Numbered: Episode One of the Sister Planets Series

  Numbered

  Episode One of the Sister Planets Series

  Leviticus James

  Numbered: Episode One of the Sister Planets Series

  Publisher: Team Awesome Press, LLC

  Website: teamawesomepub.wixsite.com/ljames

  Email address: teamawesomepress@gmail.com

  ISBN: 979-8-600321-03-8

  Copyright © 2020 by Leviticus James. All rights reserved.

  Available in ebook format on amazon.com.

  Contact Leviticus James directly at teamawesomepress@gmail.com to schedule author appearances, for media questions and interviews, and speaking events.

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of the author, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. For longer quotations or commercial concerns, please contact the author via email at teamawesomepress@gmail.com.

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Any similarities to individuals living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Created with Vellum

  Like everything else in my life, this is for you, N.

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  “God, Maverick, hurry up. I’ve got a primary to win in three months. I’d like to wrap this up by then.”

  The pompous socialites in the room chuckle at Senator Greenstreet’s joke. I grit my teeth and stop tuning my guitar.

  I hate the senator’s smugness almost as much as I hate his crooked nose. I want to reach out and snap it straight.

  A narcissistic conviction that he’s superior to me—and everyone else in the room for that matter—permeates everything he does and says. I think that’s why he’s running for vice president. If he won, the only person more powerful than him would be 34 million miles away on Mars.

  I can’t wait for him to lose in a landslide to Governor Greyson.

  I’d stop subjecting myself to these weekly showings, but money owns. I take that back. The device the senator implanted in my head owns. I reach up and rub the scar behind my ear and remember waking up the morning after. The debilitating headache I wrestled like a demon for the next week. The nauseating fear that overcame me when the senator told me what I could lose now that I had a machine inside me.

  “That’ll fry your cochlear nerves in a heartbeat,” he’d explained. “And if you take another job, talk about what you see at my house, or quit, I’ll hit the button that’ll make it happen.”

  Talk about a negative work environment.

  I force my hand down to my side and swat the thoughts away. Scars or no scars, I should be happy. I’ve got a job. It doesn’t pay well—it turns out putting switches in the skulls of your employees that could deafen or kill them is a bigger motivator than money—but I have a job. That’s more than almost anyone on Earth could ask for.

  But wouldn’t freedom be nice …

  “Mav. Play,” Greenstreet says again. “You’re here to entertain us, not stand there.”

  I stare at the antique wooden floor at my feet so I don’t have to look at the ten people staring at me, waiting. Some of them are holograms, projected into their oversized chairs to make it look as if they’re in the attendance. They’re probably too busy relaxing on their sky yachts to make the journey.

  I can’t identify their ethnicities. Not that it matters. I have no idea what I am either. I’m brown like everyone else in this great country, regardless of the planet they’re on. I’ve heard it said that people used to know what parts of the world their ancestors came from. How quaint.

  We’re all from Earth or Mars now.

  I glance at the magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows covered with billowing black drapes. Above them is my favorite part of the entire house: a beautiful mural depicting the goddess Athena standing on the necks of the wicked against the backdrop of a blood-red sky.

  I ready my hands and place my callused fingers on the oxidizing nickel strings of my secondhand guitar. I reposition the brace that holds my harmonica in front of me and give it a quick hum. As soon as my lips touch the cool steel and the sharp metallic taste of the little music box hits my tongue, the lounge and everyone in it disappear. The dirt under my fingernails and the grime that has collected in my hair vanishes.

  I’m in what I call the In-Between. Nothing—not shame nor fear nor love—can get to me now.

  My song opens with a haunting harmonica solo. It brings back memories of cowboy tales and wild-west nights.

  I strum the strings on the guitar.

  I tap my foot, which rattles the tiny metal plates of the tambourine situated beneath it. The notes traipse through the melody like a naughty child.

  I tap my other foot, which pulls on a series of wires running up my legs and to the drum strapped to my back. The wires slap a drum stick against the thin membrane, and the bass beat keeps the song moving in time.

  My song becomes a dance, and I close my eyes. I’m caught up in it now. Colors flash and twirl in my mind’s eye. Soon the In-Between fills with a beautiful storm of notes and dreams. This song has no lyrics, only the melody, and it’s enough.

  I’m not sure how long I play or how many songs I perform. I play until it feels right to stop. When that moment comes, I end the performance with a long and howling note on my harmonica.

  With my eyes still closed, I wait. I don’t breathe. I don’t live in this moment. I’m truly In-Between now.

  A slow clap comes from the senator’s chair. The others in the room follow suit.

