Simulation

By M. Black

“No one is getting in but whom we allow, and no one is ever getting out.”
Set in 2175 in Colorado, USA, where Citigogs are the new form of cities and citizens are kept under a careful population control, we meet Ilia the Princess of our main Citigog named Iliad, and Jez a Giver. As Ilia spends more time with Jez, she finds herself drawn to the Outside and ventures out of her Citigog only to learn that everything is not what it seems.
Fans of the Divergent and Hunger Games series will revel in this story about a strong, but disillusioned heroine who must become brave as she uncovers the truth about her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ami Blackwelder
• Release date: Jun 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463114551

Book preview

SIMULATION World: Book one

SIMULATION

By M. Black

ISBN: 9780463114551

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Ami Blackwelder

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Complete Series:

1- SIMULATION

2- OUTSIDERS

Copy edited by Thomas Shutt of Main Line Editing

Proofread by Eloquent Enraptures

Beta-Read by Bobbi Kinion, Steve Merritt, Robin Daily, Kathleen Goelkel, and Ashley Meleski.

Cover art by Eloquent Enraptures

ENTER TOMORROW:

SIMULATION is a fictional novel and is the first release from Dystopian Thrillers author M. Black. A YA sci-fi dystopia, perhaps along the lines of City of Ember meets CW’s The 100. This story will capture your heart and still won’t let go even at the end. Written in part while listening to Outside by Ellie Goulding, this story contrasts technology to nature, rich to poor, privilege to hardship, and illusion to reality.

No one is getting in but whom we allow, and no one is ever getting out.

Set in 2175 in Colorado, USA, where Citigogs are the new form of cities and citizens are kept under a careful population control, we meet Ilia the Princess of our main Citigog named Iliad, and Jez a Giver. As Ilia spends more time with Jez, she finds herself drawn to the Outside and ventures out of her Citigog only to learn that everything is not what it seems.

Fans of the Divergent and Hunger Games series will revel in this story about a strong, but disillusioned heroine who must become brave as she uncovers the truth about her world.

Dedicated to Truth Seekers

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILIAD

FAMILY

INSIDE

GIVERS

TRUST

OUTSIDE

MOUNTAINS

SECRETS

PLAINS

FORESTS

WATERS

AFTER

WALL

ESCAPE

FREEDOM

WAR

SIMULATION

PEACE

ILIAD

They’re coming, Eleeza yells at me in a husky voice as her waist-length, choppy mocha-colored hair whisks around her neck and we race forward through the dark tunnel leading to fresh air before catching a draft. Chills rush up my spine and my arm hairs stand on end as I catch a glimpse of my sister just before she exits the tunnel and her feet clumsily slam into the wood deck floor, causing a loud reverberating echo.

She is always this clumsy. I thought she’d grow out of it, like I had grown out of needing our parents approval—of needing Iliad’s approval—but she never did. Sometimes, I even envy her inability to think of anyone but herself, but then I’ll catch her doing something heartless and cringe.

I race down the twenty-yard stretch of deck and then jump, landing with a sure thud on the grass below before my sister can fully catch her breath. Her pink satin dress, like a bubble from a champagne glass, falls past moisturized knees and is matched with pink heels that feature bows at the tips. Not the best outfit for this. Her stark blue eyes sparkle like diamonds when they meet mine, and her heels click against the boardwalk as she stumbles forward until finally sliding off the deck. She stretches her hand to mine and I catch her in her fall. We have to hurry!

Out of the Sanctuary, on the natural grounds, I can finally see the brightness of the morning sun, purple-beige mountains in the distance, the avocado green of the hillside, and feel the slightest breeze like a soft kiss against my skin. The sun warms me like a blanket. Inside the Sanctuary, I’m never this comfortable.

Eleeza’s heels dig deep into the grass, and I have to help her out of the soil with a slight tug on her arm as she grimaces. How many times do you have to get your heels stuck before you wear something sensible?

And dress like the common folk? Or worse, the warring savages we read about in our history books? Her right brow arches as her face tightens. No, thanks.

My sister is ridiculous. I don’t think a practical bone exists in her body, well except to dye and sew fabrics. I’ve come to accept this fact pretty early on in our relationship. I have to stay the sensible one.

Hey, don’t worry, I soothe her emotional fragility, I hear savages don’t even wear clothes, I remark.

Eleeza wouldn’t be caught dead in something less than spectacular. She buys her high-end outfits from a shop called Glam, geared toward Aristocrats. Not many can afford the silk, since it’s often in low supply, and instead cotton is the usual choice of fabric.

