Rebels (23 page)

When forced to address the unfortunate events of my ball, she speaks low, glossing over extraneous details. Clichés, she believes, are best suited for these moments. “The poor thing,” she says. “A victim of circumstance. Events beyond reasonable control.

“The surprises life has to offer!” she adds cheerily. “And now we must move forward to discover exciting new horizons.”

There are no horizons in the air, of course. But those are pesky details, and she's focused on a much larger task: saving me from complete ruin.

If pressed for specifics, she's evasive. “No, they don't have any information. A disgruntled Young Man with flawed genetics, I suspect.
Yes, an island boy, but with rather unique circumstances. Deceased mother, reclusive father. Terribly unfortunate situation. Perhaps if the signs had been more obvious?”

She shakes her head and sighs at the injustice. Then, with a sip of tea, she diverts the conversation to topics of real importance. My tiny waist, I suppose. My pleasant demeanor.

These are the details she hopes they'll remember.

I know all this because I have listened, ear to the wall of the adjoining pantry. I've been suitably impressed with Marius's gift for strategy.

Unfortunately, like former earth, even she can't strategize her way out of complete catastrophe.

Between this guest and the last, she sent out inquiry feeds, tracking down cohabitants who have yet, for some inexplicable reason, to hear the specifics of my disastrous debut. She embarks on extended, utterly polite conversations with anyone privy to a Proper Young Man of cohabitable age.

“Perhaps we can arrange a rendezvous? Livia would be pleased to engage in private platform rotation for the suitable gentleman.”

So far, gratefully, no one has taken her up on the offer.

Governess has been sent away on retreat. “In need of a rest,” Marius said. But I'm not an imbecile; this is no relaxing holiday lounging in Rejuvenation Island's gardens, sipping vitamin cocktails. She began sobbing at first sight of my bloodstained dress; it didn't cease for three days. I held her hand and spoke reassuring words, even going so far as to keep vigil by her sleeper. In the few times she acknowledged me, it was only to ask questions: “Did you finish your pudding, Livia dear? Did you have a lovely time playing in the gardens?”

Once or twice she grew serious, but her eyes remained distant as she reached for me.

“You must be careful not to fall when climbing trees,” she said
fearfully, grasping my hand tightly with her shaky grip. “We wouldn't want another scrape, my dear.”

I wiped tears from her faraway eyes and listened to her mutter of reprogramming the orchards, her sobs reduced to a steady whimper.

“Enough,” said Waslo on the fourth day. He was in the doorway, but he refused to meet my eyes, just merely shook his head before exiting as abruptly as he entered.

That was his only word to me since that evening in Veda's stable.

Sunrise Retreat Island. I know that's where they've sequestered Governess. She's in lockdown, undergoing “emotional readjustments” and “electron regulation.” Her sleeper pod is under constant surveillance, and so is the rest of her. In her greatest time of need, I can't return the comfort and support she's given me. For all the time spent improving the physical, no science has mastered repairing the mind. I have failed her.

Sunrise Island is rarely mentioned in polite company, though Indrithians know its reputation. A horror no one wishes to visit, even worse than Paradise Holiday, where Hubbies retreat. Lower Levelers will slave away their lifetimes for the honor of being granted a visit to Paradise Island. The best two days of their life, not that they'll remember with the abundance of refreshments. The most powerful of which, Hub suds, are a vision-inducing, mind-altering beverage. It's said you can smell the vomit from several islands away.

At least, according to the rumors.

At this point, I would take either over Helix.

I used to be considered unmanageable; now I'm unmanageable
and
unappealing. Even the synth-trees—fittingly programmed for beautiful fall hues—seem to wilt at my disgrace.

I avoid Marius, fearing the pity in her eyes. “It was not your fault,” she told me. “
You
are the victim here.”

