“Good.” A sly smile returned to Mack’s face and he wagged his eyebrows. “You should really consider a career in cage fighting.”
“And give you cause to laugh at my suffering?” Coal’s grin widened. “Business skirt for the win.”
“Yeah,” Mack said with a goofy smile. “All right, Farm Boy, let’s get going before we start crying into each other’s shoulders. And when I say we, I really mean you.”
An hour later, Coal paid a cab driver and carried Lynden, who fell asleep again during the car ride home. Her soft, even breaths warmed his neck. He laid her in her bed, set the external alarm on his Cranium, then slipped into the covers beside her. He did not wish to sleep. Rather, he wished to memorize the feel of Lynden against him, allow her pulse to speak to his.
His movements to settle in woke her, and she rolled to face him, lacing her fingers with his. They studied one another in the dim light, words seeming trite. This farewell was worse than any he had experienced to date.
A shy smile touched her face and then her lips tasted his, hesitant, almost mournful, releasing the flood of emotions they both attempted to hold back. His kiss deepened to a seductive rhythm, longing to savor every second, and he slid his hands around her waist as she held his face. Time was soon forgotten, as their hearts slowed to a dimension all their own.
***
One of the highest forms of emotional intelligence is when an individual awakens to the pain of others and, in response, extends empathy and compassion. Their defense is no longer to remain inward, but they are instead compelled to become outward. It is their moment of social rebirth as they transition from a state of emotional isolation to a place where they recognize the bonds they share with others, an experience they could not grasp nor feel previously. In a culture that does not possess many physical communities, this is an even greater feat for the individual who defends the humanity in others.
— Dr. Della Jayne Nichols, “Chapter 9: Rebirth into Society,” Misery Loves Company, 2047
***
New Eden Township, Salton Sea, California
Fillion perched on the windowsill of his bedroom. A chill settled on his face, the only part exposed to the night air. Well, and his fingers, which were stiffening from the cold at this point. For the last hour, he hadn’t felt well and wondered if it was something he ate? Or nerves? Or heartache? The fresh air helped. Or maybe it was a placebo effect. Either way. Whatever worked. He had a lot to accomplish tonight before he missed an opportunity.
A willow oak leaf spun in his fingers, round and round, like his thoughts. He watched the yellow haze blur into the dark air, resolving to try and call again. Fillion tapped the device on his ear and whispered, “Cranium, phone Dr. Della Jayne Nichols.” The outgoing signal popped in his head with an occasional chirping sound. She didn’t answer. Again. “Damn it,” he muttered, and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand. “Make her pick up,” he pleaded.
God, he really needed to stop talking to himself. It was getting old. Still kind of funny. But old. He’d try one more time and then take a break. Fillion tapped the device, including the recording feature, and repeated the process for the sixth time while the last twinges of hope faded. As the chirp echoed in his head, his mind formed shapes with the lines on the dome ceiling. Hexagon. A tessellation of hexagons. A parallelogram of sorts.
“Who is this?”
“Finally.” He jumped off the windowsill. “It’s Fillion.”
His mom gasped. “Fillion? Is this a prank? If so, I will prosecute whoever this is for harassment. As of this moment, the call is being recorded and traced. This is a private number and—”
“Holy shit. A bit dramatic don’t you think? Do you often get prank calls from people claiming to be me?” She remained quiet. Fillion pulled the window panes shut and closed the shutters. The candle in his lantern had burned down to nearly nothing, but a faint glow still stretched across his room. “Kill the recording switch.” The tell-tale beep sounded. “Good. We need to talk. Are you with Hanley?”
“No.” A choking sound filled his head. “Is it true?” she asked, her voice strained. “Is Joel Watson dead?”
“Yeah, I called you at one in the morning, several weeks later, just to break the news to you.” Fillion rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t ask how he was doing. It wasn’t her way. “Are you somewhere private?”
She let out a heavy, shaky breath. “Yes. I am glad you called as I have been concerned about the stability of the project.”
