Czytaj książkę: «An Everlife Novel»

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.

—CHARLES DICKENS, A TALE OF TWO CITIES

TROIKA

From: A_P_5/23.43.2

To: L_N_3/19.1.1

Subject: Tenley Lockwood

Duuude. A heads-up would have been nice. Can you say whack shack?

If you failed to read my dossier, Nanne, I’m happy to bring you up to date on the highlights. I’m a well-trained and vastly decorated Laborer. Victory might as well be my middle name. What I’m not: a babysitter. Watching Tenley Lockwood is a waste of my many talents.

Oh, AND DID I FORGET TO MENTION SHE’S IN A WHACK SHACK??

With all due respect, I’d rather fish out my internal organs with a coat hanger than stay here. I’m officially requesting a transfer.

Light Brings Sight!

Archer Prince

TROIKA

From: L_N_3/19.1.1

To: A_P_5/23.43.2

Subject: Officially Denied

Mr. Prince,

I’m not your duuude. I’m your superior. You will only ever address me by my proper rank: General. Or the always appropriate sir.

You were selected for this mission for two very important reasons. You are young and (obviously) immature. Offense intended. Our older Laborers had trouble relating to Miss Lockwood, but you should fit right in.

On that note, continue “babysitting” Miss Lockwood, or I’ll fish out your organs for you.

Also, I expect daily reports. I’m not overstating when I say convincing her to make covenant with our realm is essential.

Light Brings Sight!

General Levi Nanne

TROIKA

From: A_P_5/23.43.2

To: L_N_3/19.1.1

Subject: You Suck (& I’m WAY Mature)

Dear Sir,

Laborer is below your pay grade, but aren’t you one of those “older” gents who failed with the girl? Just checking. (And prepping you for the time I succeed and rub it in your face.)

Anyway. I’m a good little robot, sir, so of course I’ll do as you asked. Sir. Here’s the thing, though, sir. If I have to watch/listen from the outside a minute more, I’m going to bleach my corneas and stab a pencil through my ears.

I want my Shell, and I want to go INSIDE the whack shack. Sir.

Also, here’s the first report as demanded. I mean so sweetly requested. Sir. During the institution’s version of creative writing class, your precious had to write a poem to express her feelings about life. I’m including a copy for your perusal. I defy you NOT to jump off a bridge after reading it. Sir.

The grave is the end

And I will never accept that

I have been set free from the chains that bind me.

I know

“Death has lost its victory”

Is a lie, because there is no greater truth than this:

“Life is hopeless”

Gotta say, I don’t think Darkside McDowner is a great fit for Troika. I know, I know. We love the unlovable. We champion the weak. I don’t need a lecture. Just tell me what makes her so “essential.”

Your humble servant,

Archer

TROIKA

From: L_N_3/19.1.1

To: A_P_5/23.43.2

Subject: Poem, Among Other Things

I didn’t fail with her, puppy, I cleared the way for you. There’s a difference. Want to succeed? Learn it.

Expect a Shell at 0800. Just don’t expect yours. I’ve selected one from GenPop. And before you reply with your typical flare—General Population? Are you kidding me (dramatic pause for effect), sir?—save your fingers the trouble of typing. I’m not sending what you want. I’m sending what you need. You may thank me later.

Also, in regards to the poem. Miss Lockwood understands there are two sides to every story. Why don’t you? Do yourself a favor and read the poem again. This time, start at the bottom and work your way up.

And, Mr. Prince, the fact that I have to tell you what’s so special about this girl means I need to schedule you for an emergency jackhammer to the brain. Do yourself a favor and pay attention to the pearls I’m about to throw. Light. Conduit. Loss...darkness.

Oh, and here’s a good one: Moron. Again, offense intended.

TROIKA

From: A_P_5/23.43.2

To: L_N_3/19.1.1

Subject: Four Things

1) Sir Dude. I don’t want to point out your obvious lack of intelligence, but Tenley Lockwood can’t be a Conduit. Given your advanced age, you’ve clearly forgotten Conduits are raised by Troikan parents. They are the most loyal among us, from beginning to end.

2) And okay, okay. I read the poem from bottom to top, so I get your “two sides” theory. That doesn’t mean the poem is any good. It doesn’t rhyme.

3) The Shell arrived, and I honestly I think hate you. I’m pure male aggression, and you expect me to pass for a chick? As if anyone will be dumb enough to believe such a farce.

4) Myriad sent Killian. I’ve seen him skulking around in the shadows, watching the girl. Permission to slaughter?

