Corrupted Read online

  Corrupted

  Book Three of The State Series

  M.J. Kaestli

  https://mjkaestli.com/

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or any other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations for reviews, or noncommercial uses and with proper and correct citation.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 M.J. Kaestli

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  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

  Books in The State Series

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Freya slipped into the side room. She did nothing to try to conceal herself, yet nobody seemed to take notice of her. The room was dimly lit and made entirely of concrete, giving it a cave like gloom. It was musty, far more humid than what was normal, or even comfortable—a combination of poor ventilation and sweat.

  “Give me another name,” Lewis yelled, his face mere inches away from Ursa’s. She flinched as his spittle projected toward her and pegged her square on the cheek.

  “I’ve told you already. Pollux was our only contact. That’s how it works.” She looked exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion one might feel from strenuous labour or a lack of sleep, but an exhaustion reserved for those who are moments away from death. Her body slumped, showing how truly fatigued she was down to her very core, yet she held his gaze.

  “Let’s see about that,” Lewis said, and then he held a long metal rod to her skin.

  Jolts of electricity rippled through her. Her entire body convulsed, even her hands from where she was being hung.

  Freya wanted to tell Lewis to stop, but she momentarily struggled to find her voice. She simply stood there, staring at Ursa being tortured, until she was finally able to yell at Lewis.

  “Stop! STOP! Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “You said yourself, she wasn’t who we were looking for.”

  Lewis didn’t even turn to look at her, and she fell to the floor sobbing. She just lay curled in a ball, repeating Ursa’s name. No one took notice of her tantrum or reacted to the oddity of her presence: Lewis persisted in his torturing Ursa, and she screamed relentlessly as her body thrashed and convulsed.

  Freya kept sobbing on the floor until an alarm started to sound. She looked around for the source of the alarm. The image of Lewis and Ursa faded, until she realized she was not in fact in the military underground, but in her own apartment.

  She shot out of bed as soon as she returned to her senses and ran for the bathroom. It had been twenty years since she completed her mission to spy on Ursa, but the nightmares still haunted her just as regularly as the first day she had been separated from Lewis, when her mission had ended. Her nightmares had been so persistent she doubted she would ever be free of them.

  There was no way for her to know whether her apartment was still monitored or not. It came down to whether the State believed she was on their side. Colin used to say that people were only monitored if the State was suspicious of them. People who were deemed compliant and finished psychological profiling had their cameras turned off. What side of the fence does the State think I sit on?

  Old habits die hard—she still went into the bathroom whenever she was upset—the mere thought she could have been crying out Ursa’s name in her sleep was terrifying. It, of course, would have been concealed if she had a bedroom door to shut, but her apartment was in independent living.

  She had heard that many people were betrayed in their sleep. Even if they were the masters of disguise during the day, nightmares, restless sleep, crying out: if Security didn’t gather enough from that kind of behavior, it at least gave them reason to have them closely monitored. If she was being monitored, then she was sure they had picked up on her nightmares. It really just came down to that simple question. Are they still monitoring me?

  The independent living structure was like housing for students. There was a sofa that doubled as a bed, a desk, a bathroom with a shower stall instead of a tub. The only difference between this apartment and the one provided for her in the State house was the view she had when she looked out the window. There was no view quite like the gardens with its bright and lush colors. The view from this apartment was similar to the view she had when she was coupled with Colin.

  Looking out the window made her heart ache for him, and so she simply stayed away from the window. There was a blind for covering the window at the sunny times of the day, but she kept it closed both day and night.

  When she had arrived at her apartment, the first thing she did was look out the window. The apartment was above the dome, and she was momentarily struck by its beauty; the tall and elegant buildings, the rainbow reflections off the dome, the mountains nearby surrounded by vegetation, and sometimes the crisp blinding white caps of snow.

  She breathed in the new beauty, until she remembered her first day with Colin. He had begged her to come into the bedroom with her, but she was so angry she refused to look at him. She had stood and looked out the window as a form of avoidance. Back then, she had been so annoyed by all of his poster child comments. But now, every time she thought of him, there was a stabbing pain in her heart. She no longer tried to get over her grief, or questioned whether he truly loved her. It was quite the opposite: she clung to her grief, refusing to let the wound close.

  Being coupled with Colin was the happiest time of her life. It did not matter to her any longer whether he was taken against his will, or whether he left her. All that mattered was she had lost him, and the State was what had caused that pain.

