Oasis (The Last Humans Book 1) (14 page)

They’re still in the distance, but it doesn’t make them any less of a problem.

“Left?” I say urgently. “Or right?”

“They have us surrounded. I think we should go up.”

“Up? But—”

“Your fear of heights is a phobia,” Phoe says. “In this case, a pretty irrational one.”

“But—”

“Just think how ironic it would be if the fear that’s meant to help with your survival causes you to get killed,” she says, then tilts her hand up.

“Fine,” I say and raise my palm with my fingers upward, the way she just did.

I meant to raise it at a sharp ninety-degree angle but ended up with only half of that. Still, I climb higher, and the trees below get farther and smaller.

“Now you need to go forward.” Phoe’s voice is in my head. “As fast as you can.”

I motion to go forward.

“Now swerve around unpredictably—it’s our only chance.” She starts dashing around violently to illustrate her point.

I do as she instructed. It’s actually not hard. My hands are shaking, my fear giving me a swerving advantage. I maneuver so unpredictably that even
I
don’t know where my disk will go next.

It doesn’t help, though.

The Guards don’t need to know where I’m going when they have numbers on their side.

“There are at least sixty of them,” Phoe whispers.

I suspect she’s lowballing it to make me less scared. I would’ve guessed there are closer to a hundred Guards in my path.

I turn back but see Guards about forty feet behind me.

I look left—Guards.

I turn right—even more Guards.

I look down—a ton of Guards are flying up.

It hits me then: the Guards have formed a sphere, with me at the center of it, and they’re executing their plan by flanking me from every direction.

“Stop and raise your hands.” Phoe’s voice is a frantic whisper in my ear. “If they’re going to take you anyway, let’s at least make sure they don’t harm you in the process.”

I scan my surroundings. My stomach twists with hollow terror.

“Screw that,” I say and raise my palm at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

At the same time, I make an almost-punching motion with my hand.

My disk dashes upward.

Though I know I’ve been flying up to this point, this is when I see what flying
really
means.

“Theo, what the hell?” Phoe’s voice says in my head.

I don’t answer, but my plan is simple, and I’m sure she’ll figure it out.

Since I have the shield bubble surrounding me, I plan to ram into the Guards above me. They won’t be expecting this, since even I wouldn’t have expected me to fly upward.

“Stop, Theo. Your plan won’t work.”

I ignore Phoe, focusing on the Guards.

“It won’t work because I lied,” she says urgently. “There isn’t a protective bubble surrounding you.”

In time with her words, the bubble around my disk shimmers and disappears.

“It was Augmented Reality,” Phoe says, “like the Barrier.” She sounds on the verge of crying. “I wanted to ease your fear of heights, so I—”

I don’t listen to her.

I stare at the approaching Guard.

He, like the others, is standing on his disk.

He has no bubble either.

None of them do.

Because, like Phoe said, mine wasn’t real. This device doesn’t come with one.

All these thoughts race through my mind as my disk rockets toward the Guard.

I’m not sure why, but instead of making my hand into a fist to stop the device, I jab my hand forward to increase the speed and stand up on my zooming disk. The ancient movies had a concept of ‘playing chicken,’ and in my desperation, it’s the only thing I can think of to try.

The guard will either move, or we’ll collide.

Unfortunately, the Guard has a third option.

He spreads his arms as though he’s planning to give me a hug.

At breakneck speed, I ram my body into his, my shoulder colliding with his helmet like a bullet hitting Kevlar armor.

Through the ringing blast of pain, I feel a strong hand grab me and see a disk fly away.

Clearly, the Guard wasn’t fazed by the impact of our collision. As I flail in the air, he tightens his grip on me, dragging me up onto his disk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see another Guard flying toward us.

I struggle to free myself, but I might as well be trying to jump out of my skin.

The approaching Guard is holding a shiny stick-like object
in his hand. Stopping in front of my captor’s disk, he jabs my exposed forearm with it.

I feel a painful jolt, and my vision blurs. I open my mouth to protest, but it’s too late.

My consciousness turns off.

T
he world comes back
in a haze of sensations. Dimly, I hear voices.

