Romy's Legacy: Book II of the 2250 Saga

by Nirina Stone

  “Can I see him?” I blurt, before thinking it through. I’m not sure why I want to see him—something about the people compels me to talk to him though. To ask him about what I saw in their world underground. Of course she won’t let me go see him. Why would she? I may be a Legacy, but I’m still not one of the military people. My job involves only civilian things.

  So I’m left surprised when, after a few seconds of reading my face, Mother nods her head and says, “Yes. You can see him tomorrow.”

  Then she sends me home to sleep, making her way back to the military compound.

  I still don’t know what to make of the people, nor why they’d want to hold me. One thing I do know—I intend to sleep it off for the rest of the day, and maybe one more day on top of that.

  It’s night time when I wake, shaking and sweating. I can’t be sure, but I heard something. It could very well be Mother coming home late. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  My eyes blink for a few seconds and I stare up at my ceiling. It’s pitch black, and it’s quiet but I stay still, certain a noise woke me out of my slumber. So I stretch my legs out, cracking my toes, and I wait.

  Then it starts up again—the hissing, crackling sound from within my head. I haven’t heard it since before I chased the Northie girl. So I sit up and push my back into the head of the bed. The hissing sound increases into a deafening roar, coming from the back of my head.

  I suddenly realize that this is a sound I have heard before, but it’s from an ancient technology my people never use.

  I heard it once when Isaac showed me an old brown box from his childhood. He told me it was a radio—an archaic music and newsbot that no longer worked in our world. An ancient technology rendered redundant years before the Great Omni. The noise I hear is like the one from the old radio—it’s called ‘static’.

  I don’t know why I didn’t remember that the first time I heard it in my head. Now, it’s as recognizable as the sudden silence, and the voice that speaks into my ear from, well, from somewhere within my head.

  “Don’t—” Father says, followed by more static.

  “Don’t—” I whisper into the dark, “Don’t what, Father? Where are you?”

  I think this is the part when the static will be overwhelming and loud again.

  After a pause, he says, “Don’t—” static “trust—” static “her—” and he’s gone.

  “Father?” My whisper is louder now, but there’s nothing—no static, no Father, nothing. Just my breathing. Just the dark.

  Don’t trust her? Who’s her? The girl? When I last saw Father, he was being taken away by Azure workers after they tased him.

  I thought he’d died. Now he’s in my head. It’s entirely possible I am hallucinating, I suppose.

  I decide to visit the doctor on the Iliad tomorrow. I’m nearly convinced the illness had something to do with these new hallucinations. The air out here is thinner than I’ve been used to.

  I lay back down and force my eyes shut but no matter what I try, I can’t find my sleep again.

  His voice echoes in my head, over and over again. “Don’t—trust—her.”

  The doctor does a full body check, but tells me I’m as healthy as the days before I needed boosters for my nanites. He asks me what brings about my worries, and I tell him I’ve had a headache that doesn’t seem to go away.

  I wonder if he’ll do a more thorough check on my brain. I’m reluctant to tell him about Father’s voice and the static. I think it’s something I need to keep to myself because I don’t want him to cure it—I don’t want Father’s voice to go away. If I am hallucinating again, oh well, at least it’s Father’s voice. I can think of worse things.

  Dozens of Soren families moved in during my incarceration, and they’ve taken to the place like they’ve belonged here the entire time.

  I make my way from the Iliad to the Military compound to meet up with Mother. I run into so many people, I’m inclined to turn a corner and head home. Their voices, the endless chatter and noise overwhelms me, though I so looked forward to it all this time.

  But this is my chance to meet with the Northie they have imprisoned, and who knows if Mother will change her mind before I get the chance?

  I make it up to the security guards at the metal doors, and they let me in without any issues. That’s great—I guess Mother hasn’t changed her mind, after all. I walk down a clean brown and aqua hallway, my footsteps absorbed by the thick carpeting under my feet. Mother meets me at another door at the end of the hallway and ushers me in without so much as a word.

