Life, A.D. Read online

  ATMAN STATION

  Saturday, April 13

  13:06:28 (UTC)

  88,704

  The size of the station is overwhelming. I’m struck by how odd it is to see so many unaccompanied people in a major transportation hub with no luggage. We are, each of us, alone in the multitude.

  But that can’t be.

  Traveling companions begin to stand out from the crowd. Two soldiers dressed in desert fatigues huddle together on a bench. A woman in her thirties holds two small children close. An elderly couple meanders through the crowd, holding hands, pointing out sights, and smiling like tourists.

  No one is scrambling to make their connections. There are no executives holding meetings via headset as they dash between gates. No excited families eager to begin their vacations. There is nothing but a somber quiet.

  An endless sea of wooden benches lines up in neat rows against the walls to my left and right, where people sit, waiting. Massive marble columns reach to the glass ceiling, which must be a hundred feet in the air. The columns are a soothing shade of coral. I walk over and touch one. It’s cool and smooth, exactly as marble ought to feel. I close my eyes and lean against it for a moment, letting my cheek rest against the stone.

  Dozens of windows, covered with narrow brass bars, spread out against a wall to my right. A sign that reads UNTICKETED PASSENGERS is centered on the wall above the windows. A long but fast-moving line has formed, snaking back and forth within the confines of red velvet ropes. I take my place at the end of the line behind a giant of a man, who stands hunched over. His mane of long blond hair quivers along with his shaking body.

  I hold out my hand, palm down, and find I have only a slight tremor. Both guilt and relief hit me as I realize he’s in worse shape than I am.

  The man shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits, until, at last, he reaches the front of the line. He flinches when a voice down the corridor calls out “Next!”

  A moment later, my own turn arrives. I smooth my dress before proceeding to a nearby window. An elderly man with gleaming black eyes sits behind the bars in a small compartment. A thin strip of white hair holds on for dear life as it circles his head. He wears an old-fashioned black suit and tie with a high-collared shirt. He squints as he looks up from a computer sitting on a tiny desk he’s wedged up against in his cramped workspace. His nametag informs me he is Mr. Potter.

  “Hi. Um, I didn’t get a ticket, and was wondering if you could—”

  “Name?” he asks in a nasal voice.

  “Oh, my name is Dez. Desiree.” I peer into his small booth. “So, what is this place, anyway?”

  His eyes narrow. “We may be facing eternity, but I haven’t all day to waste on inane conversation, and certainly haven’t the time for twenty questions.” He stares at me. “Name?”

  “Sorry. You want my full name?’

  “That would certainly help narrow things down. On average, this station receives 108 new arrivals per minute.”

  “I didn’t get a ticket, and I need to get one back home. Minneapolis is the closest train station for me, I think.”

  “This is not that sort of station.”

  “My friend Ava is coming over this afternoon, and if I’m not there to help her study for Monday’s trig test, she’s going to freak out. I really need to get going.”

  “Don’t play dumb, young lady.”

  “Who are you calling dumb?”

  “If you wish to proceed beyond this booth, I will need your name.” He drums his fingers on his desk.

  “Fine.” I cross my arms. “Desiree Anne Donnelly.”

  His fingers fly across the keyboard with surprising speed. “Hmm … ” Mr. Potter keeps typing as he scowls at the screen. He hits the enter key with gusto. “Desiree Anne Donnelly, born Desiree Anne Jackson?”

  “Yeah, that’s me, but I haven’t been Jackson since I was two.”

  He taps the screen with a crooked finger. “Nope.”

  “Nope? What’s that mean?”

  “It means you don’t get a ticket, Desiree Anne Donnelly, who hasn’t been Jackson since she was two. You’re flagged.”

  “Flagged?” I lean closer to the bars, as if proximity to Mr. Potter will help my comprehension. “What does flagged mean?”

  He opens a drawer and grabs a piece of paper like he’s mad at it. He writes a quick note with a quill.

