Shadows of Secrets and Lies (YA Dystopian Thriller)

By Dawn Brazil

Eighteen-year-old Mandalyn Johnson’s mother tried to kill her. She knows because her father told her.
The one thing she knows about her father - he’s a master manipulator.

On the cusp of adulthood, Mandalyn is ready to shed all thoughts of her mentally unstable mother and take her rightful place among the greatest minds her society possesses.

Mandalyn manipulates her aerial pod, ChaWanda, into interacting like a feisty older sister rather than the computerized aerial device it should be, but she can’t figure out how she’s able to identify someone’s character by a random number thrust into her head. When she learns the character level of her rival for top-in-class – someone she’s known most of her life - crests at ten, she knows she must confront him. She’s never met anyone over a four. Tens are the most dangerous, immoral level imaginable. When he confesses that her character level is also a ten, her dreams of family redemption are shattered.

With the help of two other students with deadly character levels, they struggle to piece together what they know while they start to exhibit extraordinary abilities. With their newfound abilities, they’re able to see the future. In one potential future, they die. In the other, they kill everyone.

They must untangle the lies perpetrated by the people they love to determine which future will belong to them. And find out why the organizations tasked with bringing order to the world don’t want them to exist in the perfect world they’re trying to create.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Brazil
• Release date: Mar 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005552831

Dawn Brazil

Dawn wants to live in a world inhabited by fictional characters. She thinks fictional characters are cooler than real people. Since the world is not comprised of dreamy book boyfriends, she creates them for everyone to fawn over.When she is not writing, she can be found with her nose in a book - swooning over another book boyfriend, drying up tears from a recent heartbreak, or shouldering a wound she received in battle. She also loves to create magic in the kitchen with an array of inspiring dishes she pulls from Pinterest. Dawn lives in South Texas with her sports-obsessed husband, three technology-infatuated teenagers, and her great, big, colossal imagination.And she is passionate about superheroes – especially Wonder Woman!

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was an embryo in my mother’s womb the first time she tried to kill me.

Not by the use of an abortion—those procedures had been outlawed for nearly four decades at the time. As my father tells it, she made three more attempts to take my life but ended up killing herself, two months shy of my first-year birthday.

I cannot explain it, nor have I attempted to speak with anyone about it, especially not my father, but to the core of my existence, I feel her presence.

Here. Not dead.

How can someone haunt you if you’ve never met them? I have no memory of what she looks like. Yet, I have a cavernous longing for her. My father’s business-like demeanor with me makes my yearning for her even more plausible. I want to be free to feel, but my father seems incapable of displaying even trivial emotion. Was she like this?

I creep around a stack of cardboard boxes crammed neatly in our attic. A few years ago, my father had temperature controls implanted in the space. I scratched my head for the reason at the time, until I discovered the boxes.

Seeking out information that should be readily available to me is my life’s plight. Christopher Johnson has an ironclad policy on what knowledge I can acquire, and the woman who gave me birth is the least-discussed topic in our orderly home.

My fingers graze the thick lid of the black box, and I snap it back with ease. It makes a whooshing sound like air is trapped inside.

My actions now stem from an illicit attachment that should never have taken root inside me, an inexplicable longing for a woman who made several attempts to extinguish me. It shouldn’t exist—yet it’s palpable, undeniable.

I scramble to the tiny attic window overlooking the front of our three-story house to ensure my father is still occupied. Peering through the thick black drapes covering the opening, I glance down at him. His head is buried in the tablet Ms. Montrose gave him.

Our neighbor, Ms. Montrose, is a three. Not that I’d expect her to be dangerous. I’ve never met anyone whose character level crested above a four, except for two people.

My father and a girl I once adored from learning station are fours. If intelligence equaled danger, I’d be terrified of them, but it doesn’t.

Asking Ms. Montrose over for a chat would be an excellent idea, too. I would be able to search for information without his demeaning scowl.

