by Julian North
They don’t show up on conventional scanners. Just like my repulse spray. As far as I knew, only California had biotech like that.
Dillion wasn’t done. “Also, those of us going inside need to suit up and practice marching. We need to look the part for their remote security cameras. We’ll be watched almost all the way in and out. Only the laboratories will be without remote monitoring.”
For a moment I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. Dillion retrieved a large duffle bag filled with the strange skins I’d seen in the closet when Mateo had been in the safe house, the ones with Korean lettering. We took turns changing in the closets. The high collar clawed at the back of my neck. The suits lacked temperature controls or fit-to-wearer features like our Tuck skins, but they were noticeably thicker. The users needed to be insulated against external environmental conditions of some kind. The outfit was stiff and uncomfortable compared to a Tuck skin, but the extra padding allowed me to conceal my repulse spray within the long sleeve of my non-visered arm.
Dillion placed us in a line, and we marched as if we were soldiers in the army. He monitored spacing, pace, cadence, and eye movement. Again and again, back and forth, until we had it perfect. Then came turns. Then standing at attention, eyes forward. We simulated marching time from the MTS train to the guard station, practiced our exiting formation and walking speed. We did that drill a dozen times, with Brice and Helena calling out times. Dillion led us, acting in the role of drill sergeant.
“Why?” I asked, able to stand no more of the monotony. “Rose-Hart has kids marching in jumpsuits made in corporate Korea in their top secret research facility?”
“If you want to stay alive in there, you’ll practice until you’ve got it exactly right,” Dillion warned. “Let’s go again.”
We wasted our remaining days marching. Nythan looked bored but went along without audible complaint. Alissa seemed as frustrated as I was. Only Lara seemed focused. Indeed, she almost looked happy—a first for her.
We ate fabricated protein bars for our meals and slept in cushioned bags on the floor. Dillion, Brice, or Helena were always around. I wanted to speak to Nythan, but there wasn’t an opportunity. Our visers were being jammed. Mission security, Dillion said. He kept a close watch on me.
Saturday arrived. Mission Day. I kept rubbing my hands on my suit to keep them dry. I fought down the urge to pace about. I thought I had this figured out. Nythan, Alissa, Lara, even Havelock were all people I understood. I hadn’t counted on Dillion. I hadn’t counted on highborn being part of the team, or the second interior room.
We reviewed the schematics and practiced the marching drills during our last morning and afternoon. Brice and Helena established themselves at desks, surrounded by terminals. I overheard enough to know they were communicating with others. Most likely in the tunnels. Havelock paced, but kept his exterior of aplomb.
He came up next to me as I fiddled with the foreign viser on my arm, towering like an ancient tree. “This is our chance, Daniela. The opportunity to change the world. To remake the fate of this nation, perhaps of all people.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I asked.
“People will do what they need to do to survive; right or wrong, they will do it. That’s what happened in my home, in Rwanda. One people nearly annihilated another.” I heard the rare tinge of emotion in his voice. It reminded me of that flash of rage I had witnessed back at his house. “The same will happen here soon. Those who think they are superior will destroy those they think are less. This plague the highborn have developed will spread and become the ultimate weapon of silent genocide. Unless we stop it—completely. Unless you stop it. Remember that when you’re inside.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
We set out into the night, each of us attired in a dark Korean-made skin, except Dillion, who wore a dapper silver-and-black suit typical of a Rose-Hart executive. We crossed the street to the nearby construction site. Great mounds of dirt had been piled in seemingly random patterns, heavy earthmoving equipment had been parked, and portable toilet silos erected. Dillion led us to the second of the four free-standing toilets, unlocked the door with a sweep of his hand and stepped inside.
“Keep a steady grip on the way down.”
I heard Nythan chuckle. “Classic.”
I stepped inside the tiny cubicle to find that instead of a toilet seat, there was a hole and a ladder leading down into darkness. The odor of chemical disinfectant assailed me. I hoped it was coming from the nearby facilities rather than the hole I was lowering myself into.