TROIKA

From: L_N_3/19.1.1

To: A_P_5/23.43.2

Subject: Permission Gr... Denied! (Admit it. Your little-girl heart skipped a beat.)

You know our laws as well as I do. And what is at the heart of our second-most-important decree? Personal vendettas must be set aside for the good of the people. You are one of our people.

Do your job. Nothing else matters.

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: P_B_4/65.1.18

Subject: My New Assignment

Hot and crazy, just the way I like ’em. Consider Tenley Lockwood bagged and tagged.

Might Equals Right!

Killian Flynn

MYRIAD

From: P_B_4/65.1.18

To: K_F_5/23.53.6

Subject: Show Some Respect!

You will speak of the girl with deference, or you won’t speak of her at all.

I’m already close to pulling you from this assignment, Mr. Flynn. In fact, I have no idea why I allowed the Generals to convince me you can do what no one else has managed to do. You’re too young, and your methods for success have always been inappropriate. But not this time! Persuade the girl to make covenant with us, but keep your pants zipped while you do it. And do not fail. We need her.

Might Equals Right!

Madame Pearl Bennett

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: P_B_4/65.1.18

Subject: Fail? Not in This Lifetime <—See What I Did There?

You’ve never cared about my methods before, only the end result. What’s changed? What’s so important about this girl? If you’ve got inside info, do me a solid and share with the rest of the class.

And just so you know, we don’t need anyone. We’ve never been stronger, and we outnumber the Troikans two to one. Also, this girl is basically an “it.” When she dies, she’ll just be one more cog in our wheel. But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll sign her—my way. I always do.

In other news, Troika sent Archer. I’m going to cut off his limbs and beat him to Second-death with them.

MYRIAD

From: P_B_4/65.1.18

To: K_F_5/23.53.6

Subject: NO!

Control your temper until you’ve signed the girl. Afterward, I’ll use my highest pair of heels to pin Archer down, and you can flay his skin to wear as a coat, if that’s what you desire. Have I made myself clear? Do not engage. Not yet!

And the girl is so much more than an “it” and a “cog.” Everyone is! But this girl...one day, she’ll be your boss. She’ll be both our bosses. If I were you, I’d be careful how I treated her.

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: P_B_4/65.1.18

Subject: Sorry, but You’re NOT Me

What you are? Too cute. Imagine me wincing in embarrassment for you as I say: I don’t actually care about your permission. Consider my last message an FYI.

And you know better than most I treat my bosses the same way I treat everyone else. If you don’t like it, Madame, you can absolutely reassign me. I have nothing to lose. I’m guessing you have plenty.

MYRIAD

From: P_B_4/65.1.18

To: K_F_5/23.53.6

Subject: Nothing to Lose?

How about something to gain? Sign the girl, and I’ll give you what you’ve always wanted. Your mother’s name and where to find her.

I’ve been told history is written by survivors,

but I know that isn’t always true.

My name is Tenley Lockwood and very soon, I’ll be dead.

This is my story—but my end is only the beginning.

chapter one

“You are better off Unsigned than a slave to Troikan law.”

—Myriad

I’ve been locked inside the Prynne Asylum—where happiness comes to die—for three hundred and seventy-eight days. (Or nine thousand and seventy-two hours.) I know the exact time frame, not because I watched the sun rise and set in the sky, but because I mark my walls in blood every time the lights in the good-girls-gone-bad wing of the facility turn on.

There are no windows in the building. At least, none that I’ve found. And I’ve never been allowed outside. None of the inmates have. To be honest, I don’t even know what country we’re in, or if we’re buried far underground. Before being flown, driven, shipped or dropped here, we were heavily sedated. Wherever we are, though, it’s bone-deep cold beyond the walls. Every day, hour, second, our air is heated.

I’ve heard friends and enemies alike ask the staff for details, but the response has always been the same. Answers have to be earned.

No, thanks. For me, the price—cooperation—is simply too high.

With a wince, I rise from bed and make my way to the far corner of my cell. Every step is agony. My back hates me, but the muscles are too sore to go on strike. Last night I was caned just because.

I stop in front of my pride and joy. My calendar. A new day means a new mark.

I have no chalk, no pen or marker, so I drive the tip of an index finger over a jagged stone protruding from the floor, slicing through the flesh and drawing a well of blood.

I hate the sting, but if I’m honest, I’ll love the scar it leaves behind. My scars give me something to count.

Counting is my passion, and numerology my favorite addiction. Maybe because every breath we take is another tick on our clock, putting us one step closer to death...and a new beginning. Maybe because my name is Tenley—Ten to my friends.