I rush for a box I haven’t inspected yet. Ripping open the black cardstock box lid, I step back as a billowing cloud of particles explode into the air. Even with the temperature controls, the attic is humid and musty. It penetrates the boxes that sit and collect dust each day in the shadowy space.

I don’t understand why these things have not been digitized. Every few weeks, he’ll come up and get something from one of the boxes, but I haven’t a clue what he does with what he pulls.

I reach into my back pocket and finger the one item I have of my mother’s—a sterling silver charm bracelet that feels like it it's filled with the mass of the world but is actually as light as a quill. It carries only one charm: a silver and baby-blue angel wing.

Ma’am, I can assist you in your search, Izzy states.

I startle at her voice. No. Please prepare supper. And please delete the recording of this conversation.

My father laughs at how polite I am with our HM2000. If they didn’t make them appear so lifelike, I wouldn’t forget they are siliconized frames with a million robotic cells forming what most would consider an attractive brunette, but old schoolers would call a maid.

Please provide the password for deletion, Izzy states.

I sigh. Geniculate.

That is incorrect. You have two more attempts.

I bite the inside of my jaw. He must have changed it again without telling me. The girl in me who wants to fall in line, be obedient, says to stop digging for information. Other parts of me scramble to come up with a quick lie to tell Izzy before she reports this to my father.

I continue plowing through the box while I contemplate a clever response. My fingers make quick work of scanning through the loose pages while my bibliophile spectacles scan for my entered keywords: Death, Maria, Suicide, and Birth.

Ma’am, do you still need me to delete the conversation?

I shove the top up and to the side of the new cardboard box in front of me. My intestines knot into a ball at the endless slips of paper inside. I steel my trembling jaw and push the first piece of paper to the side. I’m searching for a paper I wrote last year. My keywords are: pandemic, death, global, economy. Please assist me in my search.

Izzy doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t wait for further instructions. She turns and opens the nearest box and starts to fly through the pages.

All I want is to find out something about my mother. A picture. A card in her handwriting. Something to let me know she existed—other than my father’s harsh, vague descriptions and my own existence.

My finger slips across a loose piece of paper and slices my skin. Gaw. Before I can get my finger to my lips to lick the crimson liquid, Izzy wraps her flesh-and-metal hand around mine.

Ma’am. Let me. She reaches into the pocket of her cargo pants and pulls out her small bottle of rectify fluid. Her pockets are always full of things no one else would even think to carry around. But paper cuts are harmless, they hardly hurt after all of five seconds—even when she doesn’t use the rectify fluid.

Izzy blasts my finger once with a spray of the cool liquid. The crimson drop and the small slice created by the cut in my skin disappears. My father spoke of a time when rectify fluid was only available to the very wealthy.

Thank you. I shake my head. I’m too polite.

You are welcome, ma’am.

Actually, I’m finished with my search. I close the lid on the box I’m in. Thank you for your assistance. You can prepare supper now.

Very well. Supper will be ready in one hour and fifteen minutes. She turns, her white tennis shoes screeching against the laminate, and marches out of the space. Her feet are light as she makes her way down the attic steps to the kitchen. Our house is the same as all the other houses in our county. Six steps down from the attic to the landing, and four steps from the landing to the second level.

I stop listening for her footfalls and spin around to the box in front of me. I’m surprised at the lack of structure in the boxes. My father is the epitome of organization, but these items are thrown into these containers without labels or any correlation to each other. I don’t have time to inspect them to determine what they are. I know he’ll be looking for me soon, and if he finds me here, he’ll restrict more of my time and reprimand me for being too inquisitive.

Except, I need to know her. I have a right to know her.

My father let slip once how beautiful my mother was. Her hair was soft, flowing, and always smelled of citrus. My hair is kinky and curly and always smells of the nondescript shampoo my father has Izzy purchase for our use. It’s definitely not citrus. Maybe it can be described as clean.

Mandalyn Johnson. What are you looking for?