“Now we’re in it,” Nythan whispered as I climbed downward.
The ladder led us to a machine carved access tunnel with still, fetid air and minimal lighting. We had just enough room to walk upright, single file. That passage led to a far larger underground transit tunnel. Portable work lights, strung from the top of the fifteen-foot-high ceilings, lit the underground passage. Walls of machine-cut rock surrounded us. Switches, sensors, and track supports were laid out at various intervals. An inert boring machine was parked in the center of the tunnel. I fought the urge to rub the unfamiliar gold tinged viser scratching my arm. It reminded me of how alone I was on this mission.
After a ten-minute walk, we came to a translucent curtain that extended from the tunnel ceiling to the floor, completely separating one side of the passage from the other. A zippered doorway was located in the middle of the barrier. A sign told onlookers that the door was for “Authorized Personnel Only.” Dillion unzipped the doorway, led us through, then closed the zipper behind us.
A shining three-car transit train waited atop a freshly laid monorail track. A head popped out of one of the cars as we approached. The rest of the man’s body followed a moment later. He wore a white RocketDyn uniform, but had a black-handled force pistol holstered on his waist.
“Six minutes till go,” the man said. He wore one of the California visers.
“Everyone inside, in their assigned positions,” Dillion told us.
We entered the MTS car, which closely resembled a Manhattan subway car, except that every surface gleamed. There was no place for a driver. A small control cubicle, about the same size as the portable bathroom we’d used to access the underground network, was located in the middle car, for the rare emergency when direct human intervention was required. We stood, holding the handles that dangled from the ceiling, keeping to our rehearsed order: Lara, myself, Nythan, then Alissa. Dillion followed us inside, the car doors closing behind him.
“Three minutes,” he told us.
“Now is it safe to tell me why we’re dressed in Korean skins?” I asked.
“Two minutes and forty-five seconds,” Dillion said, acting like something that had come down the dark hole of a porta-toilet. “Follow the protocols we discussed.”
Lara turned to me. “We’re going in as chipped slaves.”
My chin dropped. “Chipped slaves…here? In the US? In the laboratories of Rose-Hart? But why? They’re thoughtless drones, what possible use…”
“Not ordinary chipped slaves. Juche workers. They’re a new generation of chipped humans, developed by the Corporate Council of Korea.” Lara trembled with an anger I’d seen in her only once before: that day at Alissa’s house when she’d mentioned slavery,
“I thought Korea banned chipped slaves on pain of death…”
“There’s nothing noble about that law. Korea has no need for them.” The heat of her rage subsided, but her voice still wobbled. “Disciplinary education is so strict among the population that there is little dissent to any directive, and the Council has a surplus of mentally compromised workers from the old north to perform manual tasks that are suitable for the chipped elsewhere. But Juche’s are something else. Their chips are implanted at birth, rather than later in life. Their specialization is determined by the highborn of the Corporate Council by the age of one, based on the projected desire of the client. Skills are downloaded into the child’s developing brain. Their k
nowledge acquisition is far more rapid than any non-chipped human, even a highborn. Of course, complete obedience is input as well. By the time the subject has reached sixteen, he or she is ready for delivery. Or, in the case of the slaves ordered by Rose-Hart, they are ready for export. A ready-made scientist, one with no conscience, no morals, no family obligations, and absolutely loyal. Ready to work without wages for the rest of his or her life. And they are produced at least ten years faster than a traditional worker. Cheap and efficient.”
“That’s monstrous,” I croaked. “Even for the highborn…But it makes sense. Who else could they rely on to develop their weapons of genocide? That explains how they kept it all a secret.”
“They house them in an underground dormitory on the MTS line you saw on the map,” Lara added. “No one even suspects they are in this country.”
“‘What shall it profit a man if he gains the world—and loses his soul,’” Nythan recited. “Oh, Metropolis, you saw it coming.”
