Darklandia Read online

  Synopsis

  Manhattan, 2147

  Seventeen-year-old Sera Fisk gleefully celebrates the death of her 114-year-old great-grandmother, the last Atraxian alive who still remembers what New York was like before Felicity.

  There is only one principle of Felicity: Suffering is optional. Those who disagree or forget this principle, as Sera’s father did, are detained and “purified”. Through the use of the Darklandia virtual reality program and mandatory water rations, the Department of Felicity has transformed metropolises all over the country into happy, obedient communities.

  Inspired by her great-grandmother’s last words, Sera stops drinking the water rations and is soon recruited by Nyx into a rebel organization in the midst of planning a full-scale attack on Darklandia. When Nyx attempts to override the Darklandia system, he stumbles upon shocking information about Sera and her family. After years of living in a haze of virtual reality and drugs, Sera finds herself running from a powerful surge of raw emotions and a government agency intent on keeping reality a secret.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by T.S. Welti

  About the Author

  Copyright

  “Felicity”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  For Aunt Bernice, Uncle Adam,

  Martha and Dennis.

  Without your generosity

  this book may have never been written.

  “Felicity”

  What joy, what Felicity, this morn shall bring.

  This speckled light gives cause to sing

  A song of sorrow and demons past,

  No pit, no pain, no darkness cast.

  Remember the day Felicity won.

  Devote this day to the rising sun.

  Recall this day as most phenomenal.

  Never forget: Suffering is optional.

  —page 1 in Celebrating Felicity

  by Jane Locke

  1

  A smile stretched across my face, my body hunched over my great-grandmother’s wheelchair, as I heaved her toward the stage where she would take her last breath. The mayor had bestowed upon me the honor of rolling my grandmother up the ramp onto the glossy white stage in the middle of Times Square. Today, on that stage, my grandmother would be presented for her rapture.

  The wheels of the chair squealed as I leaned into it, heaving it up the incline. The only other sound in the square was the sound of the two gray Atraxian flags emblazoned with three blue stars, smacking the air as they fluttered at both corners of the stage. The wheelchair caught slightly on the transition from the ramp to the platform. A puff of talcum powder encased my grandmother’s wispy hair, the only cloud in sight on this glorious summer day.

  I gazed across the stage at the crowded square and found myself struck by a sudden notion: Of the eight raptures I had attended in my lifetime, I had never witnessed a rapture from this point of view, onstage looking out across a tranquil sea of smiling faces. It was lovely. It almost made me envy the darklings.

  My grandmother’s rapture would be the last in New York City. At 114 years of age, my great-grandmother, whom I had always referred to as Grandmother, was the last of the darklings. Once Grandmother was gone, the city would be clean. Mayor Hillstead said Grandmother’s rapture would usher in a true era of Felicity. I couldn’t wait.

  I wheeled my grandmother across the gleaming stage toward the glass podium where the mayor would address tens of thousands of New Yorkers. The enormous television screen on the face of One Times Square showed a close-up of the empty podium. The blue star pinned to the front of my tunic twinkled in the sunlight. I turned my face toward the sun and the corners of my lips curled when I saw the twenty-foot tall poster on the side of the information studio across the street: The gray face, neither male nor female, the peaceful smile, the words in bold block letters across the top, “Smile for the Angels.”

  The wheelchair jerked to a stop as Grandmother’s pink shawl, a muted shade of red she was allowed to wear only on this special occasion, became ensnared beneath the tire. Her head toppled forward and her chin banged against her chest as if trying to jump-start her fading heart.

  My mother chuckled softly as she knelt to untangle the fabric from the wheel. “Mishaps are good luck—”

  “Especially on Rapture Day,” I said, cheerily finishing her sentence.

  “Sweet felicity.” Mother smiled as she tucked away the frayed end of Grandmother’s shawl. She stepped away from the wheelchair and Grandmother’s head lolled to the side again as I pushed her toward the center of the stage.

  Four steel chairs were lined up across the back of the stage, the two seats on the far left occupied by city officials. Thelma Howard, New York City’s representative for the Department of Community, waved at me. The sleeve of Thelma’s gray dress dangled in the wind, but her smile never wavered. Next to Thelma sat Commissioner Baron. I could never remember his first name; it was so unique. It was surprising he’d won a chief position in the Department of Security with a name like that. Distinctive names made people uneasy; especially the older folks who remembered the names their grandparents were given during the dark phase.

  Commissioner Baron wasn’t smiling the way he normally smiled. Today, his grin stretched the corners of his thin lips so wide his teeth were visible—like Grandmother’s smile. Darklings had a different smile than everyone else. It screwed up their whole face, making their teeth look enormous and their eyes all scrunched up. It could be frightening if one wasn’t used to it. But I had grown accustomed to my grandmother’s gummy smile. And though I was glad Grandmother was not allowed to speak of the dark phase, seventeen years of living with a darkling had given me a special appreciation of her facial quirks; an appreciation most of my classmates didn’t share.

