The Fall
Amelia, March 28, 2236, 480 Kilometers from Carthage, NY
This last bit of stolen concealer would not last much longer. She dabbed the paste on two pinkish dots just outside the bridge of her nose, spread it outward, and worked it in until she was satisfied that no one but her could see them.
The first time she saw them a few months ago she tried washing them off, scrubbing at them with every kind of soap she could find in the compound, but they stubbornly remained just where they were. Something about them seemed so very foreign on her otherwise perfectly white skin that she was too frightened to tell anyone, even Laurel. And then one morning she simply woke up knowing exactly what they were: marks of impurity, an indication that something was wrong with her genes, her DNA, the very thing that made her and all the other girls here so valuable.
Of course she'd known what they were for as long as she'd been at the compound, which was exactly as long as she could remember herself, but just like all the other things she knew, these bits of knowledge surfaced like memories only when they were needed. She couldn't control when they appeared anymore than she could erase the marks from her cheeks.
Stealing more of the concealer from the loft of the woman whose job it was to teach the girls how to apply makeup was risky, but she knew that the woman was not due to arrive for another three weeks, and nobody else had any business going up to the very last story of the compound, this dusty place right below the beams of the roof.
She found it by chance on one of her before sunup explorations of the place, something she did every time she couldn't sleep, which happened more and more frequently of late. She took the stairs all the way up, two at a time, until she finally collapsed into this vast, empty space. It was hot and smelled the way she imagined a tree would smell on the inside, although she'd never seen one up close. The windows overlooking the yard were coated by a film of oily dust, and she felt compelled to draw patterns on them, but the thought of someone discovering her in this new hideaway kept her hands firmly behind her back.
Standing at the window now, she watched the birds flit above the wall of the compound and disappear on the other side. The side where all things were dangerous. The side where the people were genetically off. The side where those who killed her parents and the parents of all the other girls lived. As she watched what now popped into her mind as definitely a sparrow bounce on the aged stones, a body suddenly flung itself, or was flung by someone, over the wall. As it landed with a thud she couldn't hear, she instantly calculated the chances of survival at 9.27%.
She knew it would be at least another hour until the first of the residents woke up to do their morning chores, and that Drake was likely asleep up in that cozy cabin he made for himself at the top of the watch tower. No one had ever broken into this place in all the years she had been here.
The lawn would have muffled the sound of the fall some.
Intending to wake the mistress, she raced down to the fourth floor where the staff were housed in their luxurious rooms with private baths and actual maids, dark and slender mutes who moved in and out of the shadows of the compound. Something in her hesitated. She knew what the protocol called for: raise the alarm, wake up the mistress, and in case of an actual attack by Zoriners, grab one of the stun guns located in the alcoves throughout the compound, five meters apart, and use it for personal protection while the adults handle the rest. She reached into the closest alcove and pulled down a slick, gray weapon. It buzzed softly and felt warm to the touch, although it looked like it was made of metal and she recalled just now that metal is supposed to feel cold.
She went past where the mistress was, following the stairs all the way to the bottom and raced outside towards the dark form splayed out by the wall, its arms akimbo, a tangle of dark hair covering the face. It looked Zorin. It also looked young. She stopped, breathless, just out of lunging distance of the lifeless body, had it been alive and capable of lunging for her. Staring at the torn shirt and streaks of blood covering what little she could see of its flesh, she could tell it was definitely a boy. Moments later, she could see that it was definitely breathing.
Stifling a scream, she jumped back a full meter and pointed the stun gun at the form as it tried to rise. And now it did, standing, shakily, staring back at her. The eyes were enormous brown circles that looked directly into her gray ones.
Nothing in her memory vault was helping her figure out what to do now. She aimed the buzzing weapon at his chest and waited. She could hear him breathing hard, probably from the pain. They seemed to simply stare at each other, transfixed, for ages. Finally, he took a step forward and calmly took her gun-holding hand in his, moving her aim a little to the left, and pressed his chest to the barrel. He was still looking into her eyes, but it was entirely unlike that time Laurel stared at her when they were wrestling and she almost broke her arm. Laurel, who was too proud to beg for mercy, had looked at her with so much pain that she immediately let go and swore never to fight again. He wasn't looking at her like that at all.
"Can't remember which button to press?" His voice was soft, quiet.
He slowly raised his hand and put it on top of hers. Squeezing gently, he moved her index finger under the arch protecting the trigger and the buzzing of the gun got louder. Suddenly, she was deathly afraid. Afraid that he would press the trigger. She jerked her hand down and threw the safety back on. The buzzing died.
"If you don't do this, they might," he said softly, pointing to the other side of the fence with his head, "so shoot me or help me get into the compound. You can do with me what you will afterwards. I'm in no state to run at the moment." He said it flatly, quietly, as if he really didn't care what she'd do.
She couldn't shoot him. She knew that much.
"Can you walk?" she whispered.
He nodded. She turned around and started back toward the buildings. He walked with a slight limp, but was moving as quickly as she was. It only took a few minutes to get inside, but there was no way he'd be able to make it up all those stairs before the compound woke up.