  It was not just the loss of Colin she regularly mourned—obviously not. She wasn’t having nightmares about Colin; it was always Ursa. When Colin left, she went through the different stages of grief. It was partly because she didn’t know what to believe, and partly because it was the first time in her life she had truly lost anything.

  When Ursa died, however, it was different. There was no place in her mind for denial; she knew exactly why it happened, and who was responsible for her pain. It was almost odd that she didn’t feel any guilt; she had directly played a hand in her death. Ursa was so adamant about being ready to die for her cause, the fact Freya was involved didn’t arouse any feelings of guilt, just white-hot rage.

  When Colin was taken from her, when she believed in the State, the hurt and anger nearly consumed her. When Ursa died, Freya was no longer an innocent. She had already seen the State for what they were. Ursa’s death dissolved all her doubts, sealing her fate. Freya thought she had grown close to Lewis—at one point she thought she might even love him.

  There was no purpose to killing Ursa and the others—Lewis even said it was the wrong group—but he killed them anyway. Yet her anger was not at Lewis. The anger that burned inside her was s
pecially held not just for the State, but for Victor. He was the one who had taken her under his wing, who had convinced her he loved her, and then betrayed her.

  Victor stood for everything that was wrong with the world. If he could at least acknowledge the ruthless dictator he was, if he could at least be honest, that would be tolerable. But he didn’t. He kept up this façade of acting in the best interest of the people—he thought of everyone in the State house as a family, yet would send her love away and use her as a spy to reap the benefit of his destruction. It was a fact: Victor stood for everything that was evil, for every hurt that had come her way.

  It was not just Victor she was mad at; it was herself. She was so innocent when she arrived at the State house, so impressionable. She fell for the illusion of family, the trap that Victor had set for her.

  Freya shook her head, as though such a simple gesture would be powerful enough to combat the thoughts waging war in her mind. She stripped off her clothing and got into the shower. If she was going to be an emotional wreck, at least she could try to be productive at the same time.

  There were times when she was disappointed in herself for not being stronger. Other times, she simply accepted that she used to be stronger, but then she was broken. If they had simply just taken Colin from her, she could have moved on with her life. If she had been left to live in the State house and revise the archives, she could have found joy, or at least contentment. If she had never found out Victor had betrayed her, if she had never discovered what he really was, things would be different. If she had never met Ursa, and knowingly caused her death without an alternative, she would not be who or what she currently was.

  She was broken. She knew it, yet she did nothing to try to heal. How could she? If twenty years had done nothing to dull the pain, nothing would. She had regular nightmares, and couldn’t ever speak to anyone. There was not a living soul she could trust or confide in. This was a burden she had to endure alone. There was more to it than that; her denial had lifted—she might have to see Colin once again.

  It would have been so much easier for her if he had just died. The colony world would open soon. She, of course, already knew she would never set foot on that planet. How could she? As much as she hoped he never came through, part of her knew that he would. Unless he wanted to avoid seeing her, he would come through, and he would learn of his parents’ deaths. Not just of their deaths, but her hand in it.

  Just the matter of their age difference was enough that she wouldn’t want to see him. She could not imagine it could be anything but painful and terribly awkward. When he left, she was a beautiful young woman, but with the passing of so much time, she was a similar age to Ursa was when he left.

  Freya stepped out of the shower, and through the light fog caused from the steam, she looked at herself in the mirror. She studied her face, her body, her skin. Time was always so cruel. The crows’-feet beside her eyes, the worry lines between her brows, the permanent dark circles under her eyes—and that was just her face.

  Her body, of course, had changed also. She had never been aware of how splendid her figure was when she was young, but now it had changed, she thought of it often. Not to mention the gray hairs in her temples that sporadically jumped out against her dark hair. She looked like her mother at this age, and she had always thought of her mother as appearing very old.

  The mirror told her what she already knew. He would cringe when he saw her. Even if he didn’t, she could not bear to see his face when he learned of her involvement in his parents’ deaths. Who would tell him? Would it be one of my supporters? Someone who believed in me and spoke of my bravery? Or would it be a fringe rebellion member? Someone who would speak only of my deceit with disgust?

  Colin would most definitely have contacts in the rebellion. No one had ever mentioned him to her, yet she knew it was more likely than not. His parents could not be his only contact, and even if they were, Ida had to have some contacts of her own. Someone would know of her involvement in their deaths, and they would inform Colin. She just didn’t know how the information would be presented to him.

