Socket 1 - The Discovery of Socket Greeny (10 page)

There was no more getting lost. The main
trails were the easiest and the lesser-known ones were good for
avoiding the scientists who lurked around doing research. Sometimes
I made my own trail and fought dogtooth vines and razor-sharp
elephant grass. I’d lose some skin and blood, but it beat being in
the box. Although, once my arm went numb after getting scratched by
some toxic-laced branch and I ended up in the infirmary getting
lectured by Spindle to be more careful.

“You are not invincible,” he said. “You must
understand your environment.”

* * * * *

One afternoon, after a morning of exhausting
tests, Spindle went with me to the Preserve. He insisted on going
first. With him in the lead, I made it to the stream without a
scratch then raced ahead to the grimmet tree.

I slipped on mossy stones, crashed through
the trees and skidded onto the slab. The grimmet tree was empty,
but this time there was one waiting. A red grimmet sat on the
lowest branch, his feet going
tom-tom-tom
on the wood. He
was the only grimmet there, staring right at me. I started for
him.

“Grimmets are not receptive to strangers,”
Spindle said. “You should let him come to you.”

Rudder had given me his name. That meant
something. I stopped several feet away, offered my hand. Rudder
dropped off, flapped over and snagged my fingers with his tail.
Hung like a possum.

“Where’ve you been?” I said.

He was breathing rapidly and loudly; purring
shook my hand. I poked his round belly, tight and scaly, and the
purring went right into my arm.

“You have a friend,” Spindle said.

Rudder jumped onto my face and pinched my
cheeks; his forehead pushed against mine, and he tickled my chin
with his tail. Then he flew to the tree and pointed down. I went to
the ledge. There they were, swimming and floating, some on the
sandy shore. Pivot was at the far end with water up to his waist,
washing dirt off his arms and face. His clothes were spread out on
a rock. He looked skyward. Smiled. Why did it feel like I’d know
him all my life?

“
If you don’t mind,”
Sighter said,
fluttering in my face,
“Pivot would like to dress without you
watching. He might live in the trees, but he still has a sense of
modesty.”

A few minutes later, Pivot climbed up the
tree wearing nothing but shorts. He moved effortlessly, muscles
rippling down his back, along his arms and calves. Wet strands of
hair hung over his face. He moved his head side to side, listening.
Energy radiated from his skin that seemed to bend the light in a
holy, aura sort of way. He continued to turn his head. Mild psychic
pressure wrapped around me.

[Follow me.]
His thoughts were big and
loud in my mind and sounded much older than it should have. He
pushed his hair back, exposing his milky pupils. Energy, sweet and
filling, bubbled in my chest.
[I will show you things.]

In one fluid motion, Pivot leaped off the
rock, splashing into the deep part of the pond.

“Call when it’s time to eat!” I shouted.

“But, Master Socket…” Spindle’s voice trailed
away.

I jumped without looking. My stomach lurched.
I went several feet under and never touched bottom. I broke the
surface trying to breathe, pulling in all the air I could to
scream, “COLD!”

Pivot was in the trees with the grimmets
swirling behind him. Insects fled for their lives. I swam to shore
with Rudder hanging onto my hair. I ignored the branches and vines
and followed. Pivot bounded over obstacles, swinging around tree
trunks or running up them one foot over the other. Nothing slowed
him. Few things cut him. I couldn’t do what he was doing. If it
weren’t for the grimmets, I would’ve lost him. At one point, he was
high in the canopies running along the limbs, crashing through the
leaves like a parachutist falling to his death only to grab vines
at the last moments.

When I couldn’t even hear the grimmets, I
stopped at a small pool to catch my breath. Was that the game?
Catch me if you can? Well, I lost. And I doubted the lookits could
even find me. Maybe that was how he went missing.

A tight, piercing whistle cut the jungle. A
family of yellow, long-beaked birds stared back. I heard it, again.
Directly ahead, the trees were full of color. Pivot crouched behind
a tree, put his finger to his lips. I stepped carefully and quietly
next to him. The grimmets were just as stealthy, silently crawling
along the limbs. Their bright colors became muted and natural,
blending into their surroundings.

