2446-89

by Sophie Davis

  2446-89: Stassi’s Diary

  Sophie Davis

  Copyright © 2016 by Sophie Davis Books

  Smashwords Edition

  Talented (Talented Saga #1)

  Caged (Talented Saga #2)

  Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

  Captivated (A Talented Novella) (Talented Saga #3.5)

  Created (Talented Saga #4)

  Exiled: Kenly’s Story (Talented Saga #5)

  Unforgettable (Talented Saga #6)

  Inescapable (Talented Saga #7)

  Undeniable (Talented Saga #8) …Coming Winter 2017

  Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1)

  Sacrifice (Nightmares Trilogy #2) …Coming soon

  Checkmate (Nightmares Trilogy #3) …Coming soon

  Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3) …Coming Winter 2016

  2446-89: Stassi’s Diary (Timewaves #0.5)

  The Syndicate (Timewaves Series #1)

  Atlic (Timewaves Series #2)

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sophie

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Thank you Readers

  For all of our amazing readers—we appreciate your support more than we can say. And because you all are so awesome, click HERE to continue Stassi’s story with your complimentary copy of The Syndicate (Timewaves #1)!

  TODAY HAS BEEN the strangest day of my life. I know, that sounds like the dramatic ramblings of a seventeen-year-old girl, but it’s the absolute truth. Years from now, when I look back at this diary entry, I won’t need these handwritten words to remind me of what happened today. It was a fateful turn of events, absolute happenstance, which started me down this path towards what, at this moment, is a very uncertain future. For thirteen years I have lived in a work camp approximately sixty miles outside of Knoxville, Tennessee, surrounded by other girls who, like me, are wards of the government. I have known little of the world outside the camp; just enough to be thankful that I was taken in by the state instead of being left to fend for myself. Life could have been a lot worse, particularly for a girl like me—an orphan with no education and no employment prospects on her horizon.

  As of today, at least one of those is no longer true.

  Yes, I am still an orphan. I may never know the parents who abandoned me at the age of four. And yes, by most people’s standards, I am uneducated, though I have done my best given the resources at my disposal. That might change though, if the promises made to me today are fulfilled; I’ve been told there is to be a lot of learning in my new future. That future is no longer quite as bleak as I once thought, because I have been offered a job.

  For the first time, I am looking ahead to the next phase of my life, instead of focusing on a past I cannot change. Ironic, considering how little I know about my new employer and the position I’ve been offered…which is precisely nothing at all.

  CALLING DAY: A time of reckoning for the fifteen work camp girls, including myself, who turned seventeen that year. It was our first chance to make a favorable impression on representatives from both local and global corporations. They used the camp as a labor pool for hiring cheap, unskilled workers for menial jobs. Which, of course, made my greatest hope—to be given any position where I could actually use my brain—the longest of all long-shots.

  Thus far, that lump of gray matter had gone to waste; working the camp’s agricultural fields wasn’t exactly mentally taxing. Maybe I just wanted to justify spending all of my yearly credits on new books for my Qube—my coveted tablet device—but that could only happen if my ability to read and write was a desirable trait in the eyes of these company men. Since I was one of the very few who had those skills, the stereotypes of work camp girls were perpetuated year after year; we were not known for our intellect and were almost never hired for our minds.

  Despite my highest aspirations, once I joined the line to be examined by the company men, I just prayed that one of them would give me a placement. Any placement. Grunt labor wasn’t appealing, but even hauling rubble in Nashville was preferable to staying in these dismal living quarters another year.

  Two staff members—Navine, my dorm matron, and Escra, a field matron—were standing in a huddle with the corporate representatives, making polite conversation. The women’s simple, albeit clean, dresses were a stark contrast to the men’s polished loafers and tailored business attire. My own dirty, threadbare uniform belonged in an entirely different world.

  “What’s going on? Why haven’t we started yet?” Trista, my bunkmate, whispered. We were standing together at the end of the line, Trista wedged between me and a haughty girl called Andaline.

