Rising Up: A YA Dystopian Sci-Fi Series (Tranquility Series Book 1) Read online

  “Ah. Sometimes that happens…and it’s a blessing,” Medic Redhead murmured. Her eyes, twin puppy-dog orbs, bore sympathy, but her face was tight.

  “Yeah. But it’s not just a fluke. She’s coming back. I know it!”

  Ember pushed down a rising instant hatred for this woman. The medic could help, but it was clear she wouldn’t. What kind of a medic was she, anyway? Ember clenched her fists, her frustration getting the best of her.

  “Can’t you just…can’t you at least look at her Alt? If she spoke, there’s emotion. She’s still alive—feeling stuff!” Ember rushed over and picked up her mom’s wrist but saw nothing on the Alt’s screen. How could there be darkness when her mom was full of light?

  “You need to understand…there’s nothing to change your mom’s situation. It won’t be long now, dear. She needs to rest, so let your mother enjoy her peace. You just be happy! She’s not feeling a thing.” She moved toward the door, her shoes squeaking against the floor’s shiny tiles. She turned as if she had a last-minute thought. “Those who can,” she paused for a beat, “die… without feeling sad… are the luckiest people.” Medic Redhead then slipped out the door, but not before offering Ember a “thumbs up” and a radiant smile.

  Ember forced a weak smile in return but was totally confused. Didn’t this woman fathom what miracle had just occurred? In spite of the medic’s warning and her lack of help and hope, Ember was ebullient. Maybe her mom would speak again! Everything suddenly seemed to be looking so much better!

  Ember turned back and keenly watched her mother. But, to her dismay, Talesa had now slipped back under heavier medication. She was deeply sleeping.

  Yet, Ember was convinced her mother could still hear her. “I know you wanted me to hear something important, Mom. What did you try to tell me?”

  The minutes ticked by to the familiar swaying of the clock’s pendulum on the wall. Ember sat watching… and hoping. A tear escaped, and she quickly wiped it off, as if the Alt couldn’t see it. She checked her Alt to gauge the random teardrop. Her pulse quickened as she again saw a dip in the readings.

  Ember knew she was going to need all the strength she could muster to get through whatever was going on here. She simply could not lose any more Alt points today! The best course of action was to meditate on the imagery she had been taught. She dreamed up a fifty-yard race in her mind, where she crossed the finish line and won the ribbon. It was one of her “go-to” simple emergency responses. The deeper she could go into the dream, the more the Alt readings would level out.

  But, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get deep enough into the meditative state to refresh her mind and spirit. Her mom’s face — and words — continued to enter her thoughts. She again squeezed her mother’s hand hanging motionless over the side of the hospital bed. With her finger, Ember traced the pale line where her mother’s ring had once graced her finger.

  Suddenly, a bell chimed merrily through a speaker above Ember’s head. It played a modernistic carnival-like tune. It was obviously some type of alarm...It had an urgent sound because of its tempo, although the bells were soft and insistent. Ember gazed around the room. She couldn’t read the medical monitors under their willowy shrouds. They picked up every little change; they were the most precise pieces of equipment designed by science. Perhaps—probably? —in spite of Medic Redhead’s comments, the medical staff had realized her mother had spoken?

  In the hallway, the flurry of beating wings turned out to be footsteps marching to the beat of the alarm. In a matter of seconds, an assembly of young men and women, reverently entered the room. More medics? she thought. The noise of the alarm faded to nothing, and Ember felt a chill creep like a bug up her spinal cord.

  Ember glanced around, turning her head, hoping to find answers somewhere — anywhere. Her eyes filled up, the tears silvery drops of misery. The team approached her without words, pulling her by the arms into a circle with them, placing her carefully in the center. Each of the six put their arms on one another’s shoulders.

  “What’s this? What’s happening?”

  Ember gazed desperately around the circle, her eyes scrutinizing the faces of these newcomers for answers to her confusion. Their faces seemed happy, yet oddly disturbing. All were smiling, but the emotion didn’t seem sincere. She yearned to yell, scream, demand answers, but she stood frozen in place, unable to utter a word.

