The Colony In Red (Book 1 in New World Order Trilogy)

Chapter 1: Kayla

Kayla's P.O.V.

We all harbor secrets. Hateful thoughts about the block, what we did to survive, who we are.

My parents paid the ultimate price for theirs when ruthlessly murdered by other rogues in the untamed Wilderness of our undeveloped planet where we used to live. I was a mere 9 years old. But I'm not a rogue anymore.
Now, I'm an inmate of KTL Block.

"Khh!" my chip implant awakes me at once. I attempt to jump up-bolt, but only manage to collide with the confines of my sleep pod - the limited space offers no grace for rising with urgency. "Ouch," I rub my stinging elbows.

"Good morning, inmates," an eerily pleasant voice echoes throughout the drab sleeping quarters. "It is day 7.295. Please be mindful of each other and respect the rules at all times," the perfunctory message rings out, a daily ritual in the block. "I wish you all a productive day at work and - to those having their free day of the month - a wonderfully relaxing time. Don't forget, your hard work will give yourselves a better tomorrow."

The Artificial Intelligence software running the entire Block is called Omnia. It's a state-of-the-art program that controls all inmates and our robot guards.

My overhead black screen lights up, casting an artificial glow in the dim quarters.

"Open recents, Om," I say a command.

Immediately, the screen presents five options:
1. Dispense hand sanitizer
2. Open the safety deposit box
3. Lower the pod to ground level
4. Schedule a psychologist session
5. Dispense purified oxygen mask

I tap the first two options, placing my hands beneath two tiny openings in the upper part of my capsule. Fluids, be it water or disinfectant, flow through these conduits that are connected to the central control panel.

Around me, a cacophony of voices erupts from the other quarter-million sleep pods, creating a disconcerting symphony of awakening. A perk of having microchips embedded under the skin of our wrists and necks is that we all rise simultaneously - an eerie demonstration of technological control.

Following the routine, I rub the alcoholic liquid between my hands before retrieving my brown contact lenses from the now opened safe on the pod's right side. A gift from my parents since infancy, I've donned them without fail every day of my life.

"The capsule will be dispatched to ground level in one minute," Omnia announces.

Our sleeping quarters are a colossal room accommodating a hollow cuboid that contains two hundred and fifty double-sided rows of sleeping cubes and a hundred and twenty-five columns on each of its four sides. The sleeping pods are propped up with a myriad of thick steel rods that run all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

Positioned in the inner fifty-fifth row from the ground and ninety-ninth column of the sleeping cuboid that accommodates a quarter-million others like me, I prepare for the descent.

This cramped edifice, our shared living space, is where we toil, dine, exercise, and sleep. Little else punctuates the monotony. I swiftly run my fingers over my bald head to check the status of my scalp. Smooth - I don't have to wear my wig today.

Gathering the last remnants from the safe - an eyebrow dye and a plastic container of homemade skin-darkening lotion - I tuck them into my pockets as Omnia signals the lowering process. "Ground level descent commencing," she says.

My pod stirs as it's lifted off its reinforcement rods and is then sent forward to the inner part of the cuboid - into the hollow barred space made for lifting and lowering capsules.