I jump and twirl around. He’s two feet away, peering at me from under his dark lashes. His thick brows lift into a question I don’t want to answer. If I could turn red, I’d be crimson. But I can’t. My dark skin matches his. His question lingers between us like a challenge to a gunfight. I’ve yet to draw my weapon. For a moment, my words are lost behind my desire for truth. I’ve asked him numerous times for the information I seek. He refuses to give anything.

I’m searching for a paper I wrote last year on the effects of the 1918 Pandemic on the global economy.

His brow lowers as if he might not be suspicious of my intent anymore. Why didn’t you get Izzy to assist you?

Because I have two hands and can do things for myself. Plus, she needed to start supper.

He laughs. His exterior is cool, but his eyes dissect me in their search for truth. You were always so fiercely independent. He laughs again. And a terrible liar.

I steel myself—no point in continuing my charade. I square my jaw.

I need to know… I have a right to know about her. She was my mother. Good or bad, she was mine. Why can’t you see this my way?

He sighs and moves over to where I stand. His movements are solid; he walks with a confidence I try to imitate but often fail at executing. In the time it takes for me to blink back the tears that collect under my eyes, his hand moves past me to close the box I search in. The tears don’t fall, though. I’ve been taught to never let them fall. They’re unproductive and serve no purpose.

He scowls for a second at the closed box. You are my daughter. You have my blood coursing through your veins. You know who you are because you know who I am. You will be me, in a dress. I smirk at his comment. This is the speech, the one he gives when he catches me prying or I ask too many questions. It’s all regurgitated semantics at this point.

I know, I mumble into my clasped hands.

So, let’s stop our pretending about this. I don’t want you digging for information about her. She isn’t worth your time. She was a waste of space and God-given talent. The only thing she was good at was what she offered in the bedroom. My mouth falls open, but I quickly close it. With that, he turns and starts down the steps. Be down in the next five minutes.

No questions run rampant in my head. For once, he’s stunned me to complete silence.

My lifepod beeps as his swift footfalls descend the steps. Another beep, and I pull it from my jeans and hit the backlight.

There’s a message. I click off the passage to read the envelope information, but there is none.

That can’t be right.

How did this message even get to my pod?

I switch back to the message. My hand trembles and I’m not sure why. I take a deep breath to regulate my heart rate, so my father isn’t alerted.

The message is long. I flip back to the envelope. How is it that a message of this length is on my pod? I have no recollection of writing it, and why is there no incoming envelope information?

I flip back to the message and read:

We live in a society that is falling apart around us. We’ve made a straight line for the bottom, and we’re going at the speed of a locomotive. But no one is doing anything about it. No one is running in the streets crying. Apathy is at an unprecedented high. Shit has literally hit the fan and is getting slung in our eyes. We turn our noses up at the minimal reports—or should I say, leaks that make a feeble attempt at exposing what they believe to be the truth of this world. We shun those strong enough to report it. Better yet, we turn away. A deaf ear can’t hear of the carnage, of the savagery we clobber each other with in hidden places. Why is it like this? We blinked, and war, greed, and narcissism have cost us everything. We have become the vilest matter and we revel in it. The HAI Group was tasked with making things better. They are our overseers. Our supposed saviors. The manufacturers of our counterfeit existence. Why aren’t they intervening? Why aren’t they wiping our eyes and cleaning us up? Why are they permitting these atrocities? Why is no one crying foul of this? If you take nothing from my speech, take this one question. Don’t answer it straightway. Ponder it. Marinate in its central conflict. Let your wounds fester, and your hearts break, but keep your minds open… and deliberate. And question.

Is there a reason they are silent?

What kind of message is this? Propaganda. Rebels who war against the Human Advancement Initiative? Groups have spread this message for years. Usually, it’s hushed before it even gets traction. Why would they send this message to me? I’m nobody. Maybe they’re targeting my father since he works for HAI?

Yes, that’s what happened.

Every civilized nation that has ever existed has had turmoil of some sort. There is no such thing as a utopian society, even though HAI and the Collaborators Counsel make it seem believable.

