The Phoenix Project
Book I: Flight
Katherine Macdonald
Copyright © 2020 Katherine Macdonald
All rights reserved
"The Phoenix Project, Book I: Flight"
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except for small quotations used for the purpose of reviews.
Cover design by: Germancreative
Feather artwork by Katherine Meyrick
dedications
To my friends, and the family we are whenever we are together, and whenever we're apart.
And to my son, the little superhero who taught me how to be one.
Chapter I
My name was Eve.
It was assigned to me at birth, when I was christened “the first success”. Shortly after, they made a boy, Adam. Go figure.
I was fond of it to begin with. I was the first. The best. The original. I lorded myself over the other experiments, flaunting my specialness. I was such a snob, but I didn't know better, and for a long time, I didn't have anything else to cling to. My name was all I had until the others squirmed into my heart and made me who I really was.
When we escaped, I chose a new name. Ashe. It was the first real choice I'd ever had in thirteen years.
They didn't give the others names. Perhaps they had too many to name. Perhaps they only named us after a sense of pride. We were the first born. The leaders. I was the leader of the Alpha team. Adam the leader of Beta. They only brought us together to test us. To fight.
My nursery was a rectangular room with four concrete walls and no windows. Artificial light filtered from the ceiling. The room housed six beds, a trunk at the bottom of each for regulation clothing, and nothing else. The beds weren't always full, but for as long as I can remember, I shared that room with two other people. They were the only constants. Others came and left, but the three of us were always together. We made a perfect team. Eve and Alpha-2a and Alpha-2b. They were brothers, so identical that the scientists used to have to use their brands to identify them... at least at first. I always knew the difference between them, mainly because I could feel the presence of one of them inside my mind, all the time. It was stronger than a feeling, but less than a voice. It is difficult to explain; it was so much a part of me. I only knew the true weight of it when it was gone.
I didn't think there was anything unusual about it at the time. I thought it was the way we'd been designed. It was a very bad day for us when our keepers realised the connection between me and “Alpha-2a”. Gabriel. Gabe. My Gabe.
I cannot remember how old I was when I realised that they had numbers, rather than names, or when I knew that that wasn't right. I think I asked the kind scientist about it. There was one, just for a few years. I don't remember anything about her, other than her soft voice and the fact she always said sorry when she poked us with needles.
“Why do I have a name and the others don't?”
She smiled at me, a slight laugh dancing in the corner of her mouth. I didn't know what amused her at the time. “You're special,” she said, drawing back her syringe.
“They're special too.”
“But you were the first.”
“Adam got a name. He wasn't the first.”
“Do you think they would like names?”
“I like having one.”
A few days after, she gave me a book to read while she was running some tests. There were two angels in it, called Gabriel and Michael. That night, when I went back to the dormitory, I gave them their names. When we escaped, and I shredded mine, the others kept theirs. “You gave us ours,” Michael said, and that was the end of the matter.
We named the others that shared our cell, as well. Archer, Forrest, Moona, Abigail, Ben. Archer died in a training accident. Forrest got sick. Moona was labelled “defective”. It made me love the others more, and hate my captors. I can't remember ever wanting to be there. My training was eclipsed by a singular goal: I was getting out one day, I was taking the others with me, and I was burning our prison to the ground.
It wasn't until the accident that Gabe and I started to plan our escape. We knew we might not have much time. We were afraid of what they would do to his brother if we couldn't get out. It took weeks of careful strategising before a window of opportunity presented itself. We woke the others. We left our cell. We got to the van. The gate was open by the time the alarm sounded.
We did not burn the place to the ground. We did not all get out. Five of us left that room, and only four made it to the city.
We were on the move for twenty-four hours. At the end of that time, our captors were closing in on us. Gabe caused a distraction. I heard the gun, but I felt it too; that piece of me that was tied to him, the little part of me that I could not name, shattered in an instant. It was like being thrown into a void. I knew silence for the first time.
I led the other three to Luca, to the slum-city that skirted its borders. We knew so little of the outside world. We had been told it was a dark and dangerous place, riddled with famine and disease. They were not wrong, but it was an easy price to pay for freedom. Even in those early days, we never regretted leaving, never let ourselves for one minute pretend we were better off in a cage.
Gabe would have killed us if we had, and his memory kept us going when it would have been easier to stop.
I still think about the ones that we left, the ones that didn't escape with us, the ones that would be born afterwards. I remember a handful of others spitting off into the darkness, seizing their moment for freedom. I don't know who they were, or where they went. I know Adam wasn't among them. I remember his face as we passed his room, shaking in dismay and disappointment. He called out to me. Not to let him go, but to come back.
We never did see eye to eye.
Sometimes, I lie awake at night and think about who he fights now, and what they must do to him. Did their experiments grow with their creations? What fresh tortures did they invent? I run my fingers over the tiny pinpricks of the binary brand on my wrist, the one scar that never fades. The proof of my birth. The notion of my ownership. Mine should read something “one”. What number are they at now?
