Variant

by T. C. Edge

  "I remember a lot, mum. Things just...stick." I touched my head. "In here."

  She nodded, and placed her teacup and saucer down on the table. I noticed that her hands were shaking a little, the china rattling as she set it down. Her eyes returned to me, and her hands folded into her lap.

  "Your father worked with the VLA, yes," she said. "That was, oh, fifteen years ago now. I don't think they operate anymore."

  I took a silent gulp of air, wondering if this was my moment to tell her about Ford. "I, er, I've heard otherwise, actually," I said. I shrugged, keeping things light. "I've heard they're still fighting. Though, I imagine their numbers aren't what they were." I peered at her, as her eyes dropped a little in thought. "What, um...what was it like before? When dad was with them? Were they organised? What were their numbers like?"

  She let out a sigh, as though pained at having to think about it. "I suppose they were quite organised back then, at least before you were born. Things started going wrong about that time. They suffered some big losses." Another weary breath escaped her. "That's why your father left to find help. Things just...unravelled from there."

  I nodded, though didn't push too hard. My mother was always liable to suddenly shut down when speaking on such topics. I had to tread lightly.

  "And they helped you get set up after?" I asked. "They got you into the system?"

  She nodded. "I'll always be in their debt for that. Harkin was a good man, and a good leader. I suppose he's probably dead now, rest his soul."

  Harkin. The name rang a distant bell, though I couldn't place its source. I must have overheard mum saying it before, long ago.

  I took another sip of my tea, carefully digging for more information. "You never thought about staying with them?"

  She shook her head. "Not after your father failed to return. I waited for a time, but it became untenable. I had to prioritise you, Paige. You'd have had no life there among them. They were doomed, I knew it. Leaving was the only way."

  "It can't have been an easy choice."

  "It was the only choice," she said, looking up at me. "I know it's been difficult for you, hiding in plain sight, but the VLA were being strangled. It was only a matter of time before they were destroyed."

  "But they haven't been," I said. "Not completely. I met someone. Someone who still fights with them."

  My mother's eyes narrowed a little. I knew that expression well. It consumed her face any time she sensed I was getting myself into trouble, or preparing to take a risk.

  "Who?" she asked.

  "Just...a guy," I said.

  "His name? Maybe I'd remember him."

  "I doubt it. He'd have been a little kid back then. He isn't much older than me."

  She continued to stare, awaiting a proper answer.

  "Ford," I said. "Ford Carson. That's what he told me."

  Something changed in her expression. A memory, perhaps, drawn up from the depths. Her eyes moved off, thinking.

  "You recognise the name?" I asked her.

  She began nodding gently. "There was a man named Carson," she said, "back when your father was a soldier with the resistance."

  "A family name, perhaps?" I suggested. "A relation?"

  She nodded faintly.

  "What was he like?"

  "I...don't remember too well. There were many soldiers around then." She frowned, trying to think, then began nodding to herself. "Tough, yes, a bit older than your father. Tall and strong, as I recall. He fought with your father sometimes. They were...close friends." She trailed off a little, struggling as always to dwell on the subject. "I suppose this young man could be related to him," she finished with a weary breath.

  I nodded, intrigued by the prospect. He could be Ford's father, perhaps, or an uncle.

  The thought brought a smile to my face. It was a rare link to my past, helping to add some colour to the simple sketches I'd drawn in my mind, sketches of what life was like back then.

  However dangerous it was, it must have been exciting being at the heart of something real, something important. I could barely conceive of a large underground movement, of the fighting the city saw when the VLA were at their strongest. It was saddening to think that they'd fallen so far now, the skin and flesh rotted away, only the skeleton of what they were remaining.

  We need more skilled recruits, Ford had told me.

  I was starting to see just how true that must be. It was so strange that it was my mother, of all people, who was helping bring it all to light. Helping to make me realise that, somehow, it was my duty to do more.

