Rising Tomorrow (Roc de Chere Book 1) by Mariana Morgan (essential reading txt) 📕

Rising Tomorrow

Roc de Chere Book 1

Mariana C. Morgan

Copyright © 2021 Mariana C. Morgan

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real people and situations is purely coincidental.

Do not copy or reproduce it without permission, or I shall haunt you in your dreams!

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Prologue

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

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

Epilogue

Author’s note

About Mariana C. Morgan

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank a number of people who have helped me immensely.

My late grandmother, Mariana, for the love of writing, creativity and self-expression. I wish she was still here, able to read this.

My high school Polish teacher, Jadwiga Perkowska, who always encouraged me to write. She gave me the best compliment ever (loosely translated): ‘You won’t do well on your school exams as your writing style doesn’t tick the standardised school boxes, but it’s raw and real, and I like it.’ I like to think I continue NOT ticking any standardised boxes.

My friend Alasdair Nunn for his never-ending patience with checking on my maths and physics and in general responding to my ‘Sanity check, please! I just wrote this!’

My editor and proofreader for turning my manuscript into a smooth-flowing read.

And finally, all my friends and family who kept me going. Writing this book has been an eye-opening, overwhelmingly positive experience, but I know I couldn’t have done it without your support.

Thank you!

Prologue

Military Intelligence Service Headquarters

Somewhere in the Alps

Afro-European Alliance

Tuesday 3 March 2725

‘When?’

Major Aisha Toscano winced as the artificially distorted voice grated against her eardrums. Almost against her wishes, her head moved to the right to look at the black silhouette displayed on a large holo-screen against a wall. The wall had a rough stone look, typical of the Military Intelligence Service Headquarters (MIS HQ) buried deep under what used to be the Austrian Alps, back when there used to be Austria and other countries. The silhouette moved just like a real person would, breathing and talking, and gesticulating when appropriate, but there were no facial details visible to the naked eye. Or to the fanciest spook software, for that matter.

No change there, Toscano mused. Just the same dark and mysterious shape and artificial voice gracing us with its presence.

It was all that they knew of the person who gave his, or maybe her, orders and oversaw their progress.

Toscano spent the odd few minutes here and there mulling it over, pondering ‘the General’s’ actual powers. Was the person behind the silhouette avatar actually in charge of their fight against the System? Or were they simply a figurehead, used for communication purposes as an additional layer of security?

Or paranoia, her inner voice quipped, and Toscano had to suppress a sarcastic smirk at the thought and order the corners of her mouth to remain still.

Oh, the paranoid security precautions made perfect sense; if anyone knew just how crucial that was, it was Major Aisha Toscano. It just looked so desperate and exaggerated and—

‘Within forty-eight hours, sir,’ Colonel Mathias Larsen replied. ‘The doc swears he has done his usual excellent job. The BCCs are in and there is no trace of rejection, and the scarring will be gone within hours.’

The BCC, the birth chip certificate, was a bio-implant given to every individual in the Afro-European Alliance at birth. Theoretically it couldn’t be replaced. In practice, what one needed was expert skills and a lot of money. The MIS had both.

Toscano flexed her wrist instinctively and glanced at a narrow, barely visible red line running along the outside of her forearm. The new BCC was there; for all intents and purposes she was no longer Major Aisha Toscano. In just under two days, she would report to one of Lyon’s police stations for her new assignment, and whenever her wrist passed near a BCC scanner it would identify her as Sergeant Carlotta Ingram. All the documents and files anyone would be able to find would support that fact, down to a perfectly falsified birth certificate naming her as a third child to a jobless Leech and a virtual reality prostitute. Technically, as someone with a job, she herself wouldn’t be a Leech anymore, a term coined by the Elite to describe those beneath them, but the burden of one’s birth was frustratingly persistent when it came to the treatment one received from others. Or mistreatment, as it was more often than not.

In addition to the BCC, she no longer looked like Major Aisha Toscano. Her physical appearance, such as hair and eye colour but also facial features and skin pigmentation, had been changed using advanced nano-technology. It would be a while before she no longer saw a stranger each time she looked into a mirror.

The nano-transformation was mercifully allowed to run its course at a near-optimal speed while they arranged other aspects of their cover stories. The nights were the worst, when there was nothing to distract them from the burning sensation of the nanobots restructuring their physical features, but the discomfort remained mild enough that they were able to dispense with heavy nano-drugs that would knock them out, numbing all sensations in the process.

‘The major’s transfer orders call for her to report to Lyon’s 4th Police Station, Northern District, on Thursday morning,’ Colonel Larsen continued, and his voice wavered only the tiniest bit as he tried not to grate his teeth.

Toscano resisted the temptation to turn her head to look at him. From the corner of her eye, she could see his face tighten and his eyes narrow ever so slightly just as the third, and last, person physically present in the