  Then, each of them released their hands, and in the same way they entered, began to file out the door. For a moment, Ember stared after them, too nonplussed to even move.

  “Wait!” she was finally able to cry. But the door was already closing. “You’re needed here!” Where were they all going? It was clear that the alert chime was to notify the medical staff of a great change. “Come back!” Frantically, Ember turned back again to her mom.

  The bed was empty.

  6

  Xander Noble

  While Ember grappled with staying true to her Alt in spite of personal tragedy, another resident of Tranquility, Xander Noble, was just as busy resisting.

  Thinking back, Xander knew that he was a true rebel even in his very young years.

  In elementary school he was indifferent to what was being taught. Emotional Training had been a waste of his time. Why couldn’t he speak his mind? Wasn’t how he thought important?

  But for the most part, it aggravated him to see other people being upbeat all the time, trying so hard to please. To Xander, it was phony. By the time he was in middle school, he began to realize that life—and people he knew—would always be this way. He found himself upset ‘round the clock, especially going through adolescence, and he had never been able to control it. To Xander, life was a series of ups and downs, and his negative feelings were part of who he was, at his core. He had never wished to accumulate either material items or achievement, so the system here in Tranquility was, without a doubt, not designed for someone like him.

  He found himself regularly depressed but unwilling to take the steps that his teachers recommended to “get better.” He sometimes tried—he really tried—to tie his hopes to what Tranquility leaders had promised would help him. But those measures didn’t last long, although he did enjoy Tranquility’s Fun Zone on the south side of town. The Fun Zone was one of the “helps” Tranquility offered to people who wanted or needed to boost their Alt points. Shiny rainbow roller coasters spanned up six stories or cruised simple tracks in a loop. Of course, even here, one’s Status determined which rides were available and which were off-limits.

  If none of the roller coasters were to a person’s liking, or available per one’s Status, no one lacked entertainment in the Fun Zone. Rides were experiential: “Airplane Acrobatics,” a vintage airplane from the 1960s doing unpredictable daredevil stunts. “L Extreme,” a sky-high elevator drop at a hundred miles an hour. A cruise through space…a rolling rapids water ride. The Fun Zone was full of laughing, smiling people. But for Xander, a few thrill rides lifted his mood, but after an hour or two, the effects had left him; after a time, he simply quit going.

  People who knew him marveled at how his physical features mimicked his mischievous and dark nature. Yet, in spite of being the opposite of a Tranquilite (“Trank” for short), the shadowy side of his personality was profoundly charismatic; he quickly drew people to him, and as he aged, his sex appeal seared many a heart. Every inch of his now six-foot lanky frame screamed confidence and allure. His jet-black hair and pale skin were a model of the “bad boy, good boy” war that waged within him. Adding to his his look with heavy midnight eyeliner, Xander styled his hair unlike others in the city. They wore their hair longer on the sides and combed down in the front. Combed straight up on the top and short on the sides, his rock star hair set him apart, and made him kind of famous. He loved that — all the attention. It made his life in Tranquility almost bearable.

  Xander preferred to wear fashions on the edge; it pleased his artistic nature. So although he had never earned the privilege of wearing the bright co
lors of higher status, he wore what he pleased. He designed and sewed many of his own most extravagant outfits. The Elite colors of indigo, magenta, and gold were his favorite, the colors of their society’s uppermost rungs. When he wore the colors of Levels Fourteen and above, people listened to what he had to say. He was somebody. He loved the high regard people leveled his way.

  People in authority were often the target of his disrespect. One evening, Xander was on his way out. Dressed in an Indigo-hued light-weight silk jacket and tight pants appropriate to a Level Fifteen, he was ready to impress. He was on his way to a club in town, a place where girls and fancy drinks could make anybody’s day more fun. He was being a good citizen, of course; going after things like that would definitely make him happier. Too bad his Alt points would prevent his getting the best spot in the club. And his drink would be barely alcoholic, but it would do.

