Contribute (Holo, #2) Read online

  UNCORRECTED PROOF

  For Limited Distribution Only · Not For Sale

  Title: Contribute

  Author: Kristy Acevedo

  Imprint: Jolly Fish Press

  Publication Date: July 11, 2017

  ISBN: 9781631630989

  Price: $14.99

  Rights: Worldwide

  EBook: 9781631631009

  Trim: 5.5 x 8.25

  Pages: 336

  Ages: 14 & up

  Attention Reader: These are uncorrected advanced proofs bound for review purposes. All trim sizes, page counts, months of publication, and prices should be considered tentative and subject to change without notice. Please check publication information and any quotations against the final copy of the book.

  Please send any review or mention of this book to:

  Megan Naidl

  North Star Editions/Jolly Fish Press

  Publicity Department

  2297 Waters Drive

  Mendota Heights, MN 55120

  [email protected]

  [email protected]

  Contribute © 2017 by Jeri Baird. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Jolly Fish Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  First Printing, 2017

  Book design by Christopher Loke

  Cover design by Christopher Loke

  Jolly Fish Press, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Pending)

  ISBN 978-1-63163-098-9

  Jolly Fish Press

  North Star Editions, Inc.

  2297 Waters Drive

  Mendota Heights, MN 55120

  www.jollyfishpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  For the fans of CONSIDER

  THE HOLO SERIES

  Book Two

  KRISTY ACEVEDO

  PART 1

  “If you want to find the secrets of the universe, think in terms of energy, frequency

  and vibration.”

  —Nikola Tesla

  CHAPTER 1

  DAY 1

  THE HOLOGRAMS SHOULD'VE warned us to take a deep breath. Close our eyes. Then again, the holograms should’ve done a lot of things. Like told the truth.

  Travelling through a vertex is like being dragged underwater through blinding ice. The mask of the universe suffocates me, ignoring that I’m a human being who needs oxygen and heat to survive.

  I have one thought as I’m pulled through a blanket of frozen light:

  This. Is. Death.

  My body fights with my mind as my muscles and lungs scream, Go back. Please, please go back.

  But I can’t go back. I made my choice.

  I chose friends.

  I chose truth.

  I chose death.

  BEFORE MY CHEST explodes, before my anxiety has time to kick into overdrive, I am pushed through the vertex onto my hands and knees. Blinded by harsh magenta light, I gasp for air, my chest filling and collapsing with each deep breath.

  I am still alive.

  I am still alive.

  My heartbeat pounds behind my eardrums, reverberating inside my skull and blocking out all other sound. Despite the utter disorientation, my mind dizzy with the lack of oxygen, I scan the surroundings for any sign of attack as the purple-pink glow around me fades in intensity.

  I am in a huge, windowless space that resembles a concrete warehouse the size of Dad’s grocery store before the looters on Earth burnt it down. Before my world fell apart. Up ahead, hordes of people from Earth who made it through before the comet disintegrated, wait in lines for their turn to enter through unmarked passageways. Holograms identical to the ones that betrayed us stand guard. It reminds me of a massive airport security checkpoint. Destination unknown.

  I glance behind me at the empty white space. The metallic blue vertex I traveled through from Massachusetts disappears in the fading magenta light. I have no passage back to my world. To my parents.

  I gulp air, slowly grasping what I have done, what I have lost. The room spins as my body begins to sweat. No, no, don’t think about it now. Don’t fall apart. You can’t fall apart. Stay pissed off. Think about the others. They need to know the truth. They need to know it was a colossal trap.

  One of the androgynous holograms steps forward and hovers over me. I squint as ambient light filters through its gray uniform.

  “Hello. Please state your full name and age.”

  If only the hologram had balls, I’d punch them into its throat. I find my footing and stand. I open my mouth ready to answer Alexandra Lucas, age eighteen. On second thought, if they can lie, so can I. The less I reveal, the better. Knowledge is power, after all. The first two names that come to mind are from Doctor Who and Star Trek.

  “River . . . er . . .River Picard. Eighteen.”

  The hologram gestures forward with its arm. “Welcome to 2359, River Picard. Please wait in line to join our world.” It bows and adds, “May your contribution lead to freedom.”

  More politeness. A cover for world domination.

  As I join the last of the people in line, I watch families and friends hug, relief and gratitude spilling from their naive, worried faces. All oblivious, scared, grateful victims. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, Run! Fight! It’s all a cosmic scam! Looking at the holographic guards, I know it’s not the time. I need to pretend that I don’t know the comet was a fake until I uncover why humans from the future sent holograms to trap us here. I need to understand their motive to know my next move. I need to wait. I need to find my friends first.

  Waiting is the absolute worst.

  Standing last in a crowd of loud lines, I examine myself to see if my clothes are ruined, my skin shrunken or decayed, my hair burnt off. Same fleece lined hooded coat, short black boots, jeans. My curly, long hair not singed away. The silver heart ring from Dominick and the charm bracelet from Rita, reminders of my 18th birthday only months ago. My fingernails painted with the color Meet Me on the Star Ferry, chipped by me peeling them as usual. When I chose that color, I imagined reuniting with Dominick on another planet, that it would be romantic even if the Earth had been destroyed in an apocalypse. How sick is that?