  The smile clung to my face for a moment, before fading as I looked again at my mother. She sat in her chair, slumping a little now, the life squeezed from her feeble frame. This was what she lived for, these moments with me. Drinking her tea. Putting on her worn-down dresses. Sitting with her only daughter before the endless grind called her attention once more, and she was forced to traipse back to the factory to work her withering fingers to the bone.

  It was such a sad sight, but one that would be happening, in its various forms, all across Southbank and other parts of the city. Thousands upon thousands of miserable people, searching for some shred of joy within their dismal, wretched lives.

  Oh, the Variants were the ones in hiding, the ones being persecuted for what they were. But did the rest have it much better? Didn't they need saving too?

  And looking at my mother, I set firm my conviction.

  For all of our sakes, I had to do more.

  9

  I stood on the banks of the river, looking eastward at the network of bridges and walkways that crossed it at varying heights. Each had its own design and look, some large and sturdily built, others much narrower and simplistic.

  The biggest crossed from one side of the Bends to the other from west to east, two dozen metres wide. It had become a mini district of itself these days, filled with dens and black market shops, and ruled over by the presiding kingpin of the criminal underworld. Holding that bridge was symbolic for the gang lords of the Bends. Whoever held it was seen as the top dog.

  And currently, it was Mantis and his men who were in command.

  I stared towards it from the western bank, the night broken by the light that flourished on the main bridge - locally known as the Crossing - and the many other bridges and walkways that allowed people to pass back and forwards across the river. Some were darker than others, barely lit. Others sank deep into the depths of the dried up bed, the river little more than a muddy pit at its base.

  There were even some that were underground, old subway tracks that were remnants of an older version of the city, before the collapse. I'd never travelled though those before; they were only used by the most daring people. The custodians, I'd heard, almost never went down there. A Reaper might even think twice.

  I had wondered, of course, whether it was where some of the Variants might choose to hide, a thought that had tempted me down there to investigate on occasion. So far, I hadn't taken the risk. I preferred to stay in the open if I could. And while it was largely lawless up here, down there it was even worse.

  "All right then, I think this is the part you need."

  I glanced back from the railing at the riverbank to find Catfish shuffling towards me from his little store, his right leg dragged along sideways in a perpetual limp. It was an old injury from a deal gone bad, his kneecap shattered by one of Mantis's men several years back. There were lots of people around here like that, permanently disfigured for one reason or another.

  He joined me, passing me the little circle of metal. I inspected it briefly before nodding. "Perfect. How much?"

  "For you?" He shrugged. "Ten credits."

  "Ten credits? For a little bit of metal?"

  "Of this exact proportion and type? You wanna try to find something similar elsewhere, be my guest."

  I frowned at him, sighing, before pulling ten credits from my jacket pocket and handing them over. "It's daylight robbery," I grunted. "You should be
ashamed of yourself, Cat."

  His lips creaked into an ageing grin. I'd traded with him for some time now, though always made sure to work with a number of different black market merchants. Getting too familiar with anyone wasn't a good idea, and when buying parts, it was sensible for me to get them from multiple sources to help cover my tracks.

  Still, I was getting close enough to friendship with Catfish by this point, enough to give him his nickname at least. He had this funny, whisker-like facial hair protruding from his upper lip and chin. Around here, a lot of people had distinctive physical quirks. It was far removed from Southbank, under the iron rule of the Controller. Here, individuality was far more commonplace.

  "What's it for anyway?" he asked me, as I stashed the part in my pocket. "You buy such random bits and pieces. I can usually work out what a customer is doing, but not you." He raised his eyes, curious.

  "Whatever happened to client confidentiality?" I asked him, avoiding the question. "Would you ask one of Mantis's men the same question if they came down here?"

  He shuddered a little at the name. "You know I wouldn't."

  "Then afford me the same courtesy, Catfish." I looked to his knee. "Why don't you get that fixed up, anyway? A bit of bio-enhancement will sort it out."