  A Plauditor stopped Xander on the street corner. The guy was a Level Seventeen—high up. Even if he weren’t, a Plauditor was a government agent, and all citizens gave them the ultimate courtesy and respect, even going beyond the common manners required of all Tranks.

  “Hey, citizen,” the Plauditor said after giving the Tranquility salute. The man’s face was wreathed in a smile, his hazel eyes twinkling with a joy that Xander envied. “Your Alt points—are they high tonight?”

  “Don’t give two squeaks about my Alt. Never have.” He continued to walk by, his careless attitude showing up in the shrug of his shoulders.

  The Plauditor put his hand over his heart, as if the reply stopped its beat. “Is there anything I can do to help improve that for you?”

  Xander stopped, even though he had no desire for conversation. He looked the Plauditor up and down. “Let me think...” He paused, as if he were truly giving it some serious thought. “No. You’re just in my way. Don’t you have anything better to do than to bother people already out for a good time?” Then, impulsively, he unstrapped his Alt, and tossed it to the Plauditor. “Catch!” He laughed.

  The Plauditor’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Oh, heavens!” The man looked as if he’d seen a massive spider crawl up his pantleg. He picked up the Alt from the ground and dusted it off. But he didn’t hand it back. Instead, he looked at it, shock registering on his face at the point levels. “Your Alt shows less than baseline levels. And you’re throwing it on the ground! Inappropriate! Emotional issues…I must report this.” He pulled his wrist up to his mouth, ready to speak after his finger poked on a sad-faced emoticon on the screen. “Your name?”

  “I’m Batman.”

  The beefy, perspiring Level Seventeen, looked at him as if he were a lost puppy, his eyes full of compassion. But he didn’t laugh. At all. “I’m taking your Alt to City Hall. A Sciolist will take it from there.”

  Xander was left to stand there alone, his plans for the night ruined. Without his Alt, he’d have no access to the club. And, to be truthful, the bouncers probably wouldn’t have let him in anyway. Not if his points were at baseline.

  In his young life of seventeen, Xander had been punished for similar violations over forty times. From his wardrobe offenses to his snarky words to people in authority, he arrogantly rode the limits.

  At age five he received his Alt, same as everyone else; Xander wore it, but was unmindful of its presence. It vibrated to remind him to check its face, but Xander figured he was what he was, so other than “checking in,” he dismissed the readings and went about his life.

  Xander was of the Noble family; they had always been highly valued. His parents and several aunts and uncles had served in city government and in the Good Works agencies that were focused on keeping the citizens happy and safe from negative influences. Xander’s mother, similar to many of the women in Tranquility, helped sew and design the clothes that each Status group was entitled to wear. His dad was a manager in the Transportation Department. He had been proud of his heritage, but often he wondered how he had ever been born into such a family. It was a puzzle.

  As he grew older and the Alt readings continued to remain often in the Red Zone, Intervention Teams came and picked him up. He’d had both Sciolists and Plauditors in his life. No one in Tranquility could expect less than being counseled in hopes of being reformed. Xander had experienced many sessions. These sessions, known as Purging, lasted hours, depending on his attitude and the patience of the counselor assigned to his case.

  He would be whisked off into a large fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room painted and decorated with all the eighteen Status colors in Tranquility. Gems the size of dinner plates sparkled on the wall, each one a glittering, colorful equivalent to its relevant Status. He smirked as he read each Level’s label stenciled in gold leaf.

  The first time Xander went for Purging, he didn’t know what to expect. Once in the office, he was determined to make things difficult for his Counselor.

  “Xander. I’m Winslow Liberalis.” Winslow extended the city salute of acknowledgment and acceptance, pulled out a chair from the table in the center of the room, and sat down, as if he was the paragon of all things proper. “I’m here to help you with your anger and negative feelings today. You will keep your Alt on your wrist at all times, but we’ll be looking at your Status Points on the big screen on the wall there.” Winslow pointed toward the white wall in front of them.

