What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  - What methods do the governments use to achieve the desired result? The Capital in Hunger Games uses the games to terrorize its citizens into subservience, and tightly controls resources by segregating districts and limiting what each could produce. In 1984 the Inner Party uses surveillance (telescreens, microphones everywhere), controls information (rewriting history to support claims is the ultimate form of censorship), and all citizens are indoctrinated to be whistle-blowers on those committing ‘thought crimes’ (any thought contrary to the governmen). In Brave New World, the government breeds and then conditions (through their sleep) citizens to be in (and only desire to be in) a certain caste, to be sexually promiscuous, hate solitude, and to take the drug ‘soma’ if any contrary thought occurs.

  Equally interesting is how the characters in the novel react to the dystopian government. Do they acquiesce? Do they rebel and in what ways? Outwardly? Inwardly? Each well done dystopia will have characters that question the status quo. Their actions will cause us to reflect upon our own, and how we would act in a similar situation. Katniss in The Hunger Gamesdefies authority by bringing out a handful of berries and threatening to deprive the Capital of a winner and ultimately forcing them to back down and lose face. Winston and Julia in 1984 both commit thought crimes and engage in an illicit affair, but are outed by an informant and tortured into both subservience to Big Brother and betraying each other. John(the Savage) in Brave New World is so disgusted when he caves to societal immorality that he takes extreme measures to escape.

  daynight came about as I hiked the canyons of San Diego on a particularly hot day and pondered what would happen if temperatures were so extreme that days and nights had to be switched. This became the impetus for Thera, the main setting for daynight. I mentally brewed the concepts of dark and light, and what kind of government would rule the dark, and The Second Chance Institute (SCI) was born.

  The SCI is an interesting entity. They are in the business of providing second chances. But instead of nurturing and fostering the downtrodden, they use the Second Chancers as science experiments for new political ideas they want to push on Earth. One such idea, Cleaving is an extreme enforcement of morality. If two people have sex, they’re automatically Cleaved, a forced lifetime union. Violation of Cleaving results in exile or death.

  Some of the things that went through my mind that I intended readers to think about while reading daynight were:

  Freedom of being able to do whatever we want vs. consequences of our choices

  When is it appropriate for the government to intervene in moral issues?

  How should the government enforce rules? What is acceptable/not acceptable for enforcement?

  When does ‘research’ cross the line? Is it ever okay to have test groups, when subjects don’t know they are a part of the research? Does our government “use” certain segments of our population to press their agendas?

  Can altruistic purposes get so skewed they are no longer altruistic? The SCI claims to be giving people a second chance at life. Despite this being true and seemingly noble, is it okay if they are only do it to further their own agenda, and not to truly benefit the Second Chancers?

  Is there ever an appropriate time for a government to play Big Brother (as in 1984)? Does our government do this to us? Where’s the line between societal protection and personal violation?

  Don’t worry…the daynight series is not all serious. There is plenty of entertainment with highly flawed main characters, compelling love interests, despicable antagonists, lots of action, surprises, twists and turns.

  daynight

  Megan Thomason

  Dedicated to my muses/twenty-four seven comedic entertainment

  Husband: Jon

  Children: Ashley, Breanna, Ryan, Alyssa, and Christopher

  Copyright information

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, entities, events, portals, alternate worlds and the like in the daynight series are fictional and products of the author’s overly active imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Megan Thomason

  Professional editing by Angelique Bodine.

  Professional proofreading by Angelique Bodine and Sher A. Hart.

  Cover art by Jon Thomason

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN-13: 978-1480226555

  ISBN-10: 1480226556

  PROLOGUE

  The moment the perfectly styled, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl awoke to the sight of her own dead body, she swore and slapped her corpse across the face. The gesture made no impact. She checked her hands. Not a lick of vomit, despite the fact that “dead her” was covered with it.

  “Stupid.” She yelled at her dead-self. “If we were going to go, it should have been in grand fashion. A high speed car chase or skydiving or getting blown to bits by a terrorist. Not by some fluke. Not at my own party!” Someone will find us and fix this, she thought.