This message being on my phone is odd, but doesn’t mean some rational explanation doesn’t exist for how I received it. Right now, I don’t care what that answer might be.

I slump between a stack of brown boxes and collapse my head to my hands. The firmness of the floor bites into my backside after a while, but I don’t move.

Maybe I didn’t deserve a mother’s love. Maybe I’m to blame in some way for her abandonment. All I’ve ever wanted was family. It shouldn’t be this difficult, though… but maybe it’s because I don’t deserve it.

One thing keeps floating in my head like a worthless mantra: All my life, I thought I was the best thing my mother ever did.

What lies we tell ourselves to keep our hearts comfortable.

Chapter 2

I’m wrapped in my blueberry down comforter when my regulator blares that my allotted sleep time has expired.

Slamming my fist down on the yelp of the time regulator, I toss my feet over the side of my bed.

Ma’am.

My ear-piercing scream bounces off the starch-white walls of my bedroom. I swallow hard to catch my breath. I peer over at Izzy’s bone-straight posture, hands clasped behind her back, and wince. Why is she in my room while I’m sleeping?

Your shower has been running for over three minutes. You have only seven minutes remaining for your morning shower allowance.

Yeah, thanks. On wobbly legs, I gather the jeans and t-shirt I took out the night before from my ivory bureau. Izzy stands in the corner beside my bathroom door. Her eyes mirror my movement. You can go now.

Very well, ma’am. Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes.

Whatever, I mumble. I turn and march into the bathroom. Izzy cranes her neck after me. I slam the bathroom door as I walk inside. What the heck’s her problem?

My father told me that before The Great Collaboration, there were no regulations on utilities. He said people would spend as long as they wanted in the shower. Some people would watch television for hours. I’m not sure if I believe him about the television, but a long steaming shower sounds ideal. Now, I’ve got to rush and shower before it auto-shuts off.

Once dressed and seated at our glass-and-stone breakfast table, I sigh. Breakfast is a required meal of the day. I have a full six minutes to scarf down my colossal bowl of oatmeal with dried fruit and five vitamins. It’s going to be a slow process, since oatmeal is my least favorite food of all time. I loathe it, so it almost seems intentional that I’ve gotten it as my morning meal for three consecutive days.

Father reads the daily report from the Collaborators Council on his lifepod projector and adjusts the needle in his hand that feeds his daily allowance of adrenaline. Weird, since I know he’s already maxed out his allotted stimulants for the month. I guess you’re allowed to break a few rules when you make them.

The morning news blares over the built-in PA system. It’s much of the same stories each day: The algae lamp the Collaborators rave about are being installed in every home across the globe. Another country has been added to the Collaborators' movement. After the United Nations was demolished and the Collaborators took charge, over 150 sovereign countries immediately adopted the Collaborators' policies. New nations are being added to this list every few years. A recalled aerial pod exploded, killing a group of students in the Southern region of Developed Colorado. A new feature has been uploaded to all aerial pods. The HAI group has issued a new regulation on the consumption of all animal byproducts… blah, blah, blah.

What they don’t report are the rumored cells that acquire military-grade weapons and terrorize citizens with them, or the rebel groups that show up at Advanced Culminations across Developed America, trying to recruit for their skewed cause.

But these are rumors, whispered accounts of things done in the dark. I’m not a gossiper. I don’t spread or believe the murmurings. If the source isn’t reputable—namely my father, I rarely take it seriously.

The students’ dying is a new concern since we haven’t had any major recalls on our aerial pods in years. If there is an issue, Father will let me know. He’s been a consultant for HAI since before I was born. I always tell myself he’s such a disciplinarian because he works for the corporation tasked with organizing Developed America and the rest of the world. I’m more than proud to call myself his daughter.

One day, I’ll make him the proudest member of the group. He tells me I’m destined for greatness. I’m doing everything I can to prove him right and not allow the shame of what my mother did to cloud our family’s legacy.