  Xander studied the man across the table. He took in his platinum-framed glasses and white-coiffed hair. “Hey. I certainly hope you can help me, Win,” Xander replied with enthusiasm, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t get my act together.” Xander ran his right hand through his spiky hair as if feeling absolute desperation.

  “Now, Xander. Of course I can help you. If you’ll just choose to open your mind and your heart, young man, you’ll learn to take your citizenship here with the earnestness it deserves. Then, we’ll not need to see each other again. This day is yours, and I’ll be here as long as it takes to get you purged out.” Winslow straightened his gold tie and buttoned his gilded coat, as if to prove how serious this business was.

  “Whatever you say, Win. You fix me.”

  “Well, Xander, there are certain principles you need to understand. We can’t expect to be happy when we are busy criticizing our fellow citizens or delight in anger. And I see you’re dressed in the color of a Level Ten — magenta — today. You know that’s taboo. Level One citizens can’t wear that. You should be wearing white, Xander. White.”

  Xander smoothed his hands down the lapels of the magenta-colored velveteen jacket he wore and then adjusted his coordinated shirt cuffs peeking from underneath. “Well, that’s one thing you guys just don’t get. I need freedom to express myself. I designed and made these clothes myself. Sorry you can’t appreciate my talent.”

  Winslow sighed as if to say he wasn’t going to fight that particular battle. “The best choice you can make is to purge. Purge negative emotions from your heart and mind. Do that now, before it’s too late. A positive attitude toward life will give you a positive self- image. And that will lead to rewarding relationships with friends and family. Civility, Liability, Stability, Possibility. Understand? That’s what we all want here.

  “Not easy or satisfying.” Xander, uncomfortable with the lecture, shifted in his chair, feeling like a trapped squirrel.

  “Dealing with negative emotions is simple if you look at negative emotions for what they are. They’re quite finite. They have a limit.”

  “Do they, Win? And what’s that checkpoint? Or is that what you’re here to find out?” Xander popped up from his chair and began to pace, wishing the interview was over. All he wanted was to be left alone. Why did he have to be compared to other people? And didn’t they realize that the more they pushed him to be happy, the darker he wanted to be? He would never allow them to get under his skin.

  “Xander…Xander. Please sit down.” Winslow gestured to the now-empty chair, and waited, with unlimited patience, for Xander to return, not bothered one whit by Xander’s slo
uch once he got there. “Do you know how to swim, Xander?”

  “Of course, ‘Lieutenant.’ We’re taught that in grade school, but you already knew that…”

  “When the school first taught you to swim, did they drop you into choppy waters, Xander?”

  “No. They wouldn’t do anything like that to a student. Everyone’s Alts would rage into the Red Zone…”

  “Right, Xander. Correct. First you learn to swim in calm water. Then later, once you know how, you could swim just fine, even if the water had a strong current and was thrashing you about. That’s the best analogy I can show you, young man.”

  “That’s bull. Not even close.” The image of swimming in a pool full of sharks came to mind. Now, that would be the proper comparison.

  “If you’re calm and emotionally balanced, it will help you to make good choices. Allow you to be a productive citizen. We all win here, Xander. Tranquility provides us security and peace, but everyone has to do their part.” Winslow sat up and smiled, looking pleased with himself.

  Xander stared back at Winslow and blinked. “And just how’re you gonna teach me to become who you want me to be?”

  7

  Xander’s Memory

  “Now that you’re with me, teaching you what you need to be is not going to be all that difficult, really. The machine in the center of the table is a Neuroscope. It picks up your current Alt readings. It’ll help us to magnify your feelings and see exactly where these negative feelings come from. And here is a headset.”

  Xander reluctantly took the tiny button-sized transponders for his ears. “Why do I need these?”

  “You’ve got to listen and see.” Win pointed to a device on the table. “That’s a neurotransmitter. It’s a special process, and one I may have to repeat in other sessions. Now, are you ready to begin?”