Reading Online Novel

Sea of Stars(8)



 “Cancel guide,” one of the soldiers barks, resulting in the hologram’s disappearance from sight.

 We continue through the corridor. Military personnel in the Premiere Palisade begin to take note of us. Most of the tall, willowy women we encounter slow their progression as we pass them—sometimes with mouths agape. At first, I think they’re looking at just me, startled to see someone who looks Alameeda, but then I notice the adoring stares that Trey is getting when their eyes move from me to him. Blushes and soft whispers behind hands greet me as I glance over my shoulder.

 Walking by an elaborate wrought-iron balustrade, we arrive at a gallery that overlooks the round chamber below. It’s an ultramodern elevated train station. The tracks intersect the building and run between skyscrapers, linking them together. The arrival and departure area is the size of a high-tech coliseum. All along the walls of the chamber below are elevatorlike doors, which must be the entry points to the overups referred to by the guidebot. The doors project television images featuring some kind of news program that I can’t make out from here. Passengers enter the small chambers and disappear behind their doors. My eyes move on to the gleaming silver tile that lines the chamber, noting that the black-tiled pillars and arched niches of its architecture give the space an old-world-meets-new-world look.

 I lift my eyes to stare across the gallery from us. A lone figure leans over the railing, his elbows on the balustrade with his hands clasped together. He’s between two columns that are carved in the image of saers. What sets this Etharian apart to make me notice him is that he’s not Rafian; his dress uniform is that of a Comantre Syndic. His long, golden-brown hair is rolled into dreadlocks and secured in a ponytail. He looks like a surfer—someone you’d see on a beach in Chicago’s North Park playing two-man volleyball. The paler skin on his jaw suggests that he had a beard, but shaved it recently. I can’t tell what color his eyes are from this distance as they bore into mine, returning my stare, but I’d bet Wayra an entire venish that they aren’t violet.

 Dreadlock-man watches us move to the palatial staircase that leads to the main concourse below. My skin prickles with goose bumps as I begin my descent on the stairs, feeling an eerie sense of déjà vu. I’ve read some things regarding quantum physics: how everyone and everything is made up of energy. It’s as if I feel the energy between this soldier at the gallery railing and me. Taking the first few steps down, the hard foam securing my hands behind me cracks, loosening to allow my fingers to move.

 My breathing quickens and my heartbeat thunders even faster than it had in the last few minutes. For a moment, I’m unable to look away from the man at the railing above. When I reach the main concourse of the station, the pull between us is broken. The soldier steps back from the railing so I can no longer see him, disappearing behind a column.

 I inhale deeply, as if coming back to myself. Wiggling my fingers, the pressure that made them numb is gone. Did he do that? I wonder. I try to track where Dreadlock-man went, but it’s impossible to see behind me as my upper arm is tugged forward and I’m hustled across the crowded room.

 A wave of citizens parts for us as the soldiers in front usher them to the sides. Some of the onlookers we pass have starstruck expressions. When we reach the center of the room, a life-size holographic projection captures my attention. It’s a newsreel playing out events. I almost trip over my own feet when I recognize one of the realistic images as mine. Dressed in the torn, lavender ball gown from the swank last night, I’m made of light, looking pale and fragile as I’m carried from the palace ballroom in Trey’s arms. It also shows light images of Wayra and Jax flanking us with their guns up, braced against their shoulders. That clip isn’t long, lasting only a few moments before the camera pans to the chaos of artillery fire and mortar blasts. There’s a heart-stopping shot of a hovering, ferocious-looking Alameeda E-One crouching over the palace.

 Citizens in the station crowd around the hologram news clip, murmuring to one another in agitation over the events they’re witnessing. In a few moments, the newsreel changes again and an image of me is back, descending the elegant palace staircase at my debut, smiling a plastic smile to the crowd below before the fighting began. As I look around, I realize that there are more life-size holograms displaying the events of last night.

 People near us begin to lose some of the shock our presence seemed to instill. There’s confusion as we continue on. Those who were watching the holograms now trail behind us, hoping to get a longer look. Ahead of us, three dronelike orbs the size of basketballs fly around us. One darts in close to me, crowding me like a hungry seagull at the beach. A black camera lens protrudes from the front of the white-metal orb, making blink-click noises. The other two have lenses, as well, that survey everything, circling us with the speed of hummingbirds to capture three-dimensional images.