  She caught a glimpse of her animated self in the mirror. No longer dressed in her tailored Dolce & Gabbana dress or to-die for Prada jeweled satin 5 1/2 inch heel pumps, a simple and quite ugly grey shift hung loosely from her body. An ear piercing scream left her lips. No, no, no. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a nightmare. There was no way she’d ever wear such an insult to the fashion gods. She attempted to remove the shoes from her corpse as they’d easily make her top 100 pairs, but they wouldn’t budge. Nor would the Tiffany necklace adorned with a most sentimental ring. Frustrated, she pummeled “dead her” with well-placed kicks, but the stiff didn’t flinch an inch.

  “This isn’t a dream, and we generally advise against beating oneself up,” a voice boomed behind her. A tall man with white hair appeared next to the girl in her parent’s locked master bathroom. His somber tone and white, pristinely pressed suit signaled “all business.” “Sit down.” He gestured to a small metal table and chairs that weren’t there a minute ago. The girl’s mother would fall down and die right next to the girl if she saw warehouse quality furniture adorning the special-ordered Italian floor and Louis XVI-era commode.

  “Tell me what happened,” the man instructed.

  “Am I really dead?” the girl asked, ignoring his request and pointing to the lifeless figure on the floor.

  “I think that’s quite self-explanatory,” he responded. “Determining the how and why will help me place you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Place me? As in, Heaven vs. Hell? Let’s see. I don’t pray, and I don’t worship anyone other than my personal shopper and tailor. I haven’t been to church in more than a decade. So, I’m thinking I’m headed downward. And if that doesn’t seal the deal, drinking myself to death at my own party should do it. But maybe you take pity on entitled kids left to their own devices by jet-setting parents?”

  He opened a notebook and jotted down a few notes. “You took some pain killers earlier this evening?”

  She snorted. “Yeah. I had some pain.”

  “From the tattoo you got after partying with your friends last night? A single black rose between your shoulder blades?”

  “Uh, yeah. How’d you know about that?” She wondered if the tattoo was still present. The nagging itch and twinge of discomfort that were there yesterday had disappeared.

  “Did you know your tattoo was infected?” he asked, not even looking up.

  “Serious? No.” She knew she shouldn’t have trusted that grimy Mission Beach tattoo parlor.

  “You had fourteen drinks over the past six hours? Six shots, three vodka-tonics, and five glasses of punch?” He pushed his reading glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.

  “Something like that.” She sneered. “As I said, it was a party. My party.”

  “Did you know some of your male house guests supplemented the punch with an additive meant to loosen inhibitions?”

  “Nope. Sounds like somet
hing the idiots would do, though.”

  “Were you depressed at all? Did you have a desire to die?”

  “It was a mistake,” she responded. “It wasn’t about depression. It was about fun. Ever heard of it? It’s ridiculous I had to die over it. Everyone else seems to get a second chance. Why not me?” The man took his time reviewing his notes and seemed to make some sort of decision as he closed his notebook.

  “I know just the place for you, Ms. Goodington. Follow me.”

  “Ms. Goodington is my mother,” she scoffed. “Call me Bailey.”

  “And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

  And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.”

  —Genesis 1:3-5

  If light is good, what does the dark bring?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kira

  Escape, I remind myself. That’s why I’m here…on a speedboat…with a creepy escort who looks like the human incarnation of Mr. Potatohead…heading into the open ocean towards an unknown destination. I’d eagerly signed the dotted line of The Second Chance Institute Recruit year-long contract, agreeing to leave all my earthly possessions in San Diego. It seemed easier to run than face my demons. I do regret abandoning my brother, Jared. He’s a year younger, and it has always been us versus them, and by them, I mean the judgmental, self-centered beings who gave us life. My parents couldn’t shove me out the door fast enough as my distress infringed upon their illusion of a perfect, carefree existence.

