Rebels (8 page)

“Tough guy?” He grinned at me. “All that's in there is used zip-ball equipment. You got to look behind it to get to the good stuff.”

He disappeared into a narrow passage between the units. Of course, intrigued, I followed. I squeezed through the containers and found myself moving underground. The trail led downward into a pitch-black passageway.

“What smells?” I asked.

“Waste disposal facility,” said Kane.

“You take all the girls here?” I muttered. But the truth? I was impressed that Kane had discovered his own personal sanctuary under all this surveillance. That he'd found someplace he could call his own.

Since the Academy was located so far below the crust—beneath even the Hub—the only lights were artificial, just like at the Orphanage. And they were everywhere, a sodium-yellow hue constantly broadcasting across our skin. Lights are a luxury in the lower regions. Light means you matter. They say Rock Bottom is pitch-black.

Kane stared at me. Even in the black, I could make out his face. This sensory thing that I hide from everyone. I can see pretty well in the dark, freakishly well. And my hearing's not bad either. Freakishly not bad. But these things are best kept to myself. There are parts of yourself that are better off hidden.

He switched on his beamer, his face hovering just inches from mine. He's just a regular person, Kane. He grinned at me in his spotlight.

“Laugh,” he said, pulling something from his jacket.

“Why?”

“Trust me, just laugh. You can laugh, can't you?”

“I guess,” I said. I didn't do it that often, that was for sure. “But there isn't anything . . . to laugh at.”

He nodded. “Wanna see my impression of Cassina?”

“Not really.”

He did it anyway. Sucked in his cheeks, pushed out his chin, gave me her sharp, love-struck stare. Like an infatuated Hubber with serious mental issues.

People said Cassina was beautiful. Her friends said it a lot. Apparently, the guys thought so, too. The whole thing was strange. Like a mass delusion.
Cassina is beautiful
, someone says. And everyone believes it.

I saw her ugliness from the very beginning. The cruelness in her cells. Could that be transmitted through her genetics? Perhaps I wanted to believe this, to confirm that my parents were stronger people, which bore out in my nature. It also probably meant they'd passed along their anger as well.

Kane's impression made me laugh. Not because it was that funny, but because it was the first time I'd felt it was even okay to do so since getting to the Academy. This weird kid—Kane—made me feel
okay
.

As I laughed he pointed a device in my direction that suddenly made a sharp sucking sound, all so quick I almost missed it.

“Got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“The pattern. Of your laugh.” He pointed his beamer and sprayed the wall in front of us with the other device, and I watched the explosion of light and color hit the air. Purples and blues crashing into each other, dripping down in vibrant streaks before they hit the ground and flowed into the floor grates. The surprise took my breath away. That almost never happened either.

I don't do
surprise
.

“Sound painting,” he said, smiling. “That's what your laugh looks like.”

He looked a little surprised himself. “I've never seen those colors before. Not for a laugh.”

“Stop looking at me,” I said.

“You're looking at me,” he said. I turned away, kicked at the ground. “Besides, you must be used to it. If you haven't noticed, everyone looks at you. We just can't help it.”

“Of course I noticed.”

“Maybe because you're pretty,” he said.

Pretty? I'd been called lots of things, but never that. “Shut your mouth.”

“Well, it could be that, but maybe it's something else.”

I almost lost my words for a second. “What?”

“Your horns.”

“Horns?”

“Orphans have horns, don't they? You all hide them under your hair.”

He was smiling. Then I noticed I was, too.

“I wish,” I said. “That would be cool.”

“I know,” he said. We were quiet for a second. Thinking about our horns, probably. Mine would be really sharp. Cassina wouldn't dare be on the other end of a head butt.

“I liked your . . . color thingy,” I said finally. I motioned where the colors had been. “How'd you do all that?”

“Practice,” he said. “My brush transfers the sound waves into pure aerosol pigment. You control what comes out by being very selective of what you take in. I've been doing them since I was a kid.”

It occurred to me he was still a kid, and so was I.

“I'm not supposed to do it here. ‘No paints or personal items.' I think they're all worried we'll get personalities. You'd get into more trouble with one of those.”

“Then why did you show
me
?”

“I just thought you'd like it. I don't know. I thought you'd create something beautiful. I guess . . . I wanted to talk to you.”

“Don't you know I'm dangerous? Haven't you heard?
Core-low mudgirl
, all that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think that's pretty strato, to tell you the truth. That you aren't like everyone else.”

We stared at each other. He looked normal, but this kid was weird. Even weirder than me maybe. I kind of liked him.

“I won't tell anyone,” I said. “If you promise one thing.”

“What?”

“Promise me you'll do it again.” For a second, we were quiet. We just smiled at each other.

“Just wait,” he said, “till I paint your scream.”

◊  ◊  ◊

I couldn't help sticking out. And it wasn't just because Cassina hated me. The second classes started, it was obvious I didn't know anything.

Our first week, the cadet instructor showed us holo-images in the Great Indra: Geography of Fulfillment. We walked around the 3-D projection of the City of Indra. Not the Lower Levels, but everything aboveground. The buildings rising into the sky. The clouds and floating islands above that. The others looked bored. They'd seen it before. But I moved in close, trying to make out the tiniest details. I'd never imagined anything like this. The most you could dream of in the Orphanage was the Hub.

The Islands looked like a make-believe, like the one we'd visited in the Orphanage Archive, “The Girl Tied with Rope.” Our one access chip, given as charity from the Independent High Council. We all had Archive slots on our wrists, of course. Even if you didn't arrive to the Orphanage with one, they fixed that. If they were going to keep you, that is. You had to at least make it to Infant Surveillance.

Kane doesn't remember his Archive slot insertion. “No one I know does,” he told me. “I think they put you to sleep first.”