I shake my head. She can be so aggravating, so frustrating sometimes. My feet are at ease in sneakers made from weaved bark and silk, my body comfortable in dark blue jeans and a silvery satin top. Still, my sister won’t be caught dead in jeans and sneakers—even at the cost of her ankle spraining.

I finally see the steel-reinforced carriages which we call Box Carriers pulling up to the concrete rectangular platform in the distance marked with an electric sign that reads: Center for Citigog Goods. This is where Eleeza and I go to on every excursion.

The carriage is much larger than the pictures I’ve seen of those used in Europe from the 1800s. The surface area of one Box Carrier covers about nine of those old-fashioned carriages, and they are about three times as high. Good thing, too, because they have to carry many goods into the main district of the Citigog.

We don’t use horses to pull the carriage. Most horses have gone extinct, and what few are left are kept outside of Iliad so that they can multiply—for our future, we are told—but inside of Iliad, we don’t need horses because we use electricity powered by flowing wind and water that our dome filters to us from the Outside.

With a population of about two hundred thousand within each Citigog around the world, and a worldwide population of still about six billion, there are a lot of people to feed, clothe, and entertain. So, the citizens of Iliad are grateful for the Givers.

Givers live and work primarily in the Underground, in bunkers and intricate structures built underneath each Citigog, and they risk their lives to venture Outside to find what we need. They’re compensated well with money to spend, and in turn supply goat’s milk, goat and rabbit meat, fish, fowl, silk, cotton, barley and wheat, and colored powders for makeup and coloring clothing—the finer things in life.

They are considered the most noble of our society—revered—and even have their names in plaques on the walls of the Sanctuary, but we’re prohibited to speak with them, or even get within a twenty-yard radius of the Givers. This is for our own protection, because Givers are required to venture outside the walls and they might contract the illness, even though they are given an antiCR agent shot before every excursion.

My wide eyes shift from the Box Carrier to the platform when a young man about my age drops an aluminum barrel of goat’s milk to the wood platform in a loud clank. His sea-blue eyes remind me of my sister, and by chance they catch mine, which hold a hint of brown and green. But his robust build and tarnished clothing, a mix of torn cotton jeans and a dirty tee-shirt, convey a working hand. There is very little Aristocratic about him, except for his pale skin which I can’t quite place, and I still can’t take my eyes off his.

We hold each other’s stare while he drops another barrel of goat’s milk. Fingers rake through wavy, thick, shoulder-length ebony hair, before his eyes dart like daggers away from me for his hands to grab a package of goat meat from the Box Carrier. This is the first time I’ve seen him. Several other Givers stand on the platform in random order near him, many of whom I’ve seen every few months when Eleeza and I make our way down here.

Four times a year, since my sister turned twenty-one, for three years. She’s been dragging me with her since I turned fourteen; I was too impressionable to resist her charms then and too young to be held accountable. Sixteen is Iliad’s legal age for criminal judgment, so now I can’t afford to get caught.

The other Givers are very different from this new one. They are older and some have tattoos, while others have darker skin or almond-shaped eyes. They present our district with coveted supplies, but while we are graced with food and clothing materials weekly, our most expensive items remain those in highest demand and least supplied—namely the goat and rabbit meat, goat milk, and silk. Fish, fowl, barley, wheat, cotton, and colored powders come in high quantities, and along with the vegetables and fruits we grow inside of Iliad in our very own community greenhouses, they are all found in abundance and in most every household.

Eleeza nudges my shoulder and gestures toward the silks and colored powders. I’m getting my hands on two crates before leaving, she declares in a squeak. My sister loves to adorn herself with fresh makeups and unique scarves which she sews herself. She loves being the talk of the town as if she is an old-fashioned debutante straight out of one of our storybooks. If I’m the green thumb in the family, then she is the talented tailor, though Papa insists she let the servants sew.

Then we’d better get moving before the Citiguards spy us, I urge, pointing to the pair in blue-and-white uniforms to the right of the platform, because you know we’re not allowed down here. We move forward in haste, each step a little closer to breaking the law.

Whatever, Ilia, I’m not letting some grass guards botch my plans. Eleeza waves her hand as she approaches the supplies. Every time I hear my name, I’m reminded of my Citigog, of the place I’ve been named after in memory of everything our government has accomplished to save humanity, to save us.

Ducking as we reach the edge of the platform, the two guards hang at the other end talking, with sporadic moments of laughter. Too busy for us, I think, and wrap my fingers around the bottom of one crate filled with some of my sister’s favorite powdered colors—pinks and blues. Without these raw materials, Eleeza would have to actually buy makeup already processed. She abhors the idea. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to mix powders and invent new colors for her silk garb. Her worst nightmare—to be just like every other Commoner and Aristocrat.