After the announcements, the house falls quiet; the silence stretches around us like a person. I often joke it’s another occupant in our home. My stomach makes a sharp noise that cuts through the stillness like a chainsaw let loose in a religious facility. Father peers over at me for the first time. Good morning to you also, he says, rising and storing his lifepod in the front of his crisp white button-up. I’ve finalized the plans for my quarterly meeting in Developed DC. It will be in a few weeks. You have protection. He glances at his office.

Years ago, he showed me the gun he keeps strapped under the table in front of a small sofa in his office. I detest weapons, however; he knows this. Should I call upon Ms. Montrose to see about you?

I raise an eyebrow at him. He’s never asked for my input about these things. Is this a test? Does he actually want my opinion? If I give it, will he consider it?

I’m certain I can manage on my own—just like the previous year.

I’ll take that into consideration. He starts toward the front. Have a productive day. Make sound decisions. See you this evening.

As parents go, I could have worse, I guess. I’ve really no bearing to frame a point of reference in this area. It’s a source of contention I dare to ignore. I often wonder if she was like him.

I smile at his professional, retreating frame.

I scrape my chair across the hard floor and dump the contents of my bowl down the drain before Izzy can investigate my eating habits. I can’t stuff another bite of the slimy goo down my throat. You have wasted two ounces of breakfast meal. Because this is your first infraction, you will receive a warning. Refrain from all wasteful habits immediately, or suffer the consequences of a neglectful attitude. Be kind to yourself. The reprimand comes from the PA system because obviously, Izzy caught my careless act.

A sharp ding sounds from the living area where Father walked to collect his charging station. No doubt, the ding was his notification of my meal violation. This new system that tracks my eating habits is ridiculous. I’m an Advanced, not a Primer. I don’t need to be babysat.

I scurry out the front door before Father can lecture me on the importance of a full meal at breakfast. I’ve heard that speech so many times I can recite it word for word. He doesn’t like it much when I recite it as he’s giving it. Sometimes it’s a bit exciting to pick fun at him. He usually refrains from laughing, though, so my jests at his expense are minimal.

My footsteps are measured as I step off the stone front porch and onto the sidewalk to collect my aerial pod, ChaWanda. She’s a Pearl casted with light blue, two-seater, MP2054. I disconnect her charging cable from the port and press her open.

As I step inside the pod, the temperature is a touch cool, and a shiver ripples through me.

I got you, girl. Adjusting the temperature now.

Thank you. The windows inside suddenly fog over.

What’s going on, ChaWanda? I ask, glancing around the pod.

Uploaded a new program last night. Sit back and relax, girl. I got you. The haze covers all the windows. Suddenly, through the mist, a face emerges: Marcus Tran.

My cheeks inflate with a smile to rival all others.

Someone likes, ChaWanda says. This display is meant to calm your little racing heart… but in this case, it might make it beat faster.

Whatever. I’m not that bad. Marcus is pictured in class, seated. He glances up and smiles a wide grin over at me. His dark eyes smolder as he takes me in.

The video is played on a loop. Something like boulders tumble haphazardly in my abdomen.

Just as my seat wraps firmly around me, ChaWanda makes a noise like she’s trying to figure something out. Girl, what you wearing? I thought you was gonna change up the attire a bit?

I take a deep breath. My words from yesterday mock me. This isn’t going to be my day.

Um. You gonna ignore me?

I was kind of trying. Can we just leave, please?

Um. No. Dumbass, you didn’t put your lifepod in. I glance down to my lap and sure enough, my lifepod’s staring up at me with red blinking lights.

I snatch it up and toss it into the ignition igniter. Girl, you busy today. You’ve got a rotating schedule, with elective cycles in the morning and volunteer cycles in the afternoon. Oh, and you have a ten-thirty meeting with your counselor to ensure you’re on track for valedictorian. You have a meeting with Mr. Lovell about your role on the new digital magazine the editorial staff is rolling out. And not to be a party pooper, but your GPA is currently a half percentage behind William Knowledgepod Rodriguez. But that’s okay, because you’re a true nerd. You’ll have him in no time because you have absolutely no personal life and nothing to look forward to in the foreseeable future that will distract you from your mission of knowledge dominance.

