Redux

  Also by A.L. Davroe

  nexis

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE:

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  PART TWO:

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  PART THREE:

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  PART FOUR:

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  PART FIVE:

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  PART SIX:

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More from Entangled

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by A.L. Davroe. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Robin Haseltine

  Cover design by L.J. Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  ISBN: 978-1-63375-507-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63375-506-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  They find themselves in the mind of a man who does not exist;

  come home on the shores of an imaginary land;

  who are most themselves between the pages of a book.

  PART ONE:

  Ella goes Underground

  chapter one

  Post-American Date: 7/4/232

  Longitudinal Timestamp: 7:23 a.m.

  Location: Dome 5: Evanescence

  Droids circle behind us as we draw deeper into the shadows of the doorway we’re standing in. We’re on Citizen’s Way, the main artery of my home, Evanescence. But where there were once bustling crowds along streets lined with shops and vibrant screens airing The Broadcast, the vast expanse of the city’s corridor is now littered with broken holo-glass, abandoned pods, and far too many bodies.

  I try not to look at the distorted faces of the dead amid the piles of colorful fabrics, but it’s hard. The Aristocrats around me were once so perfect—dressed in the latest Designer clothes, their hair Primped to unfathomable heights, their genetically Customized bodies made into masterpieces with cosmetic augmentations—Modifications (Mods) and Alterations (Alts). Their life goals were to be noticed and it’s hard not to do just that, to stare at them. But their unblinking eyes and wide-open mouths blame me. It’s my fault these Aristocrats are dead, after all. I’m the one who planted the computer virus that caused this mess—made the city’s artificial intelligence rebel against its occupants.

  Gus presses his arm across my chest, tucking me closer to the wall as two more droids march past, their red eyes scanning the road on either side. Unlike the domestic androids, these security units are without aesthetically pleasing chasises and without the humanoid illusion of skin. Their bare parts are just as cold and unforgiving as their intentions. I hold my breath until they are out of sight. Thank goodness they aren’t equipped with thermal tracking units; they’d find us in an instant.

  “We’re almost there,” Quentin whispers. He glances both ways down the road, his starry hair falling across his twinkling eyes, then he motions for the two of us to follow.

  I lift my gun, hold it at ready as I limp after him. I hope no one attacks us. I don’t want to use this gun. I, Ellani Drexel, have already caused the deaths of so many and I don’t want to kill anyone else. Gus steps in beside me, his dark eyes scanning up, down, around, searching for any sign of ambush. How he can identify anything in the chaos happening in the glistening, high-rise buildings above us is beyond me.

  My heart aches with every adrenaline-filled beat. This domed city was once a safe haven, a place where people closed themselves in against the chaos and death of the world outside. They built a utopia, a shining city of white light where everything was ordered and peace was maintained—the chips implanted in our brains made sure of that. But the chips don’t work anymore. The virus I planted in the city’s Main Frame did something to the chips—made it so that they can’t communicate with the city anymore, or perhaps made it so that we are no longer accepted by the city. The virus didn’t do what I thought it was going to do, I was tricked. Now, the spun-sugar world is dissolving in a torrent of blood and tears. The city is turning on us.

  We continue down an alley lit only by a flickering LED bulb hanging over the service door of one of the stores. This used to be one of my favorite shops, one where my best friend, Delia, and I would go shopping for shoes. Thinking of Delia makes me remember how she laughed at me earlier this evening. Granted, she didn’t know it was me she was mocking, because my face is hidden behind a false one provided by my holo-mask, but that doesn’t matter. It means something important. It means that Delia has become one of the very people she and I used to fear: the Elite Aristocrats—those who would step on others to gain what they want.

  But am I any different? I wanted legs to replace the ones I’d lost in the accident that also took my father from me. I wanted Gus, the boy I fell in love with while playing Nexis—the virtual reality game my father created. I wanted freedom from the prison I’d been forcefully kept in for a year. I’d been given the opportunity to have all of that; all I had to do was plant the Anansi Virus for my uncle, Simon. Granted, Uncle Simon lied to me about the virus and if I’d known the true extent of what the virus was going to do, I never would have planted it. But do people who are blinded by desire ever see what they’re doing?

  “Ella? You all right?” Gus asks.

  I glance over my shoulder, smile despite the coldness I feel inside. Just seeing him, just hearing his deep gravelly voice and knowing I finally have him for real, and not just when I played the game, warms the cold.

  “I was thinking about how different things are. How they will be.” I try to sound hopeful. I have him, I have Delia—despite her having changed in the year I’ve been separated from her. My cousin, Bastian, is also safe. And I have my new path in life—to eventually undo the momentous wrong that’s unfolding around me. I’m not sure how to do this, because it’s only been a few hours since the virus hit, and getting out alive is more important. But, even now, it’s clear what I have to do and I hold on to that promising light.