“When my father…” Lara closed her eyes, sucking in air. “When my father fell out of favor, my mother was pregnant with my brother.” She turned away from me. I couldn’t see her face.
“Remember that in there,” Dillion said, his eyes locked on me. “Remember what these people are—what they are capable of.”
Fire and ice flowed within me. There seemed no end to the madness of the world. I understood what drove Lara now: The hate for the people that had devised these creatures—and used her brother to make their human golems.
More pieces fell into place. The uniforms with Korean letters. Alissa and Lara’s ancestry. I, with my dark hair and eyes. We would look like juche workers on the security videos. Alissa’s hearing implants were too small to show up on video, and they were organic, like my repulse spray.
“How will Nythan fit in with the rest of us?” I asked.
Dillion answered. “They used Russian refugees for the initial trials. There are a few among the products delivered. Our pale pal won’t cause a stir.” He looked at his viser as the train began to hum softly. “Go time, people.”
I heard Nythan mumbling to himself. “Like the mad woman said, ‘may the odds be ever in our favor.’”
The ride was smooth and quick, the train nearly silent as it glided over the track below. I concentrated on my breathing, trying to steady myself. I had a mission to perform. Today was not the day to right every wrong. But it would be the day to strike a blow against the worst of the highborn. I hoped.
The doors swung open, as did a set of security gates along the edge of the tracks that shielded the facility from unauthorized access via the tunnel. Dillion shot me a final look that said “do your job,” then exited. Lara led our line of faux human drones out behind him, our pacing steady, our steps quiet, our heads locked forward. I passed under the weapons scanner located above the first security gate without incident. My height allowed me to see over Lara’s shoulder as we marched toward the security station.
The guard wore a vest of black, twin helix-shaped roses emblazoned on it like the arms of an ancient knight. The outfit matched the silver streaking through his slick black hair. He sat within a square of four transparent floor-to-ceiling walls, which I presumed were duraglass security screens, their data visible only to the person on the appropriate side of the wall. A metal door, large enough to drive two sedans through, had been built into the wall behind the security station.
“Requesting level eleven access,” Dillion said as he stepped forward to place his hand sheathed in the cloned fingertips of Landrew Foster-Rose-Hart against the security screen. A retinal graft covered both eyes. Nythan had assured us it would fool the machines. The guard had no control of the doors—that was automated. But he would know that Dillion wasn’t Landrew. That was where I came in.
I unleashed the force of my will against him. A flood of icy energy surged forth. My power didn’t care about the nearly impregnable transparent alloy of the security station. It came fast and furious towards the guard—driving at what my mind pictured as a lonely wall of stone, no more than shoulder height. The guard didn’t expect the onslaught. The sheer power of my cold will poured over his humble defenses, flooding the man’s mind with my commands.
“The name on your screen matches the security identification data,” I told him. “This is just another routine entry.”
The guard gave no indication of having heard me. He glanced absently at Dillion and began tapping the wall. One tap. Two. Three. Enough time for ten beats of my heart.
“All clear,” the guard said.
Some of the tension fell out of me. The giant portal rumbled open. Dillion led us through a wall as thick as three of us, into a white anteroom adjacent to the lift door. Dillion summoned the elevator with a touch of his false fingertips. The metal tomb closed behind us. We kept silent; we kept still. Cameras watched us, feeding our images to a control room in a distant part of the Ziggurat. But they didn’t have cross-reference data from the MTS control room. We were the regularly scheduled juche shift change.
The lift doors opened without noise or prior warning. Dillion led us inside. We filed in, taking our pre-arranged locations. The lift was as silent as the train. I imagined us rising upwards from the ground into the great Ziggurat. To Landrew and his minions I wanted to shout: “We are coming for you. Go eat your prosperity through order.”
The lift arrived at eleven, and Dillion led us out. His steps were slow, deliberate. He wanted to put the guard at ease. But he also wanted to give me time to assess the tactical situation. Our information on level eleven was poor—educated guesses based on the design of other floors. Trouble came quickly.