I don’t have the desire to be a debutante. I’ll likely not even use much of what we’ll be taking, but I don’t go for the supplies. I go for something else. Eleeza likes to call it unbridled enthusiasm—but it’s something more than that, something deeply curious and rebellious. That would explain my hair, which is a long, beautiful dirty blond that I choose to clip up so that my neck is exposed. Young women don’t wear their hair short in Iliad, exposing their neck, at least not for the most part. I think I wanted to make a rebellious statement without actually having to defy social norms too much. All my sister wants to do is fit in. My sister and I couldn’t be more opposite.

As Eleeza grabs the crate of untouched silk, I feel a large, calloused hand pound over mine, gritting into my knuckles, and a deep sound reverberates over me. Not for the taking. These boxes are to be sold to the district buyers. My head tilts skyward, the early morning sun just warm enough, and my eyes widen over the gentle, yet stiff expression above me from the new young man.

I’m speechless. In three years, we’ve never been stopped. I…we… I can’t finish a thought as my expression must have twisted into several pretzel configurations.

Loss for words? That’s a first for an Insider. He scowls, and close up I see specks of gray in his irises that I missed earlier. And I can better appreciate the large radius of his biceps, and arms covered with black-inked tattoos as he lifts the first crate. His arm muscles stretch underneath the thin fabric of his short tee.

Wait! Eleeza shrieks, her fingernails scratching the wood crate. That’s mine. Mine, she commands, her belly frantically stretching over the edge as her dress catches a nail.

Over my dead body, he retorts firmly.

What have I done to offend you?! my sister implores while I push myself up to the platform with a different strategy in mind: a chat face to face.

We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Ilia. What’s your name? I dust my hands off on my jeans and wait as he stares at me with a twitching eye and a stretched line for lips. Eleeza’s hands squeeze tighter around the crate before he pulls the box of silks from her to set it aside next to another crate.

Jez, and it will take a lot more than cordial conversation to convince me to let you take our goods. They go straight to the district buyers, as promised.

Just as he finishes his sentence, a tall, older man of about forty with dreadlocks and dark chocolate skin steps between us. What do you think you’re doing? His heavy whisper sounds more protective than authoritative. She’s the Chancellor’s daughter.

You mean Iliad’s daughter? Jez retorts in a derogatory tone as his face floods with disgust. Then the intrusive man grabs Jez’s shoulder and pulls him toward the Box Carrier.

Just do your job. Your father would want you to see another week.

Hope you didn’t catch CR from me, Jez says in sarcasm and lowers his head, his expression a mix of rage and sadness, and then his attention diverts from me and returns to the crates that need lifting and lowering.

CR? My mind frets, even if he meant the comment as a mean joke. The CR sickness began to spread in 2055, after the population jumped to an unprecedented ten billion people worldwide. Over-population caused everything to crumble—when anything worth having cost too much. There was more demand than supply of just about everything.

With not enough food, jobs, and land for everyone, riots turned into uprisings against governments. Bombs ensured infrastructures collapsed, and along with them, civilized society. As society crumbled, the CR illness ran more rampant through the human population like wildfire, and many people did not survive the disease. Human symptoms started with a cough and rash which developed into congestion and rigidity until death, thus the abbreviation CR. Strangely, the illness doesn’t affect other animals, or allow them to be carriers. CR is just something unique to our human genetic code.

The two Citiguards scramble toward me, to save me from Jez’s offense, their boots clicking the wood of the platform in their hasty run until slowing where I stand. Princess Ilia, you mustn’t be near the Givers. The heavier guard ushers me to the ledge with the aid of his overprotective and pushing hands, and then he tries to help lower me to the ground with a grip under my arms, but I push him away and jump down on my own.

I’m not leaving without my crates, Eleeza demands in a huff and with hands on hips.

The leaner guard responds quickly. Which two crates were you wanting, Princess?

One silk and one with colored powders, she whines. The smaller boxes, of course; we have to carry them home. She leans over the edge, her hands grasping for them. You won’t even miss ‘em. You have so many others, she rationalizes.

Very well, Princess Eleeza. The two Citiguards wave to a few Givers to help lower two of the smallest crates to the grass beside my sister. Is everything to your satisfaction?

Yes, thank you so much, but don’t tell our papa. He would not be pleased, you see. Not pleased at all, Eleeza begs as she lifts one of the wooden crates. I lift the other one when she nods, aggravated at the guard’s silence. The Chancellor works hard to keep Iliad in order. She tries again to convince the guard to keep our secret.

