Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1)

by Lydia Chelsea

  I am the only one that has mine on me. Mina and Melayne point toward the keeping, either unable or unwilling to speak. My face is blank as I wonder if there’s anything on mine that might get me disposed. No. I’ve been careful. Dad’s always told me never to do anything on our home computers that I wouldn’t want the entire world to know about. Good advice.

  The man waves the screen of my logger in front of his own until it chirps. Wordlessly, he hands it back.

  The ants trail down the pavement to the next keeping, where they make no attempt to signal their arrival. There’s no waiting at the closed meld, no requesting entry. They just barge in, whether someone is inside or not.

  The three of us look at each other and then back at the meld standing open. Zutti, having had enough of the rain, tugs the leash free from Melayne’s limp grasp and wags cheerfully inside without us.

  20

  MINA AND I wait for a few more minutes on the lawn with Melayne until she comes back to herself. Part of me worries about her, wondering if I should stay until Scuva returns from functioning. But I don’t know when that will be, and I have Assimilation early tomorrow as usual, so we make our excuses and say our goodbyes.

  We walk in silence to the catch the regular slide to the supersonic. Our route is the same, at least until I get off near Ritter’s keeping. Mina will have to continue on through another few slide changes.

  I say nothing for most of the trip. When we board the last of the slides we will ride together, I say,

  “It’s probably best that we don’t mention this to anyone.”

  Mina nods. “Or that list,” she adds.

  I nod. “Of course.”

  Despite not being the gung-ho Concordian that Mina is and being younger than she, I very intentionally swipe her forehead as I prepare to exit the slide without her. Her eyes are glassy as she returns the gesture.

  Anyone, of course, does not extend to Strega and Ritter. Or I decide it doesn’t. When I reach the keeping, however, neither is there. There isn’t a note but a series of codes on the message board in the servette. When I plug them into my logger, I find it’s a service unwind near the Zone 1 main guardian function hall.

  My heart stutters in my chest.

  I am outside the meld again, trying to decide what to do when my logger chirps.

  Ritter’s face pops up on the screen.

  “Have you left Melayne’s yet?”

  I nod, a flood of words stuck in my throat. Questions claw at me there, too, until I actually feel a tingling in my windpipe. But he’s at a service unwind frequented by mostly guardians, which is either a huge coincidence or he’s blatantly broken the promise he made to me and Strega and is continuing to dip his toes in dangerous waters.

  “Why are you all the way out in the guardian’s area?” I finally ask.

  He shrugs. “The function hall sent me out here. Have you seen the viewer?”

  I shake my head, though I have a feeling I know what’s making the news.

  “Guardians have begun to search the keepings of other guardians,” Ritter tells me unnecessarily.

  “Really?” I ask. I don’t think this would be a good time to tell him what I know.

  He doesn’t speak, and the camera shifts away from his face. I glimpse grinning, relaxed faces all around. Just a bunch of guardians relaxing after clearing function for the day.

  My logger chirps with a text.

  Undercover for the heralds. Trying to overhear something about what the hell is going on around here. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.

  My logger goes black.

  I didn’t get a chance to ask if Strega was with him. I glance behind myself, at the still open meld. I close it, deciding Ritter’s keeping would be a logical place for the guardians to search next. Or to have already searched. Bugged. Be watching.

  I shake my head, almost wanting to laugh at myself. Too much television? But the guardians had to be looking for something or else they were placing some sort of device inside Melayne’s home. Neither is good.

  By nature, the heralds are always poking their nose into the business of others. That’s the only way to deliver the news. Anything incriminating found in Ritter’s keeping could be talked off as part of his function, I suppose. He’s already explained to me and to Strega during numerous recent arguments that there’s a certain amount of amnesty for heralds in regard to the theft standard, at least where lies are told in the course of function. They’re offered some level of protection, at least until the BAUs come out. But in a game of war, reconnaissance is key. Knowing what your enemy is up to, what their next move will be, is top priority. I’m not sure Ritter is being truthful about his actual purpose there.

