The Facility

by Eliza Green

  The rebels.

  An approaching truck skidded to a halt a short distance away. Jason considered running back to Essention. But the headlights dazzled him into submission. Max was close by, his hands raised in surrender.

  The driver and passenger got out of the truck dressed in green military fatigues. The driver raised a gun.

  ‘Stop right there!’

  The second man held a long metal tube with three holes on one side. It emitted a blue light.

  Jason didn’t dare move as the light of the scanner reached him and the others.

  ‘They’re clear.’

  The driver kept the gun on them.

  ‘Try anything and I won’t hesitate. I have people ready to fire on my orders if I miss.’

  Max lowered his hands a little. ‘Easy. We’re not going anywhere.’

  The driver gestured with the gun. ‘Get on the truck.’

  Jason looked at Max, who was already walking to the back of the truck. He waited by the back door while the others climbed on.

  Jason squeezed himself into a spot on one of the benches. Max climbed in last, looking worried. The driver closed the door and Jason heard a lock or a bolt being drawn. He looked down at his hands caked in mud, and his grimy knees and boots.

  The truck bumped over uneven land forcing Jason to grip the underside of the bench to keep steady.

  ‘What are they going to do with us?’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Max. ‘No talking unless I tell you. Got it?’

  Jason concentrated on the bumps and divots in the road. The truck stopped a short distance later and the man with the gun ushered them out.

  They were outside Foxrush, a town protected by sheets of corrugated iron attached to steel fences. Cameras were attached to the top of the fences, and a shallow trench had been dug around the property. Dirt was piled up across the entrance and around the perimeter, like a ring of salt.

  Jason remembered Foxrush as a kid. His father had left him with one of the farmer’s wives while he consulted with her husband about vertical farming methods. Foxrush had the best crop yield of all the nearby towns. The farmer’s wife had shown Jason the biggest collection of radio equipment he’d ever seen. Strange, mangled voice transmissions had given him goosebumps.

  But this once-innocuous farming town had a new, less-welcoming feeling to it. It was clear now the rebels had fed Max and Charlie the information about the crop revival. They had walked into a trap.

  Jason exited the truck slowly, anxious not to rattle the man with the gun. The truck stayed outside the main gates while their group was brought to a smaller side entrance. Jason’s pulse thrummed in his ears.

  How long before the rebels would shoot him, like his parents? Another blue light scanned them and a final wire gate opened.

  He swallowed hard and entered the camp.

  Jason saw the once-pristine farms in the distance; their white plastic covers now torn and tatty. Abandoned houses lined the entrance to the town, and the main road widened as their group moved away from the perimeter.

  People in green military garb swarmed everywhere. This must be what prison felt like.

  A young woman dressed in green fatigues and black boots approached them, gun in hand. The barrel was pointed off to the side. The driver whispered something to her and walked away.

  ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ someone said.

  ‘Quiet,’ hissed Max. He followed the woman holding the gun.

  Jason and the others followed Max through the centre of town. Temporary lights positioned on the roofs of houses brightened their route in the dark. A short distance ahead, Jason saw a large white tent surrounded by several smaller pitches. As they got closer, some of the smaller tents were revealed to be gun and ammo stores. Another held supplies such as ropes, small and large knives, binoculars and camouflage gear. Every normal boy’s dream.

  The young woman pointed inside the large tent. Max entered first and the others followed. The woman stayed outside.

  Jason looked around the space with a foldout table in the middle of the room and three chairs. Max perched on the edge of the table.

  Something about this felt off. Jason’s skin prickled as he stared at Max whose gaze was on the ground. Where was the prison cell? Why did Max look as if he was about to announce something to the group?

  ‘Max, what’s going on?’ said Jason. ‘What is this place?’

  Their leader looked up at him. ‘It’s a rebel camp.’

  ‘Yeah, but something’s not right.’

  ‘It was the only way to get you here.’

  Max stood up and began to pace. His heavy black boots made a crunching sound on the dirt floor that only escalated Jason’s fears.

  Realising what this was, Jason stumbled backwards towards the exit. The woman with the gun appeared and blocked his escape.

  He glared at Max.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Max stopped pacing.

  ‘My name is Colonel Roberts. I’m the leader of the rebellion. I brought you here to tell you Praesidium has been feeding you a pack of lies.’

  24

  ‘There are fresh reports of rebel activity in an area to the south of Praesidium. How much time before they reach the town of Pottersfield?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘We should act quickly, to stem their power.’

  ‘Not until we are sure we can control them. Killing some will only incite the rebellion.’

  ‘Then we must build another urbano. Another Essention in the south of the region.’

  ‘We must first be sure they aren’t planning to relocate.’

  Faces flashed and disappeared on small squares of a larger black screen in front of Carissa. The Collective preferred to speak in a unified way. But on occasion, individuals would surface.

  She approached the white podium in front of the screen in the Great Hall. She laid her palm flat on the podium and waited for her thoughts and memories to pass into it.

  In one corner of the screen the distorted image of Quintus appeared.

  ‘173-C, your experiences yesterday were quite varied. You seem to enjoy doing many things, unlike your brethren.’

