by Eliza Green
He couldn’t make out the Indigenes’ faces but the scene in his vision was clear. A hunting party circled their prey while the military watched from a distance. This was old news, but was this a vision from the past or yet to happen? He concentrated on the scene, but a new force broke the connection. Stephen gripped Serena’s hands tighter as he tried to claw it back, but the vision disappeared.
‘Why can’t I control it yet?’ He hated this.
‘The ability’s still too new,’ said Serena. ‘Your brain is still figuring out how to handle it. We’ll work on some techniques that may help to relax you.’
‘If this is a part of me, I should have figured it out by now.’ Stephen let go of her hands and slouched against the wall.
‘Give it time. What did you learn?’
‘Nothing new. A hunting party and the military watching again.’
Serena cupped his face, a move that brought them a good deal closer than he was comfortable with. ‘Concentrate, Stephen. Tell me how far you can see into the future.’
He studied her eyes flecked with the usual yellow pigmentation. But an azure blue dominated her iris that was different from the usual grey. ‘What did you say you did for work in your district?’
Serena’s gaze lingered on his. ‘Have you tried using the Nexus to stabilise your envisioning ability?’
He’d been reluctant to use it since the last time, just before the ability had emerged. The Nexus had only aggravated his condition. ‘I don’t think I can go back there, Serena, not since... you know.’
She smiled. ‘You didn’t have me then. Besides, I’d like to see the Nexus in action.’
‘Surely you used it in District Eight?’
She shook her head and frowned. ‘I can’t recall ever having used it.’
He studied the colours of her aura; they were mostly greens and blues. He didn’t want to consider Serena a threat like Anton had been—not without evidence. ‘I’ll try it on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘That you connect in too.’
Serena put her hands up. ‘No. I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘I’ll show you.’
A reluctant Serena followed him inside the tranquillity cave. Three dozen individual units were carved into the rock floor at a depth to where the gamma rock was at its most concentrated. Each unit could fit several Indigenes but only one could access the Nexus per unit. Stephen found two free units beside each other.
Stephen pointed inside Serena’s unit with a ten-foot drop. ‘You can use the stone steps, or you can jump straight in.’
Serena looked down, then at him. ‘How do you do it?’
He smiled at her and jumped, landing on all fours. He straightened and looked up to see Serena peering over the edge.
‘See? It’s easy. Try it.’
Serena disappeared from view. He heard her use the stone steps.
A few seconds later she called out, ‘What now?’
‘Sit on the floor, close your eyes and relax. The Nexus will find you.’
Stephen followed his own instructions and steadied his breathing. His nerves jangled at the thoughts of using the Nexus again, but he pushed them aside. He must be calm before entering. The Nexus demanded it.
In his mind, the wall opposite him lost its hard rock-like appearance and transformed into a shimmering golden and orange web. A single bright white tendril of the Nexus reached through the web and wrapped around his arm. Stephen gritted his teeth when it tightened its grip. He forced his mind to relax and the tendril loosened its hold then pulled his energy inside. The giant Nexus waited, powered by the collective energy of all the Indigenes who connected to it.
Stephen’s energy moved towards the Nexus—a large shimmering wall of energy with a luminescent ledge running along its base. Luminous balls of energy showed the location of the other units where Indigene energies entered. On busier days, it looked like a star-filled sky.
He identified his own unit, which appeared brighter than the rest, and counted one space across to Serena’s. She had yet to connect, but he could see the colours of her aura; no longer green and blue, but yellows and reds. Rapid movement in her unit panicked him. He pushed off from the wall and hurled his energy towards her unit. A tendril snapped at her and she did her best to keep out of its reach.
‘What do I do?’ her voice sounded too high pitched. The Nexus distorted sound from the outside.
‘It doesn’t hurt. Just give in to it.’ He drifted closer, her unit to the front and the Nexus behind. He glanced down at the black chasm as he crossed over it. ‘Close your eyes and breathe. You must be calm before entering.’
With her eyes still closed, she took a few deep breaths. But her frown told him she was not calm. He moved in closer still, but hesitated when the snapping sounds increased. The tendril appeared to whip her arm.
Serena winced when it struck her. ‘I thought you said it doesn’t hurt.’
It shouldn’t. The tendril, no thicker than a rope, continued to attack her.
‘What should I do?’
‘I... I don’t know. I’ve never seen it behave like this before.’
She pulled her arm back but the tendril only reached for her further and trapped her against the unit wall. Her frown disappeared, and the red of her aura turned a darker shade.
‘Enough of this.’ She grabbed the attacking tendril.
It coiled around her arm and yanked her energy inside. Stephen watched helpless as it hurled her at the giant wall of the Nexus. She hit it with force, then slid down and settled on the luminescent shelf. Stephen grappled to reach her.
He made it to the wall just as the gentle ripples of the Nexus wall generated by the connecting energies became small waves. Serena’s energy brightened for a second, and Stephen felt it being passed to him. Other connected users also drew from her power, a move which seemed to excite the Nexus. Unconnected energies found the wall, and Serena. The Nexus wall pulsated and new tendrils emerged from its shimmering magnificence to form a web around her. Trapped inside the Nexus’s prison, Serena’s energy shone brighter than the rest. When the other energies retreated, the tendrils loosened their hold on her.
