Exodia

EXODIA

by

Debra Chapoton

Book 1 of the Exodia
Ledgers

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover art by Magali
Fréchette

Copyright 2015 by Debra
Chapoton

Smashwords Edition

Available in paperback

Other works by Debra
Chapoton

OUT OF EXODIA

A SOUL’S KISS

SHELTERED

THE GUARDIAN’S DIARY

EDGE OF ESCAPE

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EXODIA

Part I: 2093

Chapter 1 The Red Slum

From the first page of the
Ledger:

The black voice said, “Live
in fire, wild, souls howl here.”

There are two paths to every
man’s life. Some choose hell …

IT’S AS IF I too am running for my
life.

I sit transfixed by the scene outside
the smudged window. A scrubby looking boy races away from a
statehouse guardsman barely out of reach of the angry soldier’s
whip. I clench my fists, press closer to the window, and let the
pounding in my ears cover my idiot tutor’s droning
voice:

“…
after the Eurasian
Nuclear War of 2049 when North America united into 90 states and
declared trade independence from the rest of the world
…”

The kid reaches the fence and scrambles
up the chain links. The frayed end of the guard’s whip catches him
on the ankle. Two small oranges spill from his pockets as he
lurches to scurry over the top unfazed by the lashing or the broken
barbs. He casts a casual, nonchalant glance over his shoulder and
disappears out of sight.

My posture relaxes and my
pulse returns to normal, but then my eyes fall to the words the
tutor has scrawled on the wallboard:
Eurasian Nuclear War
. The letters jump
around in my head and rearrange themselves into
I aware casual runner
. My heart skips
a beat. I’ve been having more of these strange distractions lately.
Words change in my head and I miss several minutes of
time.

I slump down in my seat and glance at
the three other boys forced to sit through this drivel with me. Not
one is paying attention. We’ve heard it a thousand
times.

“…
post-apocalyptic
immigration changed the culture of our new nation. Tattoos on the
left elbow, red or blue, were given at birth to differentiate the
two classes. Intermarriage is punishable by death and so is killing
or breaking the bones of someone of the opposite
tattoo.”

I fight the urge to cradle my left
elbow even though it doesn’t matter since I’m wearing a long
sleeved shirt. I can never draw attention to my fading tattoo. As
grandson of the most powerful man in the nation, Executive
President Bryer Battista, there should be no doubt that I am a
Blue.

But I have a doubt. Something isn’t
right. No one else’s royal blue tattoo has purpled like mine. For
months now I’ve secretly dabbed blue dye on my skin, as much to
hide the suspicion from myself as from anyone else, that maybe,
just maybe, the tattoo I was given sixteen years ago was red. And
maybe I, Dalton Battista, grandson of the cruelest tyrant ever, am
not a true member of the elite ruling class. That maybe I belong to
society’s religious outcasts–those poor hoarders, low class
rejects, slave labor.

It takes a moment before the silence
registers on my ears. The tutor is no longer speaking. Four sets of
eyes are turned on me, watching, waiting.

“
Excuse me? Could you repeat
the question?”

“
Certainly,” the tutor
smirks. “What is the name of the resistance leader who tried to
claim all of Exodia for the Reds?”

“
Um,” I clear my throat. I
love history actually. Half my life I was raised by a Red nanny
whose tales of Ronel captivated me. “Ronel, David Ronel, he, um …”
I run a hand through my hair, long by current standards, and simply
stop talking. My fear of public speaking muzzles me even in this
small group.

And now my mind swirls around the fact
that this morning I ran out of blue dye.

* * *

“
What is it with that guy?
Does he think we’re morons?” Jamie kicks at the stones in the path
as we walk along the fence after class. “When are they gonna get us
a decent tutor? He’s what, the fourth one this year?”

I nod, spy a patch of orange color
beneath some overgrown shrubs, and think of the thief who would
have braved a consequence far worse than the tip of a whip if he
had been caught. I reach through the scraggly patch of weeds and
pull out the fruit, rub them on my jeans and drop both into one of
my linen belt bags.

We pass a guard, the same guard who
chased the kid. His whip is wound up and clamped to a utility belt
that also holds a Nano-gun. Nano-guns are prized since the
Suppression of 2071. There have been a lot of changes since the
nuclear clouds did their damage to this half of the world, or so
I’ve been told countless times.

“
No,” I adjust my answer,
“he’s the fifth one. You’re probably forgetting about the old,
skinny guy that kept checking his fly. He only lasted three
days.”

“
Oh, right. He was the one
who had taught in a real school, before the Suppression.” Jamie
gives a quick laugh, kicks another stone, and asks, “Do you ever
wonder what it would be like to spend all day with hundreds of
other kids, girls too?”

He is obsessed with girls. Before I can
answer I hear the shout of the guardsman we just passed. We turn to
see him running after a boy, the same boy, I’m sure, who earlier
escaped. Scrubby looking, thin, tattered brown vest. Running for
his life again – and suddenly I’m rooting for him to
succeed.