  ‘I like to learn. Watching them helps me learn faster.’

  ‘But you are no longer interested in what Praesidium has to offer.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

  Not since my Original died.

  Carissa would erase that thought from tomorrow’s offering.

  ‘I am a child, Quintus. Please do not be concerned. Curiosity and boredom are natural for my age.’

  Quintus’ distorted face smiled. ‘173-C, you have shown remarkable progress since your Original passed away. The Collective is proud of you. The Ten has remarked on how valuable your experiences have been. Continue to watch the participants, as before.’

  ‘Thank you, Quintus.’

  The Collective, made up of ten voices, ten masters presiding over Praesidium—continued to speak as if Carissa had left the room.

  She stood in the white room, staring at the multiple screens that never held one face for too long.

  ‘We have a week at best,’ Unos said.

  ‘They’re shielding their location from us,’ said Septimus. ‘We cannot pinpoint their location on the outside.’

  ‘Are they in the towns?’ said Quintus.

  ‘Some of them. We believe others are already in Essention.’

  A brief silence. ‘We must not allow the rebels to divert us from our mission. We must protect the young at all costs. They are the most vulnerable, the most easily swayed by their truths. The young will help to free us.’

  A second face—a white female the same age as Quintus—appeared to his left. The image started out blurry then became clearer.

  ‘173-C,’ said Octavius. ‘Talk to the Inventor. Tell him to prepare the machines. We must build another urbano. Then relocate the young as before to protect them from the rebels’ influence.’

  ‘What will the urbano�
�s name be?’ said Carissa.

  ‘Names do not matter,’ the voices chorused. ‘Only the purpose of what we build.’

  New faces flashed onto the screen—Septimus, Unos, Quatrius—and disappeared just as quickly. The Ten’s voices sounded like hushed murmurs in the room, but Carissa heard them clearly through her cerebral unit.

  ‘All that matters is we continue with the programme. Another Arcis will help us to get faster results. Praesidium must be ready to act in this war.’

  ‘What about the rebels?’ Carissa asked.

  Quintus’ face shifted, and his mouth settled into a deformed smile. ‘Patience, 173-C. With time, we will flush them out.’ His almond-shaped eyes sharpened. ‘Now hurry, speak to the Inventor. Tell him to initiate the protocols to set the plan in motion. We need more subjects. We shall begin building the new urbano tonight.’

  ‘And the Guardians?’

  ‘Their presence will keep curious onlookers away from the build until we are ready to receive the young. We cannot risk germ transference.’

  Carissa nodded. The Copies and wolf-like Guardians were as vulnerable to natural diseases as the Originals. They had all built up immunity against the diseases, but the wolves were also germophobes.

  She disconnected from the podium and hurried from the room, the dirty hem of her long white dress trailing on the ground behind her. The muted clacking of her heels accompanied her down the tiled corridor beyond the Collective room and out into a glass lobby that marked the entrance to the Learning Centre.

  The midday sun hit the glass at an awkward angle. Carissa squinted and cupped a hand against her forehead as she crossed the circular courtyard to the front of the Learning Centre. She hated the brightness in Praesidium, often referred to as the White City by the Original children who visited the library.

  A strange sensation in her chest slowed her approach to a long white building with a light-grey door. She pressed a hand to her chest. Something was wrong. She fumbled with the handle of the door and entered the stairwell.

  The darkness gave her relief from the pain of her new human eyes. But painful stabs in her chest slowed her descent. The pain subsided enough, and she hurried a short distance along a dimly lit corridor before it began again.

  She entered the Inventor’s workshop. A large digging machine sat in the middle of the room with the retractable roof. The roof allowed the Inventor to move the machines and wolves in and out of the city with ease.

  The Inventor was in the far corner, where he always seemed to be, hovering over one of the wolves. It was set on its side, the exoskeleton held open with a strong winch. It looked like the Inventor was upgrading the beast’s internal parts. More wolves stood off to the side, eerily still and in shutdown mode. Carissa wished she could stay down here while the sun shone, just like the Inventor, who never saw the light of day.

  Spare parts for the Guardians dominated the roof space. On the opposite side of the room were the machines that built the urbanos: white, hovering platforms capable of carrying heavy loads, with tools for arms and lasers for eyes.

  The Inventor looked up as she approached; his face was smeared with grease.

  ‘They want to build another urbano,’ said Carissa. She steadied herself against the nearest counter.

  The Inventor nodded and removed his glasses. ‘I heard. Close to Pottersfield.’

  Carissa gripped the counter for support. ‘How fast can you make it happen? They want to protect the young.’

  She thought she saw the Inventor shudder. As an Original, he was more prone to emotional outbursts than the Copies. He regained composure and calmly gestured towards the machines.

  ‘They’re all operational, so as soon as you need them.’ He placed his fists on his hips and looked up at the retractable roof. ‘How many are we expecting the urbano to hold?’

  ‘Upwards of five thousand.’

  ‘We’ll need a week to make the urbano big enough.’

  ‘Can you do it in three days?’

  The Inventor frowned as if in deep thought. Carissa found the Originals fascinating. They didn’t process thought as fast as the Collective or Copies.