“For one nanosecond, can you pretend you actually give a damn about something other than your career or your love life? Like ‘why the hell is my son calling me at this hour’ kind of concern?” Fillion slumped onto his bed.
“You’re angry, which is understandable. Life never turns out how we think or hope it will. Part of the process of deconstructing our illusions is experiencing anger over the loss of our previously known reality. It’s an essential element in the cycle of grief.”
Deconstructing illusions?
It sounded like she was talking to herself, not him. Maybe there was a “talk-to-yourself” gene that ran on his mom’s side of the family. Still, a disturbed sensation ran up his spine. She didn’t sound like herself. As much as he was annoyed with triangles, he knew her heart was truly hurting.
“Mom, Joel is really dead,” he said in a soft voice. “His ashes are in the gardens.”
Silence. Not even the sounds of breathing. She must have muted her end to hide the crying and spare his head. He waited patiently and stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling. Minutes passed and still nothing. For a moment, he thought she hung up, but he checked the call screen and the line was still open.
“Sorry,” she whispered, eventually. “Thank you for telling me.” The professional, detached sound of her voice annoyed him, but he remained silent. “So, why did you call?”
“I have an opportunity for you,” he said. “At two-thirty I’ll be in the room with Messenger Pigeon. There’s an airlock. I’m going to break the circuit logic so both doors can be open at the same time. Do you know how to enter the technosphere?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And do you know where the airlock is?”
“Fillion, tampering with the project may result in failure. I am not about to place my career, or the sacrifices of those inside, on the hinges of whatever revenge attack you have planned against your father.”
“Turn on the video feed.”
“I am not suitable at the moment.”
“Mom, please. I’m alone. I want to see you. It’s been awhile.” Fillion breathed in through his nose and released a slow breath. A holographic image of his mom wavered in front of him. He’d only seen her a few times without make-up. But, to him, it looked normal. After gazing at people in their natural state for a month, it almost seemed more beautiful to him.
She leveled an uncertain gaze his direction, her red, swollen eyes rounding as her complexion blanched. “You look so much like... Are you playing a cruel joke on me? Do you understand how much grief I have endured?”
“I’m not Dylan. I’m not Hanley. I’m not whatever or whoever you think I am.” Fillion narrowed his eyes to hide the hot, angry tears that were forming. “You didn’t know my voice, and now you don’t recognize my face.”
“Fillion—”
“Stop. No justifications.” Fillion lowered his hood all the way. He needed to keep her on point before his heartache took over. “Now. The airlock. Here’s your opportunity. I’m bringing two people with me who you need to meet. I can’t stress that enough. You can ask them any questions you like, but under one condition.” She arched an eyebrow. “You never tell Hanley of our meeting. Ever. For any reason.”
“You’re asking me to go behind your father’s back?”
“Don’t play cute. Like you never keep secrets from him. I’ve seen the video of you and Joel after Claire died. Hanley has no problems keeping things from you, either. I also saw a vid
eo of your reaction when Hanley told you Joel had died. ”
She winced. “How—”
“The entire world is at my fingertips.” A smug grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’m a genius, remember? Your prodigy, your gifted son, the one who was bred and raised to be the apex of humanity?” Fillion relaxed his face, allowing all the emotions to pool in his eyes. His mom had the decency to appear stung by his comments. “Do you agree to this condition?”
“Yes, I agree.” She released a dainty sigh and touched her hair, as if she feared her fingers no longer transferred the ancient magic of eternal beauty. “Two-thirty, correct?”
Fillion’s body deflated some. “See you then. Oh, and it goes without saying that you’re to come alone. I’ll hack the video feeds from N.E.T. and all other log entries to erase your activity.” He disconnected the line and fell back onto his bed. “Cranium, block all incoming calls and messages from Dr. Della Jayne Nichols.” The encryption key should block his number, but he wanted the extra precaution.