Broak was on the other side of the trees,
coasting over the tagghet field on a jetter at mid-field with
something like a red stick on his shoulders that was curved at the
end and held a yellow discus.
The tag.
Five bulbous servys
drifted at the far end around a large shimmering blue dome. A
brilliant green cube was suspended a few feet off the ground
inside.

Broak sped up, banked toward the dome. The
servys gathered in front. Broak juked left, spun right and sprinted
wide. The servys reacted and changed their defensive arrangement.
The stick flexed in the momentum of Broak’s swing and the tag flung
off the end, splitting a tiny gap between the servys, through the
dome and into the green cube.

Goal. I guess.

Broak set up another play. The servys changed
formation. Broak scored again, this time from thirty yards out.
This happened over and over. Different formation, different attack.
Same result. Each move was more difficult than the one before. Each
shot more precise.

Why are we watching tagghet?

The servys formed a defensive wedge. Broak
hunkered down like a bowling ball looking for the pocket. He spun
left, then right, and just before he made contact, bounced wide
left. The servys were set for a collision and unable to respond
quickly enough to stop him. Broak was all alone, except for the one
servy that intercepted his shot. Broak followed it with the stick
over his head and chopped with both hands.

“I ORDERED YOU TO FOLLOW DEFENSIVE FORMATION
2B WEDGE!”

The servy retreated. Broak pummeled it again.
And again. The club sank deeper with each blow, blobs spurting with
each hack. It tried to evade every swing, but lost navigational
direction and went in circles. Broak speared it through the center
and twisted. The servy split open, spilling goo all over. Broak
stomped the remains.

The remaining servys gathered in front of the
dome, their eyelights bright red. Broak dropped the club and waved
them off. They quickly dispersed into the trees.

A small hovercraft emerged from a path. A man
in uniform handed Broak a towel. Broak held out his hands and the
man in uniform sprayed them with a small bottle. Broak wiped his
hands on the towel. The man gave him a second towel and Broak wiped
his face. They spoke. The man stood rigid while Broak replied
forcefully, banging his fist on his own leg. The man listened; said
something back. Broak looked around, scanning the trees. He wiped
his face, looked again.
He knows we’re watching.
He nodded
to the man. They got onto the hovercraft and left.

We waited a long time and no one moved. Pivot
finally walked onto the field. The grimmets followed in a flurry.
The gray material was melting like snow in August. Pivot scooped up
the remains. He took my hand, dropped it in my palm. It was sticky.
Cold.

Dead.

It was only a machine. There was no life to
mourn. But Pivot sat there on his knees, head bowed. Maybe it
wasn’t the death he lamented. Maybe it was the killer. He didn’t
bring me to see tagghet, after all.
Understand your
environment.

He took the gray substance from me, placed it
on the ground. By the time we stood, it was gone. Pivot looked at
me, his face warm. I heard no thoughts. He spoke no words. He just
looked at me with cloudy eyes. He was warning me, but more than
that, teaching me. Respect life, was that it? Respect it in all
forms. Those servys were afraid while they watched Broak gut one of
their own. They raced off the field when they were released.

When Pivot seemed satisfied, he walked
away.

“I can’t ride that,” I said.

Three jetters lay on the ground. One hummed
to life when Pivot stepped on it, hovering several inches off the
ground. He drifted across the field.

“
Why not?”
Sighter asked.

“Because I don’t know how.”

“
Lame excuse.”

“Why can’t we just go on foot?” I said. “It
seems stupid to ride these things. Besides, we’ll have to stay on
the paths, and what’s the use—”

“
Just step on it.”
Sighter flew over
me.
“And stop whining.”

Pivot was already on the other side of the
field. I stepped on the jetter. It bobbed under my weight, shifting
back and forth to keep me upright. My feet magnetically locked onto
the surface.

“All right, I’m on it,” I said. “Now
what?”

“
You know how to virtualmode, correct?
It’s simple thought projection. Focus on a command and the jetter
will respond.”

I closed my eyes, visualized going
forward.