“What’s the point of healing him if he’s to be Forgotten?” a man asks.

“It’s protocol,” another man replies. “Until they hold a formal Council vote, he’s a citizen of Oasis, with all that it entails, and he’s hurt.”

“We both know that vote is a formality,” the first voice says. “You heard what Jeremiah said. But if you insist…”

I feel a pinprick and warmth spreads through my body, easing the pain in my ankle and shoulder—the shoulder that hit the Guard in what seems like a bad dream.

I attempt to open my eyes and say something, but there’s another cold jolt and all sensations fade.

I
struggle into wakefulness again
.

There are no voices around me this time.

I peer through a sliver between my eyelashes.

There’s a white floor and a white chair nearby. I also detect a medicinal scent in the air. If I didn’t know the horror of the true situation, I could tell myself that I’m in a nurse’s—

“I know you’re awake,” says an unfamiliar raspy voice. “Your brain frequencies were alpha and theta just a few minutes ago, but they’re different now.”

I open my eyes and take in my surroundings.

This is where Mason was strapped to a table. I’m sure of it.

Worse than that realization is the next one. The man in front of me is the white-haired monster who gave Mason that fatal shot.

I blink away the remnants of my grogginess.

Close up, I can’t help but marvel at this man’s leathery, wrinkled skin and his frail muscle tone, which is noticeable even under his robes.

These are signs of aging, something that shouldn’t exist in Oasis.

I try to speak, but only a hoarse noise comes out of my throat.

The man’s eyes are piercing blue and bottomless. He catches my gaze, and I feel like if I stare him down, I might get lost in those eyes.

I swallow, try again to speak, and manage to say in a hushed whisper, “Who are you?” Saying something feels good, so more confidently, I add, “What do you want?”

“I’m Jeremiah, Head Councilor and Keeper of Information,” he says, his gaze turning more intense. “You may call me Keeper.”

The man’s imperious tone snaps something inside me, and I remember that this is the very man who killed my friend.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Jeremiah?” I use the F-word on purpose. To break his hypnotic gaze, I give him a harsh squint. “How come you look like an old man from the movies?”

Taken aback by my vehemence and outright disrespect, the Keeper glances to his right.

I use his momentary discomposure to scan the room and realize he looked at the Guard, as if saying, “What are they teaching these Youths?”

The Guard’s mirrored visor conceals whatever emotion he may be feeling, so I quickly survey the rest of the room.

There’s a second Guard here, unlike on that recording of Mason. Thinking of what happened to my friend threatens to send me into full-on panic mode, so I focus on something else, like on this double Guard business. Do they consider me more dangerous than Mason and thus added a second Guard? Of course, even a single Guard is overkill since I’m tied down the way Mason was.

“Your fingers have free range,” Phoe whispers in my head.

Happy for the distraction from the iceberg growing in my belly, I wiggle my fingers. They are indeed free. And I know what Phoe’s getting at. I could, if I wanted to, do the obscene gesture required to get back into the cave and from there be a gesture away from the game. Thinking of playing the game again doesn’t frighten me as much as it ordinarily would have. Compared to my current situation, my adventure inside the game doesn’t seem so bad.

“But don’t do it. Don’t go back to the game,” Phoe whispers. “At least not yet. They can’t know anything about me or that game. With your brain scan on display like that, it would be risky, since we don’t know what—”

“I look like an old man because I am one. I’m two hundred and nine years old,” Jeremiah finally says, responding to my old man comment from what feels like an hour ago. “I’m one of the Elderly and should be treated with respect.”

The implications of what he says whoosh through my consciousness. He’s been alive nearly ten times longer than I have. I must seem like an infant to him.

Then my mind goes into scarier waters. If this guy ages, that means the rest of the Elderly probably do too. And if
they
age, that means the rest of Oasis does as well—including me. Youths have been taught that once you reach Adulthood, the developing process stops. We all believe we stop changing at the peak of health and maturity, which is around forty years old. No one ever calls the process of a Youth becoming an Adult ‘aging.’ Similarly, we were told that an Adult becomes an Elderly when he or she acquires enough wisdom to join the leaders of our society—nothing to do with aging, per se. Aging is one of those ancient words, like famine. Horrible in theory, but poorly understood in practice.