“Lucky you,” I said. I knew he wanted to ask questions, but he didn't. I rarely talked about the Orphanage. And somehow, he knew not to ask.

Of course, I have a great memory. That isn't always a good thing.

They strapped down my little wrists, so I kicked. In the end, they had to bring in three caretakers to hold me down. I saw Infant Supervisor lift a sharp, silver instrument. It let off a few sparks, which scared me even more.

I think he wanted me to see that.

He lowered the instrument. Not seeing was even worse. Then there was a hiss.

I screamed so loud they had to cover my mouth.

It might not have been the worst pain in the world, but that's how I remember it.

The slots are nearly invisible. Just a faint mark across your wrist. We all used “The Girl Tied with Rope.” You just tap your wrist and then press your thumb there. After that, the access chip slides right in.

Other than that one make-believe, we really had no use for the wrist slots. If we made it out of the Orphanage one day, we would visit other Archives.
If
being the key word.

But we all loved it. Loved it so much the Archive was pretty beaten up. The orphans visited so many times that we'd trampled a path though the untouched forest. The leaves wilted, the branches drooped. Even the princess—tied to a tree, waiting for the prince to rescue her from outlaws—looked annoyed. We'd ignored her for so long that over the years, her cries for help sounded bored.

Besides, I'd always been more interested in the shadowy man with the black cloak. Sometimes I'd turn, and there he was, slipping through the forest. I didn't care about the princess. I wanted to run after him. But before I had a chance, he'd disappear.

“Help!” the princess would shout. Then she'd sigh and roll her eyes.

A shadow person.

I didn't know what that was until the Academy. “Shadow people are living human beings like us,” Instructor told us. “But they have committed great crimes against Indra.”

These dark figures, she explained, are forced to wander the Archives, unable to interact. Voiceless and directionless, destined to live the same scenario over and over. The worse the crime, the more awful their Archive prison.

I imagined my entire lifetime spent trapped in the same location. The middle of the desert or a freezing dungeon. The Orphanage. It was horrible. The only perk, I figured, would be no Cassina.

“The shadow people,” the instructor said, “serve as living reminders to the rest of us. Indra's greatness is to be appreciated through our loyalty. We must follow rules and be proper citizens.”

My head spun. “They can't be real!” I said before I could stop the words from coming.

Cassina giggled. Her friends followed suit. “How dumb is she?” she whispered.

“Of course they're real,” said Instructor.

“Then where are their bodies?”

“Excuse me?”

“If they're in the Archives, where are their bodies? How do they eat? How many are there? Are they aware they're being punished.” My mind spiraled away from me, my mouth moving faster than my brain. “I mean, how big is Indra? Does it have that many enemies?”

I looked around. No one was laughing anymore. Just staring at me like I was crazy.

“All you need to know is right in front of you.” She pointed with a sharp fingernail at the 3-D image. “The City of Indra.” She pointed higher. “The Islands.”

She didn't know any of the answers herself. I could tell.

The others looked annoyed at my silly questions. They already knew about the City of Indra. They'd been there, and many had grown up on the Islands. But here they were, accepting all that was recited before them, not questioning how long it would take to travel by ground transporter around the outer borders, or what laid outside of them.

But if you were to, say, take advantage of the Governmental Educational Archives after class, which are completely unrestricted, and referenced the reports of the Independent High Council, you could learn what you weren't being taught. For example:

Indra's greatness makes travel beyond unnecessary. Even more, the repercussions would be enormous. Certain death would occur upon encountering the edges, if not before. Indra provides more than enough resources to serve as a self-sustaining biosphere. It is far larger than the major metropolitan hubs of former earth and estimated to be the size of the East Coast of former America (see appendix 34A for historic maps). The great Indra was built from the barren, scorched earth of the old world. A world so flawed in nature that it failed. Our ancestors learned from former earth's shortcomings and built Indra to be much stronger and more resilient than the cities of the past. The City of Indra is a centerpiece to the sophisticated modern age. The City of Indra is The City.

I'd looked at the map. The East Coast of former America? That was enormous. And Instructor said none of it mattered. Except the City of Indra, that is. And the Lower Levels right below, where we stood now.

Terraforming the rotted former world into the great Indra had taken a thousand years. The founders of Indra had once sought safety below the earth, then built upward in search of water. Just creating the foundations of the City of Indra took centuries.

At least, that's what Instructor told us. As to the mechanics of how they did that, she offered no explanation. I held my tongue in class and resolved to find answers to my own questions outside of it.

When they were young, my classmates learned Indra's history from
The Book of Indra.
There was no book of anything in the Orphanage. What knowledge of Indra would be useful to them in Rock Bottom? Would dreams of a better life only lead to more heartbreak and disappointment?

The Indrithians had risen above Rock Bottom. They'd built day and night—both marked by never-ending darkness—for hundreds of years, reaching upward, and pulled themselves from beneath the earth and into daylight. Leaving the unworthy and unaccomplished behind to fester in the chaos of Rock Bottom below, forever jealous of the glimpse of star shine they'd seen miles above, before that world was sealed off once more.

I'd never been aboveground, but I would make it, just like the founders of Indra.

I knew nothing back then. During
The Book of Indra
: Worship and Recitation, everyone brought their own copies of
The Book
. “No personal items” had one exception, I guess. The girls passed theirs around, comparing.

“Yours is so stratosphere,” said one of Cassina's followers to another. “I've never seen so many dried leaves. Are they real?”

Those were real leaves on her book, not synth-leaves. They were remnants of a time before the Great Catastrophe. Very little real nature existed, and only the most powerful Indrithians owned a piece. Having one leaf was a big deal. Covering
The Book of Indra
in them? I never imagined such riches.

“Butterfly wings,” said another, holding hers out for all to see.