He lay still and closed his eyes tight. Breathe in. Breathe out. His hands were trembling. In a last-ditch effort to calm the river of emotions flooding through him, he relaxed his arms and hands on the bed, palms side up. Was this the corpse position? Fitting. “Namaste, loser,” he mumbled to himself.
Since birth, the real zombie apocalypse had defined his life. The Anime Gen had spent their entire lives dedicated to acquiring brains and showcasing their intelligence. But none of that mattered. Society had killed them, exalting information above everything else while simultaneously turning them into objects of entertainment. And all for the purpose of gaining followers on the Net. Every tap and swipe validated or shared a stranger’s fake existence, perpetuating the cycle of cyber-glamour. The Anime Gen were nothing more than products to be used and discarded, rated and reviewed. And for what? It was a meaningless, intangible community. One that pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes to block reality—they were slaves to a corporate system.
He wouldn’t stand for it a moment longer. Freedom to live and survive was a human right. He was the Son of Eden, a man of magic; and like the bedtime stories proclaimed, he understood the potential evils of the Outside world. The lies and expectations had tortured him for seventeen years. It was time to change things, beginning tonight. Willow’s encouragement impassioned him and he would fight to defend a reality of his own making. One that had nothing to do with an image on the Net or corporate empire-building.
After a couple minutes, he resurrected from the bed. Trembling fingers slid the willow oak leaf back into his pocket, and the imagined connection he felt to Willow slipped away.
The dry sound of fire nest material replied when he pushed against the pouch hanging from his belt. He opened the tinder box and paused, angling his head as he studied the joints. One was loose. Normally he was precise, making them all the same and lining them up. Fillion groaned. He knew he was OCD. But still, how did he not notice this earlier? Probably too upset to notice anything. He picked up another joint and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was looser than usual as well. “Getting sloppy,” he muttered to the flickering shadows. Annoyed with himself, he pulled them out and re-tightened each one. Then, he packed a few, just in case he forgot to earlier, and blew out the lantern.
He had a habit of forgetting cigarettes, bumming them off of others. Not many to bum joints off of in New Eden, though. Especially after midnight. He was mentally rambling. Time to go. With a flip of his giant hood, he left his apartment and leaned against the back wall of The Forge. Leaf and Skylar were to meet him here and, together, they would go to the rainforest biodome.
The day the Moores and Carsons left New Eden, Leaf had sent a note to Hanley. Per protocol in The Code, Leaf supplied communications on permissions, and granted an open door for the two families to return when they were ready.
This shocked Fillion. If he were Leaf, he’d never want them to return. Especially as they may relay fearful descriptions of what they saw, escalating an already snowballing situation. But Leaf defended them, as they were part of his community. And as their King, he declared he’d go to any lengths to ensure they knew they were valued and welcome, and that New Eden was still their home. Fillion just stared, dumbstruck. Leaf had laid down his right to be offended. Instead, he wanted to fight for the people who had persecuted him. Crazy.
This is when Fillion knew. Love really did have everything to do with honor and little to do with romance. Until this moment, he didn’t trust anyone or anything shackled to a code of honor. It was counter to everything he’d ever known or experienced. In the underground, he and Mack took care of their own, did what they could. Still, he had always viewed honor as the mark of weak-minded idealists. Door mats. Pushovers. But he couldn’t be more wrong. To act honorably toward another, more times than not, required a hefty personal price.
“Oh. My. God.” He said to himself. “I sound like a medieval hippie.”
Fillion had to laugh. What the hell had happened to him? A few weeks ago, self-gratification was the answer to all situations and problems. Now, he took pride in laboring for everything. He’d built and repaired things for people, even cradles, volunteered during reaping, and assisted Leaf in reassuring people of their legal rights. The smiles of gratitude, the cries of newborns in a freshly hewn cradles, the smell of cut wheat, and the tears of relief, had stained his soul. Nothing fake about it. Hell, until New Eden, he’d never personally interacted with the dying or celebrated a birth. His hands sustained life. Unlike Hanley’s, whose touch guaranteed a golden death. In order for Hanley to gain profit, glory and power, something had to die. Always. It made Fillion sick.