I try not to think about it. It's not my fault they were left behind. It's not my fault they exist in the first place. It's somebody else's problem.
Chapter 2
It was five years ago, almost to the day, that we escaped. Memories have a habit of bubbling up on anniversaries, don't they? Scratching at the corners of your mind, the claw of a homeless man against the window. Let me in, let me in.
There's little I can do to stop them now, crouched down on a roof, waiting for my mark to appear. I've been here an hour, a long time for thoughts to wander. Luckily, a van starts pulling into the lot.
Time to shut it off, Ashe. Gotta earn the money.
Soundlessly, I jump from the rooftop and land behind a pile of crates. The driver gets out and goes to speak to a guard at the hangar doors. They compare their charts and flick something off. The guard checks the back of the van; I spy the cargo. A metal crate, about the size of a backpack, as promised. The guard tries to remove it by himself, but realises it's too heavy. The driver mutters something about a bad back and goes to sit in the front. He pops in a couple of ear buds and flicks on some music. The guard groans and goes to find someone to help him and...
He leaves the back open.
What an idiot. Can this guy make it any easier for me?
I do the quick calculation, just to be sure. Over-confidence has cost me more than once. I can be at the back of the van in five seconds. It will take twenty to strap it to my back, and ten more to be back where I am with the extra weight. I can be back on the roof in twenty-five, over the wall in forty, home free in just under–
Thirty feet ahead of me, something scuttles behind another set of crates. I flatten myself into the darkness. Another guard? The person is similarly dressed, in dark clothes with some sort of head covering.
There's another one, slower than the first. He stops in my clear line of sight, gestures to the one in hiding. He points towards my prize.
Oh no, you do not–
I'm just about to trust in my own speed, race in there and grab it, when I notice the gun. I'm faster than a lot of things, but not a speeding bullet. No price is worth my life.
One of the interlopers covers the other while he leaps into the back of the van, but he faces a similar problem to the guard. Guess not everyone is born with super strength. He leans back out and motions for his companion to follow. He looks about him, clearly reluctant to abandon his position, but decides it's worth it. He climbs in too.
It's at this point, as they're lifting up the box between them, that the guard returns with another. They're both armed, and I only have around thirty seconds before this turns into a bloodbath.
I don't mind blood, generally speaking. I've seen a lot more of it than I'll probably see tonight. It might be the easiest course of action. Let them fight it out between the four of them, pick off whoever's left, run away with the pickings. My buyer won't mind a few bullet holes.
But if they start shooting, others could come running. They could lock the place down, hinder my escape. Plus, if I'm honest, I like to avoid fatalities if at all possible. Everyone here just wants to do their job and go home and not starve to death. And someone will be waiting for them. That part always gets me the most.
Stars above, I'm such a sap.
I sigh, and shove over one of the crates.
The guards' eyes dart towards me, too stunned at first to draw their weapons.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” I say innocently, “did you stack those? Shall I pick them up?”
I lift one easily off the ground and hurl it towards them. It catches the first guard on the legs and sends him toppling over. I have no time to waste, diving around the corner and into the warehouse before either can take a decent shot.
Superspeed or not, I only have a few seconds to hide. I leap onto one the shelves closest to the door, and wait for the unhampered guard to come racing round the corner. I sail down to greet him, lynching his rifle out of his grip and smashing the back of his head with it. A bit more violent than I'd usually go for if trying to preserve life, but I know his buddy is close by and I can't waste time choking him unconscious when there's a gun involved.
This turns out to be the right move; he's barely hit the ground before the second guard comes tearing around the corner. His finger is already on the trigger, but before he can even attempt to aim, I ram the butt of the rifle into his eye, and swing the strap around his neck. He gets in one good jab to the ribs before I locate his vagus nerve and he's down for the count.
I take a minute to catch my breath. There's a dense pain spreading through my side, but I can't stop to think about it now. As predicted, it took longer than I would have liked to down my opponent, and I know time is of the essence. How long will it take the two interlopers to make off with my cargo?
They are halfway across the lot by the time I make it outside. Thankfully, the ruckus hasn't alerted anyone else, and the two of them are distracted carrying the cargo between them. Neither notices me until I tackle one of them and wrestle him into a choke hold. His partner immediately goes for his gun, but he won't fire it while I'm holding his friend. It's too risky.
“Let go of him!”
“Does that ever work for you?”
“Shoot her, Nick!” my victim splutters.
“Are you an idiot?” I hiss, at the same time his partner does.
“Sure,” says Nick, “let's tell the shadow ninja our names, Pilot, what a brilliant idea!”
Pilot doesn't respond, mainly because I'm wrestling him closer towards the ground, careful to keep his body over mine in case this Nick gets any ideas. He keeps struggling, still motioning for Nick to shoot me.