  Freya pulled her damp hair into a high, tight bun. Wearing her hair pulled back severely was not flattering for a woman her age. It accentuated her gray hair, it exposed her wrinkles, yet she didn’t care. Who do I have to impress anyway?

  She occasionally crossed paths with Lewis at the State house, or when she went down to the firing range. He always looked at her affectionately, a deep longing behind his sad eyes, even though his lips turned up into a smile. Sometimes he even asked when they were going on another mission together.

  Part of her felt pity for him. He seemed to genuinely have some feelings of affection toward her; that was clear. It might not be love but a mere preference to her presence than to her absence. It was all he was really capable of. She was sure of that.

  If she were to be caught, he would have no hesitation in carrying out her torture or even possibly her execution; it was how he was programmed. Watching him torture and kill people he knew were innocent was all the information she needed to know, she could never be with him again—especially when the victim was so dear to her.

  She changed into her uniform, the standard jumpsuit all greenhouse workers wore—an image of Ivy stitched on the back. When she had lived with Colin, her uniform contained no emblem or logo. She had requested the patterned uniform, as she felt it would be best to blend in.

  After she finished dressing herself and securing her hair, she headed toward the State house. It was a much longer commute than what she had experienced before. The one drawback to independent living was the State kept you on the outskirts of society.

  People in independent living were a mathematical error, something that couldn’t be planned for by the State. If it were possible for a city to have a dark corner, independent living was wedged securely in it. Their buildings were the furthest from common amenities and most civil duties.

  When she had lived with Colin, the walk had taken mere minutes to get to the State house. When she lived with Lewis, the greenhouse was attached to the top of her apartment building. With her current living situation, it took almost forty minutes of a brisk walk to travel to her civil duty.

  Most people in independent living complain about long commutes. There were two buildings adjoined by a common room, just like the one she had lived in during her school days. The only difference was they didn’t separate the males and the females; in fact, she had a male living on either side of her apartment.

  The common room was for those in independent living, and them alone. It wasn’t like the buildings where couples lived. Couples could choose which common room they wanted to go to; there was an entire network, or community—but not in independent living. There was even a small exercise facility, just enough for the two buildings, it was a large room instead of an entire floor. There was no running track, and she missed it greatly.

  Perhaps the gym was so small because most people didn’t use it. A lot of people there claimed their commute being on foot was enough to fulfill the State requirements for physical activity. Maybe they were right, because no one was forced to exercise.

  It was almost as though the people lived by a different set of rules than the rest of society. There were no rules about the company anyone kept in their apartments, or what time. Although the apartments were not set up appropriately for guests, there seemed to be no repercussions to having them. All fraternization was simply ignored by the State. As long as civil duty requirements were fulfilled and there wasn’t any trouble, the State turned a blind eye to everything else.

  Freya arrived at the State house, cleared Security, and went straight out to the gardens. No matter how long it had been, she still did everything she could to avoid Victor. Of course, she couldn’t make it look like she was avoiding him. Every time she saw him, she plastered a fake smile on her face as she greeted him. She said everything he wanted to hear; she even pretended to have affections for him, an attachment one
would have for their family. He was not the only one who could play at that game to get what he wanted. Time had not only taught her patience, but the art of deception—people were less suspicious of the ones they loved.

  Chapter 2

  “Good afternoon, everyone.” Victor took a seat at the dining table and gestured to a new-comer sitting beside Chastity. She was young and quite beautiful and held a look of innocence about her. She had large dark eyes with thick long eyelashes and a glowing smile. “I would like to introduce you to our new cook, Devina.”

  Everyone smiled and nodded, a few murmurs of a greeting, all awaiting Víctor to finish his formal introduction before any real conversation would begin.

  “I know we are all still mourning the loss of Amaia, but I am sure you will all do your best to make Devina feel welcome,” he said to the group. Most people looked down, faces solemn at the mention of Amaia. He turned to Devina. “We are a family here. It is always difficult for us to lose someone from our home, even if they only leave us temporarily.”

  He looked directly at Freya. She looked at him and nodded, trying her best to look touched by his sentiments, which naturally, she was not moved or warmed in the least. How long will he continue to bring up my leave? Anger flared in her. He had sent her away to be a spy, and twenty years later, he still acted as if he had been devastated when she left.