  “There must be someone else who can help me. Don’t you have a supervisor, or a station manager, or something?”

  He rolls up his note and drops it in a clear plastic canister, which he puts into a tube that runs up the wall. I’ve seen these before at the drive-through of the bank where I had an internship last year. Like there, he pushes a button and the canister shoots up through the tube, into the ceiling, and out of sight.

  The cobbled-together nature of the system—computers and quills, tube delivery systems—only serves to increase my confusion and frustration. “Mr. Potter? What’s happening?” Indignation overshadows my fear. “I have to get home.”

  “No need to take that tone, Miss Donnelly. You have been flagged in our system. It’s quite common. You’re my ninety-second today.” He flips a hand toward the window in disinterest. “And, as you can see, I have many colleagues. I’ll leave the mathematical extrapolation to you.”

  He passes me an orange plastic card stamped with the word “Jhana,” and “1226” written on it in black marker. “Take that staircase up to the room with the door color and name matching that of your card. It’s near the end of the hall, on your left.”

  “But—”

  “To your left, Miss Donnelly.” He looks past me, as if I’ve already gone. “Next!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  You’re flagged.

  I stand before a set of frosted glass double doors with bright orange trim. The stenciled lettering informs me I’ve arrived at Station Guidance and Assistance: Jhana Towers Assignment Division. Just as I convince myself to enter, the doors slide open.

  Okay, I can take a hint.

  Right behind the doors is an alcove serving as the reception area. A man in his early thirties, who looks like he’s stepped off this month’s cover of GQ, sits behind a curvy, modern desk. His raven hair has that deliberately unkempt look. He smiles as I approach, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “Love the dress,” he says.

  “Am I in the right place? Mr. Potter said I was supposed to—”

  “Mr. Potter?” He grimaces. “Sorry about that.” He holds out his hand, making the international sign of “gimmie-gimmie” with his fingers. “Let’s see your card.”

  He takes it from me and begins typing away at his computer. “Your last name was Jackson at birth?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing to worry about. You’re in the right place, Desiree.”

  “It’s Dez.”

  “Gotcha.” He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a thin strip of metal about six inches long and two inches across. “Can you hold out your wrist for me? Either one is fine.”

  “What is that?” I ask, pulling my hands up to my chest.

  “Just part of our identification system. Everybody gets one.”

  “You don’t have one.”

  “But I have this.” He taps a patch on the left breast pocket of his shirt.

  CROSBY

  EID:121772

  SGA-JHANA AD

  He holds up the strip again. “Entirely painless,” he promises. “This is the resident version.”

  “Resident? What do you mean?” I take a step back from his desk. “What is this place?”

  “This is the assignment division of Station Guidance and Assistance, Jhana Towers. We’re here to assign you to your counselor and housing, guide you as you adjust to the rules and regulations of Atman, that sort of thing. I’m a liaison for the SGA. My primary job is filling in the gap between your housing advisor and counselor. My job right this second is initializing your identification bracelet
and assigning your orientation time. The orientation staff will give you your handbook, explain the bracelets, direct you to your housing, and tell you everything you need to know about getting started here.” He starts typing again, staring intently at his monitor. “And, you’re in luck, the next orientation starts in ten minutes.”

  “I mean, I don’t get it.” Apprehension burns the back of my throat. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, where I’m supposed to go, any of it. Nobody’s even told me what Atman Station is, or if I’m actually … ”

  Dead.

  The word still won’t come out. Tears well in my eyes. “I need to get home. My dad’s coming in on the three o’clock from Tokyo. I have to explain what happened to the car before Mom leaves to pick him up. This is just a big mistake.” My voice cracks. “I—I’m not supposed to be here. I have a huge trig test on Monday, and if I don’t keep my GPA up, my scholarship is gone and my fall admission will be in jeopardy.”

  The sympathy appearing on his face makes me want to scream. “Car crash, right?”

  I shake my head, refusing to look at him.