Ten, a representation of completion.

We have ten fingers and ten toes. Ten is the standard beginning for any countdown.

I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m. And, okay. All right. Maybe I’m obsessed with numbers because they always tell a story and unlike people, they never lie.

Here’s my story in a nutshell:

Seventeen—the number of years I’ve existed. In my case, lived is too strong a word.

One—the number of boys I’ve dated.

Two—the number of friends I’ve made and lost since my incarceration.

Two—the number of lives I’ll live. The number of lives we’ll all live.

Our Firstlife, then our Everlife.

Two—the number of choices I have for my eternal future.

(1) Do as my parents command or (2) suffer.

I’ve chosen to suffer.

I use the blood to create another mark on the stones. Satisfied, I head to the “bathroom.” There are no doors to provide even a modicum of privacy, just a small, open shower stall next to a toilet. For our safety, we’re told. For the amusement of others, I suspect. All cells are monitored 24/7, which means at any given time during any given day, staff members are allowed and even encouraged to watch live camera feed.

Dr. Vans, the head of the asylum, likes to taunt us. I see and know everything.

A good portion of teachers scold us. Time waster!

Orderlies belittle us. Put on a little weight, haven’t we?

Most of the guards leer at us. They hail from all over the world, and though their language varies, their sentiment is always the same. You are begging for it and one day I’ll give it.

Just some of the many perks offered chez Prynne.

Not everyone is horrible, I admit. A small handful even strive to keep the others from going too far. But it’s no secret every staff member is paid to make us hate our stay, to make us want to leave more than anything. Because, the more we want to leave, the more likely we are to do whatever our parents sent us here to do.

My friend Marlowe dared to pawn her mother’s jewelry to buy groceries, and she needed help with her “kleptomania.” My friend Clay, a drug addict, needed to get clean.

The institution failed them both. A few months ago, Marlowe killed herself, and Clay... I don’t know what happened to him. He planned an escape, and I haven’t heard from him since.

I miss them both. Every. Single. Day.

I begged Clay not to risk a breakout. I tried to leave once, and I had help. My boyfriend, James, a guard high on the totem, arranged for cameras to be shut down, certain doors to be unlocked and other guards to sleep on the job. Still I proved unsuccessful.

For his efforts, James was shot in the head. While I watched.

Hot tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks as I slowly strip out of my jumpsuit. Every motion comes with another blast of agony. When finally I’m naked, I step under a tepid spray of water. Modesty has long since been beaten out of me—literally!—but I wash as fast as I can. We’re given a small ration of water a day. If we run out, we run out. Too bad, so sad. Something we’re never given? Razors. I keep my legs and underarms smooth with threads I’ve pulled from old uniforms. I already feel like an animal; there’s no reason to resemble one, too.

Not that a well-groomed appearance matters. While we’re allowed to socialize with the opposite sex during mealtimes, I’d rather dig my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon than date again. Yes, the rewards are tremendous, but the risks are more so. When everything comes crashing down—and it will—I’ll be shattered into a million pieces. I’ll have to rebuild. Again.

I should have resisted James’s pursuit of me, but I’d been at a low point, desperate for any show of affection. He’d risked his job every time he’d disabled the cameras to sneak inside my room. He snuck in so many times, in fact, his memory still lives here. Every night when I climb into my twin-size bed, I’m reminded of the way he teased me out of my initial shyness. Of the way he cleaned my wounds whenever I was hurt. Of the way he held me in his arms, offering comfort and kisses. He’d wanted to do more. I hadn’t. Not here. Not with a potential audience.

Forget the past. Concentrate on the present. Right.

I shut off the water and towel dry as best I can. I step into a clean, peed-in-the-snow-yellow jumpsuit, but only manage to bring the material to my waist, my arms refusing to work properly, my shoulder muscles giving up.

What am I going to do? I can’t leave my cell like this.

The door suddenly slides open with a quiet snick. My blood flashes ice-cold as two guards march inside my cell, a flailing girl between them.

I gasp, my surprise giving me the strength I need to lift my hands and cover my breasts.

No, I’m not modest, but this is a special kind of humiliating.

The guards release the girl and push her in my direction. The first thing I notice about her? She has unevenly cropped pink hair.

“New roomie,” one of them says to me. When he notices my partial state of undress, he grins. “Well, well. Vhat we have here?”

His Russian accent is as thick as ever, one of the many reasons I refer to him as Comrade Douche. Though my cheeks burn, I strive for a confident tone. “Vhat we have here is an underage girl who, upon her release, will ensure you rot in prison.”