As if he could tell what she was thinking, he approached the staircase leading up to the loft, "How many?"
"1,238 steps," she replied.
He nodded and started up without looking at her. When she pulled up, exhausted, to the top landing and peeked into the loft, she could see a figure in the semi darkness hunched in front of a large mirror. His shirt was off and he was scrutinizing a multitude of oddly shaped scrapes and bruises on his flesh. There was so much blood and dirt and so much purple everywhere. She wanted to turn away, feeling sick to her stomach and a little embarrassed. He saw her in the mirror, but silently kept at his task as if she wasn't there. His jaw was clenched and his breathing became strained when he touched something as he assessed the damage.
She remembered now that she had medical knowledge, if not training per se. If anything was broken, she'd likely know what to do to help fix it. But how could she tell this stranger, a boy likely born to the people who killed her people, that she wanted to help? How do you approach someone who had held your hand with the gun against his own chest, not caring if you pulled the trigger?
She turned her face away from the blood and waited. She heard him run the water at the sink and after a while, heard him put his shirt back on. Now she could look at him again.
He turned around and looked her in the eyes for a long time, and then walked right up to her, took her gently by the shoulders and leaned in close to her, so close she could feel the warm air on her forehead when he spoke, "Thank you. For not shooting me. I'm Riley. I am Zorin-born, but you already know that. I don't know what they've taught you about us or the world outside these walls, but we are not animals... I
need to know if I’m putting you in danger. I'll turn myself in. If not, I need to hide here for a few days, just until my ribs heal enough for me to run."
He said all of it very quietly, quickly, in a rush. Now he waited. His eyes remained calm, but his chest was moving much too fast for someone who looked as calm and unconcerned as he did.
She stood frozen, unable to move. There was a faint feeling of warmth spreading from the middle of her forehead to the rest of her face. She knew she was blushing now, and that he undoubtedly could see it. Looking down seemed safer than into those darkly intruding eyes of his. He was waiting patiently, silently, watching her. She could feel him looking at her face, through it almost, forcing her to look up at him.
For some inexplicable reason she felt like crying. It had been a very long time since she’d cried but there was no mistaking the lump in her throat for anything else. She felt a solitary tear spill from the corner of her eye and run down her cheek, making a track through the milky paste she had spent so long working into her skin not an hour before. She stepped back and turned to run, toward the stairs, toward the safety of her room, toward the welcoming smells of breakfast soon to be emanating from the kitchen, her favorite place besides the garden in this entire walled city of survivors and replenishers.
A not too gentle hand squeezed her shoulder and flung her around. He took her by the neck and walked her, stumbling as she went, to the mirror. He flicked the light on. She could see one of her marks, plain as day. She was shaking now, thinking of all the things that could have happened if she had been discovered. If they realized she was not what they thought she was. Thinking of being expelled into the world beyond these walls, living amongst the dark haired people with no knowledge of anything. The memoryless. People who lived as if they were truly savages and the centuries of civilization didn't happen for them.
His hands traveled to her shoulders and held her in place. He was looking at her face in the mirror, waiting in that way he had. There was something about the way he stopped her from leaving.... She knew that he knew she didn't belong here; that he knew there was something wrong with her. She knew, too, that he knew a lot more than a Zorin-born outsider was supposed to.
He gently turned her around to face him.
"You have freckles. I know that's not what you call them, or what they mean to you, but that's what they are. If you spent more time outside, you'd have more of them. They come from the sun. It doesn't mean there is anything wrong with you. I'm sorry if I scared you, Amelia."
She felt a punch to her stomach on hearing her name from his lips. Nobody outside these walls even knew she existed at all. He drew his finger over the A.L. on her neck, the initials that were tattooed into the base when she was chosen to become a replenisher. Every girl in the same group had unique initials, and no two names started with the same letter. She'd be the only Amelia in this 16-year stretch at this compound, but she knew there were others out there, other Amelias that she would likely never meet. That's how he knew.
"Breathe.... I keep scaring you like this. I'm sorry. I really need to know if you are in danger for helping me. If there are cameras or if there is any chance anyone else saw me fall. If you were alone. I need to know if I can hide here for a little while."
She looked down again, for safety from blushing.
"Please, look at me." He put his hand under her chin, gently lifting her tear-streaked face up to his, and stared at her with such intensity that her face burned.
She didn't know about the cameras, or even if there were any. There didn't seem to be much need for security here, considering the impossibly tall walls surrounding the grounds. Not so impossibly tall. Anything that was not done according to protocol was risky - that much everybody knew, but turning him in was not an option. They would execute him, or at the very least, beat him, torture him, and possibly trade him for one of the old guards captured by Zoriners decades ago, long before her time.
Looking at him now she felt compelled to protect him, which struck her as odd, as he was the one who seemed in control here. He knew far too much for one without an implant. It just didn't make sense. She should hate him. His kind had killed her family. They made those like her into exiles. She should have shot him with no hesitation, and yet, she couldn't do it. Not even with his hand pulling the trigger.
