The Girl Who Dared to Think Bella Forrest (best classic literature txt) 📖

next rider. I was halfway down the ramp connecting the elevator to the floor when the tip of my boot caught on something—my other foot, of course!—and I pitched forward, starting to fall. Gerome moved quickly to steady me. Being a confident man, he used his right hand, which meant I caught sight of the number there: a cool blue-colored ‘ten’ shimmered against his pale skin as he grabbed my upper arm. A perfect citizen. Gerome was a prime example of how being perfect could make a person boring.

I straightened and shot a glance at Dalton. He was standing a few feet behind Gerome; he tilted his chin away from me, refusing to meet my eyes.

I clenched my jaw. It was beyond unfair. Dalton’s ranking of seven was so average that the typical citizen of the Tower wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Since we had met, however, he had looked down on me. The way he was acting, you’d think we were here on a secret mission sent straight from Scipio, not to fix malfunctioning solar panels, and that I (the lowly four) was his lone obstacle, rather than his escort. The worst thing was, he could get away with it; he obviously knew from experience that the odd spike of righteous superiority on his decent track record wouldn’t lower his number. It made my blood boil.

“Peace, Squire,” Gerome said, clapping a massive hand on my shoulder. “Cogs have never been the most social of our departments.”

I grunted in response.

Gerome looked at me. His face resembled the holographs we had of the ancient Greeks: chiseled, each feature designed as if by an artist. His thin, distinct eyebrows rose up under hair that had just begun to go silver at the temples, and his cleft chin jutted toward me like an accusation.

“We don’t want you slipping any lower,” he said, his voice devoid of empathy. “Your number is low as it is. Have you considered—”

“Medica treatment?” I muttered, looking at the metal flooring so Gerome wouldn’t see me rolling my eyes. Dalton moved down the service hall ahead of us, and I moved quickly to follow, hoping that walking would keep Gerome’s lecture brief. “Yes. My parents have been talking about it quite a bit.”

Gerome caught up to me with one swift step. Up ahead, Dalton had begun climbing a steep set of narrow stairs toward a rectangular access hatch. As he pushed it open, I saw the black outer walls of the shell waiting beyond.

“Your parents are good citizens,” Gerome said. “Strong. Capable. Champion Devon made them Knight Commanders for a reason.”

I grimaced, looking away. “They’re very perfect."

They had wanted me to be, too. They’d been disappointed.

Gerome stopped at the foot of the stairs, and the way he snapped his heel against the floor made it clear that I was meant to halt as well. I did so, wondering if I had gone too far. Gerome hated sarcasm like a cat hated water.

“Lord Scipio spared you,” he needlessly reminded me in that soft patronizing tone I got from nearly everyone. “You were a second-born twin, illicit and undeserving. Your parents yielded your life to his judgment, and he deemed that you would live. Must you continue to throw these… tantrums?”

My face grew hot and I curled my hands into fists, feeling my nails biting into my palm. In a way, he was right. Each family was allowed two children by law, but my parents had given birth to my older sister Sybil before I was born, and even though it was by seconds, I was younger than my twin brother. My mother, overflowing with maternal instinct, had been willing to kill me right then and there. Excise the excess, so to speak. Scipio, however, ordained that I would live. For a time, my parents had thought that made me special. A chosen child, destined to lead the Knights into a glorious new era.

When Sybil died unexpectedly when I was five, grief only inflated their opinion of me. As I grew a little older, I began asking questions about Sybil’s death, trying to make sense of it. It came to a head when, at the age of seven, I made the mistake of asking why Scipio hadn’t prevented Sybil’s death, and my mother had responded by slapping me across the face and hissing words I would never forget.

“He chose you over her,” she had spat, her eyes glittering with tears. “You have a destiny—but when you ask questions like that, it makes me wonder if he made a mistake.” Her number had dropped to a nine that day—the first and only time I ever saw it happen. Of course Scipio didn’t choose me over Sybil; the computer couldn’t prevent death and Sybil’s demise had nothing to do with Scipio having allowed me to live. But that was the day I learned to never question Scipio’s decisions out loud.

Eventually my parents’ grief faded, and they turned their attention fully on me and Alex, trying to make us into carbon copies of them, essentially. They wanted so badly for us to carry on the family tradition. Which was why they were astounded when Alex, upon turning fifteen, defected from the family profession—he was recruited from school into the Eyes, Scipio’s private order of engineers and residents of the Core. After that, all expectations fell firmly on me.

As for the destiny my parents had hoped for? Well, I found out a year after Alex defected that it wasn’t even true. The only reason I was alive was because another child had been stillborn. I wasn’t special. Scipio hadn’t cared about me; he had been correcting a population imbalance.

“I can’t help how I feel,” I muttered.

Up at the access hatch, Dalton had turned and was shooting fiery looks in my direction. I found myself suppressing the urge to throttle the man.

“You can,” Gerome said, his tone firm. “You just won’t.”

When we finally topped the stairs, Dalton was practically frothing at the mouth with impatience. He muttered