  “Stand in the corner and play something quietly,” he demands. “Set the mood.”

  I walk to the corner, my head held high. I take a deep breath to steady my hands as I begin to play again.

  One more humiliating night. One more week of life.

  One more week to plot how I’ll kill the senator.

  2

  The woman sitting in front of me on the bus smells like a toilet. We’re the only two people riding this late, and I have no idea what possessed her to sit so close to me. Usually being the seventeen-year-old girl laden with instruments keeps others away.

  I turn my attention back to the floating screen in front of me. If I wait too long to answer the questions, I’ll have to pay for my ride home.

  The hologram image reads, Citizen 60202820206, what would you make if you could make a snack right now?

  I swipe the letters to spell “peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  An exuberant smiley face appears and silently shouts with joy.

  I groan with disgust. “For God’s sake, show me the next question.”

>   Citizen 60202820206, you seem bothered. Do peanut butter and jelly sandwiches bother you? If so, please explain why you would want to eat one.

  “Aww, hell. No, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches don’t bother me. Your smiley face icon does.”

  Please explain further.

  “I want to be asked questions, not passively encouraged by a machine that can’t care about me.”

  The screen goes blank for a moment before another question appears. Citizen 60202820206, which is more important when making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich: the peanut butter or the jelly?

  “It’s all about the peanut butter, baby.” The spazy smiley face fails to appear this time.

  The bus accelerates, and my elbow knocks against my guitar.

  “Shh. Cody, don’t be obnoxious,” I tell it. “Why can’t you be more like The Cunninghams or The Children?” I point to the one-man-band kit I’m wearing and my backpack full of percussion instruments. “See how they’re being quiet? Why do you have to be loud and needy all the time? I swear, you’re getting worse than Creed. That old accordion—”

  Stinky Woman shifts in her seat, and I look up. She’s turned around and is glaring at me, her face inches from my own.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “Must you talk out loud?”

  “Yes, I must.”

  She puts her nose in the air. “Well, in that case.”

  She hefts up the sweatpants, crosses the aisle, and sits in a different seat.

  “Really, lady? Talking to myself makes me repulsive, but you smell like a dog’s anus and haven’t showered since Ramirez was president, and that gives you room to judge?”

  The woman’s face shakes with anger. “You little—”

  A squawking alarm sounds, and a computerized voice fills the bus.

  “Attention. Voices should not be raised while riding the public transit system. Please stay in your seats, and keep a tranquil demeanor. Otherwise all involved parties will be asked to exit.”

  Stinky’s still in a huff, but she shuts up and minds her own business. Crossing her arms, she turns away from me and grunts. She might be disgusting, but she isn’t stupid. She won’t risk getting thrown off a bus this late at night.

  I turn back to my screen. A countdown timer has started.

  Citizen 60202820206, please continue to answer questions provided to you by the Transit System of Unity City for free fare. If you do not, you will be charged per minute you ride the bus. Thank you for choosing TSUC.

  “Damn it.” I hit the continue button. “T-suck is right. Stupid machine.”

  The screen freezes for a moment, then the smiley face is back.

  Your balance is paid in full. You are not required to answer any other questions. Thank you for choosing TSUC.

  “Which is it? Do you want me to answer the surveys or not?”

  The smiling icon stays on the screen. I lean back in my seat. “I guess I’m done.”

  Stinky gets off a few minutes later, making me the sole passenger. The shiny blue clock at the front of the bus reads one o’clock in the morning.

  My thoughts drift to killing the senator.

  I realize I’m touching the scar behind one of my ears. I yank my hand away and start fiddling with the collapsible titanium baton I clip to my belt when I’m out late instead.

  My original plan was to slowly poison Senator Greenstreet but soon decided that was a bust. He wouldn’t be the type to muscle through his symptoms. He’d go to the doctor, find out something was wrong, and then I’d be the dead one.

  I still really like the idea of a fast poison, but the good stuff is expensive. Anything homemade or that’s in my price range isn’t guaranteed to work. And I need that guarantee.

  I’ve contemplated all kinds of ways to do the deed: pushing him into a jet engine, suggesting he take up smoking, locking him in a room with a loaded gun and a recording of a screaming baby. Every time I think I’ve discovered a genius plan, the variables soon stack up. I need something airtight. I need something that will work.

  I’m coming to the unfortunate conclusion that I don’t want to kill anyone myself.

  I could ruin him instead, but that’s even riskier than trying to kill him. Every kind of blackmail or career-ruining secret I can think of—weird sex stuff, shady financial decisions, criminal entanglements—don’t give me the leverage I need to get him carted off to prison and to remove this damn tech from inside my head.