  Navine had been very clear when giving instructions for Calling Day: we were to be seen and not heard. Talking to the representatives was strictly prohibited. Talking amongst ourselves was strictly prohibited. And, of course, talking to the staff was strictly prohibited. Basically, speaking was forbidden for any reason whatsoever. If you randomly burst into flames, you were to burn silently. The only exception to this rule was if the company men asked us questions.

  I was never great with rules.

  “Don’t know,” I muttered to Trista, careful not to move my lips more than necessary.

  “Is that a…,” Andaline blurted loudly, forgetting herself and pointing to the sky.

  The soft whirring of a helo-transport instantly caught everyone’s attention. Despite Navine’s warnings, all of the girls in line began whispering excitedly.

  A helo-transport was about as normal as a dinosaur around these parts. The company men typically arrived in personal transpo vehicles that were undeniably nice, but nothing on the level of a helo; those were a mark of status and wealth well beyond men charged with hiring grunt labor. Seeing one in person was the most interesting thing that had happened at the work camp since the day Martra, a former dorm matron, was fired for distributing Dragon Dust to the girls in her care.

  Then, as if a helo-sighting wasn’t sensational enough, Head Matron herself emerged from the Admin Block. A stuffy, stout woman who dressed in the finest of clothes despite her surroundings, Head Matron was entirely hands-off when it came to us girls. Spotting her out of the Admin Block was an exceedingly rare occurrence. Instead, she preferred doling out duties to her subordinates from the comfort of climate-controlled temperatures while reaping the rewards of both their labor and ours. The occupants of the helo-transport had to be incredibly important.

  Head Matron made a quick stop at the group of company men before hurrying toward the field where the helo was touching down. It was the first time I’d ever seen her enter the fields where the other girls and I spent nearly every waking hour.

  Navine and Escra broke apart from the company men and hustled over to where we stood. Navine started at the far end of the line, while Escra made a bee-line to me. Using a handkerchief, the field matron roughly wiped the dirt and dust from my face. Grabbing hold of my chin, Escra twisted my head forcefully back and forth, examining my cheeks for lingering filth. For a brief, humiliating moment, I thought she might lick the hanky and try again.

  “That will have to do for now,” Escra said, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. Lips pursed, she grabbed hold of the bottom of my tunic and yanked it down to smooth the fabric. “Stand up straight, girl. No slouching.” To emphasize the point, Escra placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed them back, forcing my spine to curve inward.

  When she moved on to Trista, I released the breath I was holding and allowed my gaze to wander to the field. Three men disembarked from the helo, all dressed casually in shorts and sandals. Their tanned skin suggested they spent as much time in the sun as I did. One man, th
e oldest of the trio, wore an expensive-looking watch on his wrist, the diamond face catching the light and making colorful spots dance on the dusty field. It was a peculiar contrast to his casual outfit but marked him as one of the world’s elite. Diamond watches were a luxury that very few citizens of our destroyed world, even those considered wealthy, could afford.

  I watched with hidden amusement as Head Matron finally caught up to the group in the field. She visibly fawned over the newcomers, going so far as to curtsy to the older gentleman. Had I not been worried about being berated for insolence in front of so many prospective employers, I would have outright laughed at her antics. Trista snickered, though quickly turned it into a cough when both Escra and Navine shot daggers her way.

  Trista waited until their attention was elsewhere, then leaned closer to me.

  “Why do they suddenly care what we look like? Clean isn’t a requirement for wiping toilets, working the mines, or hauling chunks of rubble.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in response, eyes still keenly focused on the helo occupants. The group exited the fields, the men seemingly unconcerned with the layer of pollen already coating their bare legs. Head Matron kept up a constant stream of babble to the older man, the one evidently in charge, but he appeared to be ignoring her prattle.