  We’re in a large room, and two big green couches face each other in the middle, with a thick metal coffee table between them. Looks like Mother’s entertaining.

  A small man, about the size of the girl and her people, sits on one couch. His back is straight and his small hands lie on his lap as though he is waiting for a scolding. His skin is flushed, cheeks full.

  He looks healthy—I guess they’ve been feeding him regularly, then. Not their usual way of treating prisoners. Then I wonder what he’s had to tell them, for the reward of sustenance.

  Mother instructs me to sit, and I obey. I itch to put my hands on my lap to mirror his posture, but put them down by my sides instead.

  The Northie eyes me through incredibly long lashes, and green eyes that perfectly match the girl’s. I wonder if they are related. His chin is high and he watches me expectantly, but he does not move. The only things remotely alive on him right now are his eyes.

  I say, “Hello,” but he doesn’t respond.

  Then Mother says, “Ask him what you like, honey. He will answer.”

  I give her a questioning frown, but focus my eyes back on the Northie.

  Let’s start with something simple. “What’s your name?” I say.

  He seems to fight a frown, but keeps his eyes on me. “Rojhay,” he says.

  “Ro—jhay,” I repeat. “I was in a place, Rojhay. It was with your people, underground.”

  He watches me and doesn’t blink.

  Mother instructs me to stick to asking questions. I look at her again. What sort of rule is that?

  “It’s the only way this will work,” she says. Okay. She’s allowing me to do this, so it’s easy to comply.

  “Rojhay,” I say. “Who are you? Who are your people?”

  “We are the Metrills, the Selected.”

  “Selected for what?” I say.

  “Not for,” he replies. “Selected by. Selected by the Earth. We are made by the Earth for the Earth.”

  Okay. I resist the urge to laugh at his words. Why does he speak of the Earth as if it’s some sort of deity? It’s a planet like any other, not anything more special like he’s implying.

  “Do you and your people live only underground?”

  “Yes,” he says, “we live inside the Earth.”

  “For how long?”

  “For centuries,” he replies.

  “Why?” With all the land surrounding us, with the year-long mild temperatures, what would make these people move their homes underground—why wouldn’t they live on the surface?

  “It is safer,” he says. “We’ve always been safer under the earth. Away from her surface and her land monsters.”

  Land monsters? It sounds like a childish story—something akin to the bogeyman I’d read about in ancient stories. Then my mind flashes back to Maya, the ‘Beast’ in the ocean and I fight a shake. Surely the ocean could host massive beasts like that, but on land—? Oh I hope not.

  “Quite primitive, isn’t it?” Mother interjects.

  I nod in agreement, though I’m scared he’s right. Still, we’ve been here long enough to not have seen any “land monsters,” so I’m left with convincing myself that, yes, these are merely primitive ideas.

  He’s not a boy—of that much I’m sure—his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. A line of white runs across his hair, and there is a heat of wisdom in his eyes that tell me he is a grown man amongst his people. What wo
uld make a grown man prescribe to believe in “land monsters” if he were not part of some primitive tribe? Of course, it’s plausible that he is mildly backwards.

  Once I’m done trying to convince myself, I turn to Mother.

  I’m not really sure what more to ask Rojhay. His language is bizarre. I’m sure she and her people have asked him plenty over the days, though.

  “What has he told you?” I ask. “About his people?”

  “They were here before the Great Omni,” she says.

  How could that be? Everything I’ve read about the Great Omni confirmed that everything and everyone north was destroyed.

  However, if there’s one thing I learnt in Apex, it’s that I don’t know nearly as much as I think I do. My world is a very different place to what I always believed it was before. This sort of news shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.

  “How did they survive?” I ask.

  “Their homes were deep,” she says. “Much deeper than we’ve ever gone in C-City. Deep enough to avoid any catastrophes. They stayed underground for centuries after the Great Omni.”