  I hurry toward Strega’s keeping, too paranoid to log him first, even just to ask if he’s there. He’s surprised to find me in his meldway. After searching what he can see of my skin for fresh cuts and bruises, he steps back so I can enter.

  I shake my head, afraid, again, to speak. I’m afraid to log, I’m afraid to speak. I’m afraid not to. Strega needs to know about the searches. He needs to know about Ritter. And both of them need to know about the Disposal list.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until I’m against Strega’s chest, the warmth and wetness of my tears blooming across his lounge shirt.

  “What’s happened?” he asks after a few moments.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t bring out the alpha inducers. I’m glad he doesn’t. Maybe he’s finally learning that I just want to feel what I feel.

  I try to speak again, but fear freezes the words. I pull at his shoulders and stretch up onto my toes to speak directly into his ear.

  “I don’t know who can hear us,” I whisper. “The guardians came to Melayne’s and searched her keeping. And now Ritter’s at a guardian unwind trying to eavesdrop. Mina’s fiancé, Ollie, keeps a list of people who are disposed. She says the lists are getting longer and longer.” I know my words aren’t arranged in any kind of logical order, but that’s the order they rush out in.

  His muscles clench under my fingers. Tucking his lips close to my ear, his words are carried on warm beats of breath. “Did you tell him any of this?”

  “No,” I say, trying not to burrow my face into the heat of his neck.

  Strega eases out of my embrace and studies my face again, tucking my still damp, ropy hair behind my ears.

  “I should go, it’s getting late,” I stifle a yawn.

  “I’ll see you to Ritter’s,” Strega says, stepping through the meldway behind me.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “That would have been unquestioned last night,” Strega answers softly, setting his meld to unwilling for the first time I can recall. I don’t tell him that it’s useless, that the guardians have technology that overrules standard convention. “Things have changed,” he says.

  I wonder if these raids are a violation of the theft standard. Stealing someone’s private enjoyment of their keeping. But if the guardians are under orders from the local Tribunal, none of that matters. Just like on Attero, governmental authority supersedes any of its laws.

  Strega isn’t satisfied just walking me to the slide. He accompanies me all the way to Ritter’s keeping and orders me to set the meld to unwilling. I still don’t tell him that it makes no difference, because I fear if I do, he’ll want to stay with me until Ritter returns. I don’t want him to risk his function level. I’m already a source of distraction for Strega, and he has enough distraction worrying about Ritter’s snooping.

  I sense by the shadow on the glass that Strega is waiting outside for me to reset the meld, so I do. If I take sleepbringer, I’m not sure I’ll wake up even for the attempted entry alert. But then, I’m not sure I’ll sleep tonight even if I swallow the contents of the usual tube.

  On Day 44 of Assimilation, two weeks after she rendered me unconscious, Belgrade pairs me with Stacy during combat exercises. Not that it makes any difference. Everyone knows my w
eakness now, and everyone tries to exploit it. Even Krill and Yaryk took shots at my left temple over the last week. Over the last three days, those shots have been tapering off because I expect it now, and I vigilantly defend my left side. I don’t plan to let down my guard, either.

  It doesn’t stop Stacy from trying, though. She merely gives me her usual easy grin when I parry. It looks so disarming. Studying her closely over the last fourteen days, I’ve decided she might be a sociopath. Charming, seemingly guileless, but really just a master manipulator.

  The good news about this is that we work together very well in the reaction center. Anything that requires teamwork rather than opposition is fine. She’s a very good strategist, which is also one of my strengths. She is good at getting people to follow her and at getting what she wants. It is only when we’re pitted against one another that I have to be ready for anything.

  I almost jump up and down when I beat her in combat. Beating the second ranked member of our team will surely increase my own ranking. I can see that Yaryk’s thinking the same thing as he mops the sweat of his defeat against Krill off his brow. His head drops briefly as the ranking board flashes after the last of the combat pairings and my name usurps his. I keep my face blank but turn cartwheels inside. Maybe, just maybe, I will factor well at Tribunal.