  Instead, his shrewd emerald gaze was sweeping the line of seventeens. When his eyes found mine, I inhaled sharply at the endless well of intensity within his stare. Although I was uncomfortable under the scrutiny, I also felt a little relieved. This man, though clearly more important than the others, radiated a warmth unmatched among the other prospective employers.

  Several of the company men started toward the newcomers, as though to welcome them, but the green-eyed man waved off their greetings. Seeing the arrogant corporate representatives in their high-priced suits dismissed as though they were mere peons was a welcome change—it was precisely how they treated us work camp girls.

  “It is just such an honor to have you here,” Head Matron gushed. “All of our girls are—”

  “Hello, ladies,” the older man said, interrupting her midsentence. “My name is Cyrus Atlic. It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

  The greeting was shocking for a myriad of reasons.

  For one, he’d called us ‘ladies’—an odd moniker for a ragtag group of orphans living in dirt fields. Then there was the fact he’d addressed us at all. Company men didn’t speak to us unless questioning our abilities. And even then, not one of the men actually offered an introduction. To them, we might as well have been cattle.

  No one ever introduced themselves to livestock, let alone said it was nice to meet a cow.

  Ignoring the stunned stares from everyone present, Mr. Atlic moved confidently to the far end of the line. When he reached the girl who stood there, a bully named Lanida, Mr. Atlic further astounded the group of onlookers by extending his hand. Lanida looked confused by the gesture and didn’t accept the handshake until prompted by the girl standing beside her. Mr. Atlic spoke to her briefly, his voice soft and the words unintelligible from where I stood, then shook her hand again before moving on to the next girl.

  As he continued down the line, I watched each exchange with undisguised interest. Mr. Atlic was the most fascinating company man to set foot on work camp soil in the many years I’d been here. Unlike his counterparts, Mr. Atlic appeared laid-back and genuine. For one thing, he didn’t grope us to test muscle strength; that alone made him a winner in my book. Even more intriguing, Mr. Atlic appeared legitimately interested in what each girl had to say. To say that real interest in us was a rarity was akin to saying the world had suffered a minor setback during the Epic War—a massive understatement.

  My eyes remained on Mr. Atlic as he moved closer to me, never seeming rushed as he moved from girl to girl. Before I knew it, he’d finished talking to Andaline. Ignoring the dirt smudge that transferred from her skin to his, he said, “It was nice to meet you, Andaline.”

  He remembered her name, I thought, amazed.

  “Hello, I’m Cyrus Atlic, and you are?” He’d moved on and was extending his hand towards Trista. I held my breath as my bunkmate smiled up at his weathered features.

  “Trista 2446-3, sir,” she replied.

  Mr. Atlic smiled wistfully. “Trista is such a beautiful name. Now, Trista, tell me, have you spent much time outside of the camp?”

  Trista shook her head.

  “No, sir,” she admitted. “My parents brought me here as a baby, and I’ve only left on camp excursions. I’m a decent cook, though. And I know I don’t look like much, but I’m quite strong. Really, sir, I am.”

  I suppressed a smile. Trista was a string bean, but the girl could lift more than most men twice her size.

  Chuckling, Mr. Atlic turned to one of his companions, a younger guy who managed to appear both bored and fascinated by the unfamiliar setting of the work camp. I wondered if this was the first time he’d left his ivory tower. Then I wondered where precisely that tower was located.

  “Did you hear that, Bazzle?” Mr. Atlic asked the guy. “I think Trista might just give you a run for your money in the weight room.” He turned back to Trista and winked. “It was nice to meet you, Trista.”

  After one final handshake, it was my turn with Mr. Atlic. I caught the dejected expression on Trista's face but had little time to do more than offer a sympathetic smile. Apparently, she'd been thinking this man was her key to a better life, just as we all did.

  “Last but not least,” Mr. Atlic said, his hand outstretched towards me.

  “I-it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Atlic,” I said, willing some confidence into my voice.

