Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2)

by Sundin, Jesikah

  “No, I am not finished.”

  “Cue the inspirational speech and heartwarming music,” Fillion sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. “Leaf, I’m pissed off and looking for a fight. I don’t like talking about this area of my life. Social cues. Get them.”

  Leaf removed his hand from Fillion’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. “I do not hate you, nor do I believe you are a freak, whatever that may mean. As for my sister, she is the topic I wished to discuss.” Fillion raised his shoulders and stared at a battered, dead leaf by the entry floor. “At first, I believed my sister had lost her mind from grief, and that thoughts of you were merely an escape from her reality. She gave her heart to a stranger, a man who behaved dishonorably toward our family, and who teased and manipulated her affection.”

  “I’m an asshole. Why are we re-hashing this?”

  “Because you never argued with me when I made such statements. I often wondered why as you are rather protective of your behavior, and readily supply justifications. Now I understand.”

  “Leaf—”

  “Do you love her?”

  Fillion thunked his head against the door and closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. Never does. My life doesn’t have a happily ever after.”

  “It does matter how you feel, though.”

  “Leaf, I can’t deal with this right now. My dad brings out the worst in me. I need to keep my head on straight.”

  “Yes, I see and you have shared as much. This is why I wished to have this conversation with you.” Leaf leaned against the door next to him. “My father had a saying: ‘Feelings are real. They often become one’s reality. But they are not always based on truth.’ Your father may mock you and make you feel less than a man, but I wish to gift you knowledge to counter the feelings. My sister has affection for you, and nothing your father may say shall change that truth.”

  Fillion was thankful his forehead rested on their front door. “My dad controls everything,” he said, his voice strained. “You think he’d let me have a relationship with Willow? Get real. He already made that very clear before I entered New Eden. I’m nothing! Programmable like a drone.”

  “You are a merchant prince. Stand tall, My Lord.” Leaf nudged Fillion’s shoulder, but Fillion ignored him. “I said, stand tall.” He pushed Fillion hard, and Fillion lost his balance, staggering backwards. “Shall I repeat myself?”

  Fillion rolled his eyes and then straightened his posture with an exaggerated look of irritation. It was annoying whenever Leaf started barking commands, this moment no exception.

  “As I said, you are a prince of your world. It is a birthright that requires more from a man. I did not choose to be The Aether, and even though I have lost much, I shall not disappoint those who depend on my leadership. You are a man worthy of honor and respect, and it is time you hold your head up high and no longer insult those who give you such esteem, which they give freely not because of your father, but because of you, Son of Eden.”

  Leaf stepped closer to Fillion until they were inches apart, and Fillion drew in a nervous breath. “I shall not pretend I know the wounds that grieve you, as I do not. But I do know you are a good man, regardless of what your father or others may say.”

  Instead of giving in to the voices that perpetually took shots at his self-image, Fillion stood tall and settled an even gaze on Leaf. Out of all the people Fillion had ever known, Leaf was the only person who understood what it was like to be bound and judged by this life.

  The Son of Earth’s lips tipped up in a kind smile and he dipped his head. “When you see your father, do not cower like a lad. Stand tall as a man, as a prince who shall one day be King.” The kind smile gave way to a lopsided grin. “Shall we proceed?” Leaf opened the front door and gestured for Fillion to exit.

  Each step painfully slow to minimize the creaks and groans, they slipped down the stairs. A breeze whipped through the trees. He and Leaf seized the loud rustling sound to bolt through the forest. No such luck when tearing through the meadow, though. The loud thump of each sprinting step echoed in the flat silence. Fillion’s legs and lungs burned, and he wanted to rest once they reached the concealing darkness of the South Cave. But they kept moving until they left the chilled air of the main biodome for the thick, sweltering heat of the rainforest.

  Fillion covered his ears as he looked around. Night life in this biodome could easily rival the deafening noise of The Crypt, a jarring sound after the unnatural, muted quality of the main dome. Birds, insects, and who knows what else, streamed constant noise in a pulsing rhythm.