A guard station was located ten feet from the elevator exit. It was the same transparent square as on the sub-level—an impenetrable shell that only a triller could overcome. We expected that. We didn’t expect the additional guard standing at the end of the corridor behind the security station. He was at least fifty feet away from me. The farther security officer wore a black armored vest, force pistol at his side. But it wasn’t the sidearm I feared. One flick of his visered hand and the alarm would go off, the floor would be sealed, and we were all dead. If we were lucky.
Dillion saw the danger as well. He placed each foot in front of the other almost reluctantly, giving me as much time as possible to assess the situation. I guessed that his mysterious California viser was weaponized in some way. But using it would be a last resort; weapons fire would trip the alarm. It was up to me.
I looked inside, sucking in as much of my life’s essence as I dared. I thought of infants with silicon implanted in the back of their skulls. I thought of the men who dreamed up such horrors. I thought of those who made the Waste, who conjured the nightmare of trilling. I would not fail. I hurled forth my power, my soul, everything I had. The cold force of will left me in two streams. Each was a laser of determination, two tight beams rather than a flood.
Each guard had a wall protecting his mind. The first barrier was of brick, its mortar brittle. I made as if to scale it. The blocks multiplied with the speed of ten thousand craftsmen at work. It didn’t matter. My concentrated will hit the first guard’s mental masonry like a stone on glass. The fortification crumbled and his mind was mine for the taking.
The second barrier was steel, cold and high. It belonged to the more distant of the guards—a wary man. I came at it fast, but not as fast as I could have. The beam that was my will streaked to the right. The wall grew, extending its perimeter. We raced, my will versus the guard’s innate mental defenses. But just as I did on the track, I held something back, while he gave it all he had. We raced down an infinite lane. I let the wall edge out ahead of me, extending its lead. All the time, my beam of will drifted up its face, ever so slightly. Just as the guard began to grow complacent, I turned on my remaining will, the beam surging upwards, moving faster than it had before. I was over the wall before his defenses could react. Another mind had fallen.
“Freeze,” I commanded them both, m
y lips barely moving but my trill—that power that was more mind than sound—was no less potent for it.
Both men immobilized themselves. I realized that even their breathing had stopped. “Breathe,” I commanded them both.
We were still being watched by unseen eyes. “We have approved access. This is another routine shift change,” I told the guards.
Dillion led us past the security station, down the long, sterile corridor beyond. The door ahead was an airlock. Dillion kept his pace steady, but beads of sweat had gathered on the back of his neck. He used his fake fingertips to lead us inside.
We entered the airlock chamber, the door sealing ominously behind us. The too-bright lights above us dimmed slightly. I felt a wave of dizziness. My ears popped from a pressure change. The door ahead opened. We walked inside. Before us was the nerve center of level eleven.
I walked into the chamber of nightmares, where my greatest fears became real. The air temperature was just above freezing. The primary laboratory consisted of two concentric rings. The first ring resembled the labs of the Lenox Life Center: tables, screens, machinery of all kinds. I caught an escaping gasp as I noticed the chipped slaves, attired in uniforms identical to my own, working like bees at several of the stations. They paid us no mind, their attention on their designated assignments: monitoring, analyzing, programming, splicing. They would keep at their tasks until directed otherwise.
The inner ring lay within a wall of thick transparent alloy—the same advanced duraglass used in the security stations. Inside was a controlled, sealed atmosphere. At its center was a shallow pool, no bigger than the bathtub in Alissa’s apartment. Four glass rods, each the length of my forearm, stood in the pool, the bottom third of their length submerged in the thick liquid. Robot arms were positioned on all sides of the pool, available to manipulate or retrieve the precious controlColonies within.
A man attired in an executive suit like Dillion’s noticed us. He flicked his fingers and looked at his viser, not really paying attention as he walked towards us.