Iliad began when our past governments had to find a solution to a crumbling society, and so the Citigogs were built: perfect dome-esque structures designed to protect us from ravaging disease—specifically the CR illness—the natural elements, and the remnant surviving warring savages who continue to fight as their ancestors did, and who are rumored to have become immune to CR. I guess the savages crave the violence, the destruction of the human species…as if four billion deaths were not enough.

Transportation from a wartorn, disease-riddled world and into the Citigogs began soon after the outbreak of CR and continued for twenty years until the final completion of the last Citigog in 2075.

For the next hundred years, leaders of the Citigogs left the Earth untouched, hoping that the Earth’s land would replenish itself of all the forests and minerals lost during the wars. They say much has been reborn, but CR still threatens us, and the leaders do not want a repeat of history where war ravages the land; therefore, we are urged to stay inside the Citigogs. While theoretically we are allowed to leave, practically it just has never been done—at least not in Iliad, a mother Citigog to North America. Iliad is a mother because she supplies many Citigogs in North America with meat, a commodity most rare to them, and metals for building important structures. Sometimes other Citigogs trade wood or jewelry for silks and colorful powders.

Our leaders have also given us strict policies on children. The ratio allowed is two children per family generation, and has been since 2075. If two children are born to a couple, then those two siblings, after they marry, may only have two children between them. Children are also not allowed to be born until the couple is thirty years of age. This helps reduce the number of people in each Citigog, and when a new baby is born, the great-grandparents will likely soon die, keeping the population in check. So, the world continues, and thrives, inside of these generous domes which offer us all we could ever need.

My sister and I hustle in a haphazard jog back to the Sanctuary, with me deliberately lagging to keep at my sister’s side. Aha! We got ‘em! Eleeza shouts, jovial for our victory, but I can’t help but think about what Jez said and how committed he seemed in getting his crates to the district buyers. I wonder if I’ve ruined something for him, because I know that goods are supposed to be sold to the district buyers to be evenly distributed to the stores, and if any Commoners found out what my sister and I did, then they’d demand we be punished just as they would be.

I turn my head, catching a last glimpse of Jez as sweat drops from his cheeks to his shoulders, and I try to convince myself that we really didn’t steal anything; after all, our papa more than compensates the Givers for their service.

We rush over the boardwalk leading to the tunnel that will take us back inside the Sanctuary and out of the natural grounds. The Sanctuary is three-quarters of the Citigog, and only one-quarter of the Citigog is fresh air, grass…a natural environment. Real sunlight, with live plants that grow from the ground instead of from canisters. The Sanctuary has air filtered and pumped in from Outside.

The entire Citigog is surrounded by very large fir trees and bonsai for decor. There are special trimmers who go to school for six months to learn that skill. Most citizens of Citigogs go to trade schools. Only the Aristocrats, numbering twenty-five thousand in each Citigog, learn academia, and they do so from the comforts of home with Homeguides. These numbers are precise, to ensure that overpopulation does not occur again, causing unnecessary pressures on resources, which in turn encourages war, like the one from our past.

The domes rest over the Citigogs and allow for natural light penetration as glass would, but the domes are not made from glass, exactly. Instead, it’s some kind of electronic patchwork, and so they also protect the populace from the CR illness. The dome collects rainwater from Outside and, when full, empties the H2O over the Citigogs. Wind works in a similar fashion as well. The domes are also engineered with fans placed strategically around the Citigogs to allow for air circulation. In essence, we are like a grand-scale greenhouse—a self-sustaining city.

Eleeza and I finally reach the tunnel and it is narrow, long, and dark—probably to dissuade lone citizens from entering the natural grounds of the Citigog uninvited. The government likes to gather citizens for such outings in groups and usually keeps to the nightly routine, which starts when the sun falls at six in the evening, but occasionally an Aristocrat will wander outside the Sanctuary for fresh air.

When we exit the tunnel, we are covered with artificial lighting from the vaulted ceilings and some of the natural light from outside through the east and west windows. Surrounded by people hustling about, I keep my eyes ahead, taking in restaurants, clothing, stores, and bicycles over stained concrete floors. Bicycling is by far the most popular mode of transport.

The Sanctuary is truly an indoor city, and full of businesses, homes, restaurants, shops, bookstores, and even movies; however, we have no roads or vehicles. They were banned in 2075, and after the destruction of most vehicles, buildings, and highways, the governments of the world saw no point in rebuilding any inside of the Citigogs. We use escalators, elevators, and bicycles instead if we need to get somewhere quickly. A lot of us just walk, because our duties are never positioned far from our stationed housing.