  My backpack still sits on my shoulders, heavy but intact. The only pieces of my life on Earth carried on my back. Everything I’ve ever known feels deleted. I’m a conch without a real shell. Vulnerable to the elements. Vulnerable to everything.

  Focus. Embrace the rage. I blink away the gathering tears and wear anger as armor. A reminder. An ally. If I survived the vertex, then the others probably did, too. Dominick. Rita. My brother, Benji, and his new husband, Marcus. Penelope, my grandmother. And everyone else who left before me. I need to find them. They don’t know what really happened, and I need to warn them before it’s too late.

  A sinking feeling in my gut tells me it already is.

  At the front of each line, a hologram waves the next person forward into a tall, enclosed rectangular black structure. After a few seconds, the person exits in a daze and enters an adjacent room. I stuff my hands in my pockets like Dominick does when he’s nervous, hoping to stop the shaking. That’s where the cloning happens, I bet.

/>   A white-haired woman wearing purple glasses, and a teenager with acne scars and slight facial hair on his chin abandon their spot in line and walk toward me.

  “Excuse me, young lady,” the older woman says. “Were you the last one through the vertex in Quincy, Massachusetts?”

  The noise around us dims. All heads turn from the back of the lines, waiting for my response like I hold the secret to Area 51.

  My voice sticks to my throat. “I think so.”

  Faces contort with mixed emotions. People cover their mouths in a collective gasp, and the echoing word “no” floats through the room.

  I change my answer. “Maybe not.”

  “We’re looking for my daughter.” The older woman’s voice wavers, and her hands begin to shake. “She’s a police officer. Said she’d be right behind us.”

  The teen turns his back on us, but I see his shoulders tremble with grief. I think I just inadvertently delivered the news that his mother is dead, lost in the catastrophic comet collision with Earth. The one that never happened.

  Before I respond, another woman around my mother’s age with an infant balanced on her hip steps forward, full panic in her bulging eyes. “Did you see my husband? Tall, dark hair, chubby, with a big tattoo of an owl on his neck?”

  They look to me for answers. I should tell them they’re all okay. The Earth is fine. We’re the ones who are screwed. But I don’t know what’s really going on, and letting out the truth too soon might give these future humans ammunition. What if they kill us all here and now, and the rest of the population stays trapped in ignorance?

  “I’m not sure,” I stall. The truth bubbles and burns inside of me like lava in a volcano that’s not allowed to erupt.

  “Thank you,” says the older woman with the purple glasses, tearing up at the last moment. She turns to her grandson. “We’ll be okay, Nolan. We have each other.”

  He throws a black hood over his head to hide his face.

  The wife with the missing tattooed husband hugs her baby to her shoulder, caressing its wobbly head. Her chin trembles uncontrollably. She returns to her spot in line but keeps staring back at the area where the vertex disappeared, probably hoping by some miracle another one opens and her husband runs to find her.

  I clamp an invisible vice on my tongue while my heart screams to tell them. Staying silent transforms the truth into something far worse. Like the enemy has inserted its secret inside of me, and I am forced to carry it for them.

  Time passes as people grieve the loss of loved ones who didn’t make it through a vertex. I was the proverbial nail in the coffin, the period on the sentence. I witness and absorb their pain. This is what the future humans did to us. I need to remember. Always remember.

  A hologram waves Nolan and his grandmother forward one at a time into the rectangular black box. I see him pull his hand away from his grandmother, and she covers her mouth and finally breaks down.

  One by one they disappear into the next room after they leave the box. If I could plug my body into a socket, the energy running through my veins could probably light New York City.

  Soon, all that’s left in line is me and one bald, bearded man with dark skin and a nice suit. The last two people waiting for the universe to chew them up and spit them out.

  He glances over his shoulder at me. “Tough situation in line. Being the last one saved. You handled it well.”

  That’s the most ironic statement a stranger has ever said to me. I don’t handle anything well.

  “Whole thing is surreal, isn’t it?” he says.

  I nod. Holding up a heavy lie makes small talk impossible. I’m like Atlas from the Greek myth carrying the fate of people on my shoulders. Except I’m only a mortal, liable to meltdown and collapse.

  He sticks out his right hand and loosens his tie with his left. “Dr. Aiyegbeni, Boston Children’s Hospital. My patients call me Doctor A.”

  I shake his hand. “River Picard. High school senior.”

  “Waited until the last minute, too, huh? Thank God we got through. Shows something about us. We don’t give up easily.”

  I pick at my nail polish and shrug.

  “Or we were in complete denial about leaving.” He strokes his salt-and-pepper beard and laughs with a deep chuckle that shakes his upper body. “Are you meeting family here?”

  “Yeah.” Hot regret builds with each ticking moment. “You?”

  “No, I dedicated my life to medicine instead.” His shoulders shift in his suit, and I sense regret. “Thank God we made it through.”

  I rip off a chunk of polish from my thumbnail.