  “Please, call me Cyrus,” he replied, that emerald gaze locking intently on me. For a moment, the man merely studied my face as he held my hand in his. An expression I couldn’t identify flashed across his features before he spoke again. “What’s your name?”

  “Stassi 2446-89,” I responded automatically.

  The numbers were my identifiers, given to all wards of the state. 2446 was the year of my birth, or at least the year the authorities believed I was born. After I was found wandering the streets of Knoxville, the police conducted a search for my parents. Not only were they unable to locate anyone who was missing a child, but the official databases held no trace of my existence at all. And so, my age had been approximated and I was sent to live with the other orphans and parental surrenders. The last two digits meant that I was the eighty-ninth child born in 2446 to be entered into the Southern work camp system.

  “Pleased to meet you, Stassi,” Mr. Atlic said.

  I paused, absorbing the words as he spoke them directly to me. It was the first time anyone had been pleased to meet me. Yes, he’d used some form of the same greeting with each of the other girls, but that didn't make the sentiment any less poignant.

  Remembering myself, I smiled tentatively, feeling my cheeks flush.

  “It is very nice to meet you as well, Mr.—Cyrus.”

  “Are you seventeen?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “So this is your first Calling Day,” he mused. Then, leaning in as though we were co-conspirators in a great caper, he lowered his voice and added, “I can tell by all of the startled looks that I'm not following the protocols as they were explained to you. So, please, forgive my rudeness.”

  The two men behind Mr. Atlic laughed loudly. Something told me that their boss rarely followed society’s rules.

  "Now, Stassi, do you have any special skills? Do you cook like your friend Trista?" Mr. Atlic asked.

  Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I shook my head regretfully.

  “No, sir. I can boil water, but that’s about the extent of it. I do know a fair amount about plants and flowers and farming, though.”

  Those jewel-toned eyes weighed me thoughtfully. He was about to conclude our conversation, I could just feel it. Only desperation could explain why the next words flew from my mouth.

  “I have a Qube,” I bl
urted out. “It’s a really old model that’s not connected to much of anything, but I can get books. I mean, I read. I read every day. And I’ve taught myself some mathematics, though just the basics: addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, some fractions—that sort of stuff. But I’m a quick learner. I love to learn.”

  Trista reached over and squeezed my hand, sensing my despair. I briefly tore my eyes from Mr. Atlic to give her a grateful smile. ‘Friend’ was too strong a descriptor for our relationship, but she was the closest thing I had to a confidante and ally; we’d been bunkmates for over a decade. Trista and I watched out for one another, neither of us caring to take part in the drug use, backstabbing, and fighting that the other girls thrived on.

  “What sort of books do you like to read?” Mr. Atlic asked.

  I expected him to be startled that I was literate, but he took my admission in stride. Which was probably why I started rambling again without giving any thought to the words tumbling out of my mouth.

  “Fiction mostly. The Brothers Grimm, Lewis Carroll, Ernest Hemingway, Sasha Peters, and Rob Thomas are some of my favorite authors.” Then, realizing my love for escapism probably wouldn’t help me get a job, I quickly pressed on. “Lots of non-fiction, too. I’ve read lots of science primers, including Webbers’ Guide to AI, and books on plants, history, and pre-War culture.”

  What I’d told Mr. Atlic was true—I did love to learn. But that wasn’t the true reason I’d read so much non-fiction. Since the Epic War, owning physical books was a luxury only the wealthiest of the wealthy could afford. But there were still digital copies of several hundred titles that I could rent and sync to my Qube. Trista was one of the few other girls at the camp with a Qube and we routinely swapped books. Her tastes tended towards titles like The Joy of Cooking and Indigenous Night Blooming Flowers of the Southeast—not exactly what I’d call entertaining material, but I took what I could get. In this moment, I appreciated her mundane tastes and was going to milk my knowledge of boring subjects for all it was worth.