Free Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1) by Lydia Chelsea Page A

should have been the end of it.  I should have come back alone.”  He shakes his head.  “I wish I could take it back, I really do. I don’t regret getting you out of harm’s way, of course, but that I somehow brought you with me.”
    “You can’t take it back,” I mumble down at my hands, clenching my jaw so I don’t cry. I force myself to see things from his perspective.  He was only trying to help, and now he’s got to live with the fact that he might have single-handedly ruined my life. And I do, too.
    It’s just so impossible.  The logical part of me fully accepts that he did the only thing he thought he could to help me, but something dark and violent in me twists and curls around inside and fights for dominance. I want to leap on him and pound him with my fists until I don’t feel so homesick I might die.
    I’ve only seen this part of me a few times before, like when I punched Jake Armadice. Or once when I was in a self-defense class my dad forced me to take.  I figured if there was ever an acceptable time to get violent with someone that was it. The instructor appreciated that side of me. The other times, I am not proud of, even if they weren’t altogether unwarranted.
    Ritter squeezes my hand.  “Look, let’s try not to focus on the outcome right now.” He frowns. “That sounds stupid when the next thing I was going to say was that it would be best if you try to spend this time before the Tribunal learning as much as possible about Concordia.”
    I don’t bother to agree. It would only rub everything he’s feeling back in his face.  “Don’t you have to…function?”
    He brightens. “I have a function,” he agrees, one corner of his mouth lifting. “After I wrap up a few things, I’ll be excused from functioning until the Tribunal.”
    “What do you do?” I ask.
    “I’m a herald,” he says, rising from the sofa. Cocking his head, he thinks about something for a moment. “That’s a journalist to you.  I write the news bits you’ll find on the scape.” Scrunching up his face, he adds, “Internet. You might find me very useful in the near future.”
    I don’t ask him why.  I know what he means.  He means if the Tribunal confirms that I will not be allowed to go home.
     

 
     
    6
     
    I AM STILL wearing the caretaker’s uniform Strega dredged up, careful to keep my left arm and wrist covered because Ritter doesn’t want to have to explain things to anyone.  He insists it’s not shame or embarrassment, but I don’t believe him.
    “It’s more for you than anyone else,” he insists. 
    Ritter tries to teach me everything as we go, starting with the meld hall. “Doors are called melds, for the way they blend into the wall around them.  So we’re standing in the meldway.”
    He picks up two disks a little larger and thicker than dollar coins and says, “You’re going to need these.”  He holds up his forearm, the one with the silvery tattoo, pointing to it with a game show flourish.  “All I need to open melds, ride the slides, buy things…right here. But since you don’t have one, this chip is for the melds,” he says, handing me the silver colored one, “and this one is for anything you need to purchase. It’s a spare copy of my luxury allotment.  A portion of my yearly allotment gets loaded to this each week.  We need to get you something to wear besides a caretaker’s uniform.”
    I look down at myself.  The shirt and pants are perfectly comfortable, but I know I can’t wear them every day all day long.
    As we step outside, Ritter begins to explain about the address system on Concordia.  Everything is addressed using one’s own keeping as the point of reference.
    “Which means if I ever move, I have to reconfigure my entire address log…not the other way around.  It’s a real pain.”
    All addresses relate to slide numbers and station numbers. After Ritter breaks down a few addresses for me, I ask him to stop.
    “I’ll get it,” I tell