  Maybe, just maybe, I won’t end up on Ollie’s list of disposed.

  It’s routine for me now to board the slide and immediately check my logger for the latest from the heralds. Apparently, the guardians have finished their raids on fellow guardians and have moved on to the heralds, starting with the keepings of the highest functioners, like Velert Belk, the correspondent we’ve seen most of on the viewer. He’s been very tenacious in his attempts to get answers about the launch closures and the suicides.

  A text pops in from Strega.

  Have you cleared onboarding for the day?

  Yes, I reply

  Meet me at my keeping?

  On my way, I tell him, signaling for a slide stop. I need to change course.

  He’s reset the meld to willing, so I let myself in, which is good because he’s so deep in thought I doubt he would have heard the meld sensor.

  The raids on the herald keepings have Strega so rattled he doesn’t think to examine me, and none of today’s damage shows on parts of me that are exposed.

  Strega is so agitated, I reach into his pockets for the alpha inducers. He doesn’t object when I press them to his temples. Even after doing so, his breathing is heavy, like he’s been running.

  “I could be disposed,” he says. His jaw works, but it takes a few moments for more words to come. “I saw Ritter’s function code the other day, and I memorized it.”

  I wait while his next words cue up, and when they do, it feels like my whole body drops like an elevator with a severed cable.

  “I used his code to check his factors. He’s dropped four function levels since Tribunal.” Seeing my face, which I couldn’t keep blank if I tried, Strega hastily adds, “He’s still at a five. All of the suicides have been level three or less, so far.”

  “But if he continues to drop at this rate…”

  Strega nods and curses in Concordian. “Four levels in less than two months…” He looks sick.

  “What can we do?” I ask, reluctantly dropping the disks back in his pockets. “How can we help him?”

  “I wish I knew. He’s broken his promise, what is there to do?” Strega sighs. “Make him promise again?” He shrugs. “He’ll just break that one, too.”

  Under the desperate worry lies fury that flashes in Strega’s eyes and makes the muscles in his jaw twitch. I remember when, not so long ago, I made him look the same way as he wrestled me to the cleanse floor and forced his medicines into me. But there’s nothing he can give Ritter to fix this one, so there’s helplessness, too.

  I stroke his temples absently, the way he often strokes mine. Whether it is a follow up to the alpha inducers or just something he does unconsciously, I don’t know. And I don’t know why I do it now, except that I want to wipe the expression he wears off his face.

  Before I see it coming, Strega’s lips fall upon mine, his strong hand reaching up to brush against my jaw, to hold me there when I might duck away. But the softness of him, the ever gentle concern, I feel it as his skin rubs over mine. Our breath mingles. I’m slammed by a tidal wave of churning emotion in his kiss, as if his personality were spilling into me.

  When he pulls his head back slightly, I try to follow. His thumb hooks my chin to stay me. His breathing isn’t as quick as it was when I arrived, but it is ragged.

  “I should probably confess that I have more than just a caretaker’s concern for you.”

  Strega looks worried for the half a second it takes him to register the smile that blooms across my face. I realize but don’t tell him that for some time now, I’ve considered him my Strega. He’s been my comfort, solid and strong, since I came to accept the impossibility that is the multiverse.

  This time he doesn’t stop me when I seek out his mouth. My fingers curl into the hair at his nape. His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I can’t seem to get enough of his warmth. It keeps the ball of ice that’s been in my stomach since I woke up in holding from taking over my entire body.

  When we break contact, I rest my forehead against him where his neck meets his shoulder. He turns his face toward mine.

  “Don’t tell Ritter,” he says softly.

  Ritter.

  I think of Linney, of that smiling, carefree version of me in the photos he’s hidden in drawers. No. Strega’s right. I’m not Linney, and there’s no reason for Ritter to expect anything between us, but it would have to be confusing to see me with his brother, his best friend. I understand without him saying so that Strega’s not asking to hide it forever. Just for now. Just while Ritter is so obviously struggling. Neither of us needs the distraction, frankly, but I can’t turn Strega away. I can’t ask him to put what he feels for me on a shelf until later. I don’t want to put it aside.