  Executive Minister Jane Locke, head of the Department of Felicity, the highest-ranking branch of the Atraxian government, was not sitting in any of the chairs on the stage. She never attended rapture celebrations. She was only allowed to attend “dark-free” ceremonies.

  I wheeled my grandmother into an open space between two chairs at the center of the stage just behind the podium. Mother had tied Grandmother’s hair into a neat twist on the back of her head with two curly white locks dangling against her wrinkled cheeks. With her head slumped low over her chest, it almost appeared as if the hairdo were pressing down on her. I reached toward her and tucked a strand of hair behind her fuzzy ear.

  Her eyes were closed but her left eyebrow twitched, as if she were having pleasant dreams. Her breathing slowed even more than it had this morning. My mother had called the health specialist as soon as we noticed, and the specialist arrived at our apartment within minutes. After assessing Grandmother’s heart, lungs, and brain function, the specialist declared today would be my grandmother’s Rapture Day. An alert was sounded throughout the city, the titanium security bands on our wrists flashed with brilliant blue light, and within ninety minutes thousands had gathered around the stage in preparation of this glorious event.

  But for a low hum of anticipation, the crowd was silent as they gawked at my grandmother. Her wrinkled face screwed up, not in a smile, but in an expression she often used to convey pain
. We learned about pain in Felicity school. People once felt it all the time, and not just physical pain. Sometimes people felt so much aching in their hearts they tried to hurt one another—as if they were attempting to shift the heavy burden onto another’s shoulders. The darklings were an odd species.

  I glanced at my mother as she stared straight ahead. I didn’t know if she was admiring the crowd or pondering something and I couldn’t help but admire her beauty. Her ponytail tucked low against her neck reflected the bright beams of sunshine that ricocheted around us. The white frock she wore was the same white frock she’d worn at her Perfect Union ceremony with my father nineteen years ago.

  Something tickled my throat as I thought of my father. I swallowed some saliva and the tickle subsided, but only slightly. It happened a lot lately, every time I thought of him. My mother consulted our family health specialist about this strange sensation, but the health specialist insisted it was a hydration imbalance. She said she would put in a request with the Department of Felicity to adjust the dosage of sodium and potassium in my water ration, but after three weeks of consuming the new dosage the tickle hadn’t gone away.

  The mayor climbed the steps of the stage and approached us with two angels flanking him. The Guardian Angels wore the most stylish blue uniforms and glittering silver badges. I often found myself hoping I would be matched with an angel just so I could see my partner in that blue uniform every day. When I told my mother about this fantasy she said I should never have thoughts like that outside Darklandia and if I ever spoke this wish aloud again she would report me to the Felicity department for evaluation.

  She was right. Only the Commission for Hereditary Intelligence could decide whom I would be matched with, but it was hard not to wish. Unauthorized breeding was one of the worst offenses one could commit, according to Section 2-13.47 of the Code of Felicity. But even with all the mandatory hours spent in Darklandia indulging my darkest fantasies, I still found it hard to bury the longing.

  Mayor Hillstead reached out his thick hand and curled his fingers around my grandmother’s wrist to check her pulse. He nodded his head as he counted off the beats of her tired heart. He released her arm and her knobby hand plopped into her lap.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fisk,” Mayor Hillstead said, his globulous belly protruding toward my mother’s smile as she sat up spine straight in her chair. “This is a glorious occasion. So long we’ve waited. I hope you don’t mind if I deliver a brief prayer before the ceremony.”

  “Of course, we don’t mind,” my mother replied. “After 114 years, a few more moments won’t add to the anticipation. Please carry on with the ceremony.”

  “Sweet felicity,” the mayor said with a quick nod of his head before he set off toward the podium. He shooed the angels off to the side of the stage before he tapped the microphone. “Gentle beings, I am very pleased to announce that the final Rapture Day is upon us,” he said, his voice booming with enthusiasm through the speakers mounted on the buildings around Times Square.

  The crowd applauded more vigorously than usual, but no verbal displays of approval or disapproval could be heard. I was glad for that. There was no need to tarnish such a magnificent event with a detainment.

  The tickle in my throat returned at the thought of the word detainment. My father’s detainment and purification happened quickly, but I sometimes wished I could have spoken to him one last time before they carried him off to Brookside for the procedure. Though the leisure homes didn’t allow visitors, it filled me with joy to know he was no longer suffering.

  “Let us all close our eyes and say the Felicity prayer for Mrs. Georgia Fisk,” the mayor continued and the crowd joined in at once. “What joy, what Felicity, this morn shall bring. This speckled light gives cause to sing, a song of sorrow and demons past. No pit, no pain, no darkness cast.”

  A chill passed over my arms as my lips moved in unison with the mayor’s words, but I couldn’t hear myself over his booming voice and the chorus of the crowd.

  “Remember the day Felicity won. Devote this day to the rising sun. Recall this day as most phenomenal. Never forget: Suffering is optional.”

  A hush immediately fell over the square followed by a soft rattle of air in my grandmother’s chest. It was time.