Thank you for your commentary on my life. When I want to know what hardware thinks about me, I’ll go ask our meal allocator.

Her shrill laugh floats around me like a dental drill. That’s a good one, girl. I see you been practicing.

I laugh because I have been researching humorous retorts from the nineties and two thousands. What else is on the agenda for today? I pull out my calendar to go over what she says and ensure it’s also written down.

I’m a meticulous note-taker. I think it’s a gift. ChaWanda thinks it’s a waste of time and energy.

You have a test in Collaborative Economics, then you gotta drool over Marcus Tran for a full five minutes because I know you gon' finish the test early. I smile at her wit. How I—I think the word is jailbroke—my aerial pod was genius. Even for a spastic nerd like myself. ChaWanda is the perfect mix of sass and best friend.

I wish she were real. The world gets lonely when all you have is your transportation to converse with.

She maneuvers us out of our docking station and into the stream of other pods. When you gon tell this Tran dude about your crushing on him since Middler?

That would be never. My inner feelings are none of his business.

It is when you’d like both of ya’ll inner feelings to bump heads.

You’re nasty. You do know that, right?

Wow. Amazing, since you programmed me. You’re like my very own terrible momma. Her pause is so long that I glance up to ensure she’s still functioning. Maybe that was a bad choice of words.

Don’t worry about it. I must’ve felt it was an appropriate response or you couldn’t have said it. We don’t talk the remainder of the way to station. I lean back in my seat and enjoy the ride before I have to face a world I don’t fully understand but am determined to conquer.

Alright hun, we’re here. Don’t be such a smart-ass you scare the hot guys away.

Whatever. I think it’s time for a tune-up.

She laughs. You ain’t touching my inside parts no more. I’m good. The last time you tried to modify me, I was talking like I was straight outta a Shakespeare play for a full week. I got on my own nerves. Never again.

Just as the door releases for me to get out, ChaWanda slams it closed. Whoa. Hold up. Do you see what I see? she asks.

She lifts the display from the window and I glance out the back. A group of kids near the edge of the grass, in front of the four-story building, stand around Marcus Tran. Melissa Teague’s head is lifted and she’s staring at Marcus like he’s the new head of the Collaborators. She’s in her usual spot, to Marcus' left. Her eyes are fixed on him and I’m sure she doesn’t even realize there are other people near them.

She’s pathetic.

Marcus wears his usual jeans and inappropriate t-shirt. I pull closer to the glass. Today’s message: Oh, what fresh hell is this? That’s right—School. I smile at the word 'school.' No one has used that term in a few decades.

He’s taller than all the guys around him, so I have a clear view of him as he talks. His peanut-butter-brown eyes wander from person to person, as he speaks—as if he’s giving an inspirational speech. A riveting speech, I’m sure.

Don’t lick the glass, girl. ChaWanda chimes in.

Thanks for the awesome advice. I’ve got to go. Can’t stay in here salivating all morning over a guy I’ll never get.

Wow. You’re so playing yourself. You’re beautiful.

I chuckle at her words. Where did I come up with this stuff? You know I don’t have confidence issues. I just know without a doubt that I have zero time for guys right now. I have a plan—an agenda that does not involve getting mixed up with an immature guy who will most likely never love me anyway.

You’re dope, girl. If that fool or any other fool can’t see it, their loss.

I scoot from the pod. Thanks for the inspirational speech. See you in a bit. I think I’m being funny and double over with laughter. I’m sure she doesn’t agree.

As soon as my feet hit the pavement in front of station, I see him.

William Knowledgepod Rodriguez.

He sticks out, much like Marcus, because of his height. He’s 6’4"—I know because it’s