They had fought on the wrong side of the war and lost, hadn't they? They were savages, destroyers, at least that's what her implant was telling her. Yet, this boy before her wasn't adding up.
Turning her face away from him, she asked in a whisper, "Did your people kill my family? My mom and dad... My baby sister... My dog, my dog Blanche? I need to know...."
He stepped back from her then, giving her a little room to breathe, away from his warm, gentle touch. He lowered his eyes and hesitated for just a few seconds before blurting out, "I think so. It was before my time, all of it, but yes, my people may have killed yours, Amelia. I'm sorry."
He looked up at her at this, as if knowing why she asked. He walked over to the sink, slowly, straight-backed, his hands fisted at his sides, and stood there motionless for a while. She couldn't see his face in the darkened mirror.
She waited. Finally, he turned and walked back towards her, only now he held her stun gun in his right hand. She didn't remember him taking it from her. She froze, too surprised and scared to scream. He closed the remaining distance, not quite looking in her eyes. She let go of the breath she didn't realize she was holding when he handed her the gun, handle first.
The gun was buzzing softly, telling her that he had flicked the safety off. Still not looking at her face, he laced his fingers behind his head and nodded calmly, "I'm ready."
He turned his back to the barrel of the gun and walked towards the stairs.
The Pill
Doctor Sandra Groning, February 4, 2107 Manchester, UK
The orderlies no longer broke for lunch. The clinic has been frightfully understaffed for too long now to keep track of who clocked in and who didn't, so Sandra Groning took all the help she could get from whoever felt like helping these days. She looked ragged herself. She had lost weight, her eyes seemed to have sunk in deeper than when she was fighting cancer. Even as a doctor she was surprised at the physical manifestations of exhaustion.
She walked over to the fountain and put her face directly over the stream of clean cold water, one of the few luxuries that were still available to everyone. The cold was just bearable, but at least now she was awake enough to go to her lab. Over twelve hundred tests and no closer to finding that magic bullet. Something had to give. She couldn't take it for too much longer, especially with all the newly homeless replicating themselves. Something had to just work at this stage, so that she never had to pull a frozen corpse of a newborn from the snow bank on her way home. That was too much to ask of anyone.
She almost ran into Jason, lost in thought as she was, who seemed out of breath, but had an uncommon smile on his face. He didn't seem to have aged much in the decade they worked together. Somehow he retained his youthful, almost childish face, and the few lines drawn symmetrically across his forehead didn't make him look ragged or aged in the least. He was gesturing wildly towards the lab, not saying anything, just pointing, so they sprinted, he casually, she gagging on spit, lungs unable to quite keep up like they used to. God, she felt so, so old now. Ancient, even. Chronology be damned, she'd seen far too much death for her 26 years to ever feel young again. And far too much of that death were babies, so the mere thought of being with a guy in that way was a turn off.
The doors to the lab were wide open, and her staff moved timidly against the wall while Jason caught his breath enough to explain: "The extra dose of AlterX in the bonobos seems to have worked, when combined with half the Ovix pill. Twenty three of the bonobo females have been thoroughly taken care of by the males for weeks now, and yet, not a one has the CRH in their system. It's like it just didn't take. Basically, not a one of them is pregnant..." He slumped into his swivel chair
and stared at the techs, then at her. Nobody said anything. It was as if this news itself was too fragile to acknowledge fully, to speak of in anything but a whisper.
She grabbed her notes, stuffed them unseen into her briefcase, and bolted out of the lab, not bothering to close the door behind her. She needed a drink. Someplace quiet. And a bit of time. A tall Gin and Tonic, single in a double, a bit of time to process what she, what they may have just accomplished by accidentally mixing related meds in a single sample.
The technician responsible for dosing this group of bonobo females left unexpectedly and the new kid, and he really was a kid, didn't bother to read the notes before medicating the girls with AlterX. It was an accident. She was furious the day she found out and fired the kid. Jeremy, or something that sounded like Jeremy, just out of college, eager blue eyes through the specs, decent smile, too young to see bodies of dead babies.
The pub was warm and smoky. She beat the snow off her boots on the stoop at the door and walked to her favorite spot in the darker corner of the place, farthest space away from the door where the bartender could still hand her a drink. She felt far too weary to walk to get the refill if she'd need one. Charlie, who's been tending the bar here for as long as she could remember, could always tell if she needed to talk or be left alone. He sensed immediately that it was her alone night, made her a drink she didn't have to ask for, slid the payment token silently across the counter and walked away, quiet as a ghost.
She had always admired Charlie for that bizarre ability to read people's moods. Or maybe it was just her moods he read so well. She never quite got the hang of paying attention to people around her. Not Jeremy, Jerry... Jerry Stiles. Single mom raised, smart kid, scholarship to Cornell or some such, a quiet, decent sort. She pulled out her phone and dialed 2 for Jason, "I need you to call Jerry and hire him back with my apologies. I want him on my team. Tell him I was in a lousy mood. Estrogen deficiency, whatever. I want him back... Thanks."
Escape (Alliance Book 1) Page 1
