The Gemini Letters

By Madison Klophaus

In the future, where a strict class system determines power and sex no longer plays any role in humanity, Amelia, a high-status Beau Monde girl is partnered with a low-status Palore boy, Dallas, and together the two of them are tasked with the responsibility of restoring humanity back into society. However,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madison Klophaus
• Release date: Sep 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649994196

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Dedication

Dear Reader

Epigraph

The Gemini Letters

Prologue

Part One

Amelia

Amelia

Dallas

Amelia

Amelia

Amelia

Dallas

Amelia

Amelia

Dallas

Part Two

Amelia

Dallas

Dallas

Amelia

Amelia

Dallas

Dallas

Dallas

Amelia

Amelia

Dallas

Amelia

Acknowledgements

About The Author

The Gemini Letters

The Gemini Letters is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, real places, or real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 Madison Klophaus.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

www.madisonklophaus.com

ISBN: 9781649994196

Imprint: Independently published

Front cover image by Madison Klophaus.

Book design by Madison Klophaus.

Printed by Ingram Content Group., in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2020.

For Ben

I would not have seen the world without you.

Dear Reader,

I wrote this book to keep my anxiety in check. I know, that’s quite blunt of me to say, but it’s true. I was barely twenty-years-old when my anxiety began swallowing me whole. For a number of years it merely nibbled on my fingers, toes, and ears, as I slowly bled out from small bloody stumps. However, then I picked up a pen.

I guess you could say this has been a long time coming. Writing began for me in a little black composition notebook shared between friends. Then it grew into fan fiction shared with strangers on the internet. Now it’s a novel, a coming trilogy, shared with you, the world. This story started off as a dream. No, seriously, I laid my head down one night and this is the beautiful hellscape I woke up scribbling down.

Before you go off and read this book, I’d like you to know that I placed all my anxieties, longings, and desires into the creation of Amelia and Dallas. Together, we share every emotion that wasn’t validated, every word that went unheard, and every fear that wasn’t taken seriously. We are three that are one; I’m no longer alone. I hope you try to understand them and accept them both for exactly who they are. In fact, I wish this for all my characters. And I certainly wish this for you, my dear reader, because you are important. You are interesting. And you are worth being understood.

Pay attention to the way his words leave his tongue, she said. Sometimes it takes understanding someone else before you can understand yourself.

The Gemini Letters

Prologue

Her footsteps pound against the smooth marble floors almost in rhythm with the vibrating screech coming from within the laboratory. Her pace, along with many others, is hurried with a nervousness that has overcome the facility. Small furtive glass tubes in her coat pocket clink against one another with each step. Turning a corner, she gently places her gloved hand against them to silence the ring.

A sickening green haze dominates the building, reflecting off the white tiles—common, usually, but the intermittent flashes of the lights in this area in particular cause a strangely eerie aura. White coats throng the hallways: nurses, orderlies, keepers, caretakers, medics—all swarming like ants after a storm. Some are accompanied by carts filled with jars of soon-to-be developing embryos, red tape syringes of Serum V, and others with newborns taken from the nursery in transit to Juncture One for testing. This is precisely where she is headed: the neonatal nursery crèche.

The metal doors of the nursery swing open hard, nearly denting the wall behind her as she enters. Thousands of glass bulbs fill the room from floor to ceiling, all carefully circling in a rhythmically fixed formation, and filled with genetically assembled embryos: growing, flourishing, with ever-watching eyes monitoring them—her eyes at this moment.

Oh good, you’re here. A man’s voice comes from behind her joined by a tablet in hand and glasses pushed toward the end of his hooked nose. A problem has arisen in Quadrant IX and they need extra hands. His monotone voice matches the robotic nature of the lab.

I’ve been hearing the sirens. What happened?

A mass number of infants died overnight. I’m assuming the serum didn’t liaise well with their tiny bodies.

How many did it take?

A couple hundred, maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time, but certainly the first of this magnitude. This adoption cycle will be a small group, I’ll tell you that much. Although…a smaller group could be a good thing.