  Just the thought of escaping reminds me of the events that led to my decision. I close my eyes and let fragments in, fighting the tears away. The horror-filled incident happened two months ago. My SCI Recruit Test preceded my senior year Winter Formal and after-party which I attended with my boyfriend, Tristan and best friend, Briella. At the party, they ditched me after having tormented me all evening for considering a “do-gooder stint” with the SCI. I figured they’d drink it off and get over it. In their absence, I met the perfect(ly unattainable) guy, Ethan who had me fantasizing about marriage, babies, and growing old together. But we were both taken and, regrettably, parted ways.

  The turning point of the fateful evening and reason I’m still alive: catching my boyfriend and best friend groping each other in a steamy make-out session. Refusing to discuss or forgive, I fled the posh Rancho Santa Fe estate out into the darkness. Eerie silence was followed by ear-splitting, bomb-like thunder. Whatever the source, it leveled the house in seconds, raining fire and debris in every direction. I remember being hit by shrapnel and the resulting blood and pain. I also remember being dragged from the wreckage, and then medical personnel, police, and the press all hounding me to know how I escaped the tragedy that left 110 of my classmates—including my boyfriend and all my close friends—dead.

  I push the memories aside and lean back on the vinyl cushions of the boat, listening to the whir of the motor. The spray of the boat’s wake cools the effects of the glorious Southern California sun and dampens my long, more-strawberry-than-blonde curls. Cutting through the waves at a high speed rocks me into a trance. My SCI Recruiter, Ted Rosenberg—the Mr. Potatohead clone, who I’ve nicknamed “Spud”—encourages me to “enjoy the nice weather while it lasts,” but I don’t respond. He yaps about Unit 27, my final destination, warning of “extreme temperature variations.” Dump me at the North Pole. I don’t care. I need distance between me and my memories.

  According to their brochure, The Second Chance Institute places Recruits worldwide with many prime locations throughout Europe, Asia, Africa, and South America. Unfortunately, Recruits don’t get to choose where they serve, and you can’t take anything with you other than the clothes on your back. The SCI provides “everything needed” to adapt to one’s assignment. I sincerely doubt they can anticipate my every need but don’t really care. I just want to get there and learn the wheres/whats/whys about this mysterious Unit 27.

  My blood apparently contains some random marker called DNT that made me an “excellent candidate” for one of the SCI’s more “remote” and quite classified locations. So other than knowing that 50,000 residents make their home in Unit 27, I’m going in blind. I’ll help “those in need of a second chance at life” but in what capacity? I’m clueless. Does it matter what I do? In return for my year of service, the SCI will grant me a full-ride scholarship to the college of my choice. Since I’m shooting for Ivy League or equivalent, I could use the help. My parents firmly believe in “supporting one’s self once one turns 18” or in other words, not depleting my mother’s jewelry and vacation fund.

  The boat slows, and my stomach pitches up and down with the waves. I sit up and scan the horizon. What the—? Impossible. A dilapidated warehouse-like building, no larger than a two-car garage sits atop the ocean water. Other than squawking seagulls lining the roof, there’s no other sign of life. Spud easily maneuvers the boat up alongside the building and ties it down.

  “Where are we?” I ask Spud. “Are we transferring to a larger boat here or something?” I spent the morning badgering him about our method of transportation to Unit 27. An airplane I’d understand. A speedboat, not so much. No land mass off the coast of San Diego could house 50,000 people.

  Spud bobbles his head and in a harsh tone says, “Ms. Donovan, please follow me. There is no time to waste if you are to adjust properly and start your training on time. We’re the last to arrive.” He offers me a hand and helps me to my feet. We both leave the boat, though that does nothing to make me feel like I’m back on solid ground. The building sways with the waves. All directions offer no view of land or ships. Not good. We may be stuck here a while. Perhaps they’ll have a comfortable couch and food for the wait. I trail Spud into the dark and musty building. Disappointment strikes. The space we enter has a single dim lightbulb which illuminates the small room enough to see peeling drywall and dark patches that look and smell like mold. A single arched doorway mirrors the door we entered on the opposite side of the room.

  “OK,” Spud continues, “Ms. Donovan, go straight ahead to the end of the long corridor and into the large room. I will follow you.”