  I wonder if that’s why they are a shorter people—did they manage to evolve down there, into four foot beings? And their technology—I wonder—

  Turning my attention back to Rojhay, I say, “What is the metal that makes up your hallways in your home?”

  I was only in a small section of the place, but I expect he’ll know exactly what I’m referring to.

  Mother’s attention is back on him as well, and she watches him closely as he speaks.

  “It is a biomimetic silicon derivative,” he says.

  Mother’s eyebrows rise. The term sounds familiar—I know that it’s something we’ve only been experimenting with on the Iliad.

  Looks like Rojhay’s people have been using it for years, and they’ve incorporated it into the structure of their homes, something that we could only dream about.

  I say, “What happens if someone is absorbed into the metal floor made up of this stuff?”

  His frown fights to come through though he still doesn’t move an inch. “It—transforms them,” he says. “It—it recycles them.” I see that he’s trying to fight the words, but they keep coming. “We are an efficient people. We recycle everything and everyone.” The thought trumps me.

  “Recycle—everyone?” I ask. “For what?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I try to think of something else, other than the girl being pulled into the floor.

  I look closer at his hands. His knuckles are white, like he’s holding his hands far too tight on his lap. His eyes shine at me—he glares, but he doesn’t move his face at all.

  It’s only then that I realize they must have done something to him. His posture is far from normal, even for a people I barely understand. I’ve watched them for as many weeks as they watched me in my glass tank—I know they fidget and move about as much as we do.

  “Why is he so still, Mother?” I finally ask.

  “We needed to sedate him,” she says. “He kept trying to escape. So, we froze him.”

  My forehead wrinkles in understanding. They injected him with nanites that keep him in this state for however long they intend to interrogate him. It’s not a safe procedure and can kill its subject painfully. I only saw them use it once.

  It’s yet another new thing I’ve learnt about them. I wonder how long he’s been in this state, but don’t ask. It’s something the Sorens use to gather information—who am I tell to them it’s not right.

  Who am I to challenge them on the fact that they’re supposed to value choice and this takes away someone’s choice, to an extent.

  His eyes dart to Mother’s face, then land on me again—he’s frozen but for his eyes and mouth.

  I remember one of my last conversations with his people, and finally say, “Why were they going to kill me?” Mother flinches beside me, but composes herself just as quickly.

  Rojhay’s eyes shine brighter. “They want me back,” he says. “They want me home.”

  I think that killing me probably wouldn’t have accomplished that, but I don’t bother saying as much.

  “Who are you? To them, I mean.”

  “I lead the Surface Team,” he says. “We go to the surface every decade for supplies and to replenish and recycle our air.”

  I guess that’s when the Sorens caught him. I want to ask Mother what their plans are for Rojhay, what they intend to do with him after they get their answers. Looking at her face, I know now’s not the time.

  And there’s something familiar in the way he’s looking at me—like he’s met me before. I’m curious about these people. I’ll come back to talk to him again. And I’m confident now that Mother will let me.

  When I get home, Rojhay’s eyes still burn in my head. Have I seen him before? I doubt it—maybe he and the girl have watched me for a while and that’s why he knows me. It makes sense—they’re stealth, the people. They’re quiet.

  I realize that I forgot to ask Mother what they intend to do with Rojhay now and make a mental note to ask the next time I see her. She told me she’s open to me seeing Rojhay again.

  Something’s changed there, with the way she’s treating me, but I know better than to challenge why she’s being more open.

  I’m tired—everything I learnt today and everything that’s happened over the last few weeks have taken their toll. I decide to go take a nap again, hopeful that the small illness I had months before has not reared its morose head again.

  Closing my eyes, I think of Rojhay and the girl and his eyes burn into the back of my mind.

  Which is why, when I open my eyes again, I’m convinced I’m in a dream. I almost never dream—but this definitely has to be one.