I agree. It can seem promising when we have limited options since the Beau Monde will see them first. More children adopted by the higher statuses is better than lower. Let’s hope the Beau Monde are generous.

We can only hope. He gives a reassuring smile. I’ll be back shortly. If you need any assistance, just call. The orderly hands her the tablet and gives a soft nod. The metal doors flap open and close once more, leaving her alone in the nursery amongst thousands of growing fetuses.

Locking the door behind her, she begins briskly weaving herself through the bulbs of life. She scrolls through the documents on the tablet, each page with the number of a bulb at the top and the date of the child’s conception. There is only to be one more newborn scheduled for departure to Junction One today. She’s hoping this one doesn’t fail; she needs to work swiftly. There isn’t much longer before the orderly returns.

She rubs at her neck, stiff from looking down at the tablet for so long, but just as she gets to the back of the room, her fingers find the page. The number reads 927-19-109, and next to it, in bold red letters, the words READY FOR DEPARTURE are displayed. She smiles, releasing the air built up in her lungs. However, the urgency of imminent exposure causes her beam to fade. She hastily searches for the number, but bulb after bulb brings only anxiety and disappointment, until she finds it.

There she is. A perfectly healthy baby girl, sitting afloat in her carrier, eyes shut; pink lips curved like melons—already cooing. The nameplate below her number reads Vanderbilt.

Without hesitation, she puts her code into the bulb’s padlock and the water slowly begins to drain from the bulb into a vortex to nowhere. The cord is cut from within, and as the water drains, the synthetic placenta is disposed of as well. The bulb starts to leisurely unfold.

Come on, come on, come on, she whispers. Her fingers vigorously tap against the tubes of serum in her pocket while her eyes shift between the doors and the bulb until it reaches the end of its course. A piercing shrill grows from those small lungs, and with careful hands, she lifts the wet, naked infant to carry her toward the metal doors. Just as she is about to grab the handle, the sirens cut off.  Her eyes jet to the lock, unable to decide whether or not to cover her tracks, but the sound of approaching footsteps leaves no time for rash decisions. She’s lingered on the lock for longer than she likes, but her feet move quickly enough to get her to the emergency exit at the back of the room.

The hallways are just as ghostly as when she first walked through them. She keeps her head low and tries to rock the newborn, attempting to calm its cries. Three lefts after the second junction, and she’s finally arrived at her destination: Junction One.

Like a snake in the grass, she sneaks her way in and finds the nearest inoculation station. Setting the infant down, she grabs an empty injector and, pulling a tube of serum out from her pocket, snaps it into place. A collection of running feet causes a commotion outside the door, but she doesn’t let it distract her. She takes the infant’s arm and injects it with the mechanical tube of serum which makes the child’s cries grow louder.

She hears a knock on the door and a voice asking if everything is okay in there, but she keeps her attention on quieting the child. The handle starts jiggling and the voice from outside grows louder and sterner.

Shit, she says, only making the child shriek louder.

Heart rate accelerating, she wraps it in a nearby blanket, holding its head up properly, rocking it. The door opens, and to her surprise, a nurse walks in. The tightness in her upper chest eases at this revelation.

Oh, Rowan, you’re here. I didn’t realize we had another one ready for today, says the nurse, smiling and walking in their direction—arms extending and ready to grab the child.

No one else did either, but she was ready. Ready to get out and conquer the world, aren’t-cha little one? She brushes the back of her index finger along the child’s petal-like cheek.

Don’t worry. I took care of everything. The serum tested positive, she lies. Her vitals are strong, and she’s absolutely beautiful. Ready for Junction Two.

The nurse comes to take the newborn from her arms. Her feet remain planted. She watches them leave, knowing she’s just changed the course of the baby’s future.

Part One

The Dioscuri

Amelia

It’s bleak. Chilly. The ever bitter taste of another melancholy fall. Wet, golden leaves stick to the soles of my shoes. The rancid smell of bottom-rotting pumpkins fills the air. Birds shiver in nests hidden in high places. Raindrops splatter and roll off the clear plastic of my umbrella, joining the rest of the muddy water rushing into the storm drain. The lakes will surely be filled to the brim by nightfall. It hardly ever rains this much in Michigan. Especially in October.

