Aura (Aura Jax #1) Read online

  AURA

  R. J. Wade

  Copyright © 2019 by R. J. Wade

  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 either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book cover design by Stuart Bache at Books Covered.

  ISBN 978-1-9160692-1-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-9160692-2-0 (hardback)

  ISBN 978-1-9160692-0-6 (ebook)

  www.rjwadebooks.com

  Contents

  Your Free Exclusive Content

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Your Free Exclusive Content

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  Visit my website to get started:

  www.RJWadeBooks.com/extras

  ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS:

  NEW LEGISLATION FOR SOCIAL REFORM

  13 Oct 2117 at 08:51

  THIS COMMUNICATION IS BEING SENT TO ALL SCREENS

  Attn. Citizen,

  To support and further the peace that the new government has achieved after the final suppression of the Great Unrest, the following policies will be implemented across The Society:

  I. HEALTH & WELFARE REQUIREMENTS: DN8, The Society’s own health and wellbeing pill, is to be taken by all citizens every day.

  During a series of medical trials in selected pockets of The Society, the introduction of DN8 has had a universally positive impact on citizens and their ability to contribute to the overall good of The Society.

  Due to these encouraging results, DN8 will now be prescribed to all citizens over the age of 11.

  Households will receive their first month’s supply within the next five days.

  II. THOUGHT REGULATION & RELIGIOUS RESTRICTION: Religion and anti-Society comments – written, spoken, or thought – will not be tolerated.

  Thoughts will be monitored in public buildings and citizens are required to monitor one another and report all anti-Society activity.

  In addition, from 1st November, Cognitive Surveillance Officers (CSO’s) will be equipped with portable Cognitive Activity Surveillance Systems (CASS Monitors) for use in thought-monitoring on our streets.

  III. ASSEMBLY ATTENDANCE: All citizens must attend the Society Assembly on the last Saturday of every month.

  The event will be broadcast to all screens across The Society. For those who wish to attend in person, a limited number of tickets will also be made available to attend the Assembly live in Central Square.

  IV. SERVICE QUALIFICATIONS: All children will be given an 11+ examination to determine their ability to serve in The Society as Worker or Elite.

  Worker children will be barcoded and will begin employment.

  Elite children will remain in school until they are 16, when they will begin employment at The Telepathe.

  V. LAW OF CONTRIBUTION: Without exception, all citizens over the age of 11 must be in full time education or full time employment.

  It is imperative that all citizens familiarize themselves with the laws detailed above. Those who break the rules of The Society are considered enemies of The Society and will be arrested.

  All citizens must work together to ensure the safety and prosperity of The Society. The future of The Society and the pursuit of peace depend upon your cooperation.

  Agent L. Sanford on behalf of The Society Party.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve been lying in bed for half an hour, staring at the black mold on the ceiling, trying to motivate myself to get up. I can hear the TV downstairs. Mum has had it on all night. Between that and the sound of my sister Selena hacking and wheezing next to me, I’ve barely slept.

  Come on, Aura.

  I drag myself out of bed, get washed, and pull on my clothes – a brown dress, thick brown tights, and a brown cardigan. I am the height of workhouse chic.

  I brush my hair and tie the red mass up in a ponytail, then dust some powder over my face to mimic the DN8-induced pallor I need to blend in as a Worker. The drug may have no effect on me whatsoever, but I need to look like it does.

  Downstairs, I see Mum is wrapped in a blanket on the couch, cradling a mug, her eyes fixed on the TV.

  It’s barely 6:00 a.m. The Announcement won’t come until lunchtime.

  “I didn’t hear you come to bed. Did you get any sleep?” I ask, trying to make my voice light.

  The room smells damp, mildewed, and decaying like the rest of the house. The place is a jumble of tatty furniture, threadbare carpets, and ceilings yellowed by years of nicotine abuse from former tenants.

  “Have you got a shift today?” she asks, ignoring my question.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Even though I’m only sixteen years old, I’ve had semi-regular shifts in workhouses since my eleventh birthday, thanks to The Law of Contribution requiring employment for all citizens. It’s not paid work – or even consistent work – but we get a meal at lunchtime while we’re on shift and a parcel of food to bring home, so I take all the hours I can get.

  Somehow the corporations have managed to spin the whole ‘work-for-food-instead-of-money’ thing into a g
ood PR story, “giving Workers a purpose instead of letting robots do all of the jobs.” They say it’s better than a free handout.

  “Well, maybe we'll both get one,” Mum says, turning up the volume on the TV.

  The presenters are discussing the executions scheduled for tonight's Assembly. According to their banter, there will be three. I don't know what Mum will do if Dad's name comes up this time.

  We’ve been waiting for it ever since they took him five years ago. Every month it’s the same: sick terror in the days leading up to the Announcement followed by sweet relief when he isn’t named.

  Not that it means he's ever coming home.

  Sometimes I think it would be better to just get it over with. Then I feel disgusted at myself for thinking such a thing.

  I grab my coat from the back of the couch. “I’m going to the food bank. Shall I give Selena a shout?” I feel bad leaving Mum on her own.

  “No, let her sleep,” she says, tearing her attention away from the screen to look at me. Her eyes are red. “Tell Seb I said hi.”

  “I'll be back soon.” I kiss her on the cheek and go outside into the gray morning.

  We live on the outskirts of The Society, in the Old City. The place is falling to pieces and devoid of any of the high-tech advancements associated with the rest of The Society. It’s due to be demolished before the year is out.

  We’ve been in this particular house for three months now – a record for us – and the occasional nod or half-hearted hello is the only interaction we’ve had with our neighbors.

  I’m okay with that.

  It’s hard to tell how many families live on the block. People keep themselves well hidden. In The Society, you can’t trust anyone. The thought police are everywhere, and reporting anti-government thinking is a lucrative business.