The Chancellor, my papa, lives at the south end of Iliad, near the south exit tunnel, and keeps watch over our continent, making sure we don’t destroy ourselves again. There are two tunnels in each cardinal direction: the north, south, west, and east. The Aristocrats are divided into even groups at each tunnel, with about three thousand Aristocrats close to any given tunnel for their nightly exit from the Sanctuary. Aristocrats are allowed to walk out of the tunnels as night falls and enjoy the evening breeze, but over time many just stay indoors, or go after the crowds have waned.

We keep our heads low, because we don’t want to be spotted traveling home. News travels fast, and Eleeza doesn’t want Papa to find out about our illegal excursion. We are supposed to be home studying Greek with our Homeguide (a language the Chancellor orders all Aristocrats to learn, because of his love for all things Greek), but we managed to convince her to give us a few hours off in exchange for time with her son, because he is only two years old and she doesn’t get to see him as much as she would like. She promised to keep our pact a secret. After all, we don’t skip homeschool much.

After a series of stairs and escalators, we finally reach our front doors. Two large rectangular slabs of steel, measuring about twice the height and width of a Commoner door and decorated with ornate engravings of crowns and roses. Our resident carpenters created the doors for my papa’s inauguration seventeen years ago when he turned thirty. The previous Chancellor, and my only uncle, died of natural causes at forty-five, having ruled for fifteen years before his death, though many found the young age suspect. His wife, Tilda, never had children, but she lives nearby.

As my sister and I enter the house, we pass marble statues and grand windows overseeing the natural grounds from where we just came, and hop over the few steps leading into the main room. The room is decked with a black-and-white quartz floor and mahogany furnishing throughout, and I remember when I was ten, bouncing my voice off the hard walls to hear the echo—Ilia-a-a-a.

Is that you, girls? I hear Papa’s grumbling voice sound from the adjacent room, his study, before pounding footsteps enter the main area.

Yes, Papa, Eleeza says as she tucks her crate and mine behind the large rocking chair. We just came back from an early walk. You know how we love to exercise.

But didn’t you girls have Greek studies this morning?

Oh, yes, Eleeza giggles, her hand flickering about as she tries to salvage her plan, but see, we already did our homework very early in the morning, and Mrs. Walker was not feeling very well, so we gave her the day off.

Oh, I see. Papa steps closer, his gray trousers and suit jacket resting over a crisp white shirt. His thick mustache looks well attended. And the crates behind the chair? he asks pointblank, his long nose hovering over my sister, and Eleeza chokes.

I interject. Well, we couldn’t just waste the day. While walking, we decided to take in some fresh air and stumbled upon the Center for Citigog Goods. Some of the materials looked so irresistible that we had to give them a try.

And you’re sticking to this story? Papa retorts, his gray eyes falling heavy on Eleeza as she squirms.

Umm… Her head nods. Ahh…

Well—Papa takes another step forward—it just so happens that I received a call from the Citiguards positioned at the CCG, and they told me that they saw you two stop by and demand two crates.

See? Eleeza’s head nods faster. They confirm our story. Inside, I know she is cursing them.

They also confirmed that you’ve been stealing crates for the past three years.

Eleeza swallows hard.

Papa continues, This isn’t the first time I’ve received this call.

It’s not? Eleeza’s brows wriggle, confused, and I keep quiet, watching him, watching her.

Of course not. My guards are loyal to me. They tell me everything.

Eleeza and I look at each other. So, you’ve known all this time? I ask, naive.

Yes, but it has never mattered until now. His voice grows grim, more hallowed.

But why? I ask, and Eleeza nudges my shoulder like she does when she wants something or knows something.

Then she answers snidely, Because, Ilia, you got next to a Giver and spoke to him. Eleeza stares at me with a convicting expression.

Papa continues in his lecturing tone. Getting close to a Giver is dangerous. You could have been exposed to whatever diseases they’ve picked up from the Outside.

He didn’t look sick.

Papa breathes heavily. Besides, what was so important to talk about with a Giver, and risk your life?

I just wanted to ask for the crates. He hit my hand and refused to let us take them. I almost whine like my sister and feel like smacking myself for turning on Jez. I really should have kept that comment to myself.

He shouldn’t have done that, and has been reprimanded for the action. He’s new. He didn’t know that you’re my daughter and that you’re allowed to take what you will.

I’ve never heard Papa say those words before, that I can take whatever I want. The notion scares me. I thought we all lived under the same rules, under the same principles; that no Commoners, or even other Aristocrats, can ever…steal. A person can be sent Outside for that act, and the people