  Strega is the only thing that feels like home. It makes no sense. There’s no reason that he, with his Concordian customs and knowledge and history, should feel like Attero to me. He’d be baffled by Attero, by the lack of sophisticated diagnostic and preventative medical technology. We’re in the dark ages compared to this place. And still he feels like home. Like everything is okay. All of the danger recedes to far corners while he’s near.

  This time, when we trace, Strega’s memory is a pleasant one. It’s of him and Ritter, young enough that Ritter’s parents are still alive somewhere, but old enough that the boys are almost too old for the sort of game they’re playing. The two of them are out behind the Bocek keeping in the rugged, high-desert back yard, chasing each other around with toy interrupters, which are like Atteroan stun guns but with longer lasting paralysis.

  For some reason, I don’t fuse completely with Strega the way I did with the horrible memory of his parents on the slide. This one is more like watching a home movie of the two of them.

  “I got you!” Ritter whines when Strega doesn’t pretend to fall, paralyzed, to the ground. “Strega, I got you. You’re paralyzed!”

  Ritter is small compared to Strega, even with the two year difference in their ages. The frustration on Ritter’s face is obvious. By the looks of him, he’s used to Strega winning out at most games. And now, when he clearly feels he’s achieved something, Strega’s failure to acknowledge the victory hits him hard.

  In that moment, finally, I fully meld with Strega. His experience becomes mine even while I still know who I am. Our chest hurts at the look on Ritter’s face. It’s just a game, but it is clear that’s not how it feels to Ritter. We think of onboarding, how no one wants him on their teams during body mastery because he’s always a little slower, a little clumsier than everyone else.

  We can give him this. We want to. And it’s okay, it’s not a lie, we tell ourselves, because it won’t hurt him. It wil
l make him happy.

  We drop to the ground, unmoving. Unblinking. It’s cold in the shade of the large pepper tree, and we’d just been about to suggest a break for the cleanse and a snack. The cold only increases our need to pee.

  Ritter jumps up and down nearby, celebrating his delayed victory. We hope it is genuine, that he doesn’t suspect we just gave in. We blink while he’s not looking because the staring makes our eyes water after too long.

  We wonder how long we should wait before pretending to regain use of our muscles. Surely he doesn’t expect the full span of actual interrupters. That would be unbearable!

  Ritter’s celebration wanes as he realizes that by interrupting us, he’s lost us. We can’t play if we’re paralyzed, after all. And so he crouches next to us and plucks a fallen twig from the ground and says,

  “Look! I’ve discovered this wand that can make the interrupter wear off instantly! Let me just charge it. Once I touch it to you, you’ll be fine.”

  We have to bite the inside of our cheek to keep from smiling. He might not be cut out for sports, but he’s got us all beat when it comes to imagination.

  “What happened?” we ask the moment the twig touches us. Ritter smiles and says,

  “I saved you.”

  “Thanks,” we grin, popping to our feet.

  It seems Strega and I are doomed to opposite traces. When mine was pleasant, his was horrible. And now his is pleasant and mine is not.

  I take Strega through the night of May sixteenth, the night Ritter saved me from the path of an oncoming car and sentenced me to Assimilation with the threat of Disposal.

  The memory is fresh. Surreal. Time hasn’t dulled the fear or the sensation of bile rising at the back of my throat as Jake Armadice gropes me against the tool shed. When Concordia returns and we find ourselves with our fingers resting lightly on each other’s left arm, Strega and I are both trembling.

  I can’t look at him. The things he’s seen. The wild party I didn’t even want to go to. Rae with the random guy. Seeing it through his eyes, I feel ashamed. Ashamed of myself for being there, ashamed of what he’s seen Rae doing, what he must think of my best friend. Of me, by association.