  I know all my daydreams do is give me false hope about living my own life. I won’t stop, though. I have to believe that one day I’ll be free from this.

  I reach my stop, hop off the bus, and hurry to my apartment building across the street. Traffic is nonexistent on this residential road. From the sidewalk, I see the hovertaxis and high-speed rails delivering their last passengers before moving back to center city.

  From where those passengers sit aboard their bullet cars, I’m a blur in the greater canvas of poverty making up Unity City’s ghetto. They don’t see the concrete tenement houses, the bars on the windows, or the safety glass with spider-web cracks caused by a bullet. They’re only concerned with the dancing and forgetting they’re about to do at the Power and Light District.

  The whir of the miniature wind turbines attached to the top of every building fills the air. On really windy days, the white noise caused by the whirligigs makes it hard to have a conversation outside. During the day, I can just make out the arms of the massive turbines outside the city waving at me on the horizon.

  I push my ringlets of black hair to the side so the facial recognition camera will let me in the front door.

  A mechanized female voice speaks. “You are not a tenant of this building. Please use the messaging device to contact the resident you are visiting.”

  I pound on the door. “Damn it! What’s wrong with the tech tonight?”

  I look through the window in the door and see the silhouette of someone coming down the hall. I recognize the old man’s shuffle. It’s Sam, my beady-eyed neighbor with an IQ of 60 and hair growing out of his ears.

  I pound on the metal door. “Sam! Sam, come help me!”

  He looks up, then back down at the floor. I’m not sure if he’s going to help me out, but he continues his trajectory to the door and lets me in.

  “Thanks, Sam. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Mashed ‘tatoes?”

  “No, Sam, I don’t have any mashed potatoes.”

  He turns and walks with me down the narrow, dingy hallway as quietly as a girl with a drum strapped to her back and a little old man can walk.

  “Mashed ‘tatoes?”

  “Nope, I still don’t have any. Why don’t you ask Ms. Niemeyer? Maybe she has some.” I reach my apartment, swap the guitar from my right hand to my left, and reach for the keypad.

  “Mashed ‘tatoes?”

  “It’s been nice talking to you, Sam. Have a good night.”

  I touch the metal plate beside my door and flinch as a tiny current of electricity loops through my body. The lock clicks. I push the door open with my foot, unable to use my shoulder because of the drum still attached to my back. The door opens reluctantly, and the lights turn on automatically.

  Instruments occupy the space my bed doesn’t. Each one has a name. I can’t decide if that’s adorably quirky or just sad.

  There’s the standup bass named Charles positioned as guard in the corner next to where I lay my head to sleep. Next to it is Curtis, the beaten-up keyboard I bought at a pawn shop the first time I got a check from the senator. That night, I played it until my fingers cramped.

  Above me hangs every other instrument I own that I could put a strap on. I put as many hooks in the ceiling as I could when I first moved in. My room looks like a puppet show staring a collection of garage sale instruments.

  It’s organized chaos. It’s my life. It’s my home.

  “Jules, play Bach.”

  My Net Mirror glows a soft green in response and begins to
play “Fantasia and Fugue in G minor.”

  “Eww. No. Wrong mood. Play Liszt.”

  “I assume mademoiselle is referring to composer Franz Liszt and not a custom music playlist or her grocery list?” a soft male voice responds from the mirror as it glows blue.

  “You would-s’t be correct, Jules.”

  Without another word, “Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2” begins to play.

  “I may have found you in a dumpster, but you sure can do the job.” I rub a smudge off Jules’s surface. These smaller models can’t connect to the Martian network. Earth’s is sufficient for me, though, despite the fact that it’s mainly porn and video games. It gives me access to all the classical music ever created for free. That’s all I need.

  My stomach growls. I rub it and frown, realizing I haven’t eaten since lunch. Damn senator doesn’t let the help eat while they’re on shift.

  I set my backpack on my bed and go banging and clanking back down the hall toward the lobby, still laden down by The Cunninghams, Cagney the harmonica, and Cody the guitar.

  “Blaaa,” I moan over the wheeze of Creed the accordion, “if there’s no food left in that machine, there will be hell to pay.”

  I hang a left at the front door and enter the miniscule common area that houses the building’s all-in-one cafeteria machine and VR gambling unit. Neither have customers.

  I step up to the mint-green food dispenser and pull out my Resource Card from my bag. I place it on the card reader, my eleven-digit number facing up and the card’s paper-thin chip facing down.

  The reader flashes yellow, then back to green. “Good evening, Citizen 16. Please select your meal.”