  The hologram at the front of our line waves Doctor A. forward.

  “Say PSF OPEN,” it commands.

  Doctor A. straightens his suit.”Nice to meet you, River. Good luck here.”

  “Same to you.”

  He picks up a duffle bag from the stone floor marches past the hologram. He even nods politely to it like it cares. Oh, Doctor A., how far we’ve fallen. Already treating our captors with respect. Inadvertent Stockholm Syndrome.

  “PSF OPEN.”

  One side of the encasement clicks open, and he enters. I imagine an alien crawling underneath his skin to set up shop, his face twisting in agony when it burrows into his spinal column.

  After several seconds, Doctor A. steps back out looking dumbfounded, then shuffles into the next room. He doesn’t make eye contact.

  The hologram waves me forward.

  “What does this thing do?” I ask.

  “The PSF is used for decontamination. You must be processed. Decontamination, Evaluation, Integration.”

  Decontamination. That word pulls me out of one worry and into another. Memories of Hazmat suits and a stinging shower flood my brain. I hug myself for support.

  “Do you require assistance?”

  “No, I’m fine. I just need a second.”

  My nostrils burn with the ghost scent of the chemical soap used at the hospital after the first vertex sightings. Deep breath, hold it, release. Out of habit I spin my backpack around to get my medication, but the hologram is staring at me. Instead, I strip my coat off my arms to escape the heat. More deep breaths, in and out. Focus.

  “It has been approximately eighteen point six-one seconds. Do you require more time?”

  My hatred for holograms grows deeper as my anxiety fades. “No, I’m fine.” Maybe if I keep saying that to myself, I’ll believe it.

  “Do I have to go through decontamination?”

  “Yes. You cannot integrate with our environment carrying malignant bacteria and harmful viruses from the past. The PSF will scan through your clothing and supplies and eradicate any problematic findings.”

  PSF. Eradicate. Sounds painful. I exhale. “What’s a PSF? Will it hurt?”

  “A PSF is a photosonic filter. There is no pain involved. Your body temperature may rise slightly. It is temporary. The sonic vibrations also help relax the somatic system.”

  It points its translucent arm to guide me into the black box.

  Sonic vibrations. Somatic system. My brain is teeming with questions, but I approach the structure anyway. It reminds me of a stand-up tanning booth. Or a black TARDIS. I’ll go with that.

  “Say PSF OPEN.”

  I have no choice. It’s the only way to find the others and tell them the truth. “PSF OPEN.”

  One side of the encasement clicks open. I walk inside the tall rectangle with my backpack on my shoulders and coat twisted in my hands. As soon as the door clicks shut, my heart flickers into mini-spasms. It’s not like a tanning booth or a TARDIS. It’s like an upright coffin. Is there enough air in here to breathe? What if this is part of the future humans’ evil plan? I’m a freaking idiot—I walked right into another trap. Some futurized gas chamber. What if it’s not gas? What if they fill it with water and I drown? Or even worse, what if it’s a giant microwave, and I’m dinner?

  I bang on the blackened walls and scream, “Open it! Let me out!”

  I
t’s too late. A soft hum fills the machine. White light floods under my boots. The light and sound waves penetrate through my clothing, traveling from the soles of my feet, up my ankles, over my calves, to my knees, waist, arms, shoulders, scalp, and then traveling back down again. It repeats the process, and I stop fighting it. The steady hum and gentle vibrations massage my skin, and the light radiates heat to my nervous heart.

  It ends too soon. I could live in here.

  The door clicks open.

  “Say PSF EXIT, not OPEN to leave a photosonic filter midprocess.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I say, too exhausted and relaxed to argue. I’m an idiot; the PSF didn’t hurt anyone else—why did I think it was a trap? So glad I was last in line so no one witnessed my freak out. Public humiliation is my fastest path to a panic attack.

  As I move into the next room to join the others, I notice that my fingernails have been stripped of all Star Ferry nail polish. Cleaned. Convenient. Creepy. I never even knew it was happening.

  In the next area, the chaos starts slowly, like water coming to a boil on a low flame. It takes a few minutes for the panic to spread. Body language shifts. Faces drop and the respectful attitudes morph into loud, open questions and outrage.

  Doctor A. spots me. “What’s going on?”

  I shrug. “Can’t see over the crowd.”

  On tiptoe, I strain to get a better view. Even though there’s nowhere to go, my mind starts mapping imaginary escape routes. I’ve had my share of angry crowds to last several lifetimes. Along the far wall, people are being scanned by a color-changing light, without a black box this time, coming from the walls, floor, and ceiling. Looks harmless enough. After they are scanned, they are led to the right side of the room to wait for the rest.

  The woman who asked about her missing tattooed husband is scanned next, along with her baby. Right when I think she’s passed the exam, a nearby gray hologram snatches her baby from the light scan.

  Are they selecting us one person at a time for experimentation? Human guinea pigs? I’ll unleash the truth before I let them take me.

  “Give me my baby!” the mother screams. She attempts to punch at the chest of nearby hologram, her fist passing through its translucent body. Like trying to fight with sunlight.