His grin only widens as he takes a step toward me. The pink-haired girl kicks him in the stomach, surprising me.

He focuses on her, raising his hand to deliver a strike. “Suka!”

Bitch in Russian. A word that’s been thrown at me, as well.

She smiles and crooks her fingers at him, the universal sign for bring it.

The other guard grabs Comrade Douche by the arm and drags him into the hallway. Both men frown at me as the door slides shut.

Without missing a beat, the girl waves at me, looking almost...giddy. I blink in confusion. She’s happy rather than scared? Really?

“Hello,” she says, and I detect a slight British accent. “I’m Bow, your new best friend.”

She’s crazy. Got it. “I’m not in the market for a new friend.” I hoped I’d remain solo. I don’t like sleeping in front of another person but I have to steal catnaps to function. My last roommate told me I toss and turn, screaming about the torture I’ve endured or singing a number song my aunt taught me as a child.

Ten tears fall, and I call...nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight—

Oh, no. I’m not getting lost in my head right now.

“Here.” Bow stalks toward me, her stride long and strong. Up close, I can tell her eyes are the color of freshly polished pennies. They’re odd yet captivating, smoldering with an intensity that should be too much to contain. “Let me help you.”

Out of habit, I step out of range when she reaches for me. But...zero! My favorite four-letter curse word. I don’t think I can finish getting dressed without her.

She cups her breasts in a mimic of me and beams. “Boobs are awesome, yeah? Literal fun-bags. I don’t know what you girls are always complaining about.”

“Don’t you mean us girls?”

Her hands fall away from her fun-bags. “Dude. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the equipment and getting a little some-some of my own goods and services. Seriously. I’m so hot even I want a piece of me.”

Hot? Debatable. Bizarre, narcissistic and pervy? Unquestionably. She’s the trifecta. In other words, I hit the probably-gonna-get-murdered jackpot this go-round. Yay, me.

“I’d rather not talk about your goods and services, thanks.” Slowly I pivot, placing her at my back. This is a rarity for me. A low point, a moment of utter desperation. If she attempts a hit-and-run or a grab-and-stab—anything dirty—I’ll make sure she regrets it.

She inhales sharply, and I assume she’s studying the wealth of bruises I’m sporting.

“Sometime today,” I snap, horrified by the perceived weakness.

She gently works my arms through the sleeves. “I hope you’re prepared for the Everlife. Another beating like this could kill you.”

Doubtful. Dr. Vans has the torture thing nailed. He knows when he’s about to push a body too far. “Trust me. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to me.”

“Of course it isn’t. If you haven’t made the right plans for the Unending, you’ll wish you ceased to exist.”

The Unending, where Myriad and Troika—the two realms in power in the afterlife...aka the Everlife—are located. Where “real” life is said to begin.

Over the years, the world has been divided into two factions. Those who support Myriad, and those who support Troika. No one ever supports both. How can they? The realms are too fundamentally opposed—about everything!

Myriad boasts about autonomy...bliss...indulgence. To them, Firstlife is merely a stepping stone into the Everlife, everything happens for a fated reason and, when we experience Second-death—death in the Everlife—our spirit returns to Earth, the Land of the Harvest, to Fuse with another—brand-new—spirit.

They are willing to negotiate covenant terms to win over a human.

Troika, on the other hand, is known for structure...constant study...absolute conformity. To them, Firstlife matters just as much as Everlife, fate is a myth and, when we experience Second-death, we enter into the Rest, never to be seen by human or spirit again.

Troikans refuse to negotiate covenant terms, offering the same benefits to everyone everywhere without exception. The same laws, too. To them, what is right is right and what is wrong is wrong, for one and for all. Everyone on equal footing.

If one realm says the sky is cloudless, the other will say a storm is brewing.

They’ve been at war for centuries, the other’s destruction the ultimate goal. That’s why they fight so hard to win souls. That’s also why picking the right side is so important. Someday, someone is going to lose.

Here on Earth, the Myriad and Troika supporters aren’t segregated...exactly. They try to coexist, but it’s in imperfect harmony and there’s always an underlying hum of tension.

Sometimes riots break out, and the government is forced to execute martial law to prevent an all-out brawl.

A rare few people, like me, have no idea which side to back. We see merits to both sets of beliefs. We also see downsides.

We are called the Unsigned.

For us, there are rumors of a third spirit realm, the place we’ll end up after Firstdeath. My parents used to tell me horror stories about it, stories whispered in the dark of night. The Realm of Many Ends, where nightmares come to life.