  A narrow path of spongy substrate squished beneath his shoes. Wet, warm earth, rich with the scent of decaying green matter, filled the air. A white orchid hung low off a tree and Fillion leaned forward and inhaled, his eyes rolling back with the heavenly fragrance. If the temperate forest slept at night, rocked to the lullaby of a gentle breeze, the jungle was alive, undulating in the shifting light and shadows. His eyes roamed over the verdant labyrinth just as Leaf veered off the trail and toward the untamed jungle. Fillion’s heart stilled.

  “Oh god. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Scared?”

  Fillion didn’t need to see Leaf’s face to know it was a taunt. “Could we be turned into a monkey’s midnight snack?”

  Leaf laughed. “No monkeys. Stay close, though.”

  “I’m moved you want me close.”

  “No, not really. I prefer the company of one fairer than yourself.”

  “There’s none fairer than me. You’re crushing my soul.”

  “Pride cometh before—”

  Fillion suddenly placed a hand over Leaf’s mouth. From behind them on the trail came voices and the repetitive crashes of people stomping through brush. Fillion whipped his head toward the sounds as his heart rate kicked up. Leaf grabbed him by the cloak and shoved him behind a tangled mess of vines and a plant with enormously large leaves. Their movement disturbed the condensation on the long, wide leaves and water dripped all over Fillion’s face, but he remained still.

  Three figures ambled toward the large wooden door separating the rainforest from the South Cave. The reflective moonlight was overshadowed by the blackened jungle, making it harder to see faces. Timothy’s laugh was unmistakable, though. Did they visit Messenger Pigeon? If so, why? Fillion was pretty sure Skylar took up the rear. The young noble’s head hung low. As the men paused before the door, Skylar crossed his arms over his chest in a restless motion and looked around, the gestures tight and jerky.

  When the door shut behind the men, Fillion turned toward Leaf. He debated whether to tell the Son of Earth of his earlier encounter with the same group in the temperate forest. He decided to keep it to himself a bit longer.

  “Is that the way to Messenger Pigeon?” he asked.

  “The trail leads to the Dragon Bridge, near Messenger Pigeon,” Leaf said.

  “OK, let’s go.”

  “Do you believe they went to the hatch?”

  Fillion arched an eyebrow. “Unless they were performing a medieval hippie tribal ceremony, I can’t see what else they’d be doing in the rainforest at night.”

  “Timothy cares for some atmospheric duties when the community is safely tucked away at night. Well, he used to, that is. Perhaps he is assisting Skylar. My father pulled me from my bed once to witness Timothy spark excess methane in the livestock biodome while the residents slept. With the East Cave door shut, the sound was mostly contained.”

  “Shit! He sparked methane enclosed?”

  “The facilities use bio-digesters. But occasionally a small amount floats to the biodome ceiling, and Timothy sparks it before it builds into something unmanageable and truly dangerous.” A mischievous smile formed. “I have seen Skylar disturb and light up trapped pockets of methane from the compost piles as well.”

  “Leaf Watson, you’re such a badass.”

  A shy, humored grin warmed Leaf’s features as he stood from his crouched position. The noble wip
ed the water from his skin and pulled his hood further over his face. Fillion followed suit, and they trudged through the jungle.

  Fillion’s body ached as he pulled vines away and climbed over fallen trees. Water trailed beside them, the rushing gurgles competing with the insects and birds. A stream perhaps? Eventually the jungle cleared and gave way to a small clearing and Fillion paused and whispered, “Whoa.”

  A large stone bridge glistened in the moonlight, veiled in a mist from a waterfall that roared nearby. The railing was carved in multiple arches, as if the beast was alive and moving through the jungle. Dark scales gleamed from the side of the bridge and, as they emerged from the dense foliage, Fillion realized they were made of bronze. Did Connor help design this bridge? Other metal filigree glinted under the soft reflected light. It was incredible.