  “Car crashing teens,” he sighs. “Those are always the toughest. You have no idea it’s coming, and when you get here you’re, well, pretty much like you are right now. The sick kids—cancer, genetic disorders—they have time to get their minds ready. But take a healthy teen with their whole happily planned life ahead of them, and end things so fast—”

  “Isn’t there someone here who can help me?” I glance around the office, still searching for a miracle.

  He gets up from his desk and leads me to a pair of chairs against the wall. “Have a seat.” He hands me a tissue from the box on his desk. “In case you didn’t catch it on the name badge, I’m Crosby. As in Bing. My mom? Big fan.” He shakes his head in despair. “And you have no idea who I’m talking about.”

  “My parents watch White Christmas every year. It’s all I can do to get them to quit singing the songs by New Year’s.” I dab at my eyes.

  He plunks down in the chair next to me. “Look, I know you have a lot of questions. You’re confused, scared, and generally freaked out. I remember my first day.” He looks around the office. “We all do. But I promise we will answer your questions and explain everything to you.”

  “At some orientation? I just want to get out of here.”

  “And you can. I’ll even take you myself, but there’s one thing we have to do first. Come on.” He leads me back to his desk. “New residents are not allowed to leave this office without ID. Rules are rules.”

  He reaches for the bracelet and I backpedal toward the door. “No,” I say, my voice squeezed and small.

  “It’s really not a big deal, I promise.”

  “No!” I wail, still backing away. “I want someone to tell me what’s going on. I don’t want to go to an orientation, and I’m not going to be a resident. I don’t even know what that means.”

  Crosby approaches, his movements slow and cautious. “Dez, you need to calm down.” He holds his hands up at shoulder level, palms out. “It’s just a bracelet. Everybody has one.”

  I slide toward the exit. “I need to get out of here.”

  “I can’t let you do that, sweetie. Not yet.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  Crosby closes the distance between us with a quick stride. I spin toward the glass doors, but his hand clamps down on my shoulder before I can take a step. “Engage lockdown protocol,” he says.

  There is a long, high-pitched beep followed by a click as the doors lock. His iron grip holds me tight as I try to pull free.

  Crosby grabs my arm. He taps his ear with his free hand and begins to speak into the air, his voice strained from the burden of holding on to me. “I’m going to need RPS on a rush.”

  “Let me go,” I shriek. I fight like a caged animal, screaming and flailing. The room is a blur of tears and light.

  Crosby pushes my wrists behind my back, holding them tight. “Just calm down. You’re okay, Dez.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  Unable to move my arms, I begin to kick, but he’s too fast. He slips behind me and wraps his arms around me like a vise, pinning my arms to my sides.

  “Let me go! Tell me what’s going on,” I plead, still wrestling to get free.

  “I’m sorry, but this is for your own safety.” He sweeps my legs out from under me with his foot in a single, swift motion, and supports me as I fall to the floor. He braces his arm across my back, using his size and weight advantage to pin me down. “I’ve called some other staff members to come talk to you. Right now you’re not in any condition to discuss your situation with me. You’re going to be okay,” Crosby says over and over, his voice low and soothing.

  There is a soft whoosh as the doors slide open. Hurried footsteps approach, and Crosby moves off to my side.

  A petite woman dressed in sky-blue scrubs addresses me. “Desiree Donnelly?” Her long, dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes are kind, but she exudes a tough, no-nonsense vibe.

  “It’s Dez,” Crosby says softly.

  “Dez, my name is Eliza. I work for the Resident Protection Services here at Atman.” She pulls a chair over to the wall. “Would you like to sit down so we can talk?”

  Standing next to her is a man with lean, taut muscles and the supple movements of a cat.

  “Who is he?” I squeak.

  “This is my associate with the RPS Emergency Response Team. He’s here to make sure everyone is safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “We need to be certain you aren’t a danger to yourself, or to the other residents and staff.”

  “I—I don’t want to do this.”

