shops gave way to apartments and the crowds thinned to an occasional villager or a child chasing another.

  Before reaching his home, Skylar cut a glance Leaf’s way and confessed, “I still do not have a future plan for the Techsmith Guild nor a suitable Education Plan.”

  “There is no hurry, My Lord. Though, Hanley hounds me almost daily for you to report back to him.” Leaf flashed a sly look. “Apparently blurring the lines of our respective offices is no longer necessary. His opinions change with—”

  “The wind,” Skylar mumbled.

  Resentment brewed within him, but he tamped it down. What were his options? Hanley—his uncle—had him cornered. The community blocked his ability to move forward, and he needed to move forward. Distance was the only hope he possessed at present. At some point, he had to admit defeat. Actually, he was ready to wipe his hands clean of the Techsmith Guild. It all seemed pointless. The dilemma of imparting technology education to firmly rooted neophytes went beyond his scope of understanding. Nor could he endure any more scandal. But, before he decided on the next course of action, he needed insight and clear direction. He stopped mid-stride and faced Leaf. An idea had surfaced with his latter thought.

  “As The Aether,” he began quietly, “could you request a private audience with Dr. Nichols? I am willing to travel to the lab if necessary.”

  “What manner of meeting do you seek?”

  “I wish to discuss the psychology behind my given task.” Skylar straightened his shoulders once more. “Since a lad, I was told that people learn best from their own. I am not certain if that is true anymore. And, if not, I fail to comprehend how the Techsmith Guild shall assist New Eden to transition during Project Phase Two. What are we transitioning toward, anyway? The project goal is no longer to shut down but to continue, as her High Highness kindly reminded me.”

  “Indeed.” Leaf narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, slow and deliberate. “I shall send a message to the lab.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  They reached Skylar’s door, and Leaf thumped him amiably on the back before departing. Out of habit, he lifted the door before pushing in, but received resistance. His eyes swung up and rested on a new hinge, dark and bright against the wood and stone. The lower hinge had been replaced as well to ensure they matched. His chest tightened with Connor’s gesture.

  The door opened with ease and his mouth tipped up in the beginnings of a smile as he entered. Now perhaps Mother would stay warmer in the cooler months ahead. His steps faltered, however, when Lady Rain rose to a stand.

  “My Lady,” he said, and nearly stumbled over such simple words. He shifted his focus to the hallway and drew his eyebrows together. “Is my sister well?”

  “Yes, quite.” Lady Rain glided toward where he stood and folded her hands at her waist. “She has left for the kitchen. Gale-Anne assists her this eve as well.”

  “I see.” He looked to her again and blinked back his confusion and surprise. “Thank you, once more, for coming to our family’s rescue this day. I know you have tasks of your own to complete. Our family does not mean to take you from duties others are reliant upon.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Rain said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then, she lowered her eyes and turned toward her shoulder saying, “It is an honor ... to care for the woman responsible for my education.” She cleared her throat in a dainty sound and met his eyes, though hesitant.

  “I am indebted to you, My Lady.” Skylar took her hand and placed it to his forehead as he bowed deeply. Warmth colored her neck and cheeks as he released her fingers and his concern from this morning grew once more. “Forgive me, but do you fare well? You seem flushed.” He gestured to the chair. “Please, do not let me keep you standing.”

  Her eyes widened and she looked away, the color brightening. “Yes, I fare well. I do not suffer a fever. Simply ... it is warm, is it not?” She touched her cheek, a delicate movement his eyes followed until her slender fingers returned back to her waist.

  His forehead wrinkled, for it was not warm, though he would not press her further. “I would offer to walk you home, but we are unchaperoned.”

  “We are head Nobles. Surely others will think we merely speak of business.”

  He inspected a clump of dirt upon the floorboards. “I would not risk your reputation.”

  “Of course.”

  Lady Rain peered at his mother over her shoulder, who now sat upon a chair, prim and proper. Skylar followed her gaze and his heart jumped a beat. Mother’s normally long, brown tresses were braided and crowned upon her head, dainty fern leaves tucked within the folds and loops, and a cluster of wildflowers were tucked within the latticed bodice cords of her kirtle. Her skin glowed clean and a hint of orange blossom hung in the air. For weeks her cheeks had grown sallow and her complexion waned. But this moment she appeared as though a young maiden.

  “Thank you,” he somehow choked out. “She looks lovely.”

  “Yes, she is. I told her so all day long.”

  The atmosphere around them shifted. It was subtle, like a light bio-breeze which stirs the air though the trees moved not. Slowly, he met Lady Rain’s dark eyes and her breath fluttered. He knew he stared longer than a gentleman should. But he could not look away, far too overcome to speak or move, especially when his mind raced in tandem with his panicking pulse.