“
And don’t close your eyes. You want to
see.”

He wanted to add
dumbass
to the end of
that sentence. I tried it again and this time I floated up. The
jetter teetered side-to-side. I held my hands out like a beginner,
but already I felt more connected to it. I opened my mind, like
reading thoughts, and mentally merged with the jetter. I kept my
arms out, just in case, and crept over the field. By the time I
reached the trees, I sped up and came skidding to a stop.

“Oh, man. This is easy.”

“
Your head is growing by the second,”
Sighter said.

* * * * *

I was going fast enough to die. The jetter
was magnetically rooted to my feet. Pivot was ahead of me. I
followed in his leafy wake. We stayed on the main paths then took
the narrow ones. Pivot carved the turns like breaking waves. The
grimmets filtered through the trees. There was one close encounter
with a low-reaching branch, but other than that it was balls out
blazing.

When we reached the far edge of the Preserve,
we dismounted and climbed a narrow path up the rocky face, above
the canopies. The ledge angled up and twice switched back. We were
several stories up and kept going. I didn’t think much about
falling. Somehow, I felt safe and in control near Pivot, like he
could do something if I did.

The path ended at an alcove several feet deep
and sheltered from above. From our vantage point, we were well
above the Preserve. White birds glided over the treetops. A blanket
of fog lay in some of the low areas that looked like clouds. Miles
away was the entrance to the Garrison.

The grimmets perched on nooks and crannies
jutting from the rock. We sat on the ledge, dangling our feet.
Pebbles chipped off, took flight to the bottom, glancing off the
cliff along the way. The sun was behind us, changing the color of
the sky from blue to purple and red. Pivot’s face was turned up,
his cheeks rosy orange. I could stay here forever and watch the
shadows grow, feel the sun go down and wait for it to come back up.
I don’t know how long we were up there. We didn’t speak. We just
shared the moment in seamless silence until the sky was no longer
glowing.

There was gentle pressure on my head, then I
saw an image in my mind. The face of a woman. Her hair was bound at
the back of her head, strands of gray poking out. Wrinkles cut her
face. Her smile was much like his, quiet and undemanding.

“Your mother?” I asked.

He looked directly at me. The pupils engulfed
the faded blue irises. It was like looking into his soul, a pathway
through the solar system, deep and black and limitless. He reached
out and closed my eyes. A dream appeared as clearly as if I were
there. The woman was with a man. They were sitting on a beach
around a smoldering fire. The water lapped near their feet and the
fire hissed. A boy with blond hair, barely old enough to be out of
diapers, slapped a stick twice his size in the water, wading out
deeper and deeper.

The boy ran but the dad scooped him up, slung
him over his shoulder like a duffel bag. The woman wrapped him in a
blanket. The family watched the sun paint the sky.

What happened to them?

The scene dissolved. The mom and dad’s face
turned gray and lifeless. They died, but how and why I couldn’t
tell. Did it matter? I mean, they were dead and he was alone.
That’s how I felt. My father died, didn’t matter how, just that he
was gone. And Mom? Part of her died, too. At least I had a mother.
A broken one was better than none at all.

Another vision began.

I saw my mom standing in my bedroom. I was
five years old and fast asleep. Mom knelt next to me and dropped
her head. She was sobbing. I never saw her cry, not once. Not at
the funeral and never after. The dead zone took care of that. But
in the vision she cried so hard my bed shook. She took my little
hand and held it to her cheek.

I opened my eyes. “How do you know all
that?”

He looked up, humming a song in his throat.
It sounded familiar. Felt soothing, like a lullaby. He didn’t
answer my question. Somehow, it seemed he knew me better than I
knew myself. Maybe he didn’t know what happened, he simply showed
me a memory that was buried in my mind. He uncovered it for me to
see.

How many other things were buried inside
me?

I woke the next morning in a bed. No trees.
No sky. Just a white ceiling. The visions from the Preserve were
still fresh. I revisited the memories, over and over. It only made
me long for escape, but I couldn’t stop recalling. I could still
envision the vast treetops and settling fog and the sun casting
strange colors in the sky. Mother crying.