October. My mother always says it’s the dreariest of the twelve months, but garlands of multicolored leaves blowing on the old wooden porch across the street remind me that I never seem to agree with her—about most things, actually. Our definitions of comfort differ greatly. She finds it in places where it’s difficult for me. October is my favorite month.

The portal honks a tune from a distance causing the eagerly waiting people around me to dance on their toes at the edge of the curbside. The gray vehicle’s sleek, curved, long body slithers into view, splashing milky water as it comes to a halt and rests beneath the neon stop sign. The red glow is heavy against the morning sky, turning rain into blood. How appropriate for the season. Small, tight glass doors abruptly slide open. People stand, and shuffle, and sit. Some stay frozen in place.

Ya gettin off or what! the portal driver hollers to the exiting passengers taking their time.

Feet quickly pick up and a handful of Bourgeoisies and Palores alike disperse around me like bees from a hive, each politely tipping their hats my way with downcast eyes. Mumbles leave their breath as they pass. It’s not every day they have to share the portal with a Beau Monde. In fact, it’s rare.

An elderly Palore lady behind me dressed in frayed cheetah print and cracked red lipstick seems displeased at my lack of enthusiasm to get on the bus, but she doesn’t know that I don’t want to be here anymore than she wants me here. But, after a strongly argued debate with myself and mulling over French toast and three cups of hot tea, I decided it was my best option. My parents have clearance for a vehicle, but even still, I didn’t want my mother driving her twenty-year-old daughter to her first day of College Elite—or anywhere, for that matter. So, like many others, I’m taking the portal. And besides, these heels are from Vienna. They weren’t intended for prolonged walks. 

Brushing a few rain droplets off the fur of my coat, I steady myself aboard.

The ceiling curves high from one side to the other, creating a narrow dome above us made completely of glass, but everything in this day and age seems to be translucent: tables, chairs, bookshelves, bathtubs, buildings, most ceilings, and even some articles of clothing. It’s all just a trend that became a staple in today’s style—unlike others that faded out quickly; heterochromia in newborns and agarwood scarves are the first two that come to mind.

As soon as I’m on the portal, a little Palore girl with torn pink ribbons tied around each pigtail stands up, offering me her seat at the front. She looks six. Maybe seven. Small hands show off her seat like a carnival prize; her smile bright. My fingers smooth out the back of my coat as I take it. The girl moves to a seat behind me on the right side of the portal, near the window. I glance back. She tilts her head deep, watching my every move. We share a glimpse and she smiles brightly at me.

Looking around the portal, everyone seems busy. Occupied with their own burdens, they carry on. Ducking down, I slide her a small blue bow I had stuffed away, lost in my purse.

Thank you, I say, my voice hushed. Her gray-green eyes grow wide as does her mouth. She gives a slight gasp and I throw a finger to my mouth. Her lips now pressed tight, she marvels at the shiny bow and clasps it in her hair as she hops off at the first exit. Her little fingers wave goodbye to the portal before she runs away down the dark, dank street to join a huddle of more Palore kids. Some in raggedy coats, others in flip flops. They were waiting for her. That’s what she was on here for. Pity. Survival. Anything to get a good meal for the night. I swallow down sympathy with the last bit of toothpaste still on my tongue, keeping my purse closely pressed to me with a hand over my necklace.

This necklace was given to me by my grandmother last winter just before she passed away. It’s a collection of pearls hand plucked from the Pacific, with small diamonds the size of poppy seeds as decoration in between. Those are from Japan, if I remember correctly. They were my mother’s first; she wished for them so badly she convinced my father to sneak them from his mother in her old age, but they soon became mine after reading my grandmother’s will. Personally, I think it’s a bit old, but it is elegant and still smells like her. I hardly go a day without wearing them.

Growing up, I heard many stories about how special these pearls are. Grandma Odette claimed the necklace held spirits of good luck, but she was old and into some weird hobbies like crystal healing and palm reading.