  Eliza crouches down by me. “I know you’re scared, but we’re going to work on that.” She turns to Crosby. “Can you help Dez up?”

  Crosby holds out his hand to me. “Let’s just hit the reset button. Okay, kiddo?”

  Sizing up Eliza’s backup, I opt to take Crosby’s hand. He pulls me to my feet and motions to the chair meant for me.

  Eliza’s “associate” moves over to the wall behind Crosby’s desk to grab more chairs.

  I’m not doing this.

  My fight-or-flight instinct has made its choice, but this time I’ve caught everyone off guard. For an instant, the trio stands frozen, staring in surprise as I flee.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A yelp that is equal parts triumph and fear escapes my lips. The doors close behind me, and I’m free. I sprint down the hallway toward the station. My mind races along with my feet.

  The trains. Maybe I can find one heading back home.

  The massive staircase leading down to the terminal comes into view and I pick up the pace. If I don’t beat them to the stairs, it’s over.

  A woman dressed in the familiar sky blue worn by some of the Atman staff catches sight of me as she crests the staircase. She takes the final steps two at a time, tapping her ear when she reaches the top. “I have her in sight,” she says. She holds up a hand, palm out. “Desiree Donnelly, please stay where you are.”

  Footsteps close in behind me as I skid to a halt.

  “We’re just trying to help you.”

  Yeah, sure.

  To my right is another hallway, and I take off again. I round the corner too fast, nearly losing my balance. Running with all I have, I’m but a few precarious strides ahead of Eliza’s backup, who has closed the distance between us with alarming speed.

  My friend Katie lived in Florida until she was ten, and once told me an old wives’ tale about running from alligators. You can’t beat them in a straight line, she said, so if you’re ever chased, the best strategy is to run in a zigzag. I’m not sure this guy qualifies as an alligator, but I wonder if the technique will work all the same.

  The air moves behind my back as he makes a grab for me. A narrow corridor appears on my left, and it’s the closest thing I’m going to get to a zigzag. At the last second, I make the turn.

  Going all out down th
e hallway, I gain a tenuous lead, but my advantage is short-lived. The corridor dead ends at a locked door, forcing me to a screaming, frustrated halt. The doorknob holds fast as I pull on it in a futile bid to prolong my escape.

  My pursuer slows to a walk and taps his ear. “I’ve got her. Sector twenty-seven, northeast corridor at door twelve.” He runs a hand through his dark, close-cropped hair while he sizes me up. “It’s over, Dez,” he tells me. There’s no hint of triumph or anger in his voice, no sympathy, only a simple statement of fact.

  With my back to the wall, I slide to the floor. I struggle to keep the defiance in my voice. “Guess that’s why she brought you along, huh?”

  “If it’s any consolation, you’re the fastest one I’ve gone after in a long time.” He closes the distance between us.

  “This a regular thing for you?”

  “Just regular enough to keep it interesting.” He reaches into the pocket on the leg of his cargo pants and pulls out a shimmery, silver orb. It sparks as he passes it back and forth between his hands. “You’re not going to give me any more trouble, are you, Dez?”

  “What’s that?”

  “My insurance policy against troublemakers.”

  “Then why didn’t you use it already?”

  His dark eyes glimmer. “Because I love a good chase.”

  “I want to go home,” I whisper.

  “I know you do, but that’s not an option. You have to come with me.” He rolls the silver orb from hand to hand. “The only choice you have is whether this goes easy or rough.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “You have bigger things to worry about right now.”

  “If you’re going to zap me with that silver ball thing and drag me out of here, I think I have a right to know.”

  “Choosing the hard way, huh?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “Well, I’m Gideon.” He offers me a hand up, and I take it.

  “I’d say nice to meet you, Gideon, but it isn’t.”

  He catches me looking over his shoulder, and gives me the same disapproving look my dad gave me the morning he and Mom caught me opening Christmas presents three days early. Gideon wags a finger at me. “You don’t want to do that.”