  Despite the light, the darkness pummels in on all sides of my mind. I’ve lost so much. Friends. Family. My home and the city that houses it. All gone because I played a game and planted a virus. It was only supposed to cause a temporary blackou
t. Gus and Quentin thought it was going to open the doors to the city and let in the Disfavored—genetically inferior people who live outside our domed city. The unwanted.

  It did both those things. And more. No one knew my uncle Simon rewrote the virus. We’re not even sure what, exactly, he did. All we know is we’re being hunted by the very machines meant to make our lives easier.

  The only option is to run, escape to Cadence, the domed city next to ours. But who knows what will be waiting for us there. The post-Bio-Nuclear war cities haven’t communicated in over a hundred years and there’s no way to start now. No way to let them know what’s happening here, no way to ask for sanctuary, no way of knowing if life there isn’t just as bad, or worse, than it would be if we simply wandered into the wasteland outside the city and handed ourselves over to the Disfavored who hated us for locking them out of Evanescence for centuries.

  “There are a lot of uncertainties in front of us,” I answer Gus. I reach out, brush his hand. His skin is cold and the Modifications beneath feel strange, but he’s still the Gus I fell in love with in Nexis. Nexis. My father’s game had been my salvation after my falsified death and imprisonment. It gave me legs, freedom, friends, love, adventure, hope. And it taught me so much: about my father, myself, the world as it once was before humanity destroyed it, and it opened my eyes to the injustice around me. But even that is gone. Not just for me, but for everyone. The promised escape into a virtual dream has been cut short by a true escape here in Real World. I managed to find a little piece of the game to take away with me… “At least we found each other.”

  His lips thin, and he looks down at the ground. There’s blood on his black boots. Blood on my shoes and the hem of my dress, too, though you almost can’t tell on my stain-wicking red fabric.

  “What are you two doing?” Quentin hisses from farther down the alley. “Now’s not the time for a chat. Come on!”

  Gus and I step it up, trotting after Quentin and into a deserted street. Above us, someone is screaming. There’s a baby crying. Something smashes, and glass rains down on us.

  A moment later, a body tumbles from the sky, making me yelp and jump back. It’s a domestic android, torn open from the fall so that its synthetic innards and fluids spill out in a splash, like a broken water balloon. It reminds me too much of the broken android I just left behind, my nanny and the only Real World friend I’ve had for the past year. “Meems,” I whisper. I touch the small pocket sewn into my dress, making sure the chips I slipped in there are still safe. One chip I pulled from her broken body. The other is my father’s G-Chip, given to me after the accident.

  Gus steps close, grasps my hand, and tugs me around the android’s twitching limbs. “Don’t look at it.”

  A line of five Disfavored suddenly materialize out of an alley farther ahead. They must have heard the crash of the android hitting the ground or my cry. Our guns come up. Their guns come up. For a long moment, we just stare at each other. They’re not like the Aristocrats fallen all around me. They’re more like me, without genetic modification, so they have dark eyes, hair, and skin. And their Natural imperfections are made even more obvious by their threadbare, ugly clothes, their haggard expressions that speak of harsh lives, and the murderous hate that speaks of depths of emotion that most Aristocrats only imagine. Laser fire from another street adjacent to them flashes between us and their bodies fall.

  One of the boys shoves me. “Go!”

  I go. They follow. We take cover around a corner, watch the skirmish unfold. Five Disfavored, two droids. Bodies fall and one droid walks away, its arm hissing and spitting sparks, disappearing into a shop.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back into Gus. “Circuits, that was close.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Quentin growls. “Now.”

  Gus says, “No one is fighting you on that.”

  Quentin turns, steps out into the alley. “It should be—”

  “Halt! You there!”

  My body freezes, but then instinct kicks in and I’m running. Gus and Quentin flee, too, both taking one of my arms and half carrying me along, since one of my prosthetic legs was damaged from the gunshot I got trying to rescue Meems.

  Feet pursue, the pounding of them echoing up between the buildings, drowning out the sounds of androids killing Aristocrats above.

  Bam. Someone shoots at us. The bullet strikes the holo-glass display at a corner store as we circle it, making the glass explode out and around us. I run harder, past intact and broken shop windows, the glass reflecting one word back at me.

  Persevere.

  Persevere.

  Persevere.

  The one word offering a whole gauntlet of silent encouragement and behind all the chaos, behind the screams and the shattering and the gun shots and laser strikes—like some phantom background score—I can hear my mother singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” over the city’s speaker system. The word had appeared and the song had started playing just after the virus went into effect. They’re a message my parents left for me. And it still hasn’t stopped. It’s a mockery. Persevere, although you’re dying. Keep climbing, although you’re being chased down, shot at, killed. I just want to stomp my foot and scream for it to shut up, but it’s part of the virus.