“When Adults reach their ninetieth birthday, they join us, the Elderly,” Jeremiah says as though he deduced my train of thought. “Before they show any signs of degeneration.” He holds out his spotted hands in front of him. “It allows everyone but the Elderly a rather carefree existence for a very long time, don’t you think?”

The implications are too horrible to bear. If this is all true, that means we’re no different from the ancients. It means we grow old and eventually die.

Unable to deal with that right now, I put that thought aside, locking it in a box. Gathering as much bravado as I can muster, I say, “Are you asking me if I agree that ignorance is bliss?”

“I don’t like this, not one bit,” Phoe whispers, her voice quivering. “He wouldn’t tell you so much if he was intending to let you go.”

“I don’t understand, Theodore.” Jeremiah stares at me, and I see a flash of something almost like hurt in his pale gaze. “Where is this hostility stemming from?”

“Don’t say a word about Mason.” Phoe’s voice turns shrill. “In general, don’t tell him about anything to do with me.” I hear her exhale a burst of air in my head. “Please.”

I glare at Jeremiah. “You give me Quietude.” I fold my thumb with as much emphasis as possible while tied up. “You have the Guards hunt me down.” I fold my index finger. “You tie me up.” I chance pushing my body against my restraints, testing them. They, of course, don’t budge, so I add bitterly, “And you have the balls to say I’m acting hostile?”

He gestures and a chair shows up next to him. “Since you bring that up, why
don’t
we discuss your act of running away from the Guards?” He sits down on the chair. “I would not have expected you, or anyone, to run from them.”

“You don’t know what happened to Mason,” Phoe reminds me.

“I’m not stupid.” My mental retort is harsh, so I add, “Sorry, Phoe. I’m channeling some of my frustration with this asshole the wrong way.”

“I deserve your anger,” she replies softly. “I couldn’t protect you.”

“Why did you run away?” Jeremiah repeats patiently. “And how did you manage to cross the Barrier and get a disk?”

I look at him stoically and say nothing.

“What about Quietude? How did you get away from that building?” Jeremiah asks, his voice tenser. “How did you open the doors?”

I shrug as much as my restraints allow and stare at the wall behind Jeremiah as if its white blandness is more interesting than his bullshit.

He sighs heavily. “What about Mason?”

I flinch.

The Keeper squints, his features tightening. I curse myself for my instinctive reaction. He got a confirmation that I know that name—not that it should’ve been big news to him, since in my ignorance, I spoke of nothing else this morning.

“Let that go,” Phoe whispers. “You didn’t know about Forgetting. You still don’t, as far as Jeremiah is concerned.”

I don’t argue with Phoe. I simply make my face impassive and resist confronting Jeremiah about Mason, as hard as that is.

“Who is Mason?” Jeremiah runs a frustrated hand through his hair, bringing my attention to the fact that his hair is thinning throughout, especially around his forehead. “Why did you ask Grace about Mason this morning?”

“We were merely discussing the Freemasons,” I say. “They were one of the ancients’ largest and best-known secret societies.” As nonchalantly as possible, I stretch my neck by turning my head from side to side. “Kind of like the Elderly here in Oasis. You’re the first one I’ve met.”

Jeremiah starts to get up, but then sits back down again. “It’s just a matter of time before you stop insulting my intelligence,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, why don’t
you
tell
me
”—my voice rises in volume—“what the word ‘mason’ means to you?”

“My role
here is to ask the questions. Yours is to answer them.” Jeremiah’s pale cheeks redden. “How is it that you know who Mason was?”

I purse my lips in response. Subvocally, for Phoe’s benefit, I say, “Did you notice he said ‘was’?”

“Don’t subvocalize,” Phoe whispers. “What if Jeremiah notices you muttering?”

“Let him think I’m cursing him under my breath,” I subvocalize and shift against my restraints, feeling the strain and soreness of my muscles.

Jeremiah lets out a sigh at my non-response, and I clench my teeth to avoid screaming obscenities at him. If I give in to the anger, I might blurt out something I’ll regret. Besides, my silence seems to be pissing him off more than any yelling would.