Victim or not, no Proper Young Man would dare touch me now with the shame I've brought to my name. It's my awful, selfish dream
come true. Helix Island is now as tainted as my legacy. I've come to understand I'll be one of those women who never cohabitate. A freethinker, which is a polite way to say
outcast
. They're rarely seen in public, succumbing to a life of seclusion, destined to pay in loneliness for their lack of options.

No one chooses to be a freethinker.

Marius, of course, won't accept my fate so willingly.

“A Young Man with a small estate,” she tells me distractedly. “Looks promising. His pastime is fencing. I have been told he has a rather nice disposition.”

Nice
, I know, means a stutter or chronic odor or an even more serious deficiency. But even those Young Men won't agree to meet, avoiding me like a genetic flaw. Your name and island are all you have, and one doesn't stand without the other.

Below in the City of Indra, Waslo heads up the investigation. Despite his reassurance, Waslo rarely leaves the Council's chambers. The Islands, already predisposed to juicy gossip, are on high alert for strange occurrences.

I'm prohibited from leaving Helix, not that I would be welcomed in any other location.

The maids avoid me. The garden crew hasn't returned since the oaks changed colors. Following the ball, Life Guide resigned abruptly, bags already in hand as he broke the news to Marius.

“Perhaps you shall take a brief hiatus from educational endeavors,” Marius informed me.

“He never taught me anything important anyway,” I responded. She ignored me.

Master has ceased his visits as well, as is standard of leisure pastime instructors following a debut. Strangely enough, I miss him the most, despite his mysterious advice and bizarre riddles.

Etiquette lessons end with your ball, the ultimate goal being cohabitation. I failed, just as Etiquette Tutor always predicted.

For once, I have lived up to her expectations.

I avoid my father's study and my mother's air harp.

My zinger hangs by my sleeper. Since coming into my possession, it's never been so silent. I take it into the fields with me, but it never leaves its sheath.

I'm alone now, except for Veda.

When I asked Marius about
him
, I was sure to be offhanded, aiming to convey a sense of innocent curiosity.

“He is being detained at Council headquarters,” she said sharply. I have never heard Marius speak with such harshness, and knew to avoid all future inquiries about the stranger.

Even if he never strays far from my thoughts.

◊  ◊  ◊

I could stand here in silence all day, peering into the clouds, and I doubt anyone would notice. Designated edges no longer exist, as there is nothing of value in need of protection.

Perhaps my newly won nonexistence is to blame for my curious turn in thought. There are so many questions I shouldn't want answered, yet still, I do. Moments I should resist contemplating, yet I long to dwell in their details.

I seek distraction. I walk to the edge of Helix every day now, and no one discourages this. The make-believes they told me about the traps and secret hazards are no longer threatening. The world is far more dangerous and frightening than they ever prepared me for. Today I go for a walk without Veda. That way it will keep me away from the main quarters for that much longer. Anything to calm my mind of the incessant whirling. I even go so far as to keep up with Life Guide's favored educational topics.

I ponder Indrithian history, only to find myself pondering the details of
his
face. Were his eyes blue or brown? Was there a twist in his smile?

Indra Evolution and Society becomes a study of his lips on mine; Customs and Rituals the sound of his laugh.
He did laugh, did he not? And was his kiss as soft as I remember?
I am less sure of what I know with each passing day.

He tried to kill you
, I chastise myself.

Yet he changed his mind
, I reason.

Perhaps this is what happens when you are left to your own devices.

If this continues, they'll send me off to where Governess has gone. Maybe we can do the double mental-meltdown special at Sunrise Island.

Something must happen soon
, I think, looking out toward the clouds.

And there it is, flying straight at me.

It's pretty hard to forget the face of someone you hate.

Recruiter.

Cassina.

Livia Cosmo.

The wind blows at her white dress, making her look like another cloud here at the edge of her island.

She's beautiful. Untouchable, like the rest of us are far beneath her. In a way, I guess we are.

I'll be the first to touch her—and I'll make sure it hurts.

I pinpoint a thicket of trees and I keep my eye on the gyroscope as I take her in for a landing. It's bumpy, but I don't do any permanent damage to the craft or myself.