  "That would be ill-tech," he said. "I'd have to get a licence to get it done officially."

  "And why don't you?"

  "Too much hassle," he said, looking out towards the Crossing. "Anyway, Mantis likes people to remember what he did to them. If he came back here and saw me with a new knee, he'd only shatter it again."

  "He's a sick bastard," I growled, looking over the dried up river, so busy with links and bridges and blooming, multi-coloured light. "Someone needs to put him down."

  Catfish's mouth tore open into an incredulous laugh. "Yeah, that'll be the day. Even the other crime lords are afraid of him. He's untouchable."

  "No one's untouchable."

  He looked over at me, interested. "How old are you? I don't think I've ever asked. You can't be more than, what, seventeen, eighteen?"

  I side-glanced at him, though kept my posture facing out towards the river. "Something like that."

  I tended not to give out personal details. No age. No proper name. Nothing about where I lived, or what I did. I came here a ghost and left the same.

  "Well, whatever you are, you're old enough to know better. Mantis has the backing of the Controller. Only a fool would try to take him down. That's why he's been king here for years. The other bosses are fighting for second spot."

  I continued to stare out at the Crossing. It was Saturday night now, and both sides of the Bends - the so-called Westbends and Eastbends - would be busy, the Crossing that linked them the same. Drugs and alcohol and other substances would be liberally enjoyed. It was the most dangerous, but also the best, time to be here. You never quite knew what you might see or hear...

  "Thanks for the part, Cat," I said, turning to face the old man. "I'll see you again soon, I'm sure."

  I took a step away.

  "Big plans tonight?"

  I stopped and turned to look at him. He continued to eye with me some stern curiosity.

  "I can see that look in your eye," he said. "Don't do anything stupid now. Whatever you're up to, it's not worth it. You seem like far too nice a girl for this part of town. I doubt you even live around here."

  My eyes must have flickered, my face giving something away. He raised a smile and nodded, seeing that he was right.

  "You want my advice?" he went on. "Go home, and don't come back here. The Bends are growing more dangerous by the day. A girl like you won't last."

  "You think?" My voice came out low, defiant. I didn't like assumptions being made about me, based upon how I looked. I was capable of a lot more than he knew.

  "It's just what I see," he went on. "Take my advice, or leave it. It's up to you."

  He turned and shuffled away, dragging his right leg through the door into his cluttered little shop. There were a few such places here in the Westbends, the 'safer side', if you could call it that. I did business with a few traders around here, and a few others elsewhere. I might have to take a break from seeing Catfish for a while, I thought. He was one of my top guys, but was starting to figure me out.

  I withdrew, moving back from the river and onto the main street. It was busy, as expected, the buildings less uniform than in Southbank. There, they were built for purpose, a network of streets and units, all designed as part of a whole. Here, as with the people, the buildings held their own individuality.

  Some were like mini fortresses. Others were little more than shacks. The old and new were mingled together, thick stone buildings of a bygone time often taken by the gangs as hideouts and strongholds, the poorest littering the streets and living in whatever cracks and crevices they could find and fashion.

  You were never far from danger here, violence commonplace, blood ever staining the streets. There were clubs and underground drinking holes, places of vice and villainy, the depravity run by the gangs. Yet I enjoyed it here more than elsewhere. No matter the possible danger, no matter the risk, I felt alive when I entered the Bends.

  It was, perhaps, the only pocket of humanity that truly lived in this city.

  Moving along the street, I deviated down an alley, leaving the bustle behind. I blinked through the murky darkness and made sure the coast was clear, before opening up my trench coat and pulling out my multi-function pistol. The part I'd bought from Catfish was a simple replacement for the circular switch I used to change the settings on the weapon.

  I quickly set about removing the old switch, and replacing it with the new one. The old one had been catching lately, making it harder to change settings quickly. In a do or die situation, that wasn't good enough. I had a feeling one of those was just around the corner.