“Nothing is worth your life!”
“He might only... wound... me...” He doesn't manage any more than that, and soon after goes completely limp. Nick's eyes widen, his grip tightening. It can't be often he sees a fully-grown man taken down by a hundred-and-twenty-pound girl. I wonder if he's thinking twice about not shooting me.
“Relax, I'm not going to kill you,” I say, rolling the body onto his side. It might be overconfident, but with the waver in his voice, and the concern over his friend, I don't think he's going to shoot me. He's young, this Nick. Probably no older than me, nineteen at most. He doesn't look as hardened as most of the folk from Terminal City, pinched by starvation, beaten by disease. Who exactly are these guys?
“You're not going to kill me?” There's a trace of a laugh in his voice, but he doesn't seem to own it. “I'm the one with the gun!”
“No,” I say. My palm fastens around the muzzle. I jerk Nick forward, swing the weapon round in my grasp, and in a few short moves, he's lying beside his friend. “I am.”
If Nick's eyes got any wider, they'd fall out of his head. I throw the weapon out of reach, and kneel beside the cargo. I attach it to my harness.
“Careful–” Nick starts, but looks immediately embarrassed for having said anything. I swing it easily onto my back and tighten the straps. “What– what are you?”
“Witty, attractive, athletically gifted...” I smirk at him. “But enough about me, darlin'. I've gotta fly.”
“We need that cargo.”
“Well, a girl's got to eat! Please don't try to do anything heroic. You're cute, I admit, but I will knock you out. And someone's gotta get your buddy out of here before those guards get up. Stay safe!”
I wish I could see his face as I bolt away from the scene, carrying a box two men struggled to carry, leaping up onto a roof, over a wall and off into the night.
Today was a good day. Nobody died, and I am unstoppable.
Chapter 3
I slow down a few streets later, and stop to catch my breath. The punch to the side smarts, and carrying the cargo isn't doing me any favours. Luckily, the drop-off point isn't far away. I decide to soldier through it.
Abe pays me promptly and has me load it into a van for one of his boys to take to a warehouse near the border wall into Luca. I don't ask what's inside, or why this package in particular is so popular. Partly because there's no point, and also because I'm anxious to get home and it's still quite the walk. We live at the top of this deserted building right on the outskirts of Luca's Terminal City, so far out you can see the ruins of the woodlands spilling into the concrete. It's part city, part jungle. Surrounded by rubble from some long-ago war and sitting right next to the scrap heap, it's hardly paradise, but it's a scrap of freedom we've moulded into a castle.
It takes me a long time to get home, and it feels even longer, climbing the stairs in the dark, with only the occasional flickering light to guide me. The price you pay for living so far out. But we needed the space. We needed to be close to the wilderness in case we needed to run, and despite my method of dispatching guards, we try not to draw too much attention to the whole super-powered thing. It's best to be as quiet as possible, most of the time.
Our apartment has one big open space, a bathroom, and three bedrooms. There was a hole in the roof when we first moved in, so we just slept in the big one together. We always had, after all. But when we started fixing up the place, we became a little more daring. Abi really wanted her own space and since she was the only one that had
any concept of style, we let her have it. Mi was still adapting to his blindness at the time; he took one of the others so that he could have a space with nothing to bump into. Plus, he was the lightest sleeper. He needed somewhere as quiet as possible. Ben and I shared for a couple of years. He liked it that way. Didn't like being alone.
Then he grew up and wanted his own space too. Mi came up with the idea of putting a curtain across this little alcove we only really used for storage. We installed a bed there with a chest for clothes and plenty of boxes for his homemade toys. Then we all had our own space. Mine was pretty bland –especially compared to the rainbow explosion that was Abi's domain– but I enjoyed having a place of my own, four walls I could do anything with. Not that I really did. Our main room was full of paintings that Abi had rescued or created, but mine only had a handful of drawings that Ben had done at school. My favourite was the one of all four of us, labelled “my family” in his juvenile handwriting. Abi had added in a fifth figure later. I almost shed a tear when I saw it.
Throwing open the door, I dump my jacket in Abi's skilfully painted basket, and am greeted immediately by the smell of something utterly delicious. Beef stew, thick with carrots and onions, and freshly-baked bread.
Abi is sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fire, sketching away, winding her spare fingers through her great mass of wiry black curls. Back at the institute, she used to look like a ghost, a slim whisper of a thing that could blow away in the wind. Something about that place dulled her, sucked the colour from her skin, made her dark eyes hollow. But she has blossomed in this land of dirt and chaos, and the vibrant colour of her soul now spills out into everything she touches. Abi was built to be a thinker, a human computer, capable of working out every probability in an instant. Her rebellion was becoming an artist, filling her world with ideas rather than absolutes.
The Phoenix Project: Book I: Flight Page 1