  My brain won’t accept the thought of the small building containing a long corridor, much less a large room, but I’m eager to exit. I stumble forward through the dark, tunnel-like hallway for the equivalent of a city block before seeing a light ahead. My skin itches from small pinprick-like sensations from head to toe, and I am parched beyond comprehension. I feel dizzy and ill, and have to stop to catch my breath as I enter the lighted room, an immense domed space as wide as a school cafeteria with pebbled walls and slate floor. Spud enters the room after me and vomits so violently into a receptacle that his body convulses. He motions a small group across the room to join us before collapsing on the floor.

  I notice that the wave-like motions have ceased. As I canvass the cavern-like room with my eyes, I’m positive that I am farther than the hundred feet from the boat I should be.

  “Mr. Rosenberg, where on God’s green earth have you brought me?” I gasp.

  “Technically, Ms. Donovan,” Spud grunts between spasms, “we are no longer on God’s green earth.”

  “Say what?” I demand. I could have sworn I heard something to the effect of “not on” and “earth” in the same sentence, which isn’t possible.

  A tall man with wavy hair and glasses smiles widely and says, “Ah, our last Recruit has finally arrived. Ms. Donovan, welcome to Garden City, Thera, otherwise known as Unit 27 of the SCI. And here,” he says motioning to the rest of the group with him, “are some of the other SCI Recruits.” I immediately recognize the Recruit at the end of the row, arms crossed across his chest, smug look and bright green eyes rolling back in a dismissive fashion. He is the classmate who took the SCI Test with me and saved my life that night—Blake Sundry.

  I don’t hesitate. Too ill to care about the mind games being played and hyperventilating at the absurd claim
we’ve left earth, I turn to head back into the tunnel and to the boat. Such a seemingly easy task, however, proves impossible. As I reach the tunnel entrance, I’m flung ten feet backwards, head whacking the pebble floor, air expelled from my lungs. In my blacked out state, I fully relive the fateful day that set me on this path.

  Two months prior—SCI Test Day

  Seven a.m. I met Tristan and Briella for breakfast at the bleak iHop within power walk distance of Carmel Valley High. Bri sported a bright blue scalloped sweater that matched her eyes, although her eyes were hard to see behind all her makeup. Even in the wee early hours of the morning, she went for the night club look, a look she pulled off beautifully. Her long, dark hair fell mid-way down her back, although that day she didn’t bother to flat iron it, a sure sign she woke up late. Tristan was unusually quiet, his chocolate-colored eyes sullen. I raked my hand through his blonde curls, happy his hair had grown out from his football season buzz cut. Other than the dour expression on his face, he looked amazingly handsome in his yellow, long-sleeved tee and jeans.

  Our Formica-topped table reeked of harsh chemicals from just being wiped which caused my nose to twitch. My tummy sloshed over nerves about the Test. Bri, who enjoyed lovingly meddling in my life, railed on me for agreeing to take the Test, given I’d be ditching my senior year if I got chosen. Tristan’s grim expression echoed Bri’s sentiments. Why was I taking it? Right—the scholarship and a future free of student loans. I tried to assure both Bri and Tristan that I’d never be selected so they shouldn’t worry, but no optimistic sentiments on my part could improve the mood.

  My body lurched upward as our waitress dropped a hot plate of eggs, sausage, and pancakes all over the floor next to us. The stench of the greasy eggs made me want to retch. So, I excused myself to leave for the testing center early. Tristan gave me a half-hearted peck goodbye. He tasted like mint toothpaste and Coke— which don’t mix well. After whispering a monotone, ritual “I love you” into my ear, he reminded me he’d pick me up at six for dinner and the Winter Formal. I returned the sentiment with more enthusiasm before waving and winking to Bri. She barely managed a smile before turning her attention to Tristan. They appeared to be deeply embroiled in conversation by the time I exited the iHop doors—ganging up on me I suspect. I felt terrible disappointing them, so I disappeared around the corner, head drooped, mood soured.