Regenerate Read online

  Regenerate

  Emily Goldthwaite

  Rainfly Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Emily Goldthwaite

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, events, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Editor - Jana Miller

  Cover Design - ebook launch

  Formatting - Pam Eaton pameaton.com

  ISBN - 978-1-7330688-1-9

  Created with Vellum

  In loving memory of my dad David and my grandma Betty Jo,

  “Suuure Love Ya!”

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  If this unscheduled meetup is pointless, I’m going to strangle Raxtin. Slipping off this five-story ledge and splatting on the synthetic lawn is not how I want my life to end. If Gran were alive, she’d kill me. Hollow pain squeezes my lungs and stings the back of my throat.

  “Focus, Averielle,” I whisper to myself. A September breeze whistles around the corner and bites through my clothes like icy needles.

  I carefully slide my feet across the slick surface of the poly-plex tube spanning the length of our residence column. It flexes under my weight a little, and my knees go momentarily weak. Oh, please don’t break.

  I thought this plan of mine was somewhere between crazy and sheer genius, but right now, I’d say it’s more like—really stupid.

  My iridescent purse knocks against my side with a thump. I reach in and give the antique pruning shears a gentle pat. Some of my tension melts. I press the shears tightly to me and keep moving.

  Scaling my residence column to meet up with my friends may not be the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but if I’d filed an activities request it would’ve been denied. Although if the Local Organizers catch sight of a generation GAP (Grandparent Adopted Posterity) like me doing something this dangerous, I’ll have a disciplinary Face Chat with Mom and be required to start seeing that virtual counselor again. No thanks. The whole village knows how helpful that was last time.

  My left foot loses traction and slips forward. My gut drops, and for a moment I freeze in place. Every inch of my limbs vibrates with adrenaline. Breathe, Averielle. Breathe. You’re alive as long as you’re breathing.

  This has got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Raxtin’s definition of “super important” better be legit this time.

  I keep my balance just long enough to make it to the vertical pipe that runs the height of our building. Gripping it between my hands, I loop my leg around like it’s one of those olden-day fire poles from my history unit. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs to the brim. Here we go, just like the olden days. Slowly I lift my foot off the ledge.

  Eyes still shut, I wait for something to happen.

  Nothing does.

  I open one eye and then the other. The ledge is still right next to me. Huh. I must need to loosen my grip. I relax my hold.

  WHOOSH!

  My stomach drops. The air whistles by my head and my brown hair whips around straight above me as I pretty much free fall two stories.

  Too loose! Waaaay too loose!

  I clench my fingers and legs around the pipe as hard as I can. The skin of my hands makes an awful “squeeeek” sound against the surface of the pole. My hands instantly burn, like when I was ten and Raxtin and I crashed our motor-bi-peds on the street. Seven years later and my palms are still scarred.

  I wince at the throbbing pain and instinctively blow on my clenched fingers. Um yeah, as if that’s going to help. This whole idea seemed a lot easier in my head.

  Slowly, I ease my grip until I get the right amount of tension. No wonder fire poles became outdated; this is awful!

  Finally, the fake grass softly crunches under the weight of my feet. I’m so relieved I would kiss the ground if it weren’t artificial. I brace my sore hands on my knees and draw deep, heavy breaths.

  I glare up at my window. I just risked my life to go to a diner with my friends. My common sense may be in need of some help.

  “What the heck took you so long?” a warm, familiar voice calls from the space between the buildings.

  Despite my labored breathing I can’t help a smirk. He would get here ahead of schedule. “Hey, Raxtin.” I turn to face him as he emerges from the shadows.

  His black hair catches the breeze, and he pulls the hood of his grey fitted sweater over his head, making him look even taller. My five-foot-four-inch stature feels tiny around him. His height suits him, though.

  “What was the hold up? I’ve been out here for at least six whole minutes. My youth is wasting away as we speak.” He pulls at the skin of his face like it’s melting then lets go and grins, showcasing his dimples.

  He’s so full of it. “Bull,” I say. “You haven’t been out here longer than one minute. I checked your tracking chip.”

  “Maybe I was”—Raxtin shrugs—“or maybe I wasn’t.” He shoots me a devilish smile. “How’d you get out here anyway? I got bored stalking your front entry, so I checked around back and here you are.”

  “Mom was being a little more vigilant than usual, and since I didn’t file an activities request to attend your impromptu meetup, I had to find a more discreet way out.” I nod towards the vertical pole.

  Rax stands so close our arms nearly brush against each other. I pretend I don’t notice the proximity. He holds a hand above his eyes and looks up at my ten-story residence column.

  A quiet whistle escapes his lips. “Yeah, real discreet, Averi. Next time why don’t you just base jump from your sleeping pod? It would at least be faster.”

  Without thinking, I rub my blisters against my lace tights then grimace. “And less painful,” I mutter.