“
Come on, let’s follow,” I
say. I don’t wait for Jamie.

We race back in the direction we just
came from and easily catch up to the guard, who has stopped to
unbuckle something from his utility belt.

“
No! You can’t shoot him.” I
plant myself directly in front of the guard, giving the thief a
couple extra seconds to reach the same spot in the fence as
before.

The guard looks from me to Jamie to the
kid who’s half way up the fence now. Of course the guard knows who
I am so he’s careful about picking his words. He speaks with the
accent of a northern Blue and says, “That one deserves a bullet. He
doesn’t just steal food, he spies for Ronel’s people.” He’d like to
push me aside. In fact, he starts to shove me away with his gun
hand, then steps around me. The thief is gone. “Damn. Next time let
me do my job.” He mumbles several curses against the Reds as he
re-holsters the gun and marches back to his post.

Jamie speaks first. “When did you get
so brave? I thought he was mad enough to shoot you. Heck, you
should have let him shoot the kid. He’s just a Red. I wouldn’t …
hey, where’re you going?”

I wave Jamie along, check again that
the guard is out of sight, and examine the ground near the fence.
“See all the footprints? That kid always climbs over right here.” I
put my hands on the links and begin to climb.

“
Why don’t we just go out
the main entrance and walk around the fence? We could catch up to
him.” He pounds one fist into his open palm.

I look down at Jamie from halfway up
then glance over at the building. The roof is in disrepair. Our
classroom window is one of only three that isn’t cracked. Sometimes
I think there’s no difference between Blues and Reds, between the
capitol buildings and the slum houses. But there’s a big difference
between Jamie and me.

“
No, you know they’ll make
us take a guard for protection. Come on. You can be my body guard.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I reach the top and pick my way over
the missing barbs and rusted ends. I drop the last several feet and
stare at Jamie through the fence. “Coming?”

I hold his eyes for no more than a few
seconds, read the hesitation for what it really is, and snort my
disgust. He often flips between bully and coward, tough guy and
gutless weakling. It’s only circumstance that makes us friends. “At
least cover for me if I’m not back by dark.”

* * *

The stench of rotting garbage and
desperation not only fills my nostrils but makes my mouth curl. I
spit on the dirt and step up onto the crumbling pavement that
serves as the main road. I know it winds through the slums that
surround the fenced capitol of Exodia. I’ve ridden through here in
an armored truck many times.

A man in a torn
shirt
–
red elbow
revealed, muscles bulging
–
is pulling a cart mounted on an old
solar car chassis. A line of women, only a couple with blue
tattoos, are lined up to fill plastic jugs and glass jars with
water from a public well. Half are holding solar phones to their
ears, depending on the century old satellites to connect them with
whomever, whenever. It’s a frustrating habit, but part of the
tapestry that is Exodia. They tilt their heads and turn in line,
trying to get the late afternoon’s golden rays. I’ve heard my
grandfather speak about the issue of failing technologies, always
arguing that our future lies in resurrecting the ancient arts–that
we should let science and medicine be lost.

I look at the Reds around me. I’m sure
that’s who most of these people are. Tan skin, glowing faces,
strong limbs. These second class citizens are every bit as
beautiful and fit as the Blues that I see every day. I can’t put my
finger on it, but there is something… something familiar, something
in these people that fascinates me.

I notice a small crowd gathering around
two boys who are fighting. It’s not an angry fight, seems more like
sport. I want to get closer to watch for a minute, but I catch a
glimpse of a guardsman’s uniform on the other side of the crowd and
I don’t want him to see me.

And then I see the most
beautiful brunette girl. Hair as black as mine, skin several shades
darker. Stunning. Tall and proud and completely unaware of me. I
forget about the thief and begin to trail after this girl.
Her clothes are skin tight, an iridescent pale
green that shimmers as she walks.

I am only vaguely aware of the action
around me–two soldiers beating on an old man, women barely dressed
calling after me, children running in and out of store doorways–as
I focus on the beauty who walks with purposeful strides, head up,
eyes never looking right or left.

The main street narrows after a few
blocks and we pass several side streets. I note the makeshift
street signs, memorize the names, and follow the girl when she
turns down Burnell, then Brookhouse, and finally Bancroft. I keep
catching her scent, an earthy bouquet that’s not like any flower I
know. Sensual, fragrant.

The houses we pass are mid-century
solar with most of the glass walls boarded up. She stops at one
that looks better cared for than the rest. I duck down behind some
bushes and watch as a kid comes out and they greet each other by
touching left elbows. He says something to her that I can hear–“you
were right”–and points my way. They both march over. I rise
up.

“
Who are you?” she asks and
the way her eyes hold mine I feel weak even though I know I’m as
strong as that man who was pulling the cart.

My tongue is tied.

She waits a beat and asks, “How old are
you?”

That’s such a strange question that my
tongue loosens and a number spills out, “Sixteen. Why?”