The Islands are beautiful. That's what they say.

I step out of the craft, but I don't see it. Everything is a chemical green. Too bright and totally fake, like in the Archives. The Archives were built to replicate reality, and now instead reality imitates the Archives. It's as if I could just pull out a chip and this all would melt away.

The air makes me dizzy, and after a few steps, before I'm out of the thicket, I pause for a breath. Why's it so hard to breathe here? My head swims and it feels like my feet are no longer touching the ground.

Remember the task, Lex.

I peel off the PCF uniform, and just the fit of the black skintight silitex underneath calms me.

I'm myself again. I'm still strong, even up here. I just need a few moments. . . .

I adjust my straps and replay my objectives:
Find Kane's location. Rescue Kane. Seek retaliation, then kick her ass.

Sure, she did damage to Kane, but I'm an army of one. I'll break her.

Someone wanted this airgirl dead. I don't know why, and I don't care. Either way, I'll finish the job.

I'm coming, Kane.

I painted her with my tracker beam on the way in, and checking in on her now, she hasn't moved far.

My blaster has a full charge. I take a deep breath as I emerge from cover.

She's hard to miss. Just standing there, her back turned.

Waiting for me.

◊  ◊  ◊

Within seconds, I've got her in a stranglehold.

She never saw me coming. Doesn't struggle. Living this high up, she thinks she's above human pain. Nothing can harm you in the air, right?

It could be blood rushing to my head, since there are no fumes up here. Only . . . oxygen. Maybe it's just her stupid face, but for a moment, I forget what I came for.

Focus. Just focus.

Kane, grinning at me on boosters. Painting my laugh.

Kane, unconscious, battered like a busted-up zip ball.

“Tell me where they took him, air bitch,” I growl. “Tell me where they took Kane or I'm gonna—”

I don't get to finish. She's reached for something, something on her back.

A sword. Pointed at my neck. She's got a sword and it's
singing.

“You,” she says, “are in desperate need of an etiquette lesson.”

The realization is startling: someone has arrived with the intent to murder me. Again.

I've never witnessed an individual of such unique appearance. This, to be sure, is no Proper Young Woman.

Her garb is a scandalously formfitting shiny black. Stealth is surely not her priority. It's a uniform of some sort, perhaps, though I couldn't begin to imagine her official duties beyond violence.

She's perfect in a way I've never seen, every inch of her wild, from her fierce expression to her untamed hair. I'm rather sure she has never undergone an alteration, though on first glance, I did suspect a chest enhancement.

I've never sensed another so strongly; she pummels me without even touching, her attempt to blindside me spoiled as she began her approach.

She glares and I stare back, curious. My zinger, shiny tip pointed at the softest part of her neck, is no longer silent. It has never touched real flesh. Its faint tune is almost bloodthirsty.

A few seconds pass, yet it seems a lifetime.

Her
lifetime. It could be over in a few more seconds, if I wish it.

I feel her confusion and fear and focus, but her loyalty is powerful enough to kill for.

It will kill her. I'm not a killer, but I refuse to be a victim.

There's a sudden change, so quick I almost don't catch it. Within an instant, a frigid void takes over where emotion had just been.

She speaks through clenched teeth, making it almost impossible to understand her. If she even hopes to survive Etiquette, she'll need to pass Elocution first.

“Excuse me,” I say calmly. “But might you speak up? I'm having a rather difficult time understanding you.”

She narrows her eyes and says, “Put away the sword.”

“Absolutely not,” I say as my zinger lets out a stream of low notes. “Your first instinct was to strangle me. You should lose your hands for that alone.”

“I'm not going to tell you again,” she says.

“Perhaps I should start with your tongue.”

“Put down the—”

I raise my eyebrows, noting her abilities in Conversational Intercourse are limited as well. “I've fought opponents in the Archives far more dangerous than you,” I say. “So you would do well to compose yourself, perhaps take a deep breath first, and then we might have a rational—”