  ‘Yes. If the wolves help, then I don’t see why not.’

  ‘I’ll let the others know.’ Carissa touched a second circular disc, just above her ear. It allowed her to speak to other Copies, and she spoke rapidly to one. The Inventor watched, waiting for her to finish.

  ‘Quintus wants to move before the rebels have time to react. Have them ready to go in an hour.’

  The Inventor nodded and turned to the beast on his operating table. But when Carissa didn’t leave, he looked back at her.

  ‘Was there something else?’

  Carissa covered her heart with her hand. ‘There’s something wrong with me. My heart feels strange, stressed.’

  He gestured to a second table and cleaned his hands with some gel. ‘Take off your dress, Carissa, and lie down.’

  She yanked her dress over her head. Underneath, she wore a white camisole and white leggings. She slipped the camisole strap off one shoulder and lay down.

  The Inventor pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He selected a spotless scalpel from a tray of instruments. Carissa flinched at his cool touch as he made a cut in her skin, then pulled back the flap to reveal a metal cage. Using the edge of the scalpel, he eased the cage open, connected her system to an external pump and pulled out her heart. It was wet and sticky, constructed from titanium encased in muscle fibre. He laid it on the tray and pressed down on a soft spot until the cover sprang open. He clamped two sections, pulled out a metal tube and examined it in the light.

  ‘Your pulmonary artery is faulty.’ He flicked the dented tube with his finger. ‘It’s restricted here, stopping the blood from flowing as it should. You’re lucky your heart is small. Any more stress and you’d have been flopping around on the floor like a wet fish.’

  That thought seemed to amuse the Inventor, but not Carissa as she continued to draw short breaths. He tossed the tube aside and rooted around in a stainless-steel drawer for a new one.

  The Inventor worked fast to fix a new tube in place. She felt every tug, every new connection, in her chest. Then he slotted the repaired heart back into her chest cavity, closed the cage and lasered the skin-flap closed. She flinched as the skin puckered, red and angry, along the seam.

  Carissa sat up and checked her pulse. ‘That’s better. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, Carissa.’

  She stared at him for a moment. ‘Inventor, why do you call me that?’

  ‘It’s your name.’

  ‘My name is 173-C. I choose to call myself Carissa.’

  The Inventor smiled. ‘Carissa is a name, miss. 173-C is a designation.’

  ‘Why do you stay here, in Praesidium?’

  ‘Because I’m too valuable to the Collective.’ The Inventor offered her a quick smile and guided her out. ‘Now, tell the others I’ll be ready on time.’

  Carissa climbed the stairs with less effort than before.

  The bright sunlight pinched her naked eyes once more. Human eyes were too strange; too sensitive to the smallest change.

  She spotted two women, identical in appearance, walking on different paths. The Copy was dressed in a white dress while the Original wore brightly coloured clothes. 128-O, or Original Vanessa, Praesidium’s librarian, seemed in a rush as she carried several books under her right arm. Originals worked in the zones containing the business plaza, the school and the library. The Copies worked in the other zones that served the Collective ten.

  Originals and Copies rarely interacted with each other. The Collective didn’t see the need since both sets possessed the same memories. But Carissa had begun to notice differences overlooked by the minds that controlled the city.

  She hadn’t given it much thought until her Original, 173-O, died a few months ago. As the only living person left with the memories of her Original’s life, Carissa started to pay attention.

  Carissa
hid thoughts about those differences from the Collective.

  She walked on. Through blurry, teary eyes, she nodded to other white-clad Copies. Their interaction never stepped above polite or functional. Carissa preferred the Originals’ way of communicating: laughing, talking too fast and too often. The Collective had deemed it unnecessary for Copies and Originals to interact in Praesidium. But in Arcis, the Copy supervisors interacted daily with the participants.

  Her communication disc pinged and snapped her out of her thoughts. Quintus was calling her back to the Great Hall.

  She needed to forget about Arcis and prioritise work. Soon there would be another urbano and another batch of teenagers to receive, to keep safe from the dangerous rebels. Quintus said Praesidium could help them more than the rebels ever could. Praesidium had the best medical technology, high-yielding farming methods and largest book library on the planet.

  On her way back to the Great Hall, her thoughts drifted to Arcis and the teenagers in the programme.

  Later. Watching them had become the highlight of Carissa’s day.

  She yearned to see the latest programme footage. She, too, was an original: the only copy of a girl who once lived in the city.

  The teenagers’ lives, their drama, excited her.

  Because, like Carissa, they were one of a kind.

  25

  The temperature outside the tent had plummeted to a single digit. Inside the chilly space, Jason shivered in his brown tunic and black trousers. But it wasn’t the cool air that bothered him most.

  Max perched on the edge of the trestle table, his muscular arms folded. He watched them, thick brows drawn forward.

  Why had Max and Charlie tricked them to come to this rebel camp? He couldn’t hide his shock as he stared at Max, waiting for an explanation.

  The woman with the gun remained by the door. Still, the silence dragged on. As much as Jason wanted to blame Max and Charlie for the situation he was in, he had left Essention of his own free will. Compliance free.