  I stood from my chair, ready to ease my grandmother to the front of the stage. As I slid past her, Grandmother’s gaze shifted toward me and she opened her mouth to speak. Her voice sounded thin and broken like the crackled glass of the hurricane lamp on my bedside table. I leaned forward, straining to hear her words over the roaring buzz of anticipation. I placed my ear right next to her lips and listened.

  “It’s… water,” she said, her tongue and lips crackling with stickiness from not having drunk her water ration in days.

  “Say it again, please, Grandmother.”

  “It’s… in… the water rations.”

  It’s in the water rations?

  I stood from my chair and leaned closer to get a better look at her face. A dab of thick, white saliva accumulated at the corner of her mouth as her eyes rolled sideways. The slight rise and fall of her bony chest was no longer noticeable. I wheeled her forward to the front of the stage, surprised to see as many faces trained on me as there were on my grandmother. I wondered if Darla was out there watching me, cheering me on inside her head.

  Mayor Hillstead approached my grandmother with the white linen sack in his hand. First, he took her pulse again then he slipped the sack over her head. The mayor pulled a small length of blue ribbon out of his coat pocket and draped it around the back of Grandmother’s neck. He yanked the ribbon as tight as he could before he tied it into a bow over her throat.

  A memory of my grandmother flashed in my mind. Her hands trembled as she attempted to braid my hair. She tied the blue ribbon around the end of the braid so loosely that my braid came undone by the time I reached the school gates. My teacher scolded me for my messy hairstyle and my mother never allowed Grandmother to touch my hair again. But I’d never forget the smile on Grandmother’s face as she finished tying that ribbon around my braid. It was horrific.

  “Let the countdown begin,” the mayor said into the microphone, and all eyes shifted to the screen above the stage.

  Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

  Grandmother’s breath sucked and pulled at the white fabric of the sack as she attempted to breathe. A wet spot appeared, but not over her mouth. Too far to the left to be her mouth. My fingers became possessed of a strange restlessness, an impulse to untie the ribbon around her neck.

  Twenty-two. Twenty-one. Twenty.

  Her hand twitched in her lap and, without thinking, I crouched next to her and grasped her fingers to stop the movement. Her skin was cool and dry against my hand.

  Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight.

  The tickle in my throat returned and I resisted the urge to clear my throat though I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. As if I were the one with the sack over my head.

  Four. Three. Two. One.

  A joyous sensation filled me and the tickle in my throat disappeared. Grandmother had been raptured.

  I released my grandmother’s hand and Commissioner Baron was at my side. The large knife in his fist whooshed through the air and plunged into Mayor Hillstead’s chest, twice. The mayor’s eyebrows crinkled together in what must have been pain. Is that what my Grandmother’s face looked like beneath the sack? Mayor Hillstead’s wide eyes blinked several times before he collapsed.

  Two raptures in one day. This must be good luck.

  2

  The corners of my father’s blue eyes crinkled as he smiled at me from across the park bench in Central Park. I tried not to stare at the fresh scar between his eyes as he handed me a glass bottle filled with a sparkling red liquid. I took the bottle and pressed it against my lips. The cold liquid slid over my tongue and down my throat lighting my mouth with tiny sparks. I spit out a mouthful all over the grass, my eyes watering as I choked on the bright sensation.

/>   My father laughed as I coughed and wiped at my tears. “You get used to the fizz,” he said, reaching across the bench to wipe a bit of spittle from my chin. My father’s golden hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, still outshone by the joy that illuminated his face.

  “What is it?” I asked. I had never drunk a liquid so painful and satisfying at once. All I had ever drunk, besides the water rations, was a bit of plain water, which tasted nothing like rations. Water rations tasted like salt, sugar, and metal with a good dose of bitterness.

  “It’s cherry soda,” my father replied, immediately recognizing the confusion in my face. “Cherries are a fruit. Soda is a drink infused with carbonation to give it that bubbly feeling.”

  I stared at the bubbles inside the bottle as they floated up and accumulated at the surface of the red liquid—the cherry soda.

  “Where did you get it?” I asked, as I fidgeted with the bottle, tipping it side to side, ushering more bubbles to the surface.

  My father glanced around the park. Guardian Angels stood along the concrete path every one hundred yards. Their shiny silver helmets blocked the bright sunlight and kept their heads fresh with built-in cooling systems. The batons they carried were rumored to transform into guns, the things darklings used to kill each other, but I didn’t believe it. The angels were our protectors. They would never hurt us.

  Still, my father appeared to be glancing at them as if he couldn’t answer my question in their presence.

  “Sera, what would you say if I told you there’s a whole world outside Manhattan? A different world. A place where cherry soda runs like water from fountains and people are so happy that sometimes they cry.”

  “They c—?” I stopped myself from repeating his last word. Now I glanced around at the angels wondering if they were listening.

  “Real tears,” my father continued. “How does that make you feel?”

  “Feel?”

  Crying wasn’t allowed. Just thinking about it, the red eyes and nose, the frown, the tears burning tracks down cheeks… it was hideous. Of course, I was frightened. But saying the word aloud….