  I tested the switch a few times, flicking it from one setting to the next. Satisfied, I returned the pistol to its holster and wrapped my trench coat tight. I turned and headed back onto the main street. In the distance, off towards Southbank, I could just about hear the alarms of curfew beginning to wail.

  Over there, people would be rushing for their homes. Here, few cared. It was the tradeoff, really, of living in the Bends. Southbank was mostly safe, but dull and tightly policed and monitored. Here, the people lived with a greater degree of freedom, but poverty, crime, and murder rates were wildly high, and many lived in rampant squalor.

  I was happy, in a way, to transition between both worlds.

  I scanned the street as I went, ever watchful here as I shifted along with the crowds. Few paid me any attention, hidden in my trench coat, my face stained with soot and grime to help conceal my appearance. I played the part of a scavenger, slinking about, searching for scraps. There were many of them here, the human vermin of the Bends, scattering if the custodians came through, or a Reaper showed his face.

  And it was the latter, especially, that I was wary of. They blended in with the masses, each of them unique, hard to distinguish. The custodians were conspicuous in their black chrome armour, marching in their units, rumbling in their tank-like cars.

  But the Reapers kept to the shadows, hunting silently, watching. And if ever you managed to spot one, it was usually too late.

  The main street began to curve, working northwards as it headed towards the Crossing. Other paths and alleys branched off it, some dark, some light, short or long, wide or narrow. This place was a jumble, a melting pot. In places pitch black and intimidating, in others lit vibrantly with advertising boards and screens.

  I shuffled along, my posture crouched and submissive to maintain my ruse, glancing around from beneath my intentionally messed up hair. Ahead, a particularly large screen was playing the latest episode of Reaper Wars. A large crowd gathered around in the square at the edge of the riverbank, watching. Bets were being made, alcohol drunk. There was a wild sense of excitement in the air.

  I stopped for a second, joining the back of the cr
owd, staring up as the commentator called out the action. The arena was a series of warehouses this time - it was different each week - a sprawling space in which the action could unfold. It looked to me like one Variant had already been hunted down and killed. Another two were still on the run. They'd rarely make it far, or take down any Reapers with them.

  The atmosphere was electric; it made me feel sick. Filthy men and women stood frothing at the mouths as they watched, screaming at the screen, wagering what money they'd scrounged or stolen. The public screens that showed the action always drew in the most unseemly sorts. I could feel my hatred boiling as I stood there, hidden away at the back, glaring at the loudest and most unpleasant, their ignorance so hateful and vile.

  I felt a slight shove behind me, as I stood there, scowling.

  I turned sharply, my pulse spiking.

  It was nothing but a drunkard, jostling to get a better position. I watched him lumber away beneath his black raincoat, his back hunched over, head covered in a hood.

  It gave me a second to think, to calm my expression. I only realised it then; I had broken one of my cardinal rules - never show your aversion in public. Never give a hint that you care for your kind.

  It was time to go.

  I stepped backwards and, once more, fell quickly into a cowering posture. Through the wild locks of black hair that fell over my forehead, I glanced around the crowd, hoping my reaction hadn't been spotted.

  My hope didn't last long.

  There, standing off to one side, I caught sight of someone looking right at me. His face was lean, verging on gaunt, grim as a warmed up corpse. His eyes held a hollow, staring quality, his frame mostly hidden within a dark brown coat.

  I turned away from him, dropped my eyes, and began working back into the crowd. My chest thudded as my mind brought forward a single thought.

  Reaper.

  I kept my composure, slipping into the throng as it moved towards the Crossing. Nearby, I saw a group of scavengers digging away at a pile of trash at the edge of an alley. I diverted towards them, scurrying, spotting an opportunity. They reacted unfavourably to my sudden arrival, hissing me away, their filthy nails long like claws, their faces all but feral.