  The narrow trail reappeared underfoot and led to the bridge. Fillion stared into the face of a mythical stone dragon, mouth open, teeth sharp, tongue eternally flicking the air. The other rail featured the tail of another dragon, which curled and formed the foundation for the first step.

  He rested a hand on the damp stone, and his fingers brushed along the arched scales in wonder. The scales passed over the backs of the twin beasts, disappearing into the water vapor. Fillion blinked, awestruck by the massive waterfall. It just suddenly appeared out of the wall, easily forty feet up. The liquid sparkled, and spilled over the wall, splashed over jutting rocks, and emptied into a large pond covered in lily pads. He wasn’t the romantic sort. But this scene probably inspired plenty of poetry.

  Leaf tugged on his sleeve. “Ready?”

  Fillion nodded and they walked on. The path widened. Tropical flowers grew on either side of the trail, their sharp, pointy leaves and petals poking him on occasion. At the end of the pond lay a boulder. Leaf knelt on the ground by a large boulder and pushed it aside, revealing a door.

  “This is it,” Leaf said through grunts as he swung open the door. “After you. There is a toggle on the wall beside the ladder.”

  The substrate squished between Fillion’s fingers and he made a sound of disgust as he crawled backwards and descended into the black underground chamber. He found the light switch and flipped it, a feeling of nostalgia sweeping through him. Finally. Something that at least faintly resembled home.

  A yellow light filled the room and he shook his head with amusement as he stared at the old-school incandescent bulbs, and then his smile fell. How did they get replaced? These bulbs burned out quickly. He didn’t know if they were made anymore, either. Maybe it was to limit UV exposure to the residents? To make it feel more like candlelight?

  Then his eyes rested on the machines responsible for Messenger Pigeon. A pair of forty-two-inch flat-screen monitors rested on top of a metal table. Vintage upright CPU boxes hummed beneath. The idiots had forgotten to turn off the computer when they exited. They had definitely been here.

  Fillion approached the monitors as Leaf stepped into the room. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he murmured to the machine as his fingers caressed the cool surface, pausing over the camera. He lowered and tilted his head to get a better look. “My, you make me weak in the knees. Mack would be so jealous.”

  “Are you talking to the portal?”

  He ignored Leaf, but from the corner of his eye Fillion could see the noble’s baffled expression. Fillion squatted to examine the towers. “Beautiful,” he sighed. Fillion looked over his shoulder at Leaf. “This is the oldest computer I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. Maybe 2010? The ’20s? God, she’s classy. Listen to that purr.”

  “Willow believed it was a singing rock.”

  Of course she did. So damn cute. Fillion placed his hands on the CPU tower. “Don’t listen to them, Bessy. You may be from the tech Stone Age, but you could never be as dull and plain as a rock.” He looked back up at Leaf and sighed with what he hoped was a dreamy expression. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Felicitations.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Fillion’s mouth. “Let’s unplug her and force restart.”

  Fillion climbed beneath the table and located the end of the cord. The glissando sound of the computer’s power down made him grin. After ten seconds, he plugged the cord back into the wall and felt his heart pump as the mechanical engines revved back up to life. “She does have a nice singing voice. I’ll give Willow that one.”

  “You are a very peculiar man,” Leaf said with a lopsided grin.

  “Just geeking out, mate.”

  The screen came on after a few seconds of lag and Fillion shuffled back. The blue screen flashed and his stomach clenched, knowing he’d see his dad shortly.

  “Stand up against that wall so Hanley doesn’t see you.”

  Leaf nodded his head, crossed his arms across his chest, and leaned against the cob surface.

  The screen changed, reflecting the copper walls of the Faraday cage room in his dad’s office. Fillion took in a fortifying breath.

  ***

  The existence of hope—whether attributed to the divine or born of human determination—has sustained and shaped humankind since the beginning of time. Although, until recent history, humanity has never been shaped quite like the Internet culture. Online, the tendency is to bypass the natural process and unsavory business of emotional stages, sharing only the images of a perfect life. Hope is, therefore, no longer an attainable idea.