I’ve often wondered... Is Many Ends a made-up place intended to scare kids straight?

“Do you?” Bow asks as she zips up my jumpsuit. “Have plans for the Unending, I mean?”

“I’m not talking Everlife with you.”

Her features scrunch with disappointment. “Why not?”

“I’ll be here another three hundred and fifty-two days.”

3 + 5 + 2 = 10

“And?”

And she will leave sooner rather than later. I recognize her type. Extremely optimistic until something goes wrong. After her first beating, she’ll cave and do whatever her parents want, guaranteed.

“Forget the next life. What about this one? Tell me why you’re here.” I motion to our illustrious cell with a tilt of my chin.

“My guardian sent me.” She strides to the second twin bed and sits, and there’s nothing graceful or feminine about her. “Told me to be a light.”

Ugh. What I hear? Absolute conformity. “You signed with Troika, then.” Not a question.

Her nod contains a thread of pride. “I did.”

We’re going to clash so hard. “What is light, exactly?” What’s she going to be pushing on me?

“Whatever is needed to help someone find a way out of darkness.”

Darkness. “Meaning Myriad.”

She ignores my dry tone. “Meaning a problem, any problem.”

Well, I’ve got plenty of those—though I tell myself this situation is fertilizer, and something good must grow from it.

“Why are you here?” she asks me.

“I refuse to make covenant with Myriad.” Covenant—the equivalent of signing a contract in blood.

Sometimes, in an attempt to convince me to sign away my rights, I’m pampered. Isn’t this nice? This is what awaits you in Myriad. Most times I’m tortured. This is only the beginning of what you’ll endure in Many Ends. Not knowing what awaits me is the worst.

“Prynne is supposed to be unaffiliated with either realm,” she says with a frown.

“It is.” How else could Dr. Vans convince one kid to sign with Myriad and another to sign with Troika? Which he does. All the time.

She meets my gaze, a little surprised, a lot hopeful. “Do you want to make covenant with Troika?”

“Not even a little.” As her shoulders droop, I add, “I hate to break it to you, but your guardian sucks. He—she?—sentenced you to hell. For nothing! No one here will accept your light.” Trust no one. Question everything.

“Maybe not, but I’ll still make the offer. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, my actions matter.”

In that, I agree with her. I’ll even take it a step further. The most destructive or constructive actions begin with a single thought. And, ultimately, a single action can decide the direction our lives take. And our deaths.

I will choose my path. Me alone. My choice will affect no eternal future but my own.

She opens her mouth to say more, but I shake my head. Subject closed.

She hops up and walks around the room, studying every nook and cranny, finally stopping to gape at my calendar. “Seriously? You’re using a finger pen? No wonder everyone calls you Nutter. You’re the biggest nut in the whack shack.”

She just got here. How does she know what I’m called? “Everyone calls me Nutter because of the size of my lady balls. That, and I tend to smear my opponents across the floor like peanut butter.”

She thinks for a moment, frowns. “If your lady balls are so big, why don’t they call you Hairy Cherries? Or Furry Meatballs?” She taps her chin. “Well, duh. Because neither name describes your explosive temper. Oh! I know. I’ll call you Sperm Bank! It covers the balls and the explosions.”

I snort-laugh. She’s brave, so gold star for that. In a place like this, lack of fear is rare and precious. Of course, if she threatens me in the slightest way, I won’t hesitate to end her. Survival first, nothing else second.

“If anyone calls me Sperm Bank, my temper is going to explode all over you,” I say. “Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to call you Hatchet. The tool used to cut your hair, I’m guessing.”

She fluffs the ragged ends of her style. “I used a kitchen knife, thank you very much. I’m confident the trim properly highlights my beauty.”

Have to admire her positivity.

My internal clock suddenly goes off, the conversation forgotten. “Breakfast!”

She sighs. “Mealtime. Yay.”

“Our cell will open in three...two...one.”

The double doors slide apart.

“We have thirty seconds to exit the room,” I explain. “If the door closes while we’re still inside, we’ll miss the meal.” The food sucks, nothing but slop, but that slop has enough vitamins to keep us somewhat healthy. And really, anything is better than starving.

“So we’re like dogs in a crate, taken out only at scheduled times so we won’t crap on something important or chew on the furniture. Awesome.”

Together, we dart into the hall. Our blockmates do the same. In total, there are twelve of us.

Twelve: the number of months in a year, members on a jury, and the hours on the face of a clock.

For a moment, we take each other’s measure. Anyone going to uncage the rage today?