  The gunfire comes again, striking at our heels, clipping walls and windows.

  “Faster!” Quentin says.

  I oblige as best as I can, gritting my teeth through the pain and trying to stay upright even though the piston in my leg keeps giving out like a bum knee. We turn down one last narrow alley and finally, the door comes into sight. Inconspicuous, unmarked. Once inside, Quentin slams the door shut behind us, throwing the dead bolt—the only thing standing between us and them now that the electronic locks throughout the city are disabled. It thumps and bucks as our pursuers attempt to follow us.

  I back up a few feet, until I’m practically pasted against Quentin. Normally I wouldn’t touch him. He’s Gus’s best friend and I even had a crush on him once, but he represents something that I’ve come to hate in the past year. But right now? I hate those Disfavored rebels out there more than I hate him, so I stick close. For a long moment, we stand there, staring at the door handle as it jiggles.

  “Please hold,” I pant. “Please hold, please hold, please hold.”

  Quentin’s fingers touch the small of my back, as if somehow trying to lend strength toward my chant. Minutes pass and the door holds. Eventually, they must give up, because the handle stops jerking and the shouting on the other side lessens, disappears. Quentin is breathing hard behind me, his breath hot and humid against the back of my neck.

  Gus tugs at the fabric of my dress. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before they figure out a way to bust down the door.”

  With a nod, I pull away from Quentin and follow Gus back down the many stairwells leading deep under the city, past the service levels, to the Undertunnel where we will be meeting the refugees who will join us in fleeing our home.

  We find Sid, one of Quentin’s Dolls, and the rest of the survivors on the opposite side of a pair of steel doors that sit wide open. As we step past the doors, which I assume Sid hot-wired open, I see a great round room on the other side. To either side of the space there are more doors being opened by more of Quentin’s Dolls—Disfavored boys who agreed to have experimental Mods and Alts before they were used on Quentin. In return they were brought in from the Outer Block where the Disfavored lived in famine and squalor.

  Inside the rooms they open, there are storage containers. Beyond all the rooms, on the other side of the hall, is a yawning maw of blackness.

  “Is that the Undertunnel?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” Gus says.

  I swallow hard, terrified of the impenetrable darkness of it and what lies just beyond—the unknown, the outside of the dome—and quickly turn away, trying to find something else to focus on. I stare at the thirty or so people standing or sitting in small clusters around the hall. The people are various ages,
from my contemporaries from school to older Aristocrats who must have been friends of Quentin’s parents. But no matter what age, they all look tired, shell-shocked. Some are shaking, some are crying. Some are just sitting there, staring into nothingness.

  I don’t blame them. These people grew up in the sheltered utopia of Evanescence. They’ve never known true pain or need. Never seen murder or felt terror. This world must be just as foreign to them as waking up in the Utopia Zone was for me the first time I entered Nexis. Only this new world is not safe, not clean, and not escapable. This is Real World and I have a gnawing suspicion that life for these cloistered and clean Aristocrats is about to get as ugly and messy as it has been for the Disfavored they gawked at from the safety of their cushioned parlors. It’s so much easier to judge and call someone an animal when you’re watching them on a screen.

  I search for Delia, who’s still unaware I’m alive, to find her glaring at me with this awful scrutiny. She’s so different from the last time I’ve seen her. Underneath it all, she’s a Natural like me. But it’s not okay to be a Natural when you live among the Custom-perfect Aristocrats, especially the Elite we went to school with. She’s become like them, used Mods and Alts to the extreme to hide that she’s not one of them. And the expression she’s giving me is like the expressions we both used to shy away from. Judgment and disgust, the sort of condemnation one gives to those who don’t belong. I try not to take her personally. It’s not my face she’s seeing, it’s not me she’s judging. It’s just the face I’ve programmed into my holo-mask. But still, if she looks at a face that’s meant to fit in like this, then how would she look at someone who is a Natural like me? How can she hate her own flesh that much?

  Unnerved, I step closer to Gus as we walk, only to find that he’s staring back at Delia with a different sort of expression I can’t read—especially because his face is so difficult to interpret under all those Alts and Mods. He, too, looks nothing like how I remember him. In the game he looked like a Natural. But here, he’s like Delia.

  Sparks, the things Aristocrats willingly do to themselves to look unique among their too-similar genetically perfect peers—that’s what genetic Customization did. Made everyone perfect. But when perfect is normal it’s not special anymore. So they sought something more. More surgeries to modify structure. More nanotechnology to alter skin and hair and eyes.