  I walk quickly.

  Being out on the streets always makes me jittery, and Assembly Day is no different. Even with the extra noise and activity, I’m still on my guard. I don’t want to be noticed. I don’t want to be detained.

  Like every kid in The Society, I've heard the stories about the things that happen if you get detained. The worst ones are about the Chair: people with their skin burned off, their brains fried so badly they can no longer talk. I’m pretty sure the stories are made to frighten kids into submission, but I don’t want to find out the truth.

  The sky above me darkens as the big screen is flown in for tonight’s Assembly showing. The noise in the air is deafening.

  Up ahead, I can see that the line at the food bank is already out of the door. There are rich pickings here on Assembly Day, and everyone knows it – the Elite like to be seen giving something back when people are paying attention.

  When we were little, Dad would come home from the food bank on Assembly Day with all kinds of treats for Selena and me – biscuits, jam, salted peanuts – nothing you could make a proper meal with. If Mum were out, he'd let us have chocolate for breakfast, and she'd go mad at him when she got back.

  ‘It’s only once a month,’ he’d say.

  I miss him like crazy.

  One by one, people exit the dilapidated food bank building with their bags of food as the rest of us shuffle closer to the entrance, our stomachs growling.

  Three video drones circle overhead, showing the preamble for the Announcement to the waiting crowd.

  I’m almost across the threshold of the building when a black van pulls up. The silver emblem of The Society on the hood glints in the morning light.

  Cognitive Surveillance Officers. Cogs.

  The Society Rules require all public buildings and public modes of transport to have thought monitors installed, but for everywhere else, we have CSOs to enforce the thought laws.

  An army of man-machines, Cogs are built to inspire fear. They wear full body armor and helmets that obscure their faces, leaving only their mouths visible.

  People say that they’re disfigured underneath their helmets; that their scars and self-inflicted wounds are like status symbols. I’ve never seen one of their faces before, and I hope I never do.

  The van driver kills the engine, and the line outside the food bank falls silent.

  In the quiet, I can hear everybody's thoughts in my head, people debating with themselves on whether to stick it out or go back home.

  I breathe and focus on my name.

  Aura, aura, aura, aura.

  It sounds like hippy-dippy nonsense, but it works to bring me back to myself.

  Hearing people's thoughts is kind of like having tinnitus. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at blocking out the noise. Now it’s mostly like opening and closing my eyes, but when I’m in a crowd like this with so many thoughts racing, it can be exhausting.

  I was four years old when I realized that hearing other people’s thoughts wasn’t normal. When I told Mum about it, she told me to never, ever mention it again to anyone, unless I wanted to end up as one of Dr. Aldrich’s science experiments.

  The threat was enough to shut me up. Dr. Aldrich was the inventor of the Chair.

  Seven years later, Mum also had my 11+ exam results altered when it turned out I wasn't just Elite.

  “You’re Gifted, Aura,” Dad would whisper when no one else was around.

  The comments on the bottom of my exam paper, which went along the lines of, ‘Highly unusual… Further tests required,’ were erased and replaced with, ‘Worker,’ so that nobody would find out my secret.

  I don't know how Mum did it. We haven’t spoken about it since.

  The van door opens, and a black-clad figure steps out. The Cog's heavy boots crunch on the gravel as he makes his way toward us. A knot of dread forms in the pit of my stomach as the stink of his rotting flesh hits me.

  “Barcodes,” he barks at us, asserting authority just because he can.

  We snap into action – like obedient dogs – rolling up our sleeves and holding out our arms so that he can scan the black lines tattooed on our wrists.

  For the zillionth time, I'm thankful that my mind passes for being Elite because it means that my thoughts are hidden from The Society's surveillance.

  The CASS monitor on the Cog’s belt, always scanning for any illegal thought activity, stays silent for now.

  “They gave me a temporary card because of my wrist,” says an old woman at the end of the line. Her left arm is in a plaster cast. “But I – I can’t find it in my bag.” Her voice is shaking.

  “You’re telling me you’re out on the streets illegally?” the Cog sneers at her.

  “I had it when I left the house – I swear, Officer,” she chokes out. With her good arm, she rakes through her tiny bag as if the missing card will suddenly appear.

  I try to keep my eyes on the pavement. It's starting to drizzle. I watch the rivulets of rainwater, making their way into the drain. A lone pigeon struts along the curb, picking at crumbs, oblivious to the situation unfolding nearby.

  “I just need to get some food. My name’s Rhoda Atkins, 101 Barrack Road. You can look me up –”

  He laughs, rattling phlegm in the back of his throat. “What makes you think I give a toss who you are or what hovel you live in?”

  She doesn’t budge. Instead, she croaks, “Please, Officer –”

  She should know better than to beg.

  “Are you hard of hearing, or am I just not speaking clearly?” He grins maniacally at the rest of us before turning back to the woman. “Go. Back. Home. And. Get. Your. I.D.,” he says, enunciating each word. “Otherwise,” he raises his weapon slowly. “I’ll put a bullet between your eyes right now and leave you to rot right here on this pavement.”

  I’m thinking of marching over to her myself and dragging her home when she finally comes to her senses and shuffles away, muttering apologies.

  The Cog moves up the line and enters the food bank, but before we can relax in his absence, the ugly, guttural tone of a CASS monitor blares out from the building’s open door.

  We all freeze.

 
It's a noise I hear in my nightmares.

  What sounds like a scuffle breaks out inside the food bank. Seconds later, a body is flung out onto the wet pavement. It's a boy, not much older than I am. His face is covered in blood.

  He tries to scramble to his feet, but the Cog who started the beating is right behind him, kicking him down again, out into the crowd. The boy lets out a groan as his body skids along the pavement, stopping right in front of me.