Someone in his family needed to pay for the crimes committed, and Fillion was willing.
This was Willow’s home. And this is where she wanted to remain. He would make it happen, even though it would force him to face his greatest fears beyond the safety of these walls—and possibly cost him everything. Willow Oak Watson was worth every sacrifice. The heart she gifted him was not only a token of her, but all of New Eden Township, too.
Fillion let out a sigh and trained his thoughts back to his mission. He could think of her all night. Wanted to think of her all night. Persistent mental rambling was always the first sign of exhaustion, though. This didn’t bode well. A queasy sensation stole his concentration for a moment. What was he thinking of originally? Oh, yeah. The Scroll.
The conversation on the thread confirmed Fillion’s worries. Hanley made it very clear to Leaf that the families would not be returning. According to the Gamemaster, they had shown signs of mental instability and were undergoing evaluations. Whatever. In typical fashion, Hanley had made it seem like he was doing Leaf a favor. But Fillion could see through the charm. The families were mentally unstable because they declared that the Watsons were alive. Fillion was sure of it. So tonight, at Willow’s encouragement, he’d introduce Leaf Dylan Watson to Dr. Della Jayne Nichols and hope it was enough to spin things back in their favor. If not, he’d force a second Watson Trial when he left New Eden.
Muffled sounds came from around the bend. Leaf and Skylar sprinted around the corner. Fillion lowered his hood. A wave of light dizziness passed through him and he shifted on his feet.
“Ready?” Leaf whispered.
“Sure.”
“We need to run and not stop until we arrive,” Skylar said. “There are rumors of private meetings this night.”
Leaf dashed out first, followed by Skylar. Fillion bolted from the shelter of the Forge walls and into the exposed pathway of The Orchard near the village. His legs pumped as fast as they could, the muscles burning with the effort. Skylar cut through The Rows, and Fillion and Leaf followed. Eventually, they trailed along the biodome wall. Large boulders were stacked on top of each other like castle walls, covered in ivy and honeysuckle. The mouth of the South Cave loomed and Skylar disappeared first into the black hole, then Leaf, and then Fillion.
“I ... need ... a mome
nt,” Fillion barely got out. Shit, he felt weak. His chest heaved in big gulps of air. “Damn.” Leaf chuckled, breathy, but far more in control than Fillion.
A groaning creak echoed off the cave walls and Fillion startled, snapping his attention to the large doors. Everyone froze. There was no time to run. He wasn’t sure he could, anyway. Even if they did, they’d be running into open space. And they were enclosed, only so many places to hide. They could be chased in circles until the sun came up. In a few steps, he pressed himself against the wall next to Leaf and pulled his hood deep over his face. The crunch of footsteps on the compacted path grew louder and Fillion held his breath. Then, the footsteps stopped.
“Who are you?” Connor demanded. “State your business.”
“Skylar Kane, My Lord.”
“Leaf Watson.”
Connor walked down their line until his eyes settled onto Fillion. With a faint smirk, Fillion morphed into cool detachment and met Connor’s contemplative stare.
“What are you doing in the rainforest, My Lord?” Leaf asked, stepping forward. His voice took on a note of authority to match Connor’s. Fillion relaxed a notch when remembering that the former Fire Element now answered to the exposed Aether. It was the same posture and tone Leaf used with him in Messenger Pigeon when trying to trump control—aristocratic, noble, peering down his nose.
The blacksmith moved in front of Leaf. “I would ask a similar question, Your Majesty. It does not appear you gather The Elements, as Ember and Rain are not in your company. Strange hour for business. Nor is it safe.”
“Safe? Why do you feel I should fear my community?” Leaf removed his hood and waited for Connor to reply, but he did not. “I shall repeat myself. What brings you to the rainforest at such an hour, My Lord?”
“I heard it on the wind that Timothy was heading to Messenger Pigeon, and so I decided to follow.” Connor shifted on his feet and held his hands behind his back.
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 50