As I continue to stare him down, Jeremiah sighs again, his expression unexpectedly softening. “Please, Theodore.” He looks almost regretful. “I don’t want to coerce you to speak, but…”

“Shit,” Phoe says. “Tell him
something
. I don’t like where this is going.”

“You want me to speak?” I think at Phoe. “Fine.”

Loudly, relishing every syllable, I say, “Fuck you, Jeremiah.”

The left side of his upper lip twitches slightly. “You don’t leave me with any choice.” Jeremiah glances at the Guards as though he said this more for their benefit than mine. Turning his attention back to me, he says, “Last chance, Theodore. Will you tell me what I want to know?”

I do half of the gesture that would send me to my man cave.

Seeing my middle finger, Jeremiah does a strange gesture of his own. With his outstretched hand, he makes a tight fist, as if he’s trying to squash something.

His face looks menacing, and I flinch, expecting something bad to happen.

“He just tried to hurt you.” Phoe sounds horrified. “Had it worked, it would’ve been terrible. It was supposed to stimulate the pain center of your brain.”

I examine myself.

I feel absolutely nothing.

“That’s because of the shielding I created for you,” Phoe says. “The shielding he’s about to learn about, given your lack of a reaction.”

“I’ll make him think it worked,” I think at her and let out an animalistic roar.

In case the sound didn’t convince Jeremiah, I also thrash side to side, figuring if I’m going to pretend to be in pain, I might as well test my bonds some more. The bonds are, sadly, unyielding.

Jeremiah watches all this with a darkening expression. His eyes are locked on the Screen above me.

“How is it that you’re not in pain?” The twitch in his upper lip becomes more pronounced as his voice grows louder. “How did you just resist the Punish gesture? Did you know what I did? How did you know to pretend like you’re in pain?”

I mentally curse my neural scan, stop my thrashing, and give him an uncaring shrug.

“I’m so sorry.” Phoe’s voice gets smaller. “I should’ve tried faking your neural scans. I was a coward. I was just afraid that—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say out loud, figuring the reply suits both conversations.

Jeremiah reaches out as though he’s about to repeat the gesture, but then stops, no doubt realizing it would be futile.

Getting up, he looks at the Guard to my left, then to the one to my right. As if in answer to his look, the Guard to my left says, “He also resisted the Pacify command, back at the Quietude Building.”

He must be the same Guard who chased me down that corridor.

“How did he do that?” Jeremiah’s tone is hard. “How
could
he do that?”

The Guard who spoke up shrugs.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Jeremiah’s voice rises. “This is important information.”

“I’m sorry.” The Guard takes a step backward, but his back hits the white wall. “I wasn’t sure what happened. I didn’t think it was possible to resist—”

“It’s not.” Jeremiah jerks his head from one Guard to the other. “I swear by the Forebears, it’s supposed to be impossible.”

The Guard on my left flinches, as though he’s expecting Jeremiah to use the Punish gesture on him next. In contrast, the other Guard meets the old man’s gaze calmly—or so I assume, since it’s hard to tell with the reflective visor.

“Do you see why I have to find this out?” Jeremiah says to the Guards. “We must know.”

The Guard on my left shrugs.

The Guard on my right speaks up for the first time. “Perhaps someone on the Council will know?”

Planting his feet farther apart, Jeremiah gives the Guard an evaluating stare. “You’re Albert, right?”

“Yes.” The Guard reaches for his shiny helmet and takes it off.

He’s a man, something I could’ve guessed by his voice. What’s interesting about him is his age. He isn’t as old as Jeremiah. He looks closer in age to the Adults at the Institute.

“Except for the gray hair and wrinkles,” Phoe says, “if you look closely.”

She’s right. Albert’s temples are gray—something that happened to ancients with age. And he does indeed have slight crinkles in the corners of his gleaming eyes.

“That is my name,” Albert says, meeting Jeremiah’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re fairly new here,
Albert
, so I understand your confusion.” There’s menace under Jeremiah’s even tone. “I’m the oldest on the Council. The oldest in Oasis, for that matter. As such, I’m the Keeper of Information. Do you know what that means?”