  Psychologically, this is detrimental to society’s health. The human psyche was designed to learn and grow from hardships, with the aid of visible relationships in real, physically tangible communities. However, modern society has shifted to villainize sorrow as the criminal who stole hope, judging those who would dare spoil the illusion of happiness. Being real is viewed as a sign of weakness, unless it can be used to sell a product.

  It begs the question: Is the absence of real hope, the kind born only from perseverance, related to the staggering number of individuals who feel as though they are losing touch with reality? Without accepting sorrow in all its various shades, hope is reduced to a pain killer that lasts for only fleeting moments rather than truly empowering humankind toward a lasting, transcending existence.

  — Dr. Della Jayne Nichols, “Chapter 5: Sorrow’s Defense,” Misery Loves Company, 2047

  ***

  Seattle, Washington state

  Coal pressed his forehead to the cold glass of a large window and stared out into the night sky. The guest room at Mack’s apartment was nearly as large as Coal’s entire family quarters in New Eden. There was a large, plush bed, a leather divan, metal furniture of various types, and an Imigicast. Black and white photographs of cities from around the world dressed the walls. Intrigued, Coal had studied the images of foreign structures and the people captured in the acts of their daily lives until he mustered enough confidence to approach the window. Then, the sparkling city, bustling with life, owned his thoughts.

  A couple hours earlier, after Hanley and Dr. Nichols had left, Mack had hacked the home-arrest cuff on Coal’s ankle to release the magnetic lock and attached it to Coal’s bedpost in the Black Hole. Hanley and Dr. Nichols were furious with Lynden over the makeover, almost placing a home-arrest cuff on her as well...

  Dr. Nichols had been living in an emotional cocoon, her gray eyes dull and unresponsive. But she flared to life upon seeing Coal’s piercings, elaborate tattoo, and hairstyle. Her perfect specimen was now spoiled, contaminated, and their marketing plan to promote the natural, medieval Martian turned to ash.

  A part of Coal was satisfied with such results. But the other part knew they would spin the situation into their favor eventually. It did not matter how he looked. He was still their product, and they would exhibit him without care for his feelings.

  In response to Lynden’s “audacity” and his exhibited “ignorance,” Dr. Nichols requested a private audience with Coal and delivered a lengthy speech on how he needed to examine his choices and think through his decisions in order to preserve his reputation. Wi
th a calm tone, despite her rigid posture, she expressed that she was certain negative associations and behaviors existed in New Eden, as it was human nature. This world, though, presented far more temptations and with stronger social consequences. Therefore, his future was greatly at risk.

  Could one be banished from this world?

  So far, he had yet to encounter anything as stringent as The Code. Coal, however, understood her real concern was for the experiment being at risk—not him—and he glowered as she continued. After a series of questions, she concluded that the best course of action was to keep him under house arrest. Since he lacked experience in this world and could not be trusted to make the correct choices without her or Hanley’s guidance, it was a “necessary” action.

  Hanley removed the responsibility of “Guide to Life” from Lynden, with an underhanded comment that she should apply more energy toward her studies, given her inability to focus on both work and her education. The insult caused injury, Coal could tell, but she remained impassive, only her hazel eyes dimming as Hanley continued belittling her abilities, comparing her to her brother every now and then. Mack struggled to keep his mouth shut, shifting in a chair nearby, watching Lynden with growing concern.

  And then she snapped.

  “So Fillion can screw up and cause property damage and do whatever the hell it is he wants over and over again and you still send him a paycheck. But I get fired?” Lynden crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Fillion is my heir and future owner of one of my businesses,” Hanley said with a dismissive tone. “You had one job and failed. You were to help Coal integrate.”

  “I did!” Lynden screamed. “He no longer looks like a Martian freak, but an American sixteen-year-old boy.”

  Hanley raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Did I give you those instructions? As my employee, you only do what I ask you to do and nothing else.”

  “You haven’t given me any instructions. Yet you punish me. Typical.”