  “I shall be on my way, then,” she said, almost a whisper. “See you at evening meal.” In a few steps, she pulled open his front entry door and disappeared into the afternoon light.

  He continued to stand there like a complete dolt. Air rushed back into this lungs and his heart rate accelerated even higher. Skylar studied his mother once more. She really did look quite lovely and ... at peace. He picked up the ropes from the floor and tied one around his mother’s waist and another around her thighs. Safety measure in place, he could now leave her unattended in the chair for a few moments. He gave her warm hand a gentle squeeze, then trudged to his room to freshen up. A village matriarch would arrive soon to keep Mother company while he attended evening meal with his sisters.

  Friday, December 11, 2054

  Dr. Nichols breezed into The Chancery with fluid movements. Dust motes glinted and danced in a wedge of sunlight afforded by the open door. The click of her strange heeled shoes syncopated to the rhythm of Skylar’s heartbeat and he steadied his bearing to ensure he appeared calm and collected. Still, he flinched when his chair scraped the floor as he came to a stand beside Leaf and Jeff.

  Loosely styled raven strands swayed over slender shoulders and against a long, elegant neck with each bounce of her even steps. An embroidered silk dress—long-sleeved and high-necked—clung to every curve and ended above the knee, much to his dismay. It was her eyes that turned his mouth to sawdust, though. Haunting and gray, they were an ethereal color that appeared to see right through him. Most men in the community spoke of her allure as if Helena of Troy were merely passable in comparison. Unlike Skylar, who found her comeliness entirely unnerving and not in a pleasant way.

  Since the start of Project Phase Two, Dr. Nichols had visited New Eden only once, and on the arm of her husband. People had parted for her as if she were an Earthen Queen and stared agape at her unnatural beauty. She even possessed the ability to silence the rumor mill for days following her visit, miracle of miracles. Lady Brianna, considered most fair among women in New Eden, appeared dull in her cousin’s presence. And old enough to be her mother.

  Hanley’s wife walked into the main belly of The Chancery and his mind wandered back to their first introduction in the airlock. In front of Fillion and Leaf, she had commented on how he resembled a younger version of her husband. At the time, he had believed her observation a mere flirtation. Now he knew the truth. But did she?

  He bowed, as did Leaf and Jeff. “Thank you, My Lady, for coming so swiftly and on such short notice,” Skylar said as he rose.

  “I had to wait until Hanley de
parted for New York this morning.”

  “Would you care for tea, My Lady?” he asked. “I can send for refreshment.”

  “No, but thank you.” She tilted her head and arched an elegant, dark eyebrow. Lips, painted the color of wine, tipped up in a beguiling smile. “I assume you want this meeting off the record?”

  “Yes, if you please.” Skylar gestured to a chair and lowered into his own only when she had settled.

  Leaf leaned forward and added with dry humor, “Though with all the scientists running about these days, I doubt anything is truly off the record with Hanley.”

  “You might be surprised.” With a sly smile, her attention shifted to Jeff. Posture cool and appraising, she said, “Good to see you, Jeff.”

  “You look well, as always, Dr. Nichols.” Jeff rose and shuffled loose leafs of paper on his desk with quaking hands. “If you will excuse me. I will leave you three to have your discussion in private.” He snatched a walking stick by his chair and quickly departed The Chancery. Perhaps Skylar was not the only man who found her beauty terrifying.

  “Well,” Dr. Nichols began. She crossed her legs the opposite direction and leaned over her knees. Skylar focused on the floor rather than the immodest display of bare skin. “You wished to meet with me, Skylar? May I call you Skylar or do you prefer a different form of address?”

  “Skylar is fine.”

  A cloying scent infused the air all around her and Skylar did his best to not show displeasure. Nerves rushed through him in the ensuing silence and he gripped the edge of his seat. Gray eyes roamed over him from head to toe and back up again. Was he to speak? Had she asked him a question? He could not recall, too lost was he in calming his escalating anxiety.

  She brushed dark strands from her shoulder and lifted her eyebrow once more. “How is your mother? Any signs that the catatonia is waning?”

  “No, not really,” he murmured. “I fear she may be forever lost to us.”

  “Would you like her temporarily institutionalized?” Dr. Nichols reached out and placed a warm hand upon his knee. Wine-colored nails gleamed against the dark tones of his breeches, as if flecks of blood. “I promise she would have the best care until recovery. A period of rehabilitation may be necessary for atrophy, similar to that required for a stroke victim.” The heat from her hand seeped through the heavy wool and he swallowed.