My father has her meekness, from what I can remember of her. I see it in him daily, so in a way she’s still here which helps ease the vacant hole of her rambling witchery. She claims to have been one—a witch. She went to the grave believing it, but I never did. Her kookiness never rubbed off on me—never seemed convincing enough, but it always made for good entertainment. She was a rare breed for being Beau Monde. My mother couldn’t stand her, naturally, and they never got along or gave any effort to try. That’s why I didn’t grow up seeing her as often as my father would have liked. Her kindness toward the people she met scared my mother, I think. But I admired her words and the way she spoke of the lower classes. They weren’t animals to her, trying to claw their way to the top, they were people. Equals. Of course, she could never outwardly express this ideology, but it didn’t matter. She wore it like a second skin.

My mother knew this too, but as the right-hand to the head of our state, Governor Xardin Creel, we often had to keep her quiet. 

The portal enters the front gate, pulling up to its stop alongside the cherry grove that fills the acres of the school’s front lawn. The tart fruit litters the ground around the uncomfortably uniform trees with paved walkways intertwining between them. Palore workers are sporadically among them with their ladders and wooden baskets collecting the scarlet fruit. Water drips off the shiny skin. I wait for the crowd to die down before getting off, focusing my attention on the glistening buildings I’ll be visiting for the next year. They’re pearly with whites and silvers and accompanied by large rows of windows similar to ancient clerestories. Lights shine at all joints of the buildings, making sure not one part of the glorious architecture goes overlooked. At the center of it all sits a large towering fountain. The neon blue water can just barely be seen behind the front building. Every new angle that presents itself is just as alluring as the last.

College Elite has a pretty face compared to its tasteless inside. I decided at a young age I would never attend. The idea of being stuck in a classroom learning about one subject for a year only to be stuck working a job over that same one subject for the rest of your life seemed…horrific.

But my father always encouraged his kids to have a fertile mind. His library is filled with wonders and different worlds, and so my interest in fascinating stories about people’s lives blossomed. Although it’s forbidden for state historians to let anyone but themselves into their study, it’s where my father spends most of his time with me whenever he isn’t working on one of his many projects or with Portia, our homekeeper, to perfect his making of lobster frittata—my mother’s favorite dish.

My father didn’t want me to give up on College Elite just yet, so following his advice, I signed up for Humanities, a course to learn about how to process and document the human experience.

Miss, mind me askin’ if you’re gettin’ off here? The portal driver’s calm voice echoes from the front of the transport, eyes directed down. His shaky hand rests on the open and close door button. 

Yes! Sorry! I say. He nods, and I swing my legs over the seat and squeeze out of the sliding doors. I’ve heard sometimes portal drivers make decisions for other Palores and Bourgeoisie if they take too long to get off.

The moment my peep-toe heels hit the marble street, the portal is gone.

I’ve always thought of them like eels: slick, flexible, and fast. They look as if they’re swimming in air. It’s beautiful, really. I watch it until it’s so far off in the distance that it becomes a blur of shadows.

I wander through the walkways with people rushing past me right and left. All seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere with books and steaming cups of coffee in hand. The further into the building I get, the more signs there are directing me in all kinds of directions. One sign points toward a small café, while another points to the main administration building. They all have destinations, but none that hold any significance to me. I pause by a bench to remember my building and room number—this hesitancy seems to have followed me all the way from the sneering Palore at the portal stop.

The steps of the entrance sparkle with small pieces of beautifully luminescent quartz. I step over them gently, making my way through the front doors. The ceilings are tall and made of a thick glass, similar to the portal’s. Rain splashes against it creating a mosaic art overhead. I walk up to the classroom entrance and remember how some of the library’s stories say that rain is good luck. Taking a breath, my posture straightens before walking through the doorway.

My father said the class was predicted to be large, and as expected, there are students teeming around the edges of the classroom. The room is a bright white box, deep with proportionally spaced, single-chaired desks all lined up in rows stretching from one side of the room to the other. Large, circular crystalline chandeliers hang over each row, and a long pastel collage of stained-glass acts as a middle aisle separating the two sections of desks. It stretches from the back of the classroom and extends toward the front where the professor is standing in a full-length white coat. When I signed up for this course, I was told that there would be three hundred others