  Raxtin’s head whips towards me, a concerned pinch between his brows. His hazel eyes fix on me, and he opens his mouth to say something but gets cut off.

  “Hey, Averi!” Zephani’s voice sings out behind us.

  Raxtin coughs and slides sideways from me.

  “Hey, Zeph,” I say, not able to match the cheer in her tone.

  She skips up to us, her dark, tightly wound curls bouncing, and loops her arm through Raxtin’s. “Hey Raaax,” she says, drawing out his name flirtatiously. She gives him a peck on the cheek.

  I bite my lip and try to pretend the residence column next to us is the most fascinating thing ever. It’s still weird to me they’re a thing. It’s not that they aren’t cute together, or that I’m not happy for them. I am happy for them.
/>   “So, where’s everyone else?” she says, glancing around as we begin to walk. She keeps her hand in Raxtin’s arm.

  “They’re going to meet us at the diner,” Raxtin answers, giving her hand a soft pat.

  I walk beside them, though I’m tempted not to. “Yeah, and let me just say, this better be good, Rax. I nearly died to come.”

  His glare in my direction is ill-humored.

  “What?” Zephani asks.

  Before I can speak, Rax answers in an angry rush, shaking his head. “She scaled down the collection pole.”

  Zeph gasps and covers her mouth. “Averi, if your Mom finds out—”

  “I know,” I cut her off. “Mom will read verbatim from the Personal Safety and Endangerment section of the Proper Parenting Path literature.”

  “Sounds like you could use a review,” Rax mutters.

  I tilt my chin a little higher in the evening air. “You mean the bit about Grandparent Adopted Posterity like us being the ‘fragile hope’ of preserving the human race? I’ve got it memorized. You’d think Mom would too by now.”

  We make our way through the rows of alphabetized white residence columns, trying to avoid the cameras for my sake. After passing the R building, where Raxtin lives, I get a weird feeling someone’s watching me. I turn, but there’s nothing but the empty, quiet street. Strange.

  Usually there are at least a few other GAPs out walking or riding their bi-peds. Maybe they’re all using the village main streets. Or maybe I’m not the only one behind on after-school assignments. A little smile pulls at my lips.

  We keep walking, and then I feel it again, that creepy tingle down my spine. Shake it off. There’s nothing to be worried about. Still, with every step, the feeling of being remotely observed haunts me.

  We duck inside our favorite diner, the one with the stack of old automobile tires rotating on top. Slipping past the usual eight or so other customers, we head to the corner booth at the back. Like at all our local establishments, except for the owner, the workers here are tubers—or to use the official term, the Artificial Generation. And when they get your food orders right, this place is by far the best.

  “There you guys are. We didn’t wait for you,” says Jettro. He runs his tongue across his newly straightened teeth and his red hair glimmers in the lights of the booth.

  “Yeah,” chimes in Kachina, who’s seated next to him, tucked beneath his arm. “I was starving, so I already ordered my stuff.” She flips her long, dark hair over her bare brown shoulders and smiles.

  In her usual flawless fashion, Kachina has managed to rock a pale-pink vintage cropped tank with a green vest. It’s almost winter. How does she not freeze? And how does she always look picture-perfect?

  “Hi, Kachina. Hey, Jett,” says Zephani. She slides onto the teal pleather bench next to Kachina and pulls Rax in after her.

  I’m left with either sitting next to Jett or Raxtin. This kind of thing never used to be a problem. I bite the edge of my lip and catch Raxtin watching me from the corner of his eye.

  As she dives into conversation with the others, Zeph’s hand loops around Raxtin’s shoulder.

  Dilemma solved.

  I plop down next to Jett. There’s a subtle downward twist on Raxtin’s lips that wasn’t there before, but he doesn’t look at me.

  We log in our food order and wait for it to arrive.

  “How’s your ethnobotany stuff going, Averi?” asks Zeph. “Found a plant that can do my homework for me yet?”

  Her tone makes my shoulders bristle. “That’s not what I’m looking for, so no.”

  Rax subtly elbows Zeph’s side, then turns towards me. “Yeah? So what is it you’re searching for in plants?” His kind tone eases some of the sting from Zeph.

  I bite my lip. “I don’t know. I mean, we all have a use, a purpose for existing, so it only seems logical that every plant does too.”

  A freckled faced, sandy haired tuber arrives with our food. I examine mine, making sure none of the tubers mixed it up again. It’s what I ordered, chicken salad.

  Absently, Zeph puts her pieces of tomato from her sandwich on Rax’s plate. Ew. I don’t get why she doesn’t specify in her order that she hates tomatoes. Guess it’s more fun to dump it on Raxtin. I focus on rearranging the layout of the salad in my dish so I don’t have to take note of Rax’s reaction to Zeph.