  Because I’m back in the stark underground room again. I’m facing the massive glass wall again—and I’m being interrogated by one of the Northies. Again.

  6

  Again

  I touch the side of the bed and my fingers dig into the mattress. My knuckles tighten painfully.

  I pinch my arm hard, to try to wake up from the dream but nothing happens.

  Looks like I’ll have to walk through the dream and try to forget about it when I wake.

  The Northie across from me sits and watches, like they did while I was imprisoned. Her brown eyes shine and she watches me expectantly.

  She holds a glass communicator in her hand and brings it up to her lips to speak. I look down to my right and see words float up to the surface of the comm beside me.

  The words Welcome Back peer at me through the frosted glass.

  I pick it up, amazed at its smooth silky surface, and how realistic this dream seems. I speak into it. “I’m not back. This is a dream.”

  Why am I telling the Northie this? Maybe I want to hear it out loud so I remember.

  The cool glass sits in my hand and I squeeze it slightly. It doesn’t budge. It’s solid, real.

  Then a shadow of words rise like bubbles to the surface of the glass.

  How are you feeling?

  I’m asleep and well-rested. “Fine,” I say.

  Did you see Rojhay?

  My head pops up to watch the Northie through the glass. She offers me a slight smile and waits for me to respond.

  “I’d like to wake up now,” I say. Then I throw the glass comm at the window. It bounces off like a small rubber ball and lands on the metal ground in front of my feet.

  The Northie doesn’t move, and her face freezes in a state of amusement—at least, that’s the best guess I can make of whatever that expression is. One lip is slightly curled up and her eyes smile at me.

  She stands and walks towards the glass, she presses a button, and I pass out in my dream.

  When I wake, the Northie that I chased stands across from me in the other room.

  If I wasn’t fully convinced it was a dream, I am now. Because she looks exactly as she did that day before she was absorbed into the floor. She approaches and presses the button on the wall
next to my glass case.

  The wall shifts and lowers into the ground again. I stay still and watch her. Her green eyes shimmer slightly, like she’s fighting away tears.

  “Your people have one of our people, Romymason,” she says.

  I nod. I remember this part well.

  “Is he alright?” she asks. This isn’t what she asked me that time, but I nod again. “What do they mean to do with him, Romymason?” she asks.

  I remember Rojhay’s eyes again—I remember his frozen form. His cheeks were full—he was healthy. They didn’t hurt him.

  “They want to question him,” I say. Surely I’ll wake up from this dream soon. “They don’t intend to hurt him.”

  Why am I talking so much? I stand to walk towards her and she doesn’t so much as flinch. “What is your name?” I say. Sure it’s a dream, but I’d still like to know. I wonder if she’ll answer.

  She opens her mouth to speak but before a word comes out, the first bomb hits and she’s already pushed the button again and is running. I jump to my feet and make a run towards the glass enclosure. When another bomb hits from above, I land—much like I did in real life—on the top edge of the glass. The dull, heavy pain in my side overwhelms again—much like it did in real life. I move past the pain to roll myself up and over the glass before it closes.

  The outer door is left slightly ajar so I make my way past it and into the hallway again. This part is familiar, but I run in the opposite direction this time. I run after about five minutes, knowing that I’m not getting anywhere.

  And then she’s twenty feet in front of me, her entire left side burnt. It’s even worse than I remember.

  She slumps to the ground, and I’m already beside her, preparing to breathe into her mouth. This dream feels so real. I sense the slight pulse in her neck, but nothing else. And they drag me away from her again.

  “Wait,” I say. Why did the dream have to end exactly the same way as what happened in real life? “Why?” I say.

  But unsurprisingly, they don’t answer me. Instead, they pull me into the metal veda and we rise, up up up, to the surface. I’m prepared this time. I pull my shirt up past my mouth and nose and try not to breathe too much as we walk through the sandstorm towards the waiting copta.