Seneca Rebel

AS THE WEEKS went by, I started feeling kind of down. Becoming acclimated to Seneca was a thrill and there were no dull moments, but I missed my family to death. If family was everything, then I had nothing. It wasn’t enough that they were in my memories and digital images tucked away in the depths of my Veil— the virtual location in which all of a person’s important data resided. I needed my mom. I was sixteen and I had lost both of my parents. I couldn’t accept it. Somehow, I had to find the way to fight for the one parent I had left.

I sat on the floor of my room scrolling through old pictures: the Campbell family joking around, our house and yard in the Glendale ’burbs, the lemon tree my mom and I used to make lemonade from. My dad would come home from work right before I went to bed and tell us stories about what had gone on in his lab that day. He said goodbye to me in the morning and goodnight to me at bedtime, but other than that, during the week, all he did was work. His company was subcontracted by the largest particle collision research and testing facility in the world. The last thing he and his partners had created before he disappeared was an element. He told me he’d call it Doromium and that it was the thing he was most proud of in life besides me. But on weekends, there was no talk of work. We’d pack up and drive to Joshua Tree, where we’d spend all day collecting rocks and eating PB&Js with bananas. Then, when Mom and I slept, he’d stay up all night to work.

The hole in my heart wasn’t going away. It was growing more and more raw by the hour. It was beginning to feel like I’d better do something fast, or eventually there would be no heart left to beat.

I had to find a way to let my mom know what was going on. Even more important than that, I had to get my mom into Seneca. She deserved this better life too. As a matter-of-fact, if we are all equal like I’ve always been taught and I truly believe, then what we were creating in Seneca belonged to everyone, not just to some elite selection of quirky geniuses.

It was Sunday afternoon. I’d spent the last sixty-two hours alone. If I had to endure one more, I’d go clinical. I flexed Reba.

He picked up after one ring. “Campbella!”

“Hey. Busy?”

“Never too busy for my main California girl. Que pasa?”

“Just thought you might want to grab a late Sunday brunch or something.”

“Pick you up in five!” He was at my door in four.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“What are you in the mood for? Eggs, pancakes, a chocolate milkshake?”

“Chilaquiles.” I was homesick like nobody’s business and needed a plate of queso-drenched chilaquiles like a medical emergency of the highest order.

Ten minutes later we were seated in the best Mexican restaurant in our sector. Food was not a problem in Seneca. Top chefs and culinary gurus from across the globe were among those being recruited, as well as botanical and farming experts. If there was an expert for something, you best believe they were being recruited to Seneca. We had the best hydroponic and organic produce and meats, prepared in the most brilliant ways. New citizens were in for serious palate thrills when they got here.

After salivating at the amazing aromas, I had no trouble gorging on my favorite spicy delights. My eyes were closed, as they always were when I wanted to hone in on a particular sense, except sight of course. When I opened them, Reba was sitting in front of his untouched plate, just smiling, watching me.

“What?”

“You’re a funny eater, Campbella.”

I launched a tortilla chip straight at him. He picked it up and ate it. It was good to have a real friend here. Someone who would eat food off your plate, meet you for lunch on a minute’s notice and maybe even give you the details on Blue Combat Boots. I still didn’t know his name.

“Sooo... I was wondering.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What? I haven’t even said anything.”

“You’ve said enough. I liked it better when you were throwing food at me. How about that kernel of corn?”

He always brought such a great energy to the moment. I had completely forgotten the creeping depression that had been taking me under less than an hour before.

“Look. I saw who you were checking out. On the first day, and the day when you first got back from getting your Necrolla shot.”

“Well?”

“Well.”

I could tell that this was not what he wanted to be talking about. But I knew he had the dirt, and the anticipation was building. I flicked a sour cream-covered corn kernel and it hit him square in the forehead.

“Yeah! That’s my girl.”

“So, what, you don’t want to tell me? I have to find out for myself, is that the deal?”

“Okay. What exactly do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Reba sat back. He was going to give me the info I wanted because he’d known all along that this conversation was inevitable... and that it was going to go down with a patch of sour cream between his eyes.

“Dominic Ambrosia.”

“Dominic.” I softly repeated his name like it was the finest name I’d ever heard.

“Look. I know he’s got some weird magnetic thing about him that girls are really into. Trust me, I get it. But he’s not good for you.”

Didn’t Reba know that telling a girl a guy isn’t good for her can make the girl want the guy that much more?

“Yes. I know I’ve just made him even more attractive, but I’d like to think that you would trust me on this one.”

I waited to hear if he had a good enough reason for me to disregard the laws of attraction.

“Dominic came into Seneca at the same time as me. He’s a loner. Always keeps to himself, and is always under some sort of investigation with S.O.I.L.”

“What is S.O.I.L.?”

“Seneca Observation and Intelligence League, aka, a much more hardcore version of the F.B.I. They know everything.”

“Sounds like Big Brother.”

“S.O.I.L. is like Big Brother’s older, smarter, cooler, stronger and much more ruthless brother.”

“I see.”

“You start down the path of interacting with Dominic Ambrosia, and you’re just asking for S.O.I.L. to be all over you like white on rice, for the rest of your life.”

I wasn’t so interested in my chilaquiles anymore.