  “That just seems so weird to me, Averi,” says Zephani, still dismembering her sandwich. “Plants are plants. They’re here because they are. Geez, you make it sound like they’re alive or something.”

  My fingers form a white-knuckled fist around my fork, and suddenly I want to scream at her. “They are alive,” I say tightly. You moron.

  “All right, all right,” Jett cuts in, digging into his basket of spicy curly tots. “Rax, let’s get down to business. What’s this urgent secret that couldn’t wait till our Thursday meetup?”

  “A little something I’ve been working on,” Rax says. He pulls off his sweater and rolls up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing a silver-and-copper band around his surprisingly large bicep.

  Wow, has he been working out?

  Zeph’s eyes light up. “Nice! Gym unit was definitely a good choice.” Her fingers wrap around his upper arm and give it a greedy squeeze.

  His proud grin is about as wide as his square face.

  Trying not to seem overly impressed by his muscular development, I hone my gaze in on his armband. “What’s that around your arm?” I ask, pointing. Besides Zeph’s groping fingers, that is.

  Rax’s eyes dart to me before surveying the rest of the group. His voice is low and barely more than a whisper. “That’s what I actually wanted to show you.”

  Sure it is.

  Raxtin goes on. “I call it a re-router. This part is just the armband.”

  “What’s it do?” Jett draws a long draft of his iced coconut malt. “Is that over your tracker chip?”

  “Yeah. There’s another part that does the actual re-routing. I place that where I want to ‘stay,’ and once the armband is activated, it sends the signal to the re-router, which transmits it from that location. It basically makes me invisible!” His head nod is the equivalent of a strut.

  Invisible, my butt. There are always cameras. Still, something about his arrogance is adorable, and I try not to let my smirk show.

  “Sounds way too technical,” says Kachina while examining her manicured fingernails.

  “Brilliant, Rax,” says Jett. “Lean over, I want to see it up close.”

  I shy away from Jett as Rax’s now-buffed-out arm is practically thrust in my face. I refuse to openly admire Zephani’s boyfriend’s muscles. I don’t care if he was my friend first.

  While the guys talk tech shop, a gruff cough from the serving counter near us draws my attention. There are three people seated at it, but I can’t tell which person it came from—the wavy-blond-headed guy or one of the dark-haired men in blue suits. The tiny bumps on my arms and neck prickle. I swear the blond guy nods our direction. Is someone spying on us?

  Kachina’s voice draws me back to the group. She slips a curly tot into her mouth, chewing vigorously between her words. “How did you get the parts?”

  “I got the tuber guy who empties the scrap bin in tech shop to save any silver and copper wires,” says Raxtin.

  “A tuber?” says Zephani, stealing one of Kachina’s tots and swirling it in sauce. Kachina shoots her a narrowed look, which Zeph ignores as she continues talking. “He had that much brain function?”

  Raxtin rolls his sleeve back down before the band can draw unwanted attention. “Yep. I don’t think he’s competent enough to rat on me, but he saved up a nice stash of scraps.”

  Jett stretches his arms out across the back of the bench behind Kachina and me. “So if your location is fixed, where ‘are you’ right now?”

  Rax’s eyes dart from Jett to me then down to his triple-decker burger. “In my sleeping pod. I figured it was safe enough. Grams went to visit Aunt Victo
ria for a while in the New Mexico colony. Dad just got the new vSpec lenses and the latest upgrade to Universe of War Crimes Seven, so he’ll be in a game coma for at least a week. He’ll never notice I’m not actually there, because technically”—he taps his armband—“I am.”

  Kachina’s jaw falls open. “So you’re pretty much saying you don’t have a curfew?”

  Rax nods.

  “Lucky.” Kachina makes a sour face. “Gramps said I have to be home by nine p.m. What seventeen-year-old has a curfew of nine p.m.?”

  “A rebellious one,” snickers Jett, and she throws a curly tot at his nose.

  There’s a sudden stinging pain in my throat, and I have to force down my chicken salad with a hard swallow. It’s almost been two years, but it still hurts. I keep my eyes on my plate. “At least you guys still have your Grands.”

  Zeph reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Averi. Your Grandma Ann was the best. I’m sure your living quarters feel so empty now with just you and your mom. If only you had a grandpa or some other related Grand who could move in and take her place.”

  Somehow this isn’t making me feel any better.

  Jett pulls his arms back down and shrugs. “Are you sure your paternal bio-Grands won’t adopt you? Maybe they’d at least foster you for a while?”

  “My bio-dad’s Mom, Josephine, won’t return chat pings. My case handler has been trying to reach her for years. She probably didn’t support her son’s arbitrary contribution to my existence.” I look up at the group. All the worried eyes on me make me feel ridiculous. I flash a smile so strained it practically cracks my face. “I’m totally fine. Don’t worry.”