Stephen couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Nexus was acting like it didn’t want to share her.
‘Are you sure you’ve never used the Nexus before?’ he said.
‘Never, I swear.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem—it doesn’t know how to react to you.’
‘If I’m the same as everyone else surely it would?’
Stephen had no idea how to respond. A new energy built inside the Nexus—one that made him nervous.
He glanced back at his unit. ‘I think we should disconnect.’
‘I would agree with you, but I can’t seem to move.’
New tiny web-like strands had emerged from the Nexus and wound around her energy. The longer she stayed on the luminescent ledge, the stronger the web became. And the more her energy faded. He drifted closer but the tendrils blocked his attempts to reach her. In a panic, Stephen pulled himself free of the Nexus. Back in his own body again, he scrambled out of his unit and jumped into Serena’s.
She still had her eyes closed; her pale face was drained of colour. This should be a peaceful experience for her. Instead of restoring her energy, the Nexus drained it.
He shook her shoulder. ‘Serena, listen. I need you to break its hold. Follow my voice. I can’t help you in there. You have to do this yourself.’
Stephen resorted to shaking her harder, even though it was dangerous to abruptly disconnect the mind from the Nexus. But he had to do something. He should never have encouraged her to connect without proper guidance. He’d assumed their experiences would be the same. How would he explain this to Pierre? She could die, and it would be his fault.
No, this wasn’t over. Serena would make it. He slapped her face.
‘Come on.’
Serena’s eyes shot open and she gasped as if she was reabsorb
ing the energy the Nexus had stolen from her. Stephen held her tight in case the Nexus tried to take her again. Her body went limp. She was barely conscious.
He slung her over his shoulder. His legs strained with each stone step as he climbed out of the unit. With the floor above in sight, he shifted Serena’s body off his shoulder and rolled her onto the floor.
Weakened by his climb, his foot slipped and he tumbled back into the unit. Air rushed around him. His head hit the unyielding rock.
3
In the heart of Washington DC, Charles Deighton exited his town car early, much to the annoyance of his driver.
‘Sir, I’ve been instructed to drop you off at the club,’ he said, holding a gel mask to his face. ‘It’s not safe to walk here.’
Deighton leaned in through the open door. ‘Young man, if I want to walk, I will walk. The CEO of the World Government does what he wants.’
‘But, Sir, I was told to drive you right to the door.’
Deighton laughed off his irritation. ‘Send a couple of security men to follow me, I don’t care. I need to stretch my legs.’
He slammed the car door and checked the seal on his mask. A second car pulled up behind the town car and two abnormally large bodyguards carrying Buzz Guns got out. They followed Deighton at a discreet distance. He would only tolerate the genetically altered giants’ presence if they stayed back. Exercise was not his only reason to walk the dilapidated streets of 23rd Street NW. The beggars needed to see people like him, to be reminded of their place in society. That, and the tremors in his legs had worsened.
Skyscrapers enclosed the city centre that once had none. But with limited space came a relaxation of building codes. Buildings expanded below the streets as well as into the clouds, not only in Washington, but in other cities, like Dublin and Paris, too. Boarded up stores dominated the place that had launched the Go Green programme. Now it reminded Deighton of Victorian London with ragged-dressed boys doing jobs for the criminals that the World Government couldn’t control. Deighton thought about Anton and Dr Caroline Finnegan, who had been equally willing to do whatever it took to stay alive.
On Exilon 5, where select members of Earth’s population would soon live, room would be made for important people, not for those living on the streets. Deighton had made that point to the board members about his idea for exclusivity for the transfer programme, but the board were driven by their own agendas.
Mounds of trash littered the sidewalk, almost tripping up an unsteady Deighton. The stench on the streets leaked inside his gel mask. Across the road was a termination clinic, formerly the George Washington University Hospital. Bags labelled with large red stickers warned him of the human waste they contained. Next time he would find a less unsavoury route to the club.
Deighton battled against the tremors that had spread from his hands to his arms and legs. He’d felt so good earlier that week he’d skipped his muscle-stabilising shots at one of the private genetic manipulation clinics, convinced the problem had gone away on its own. But every new step produced a new tremor. He swiped a thumb across his wet eyes. He would not end up like the street vermin he despised.
The uneven paving demanded his attention, as did the carefully positioned street beggars, sat against store windows with feet stuck out to trip him up, or at the very least slow him down. It’s how they did their business. His high leg step and expensive shoes steered him out of their reach. A little further on, a teenage boy clutched a begging bowl. He gave Deighton that doe-eyed expression that stirred sympathy in some. Deighton ignored the theatrics and focused instead on the excitement in the boy’s eyes.
‘Do I look like a fucking chump to you?’ said Deighton as he got close.
The boy switched position from sitting to kneeling and extended the bowl. Deighton examined the dirty street urchin who looked very much like a genetic degenerate.
The boy jumped to his feet when Deighton’s thoughts slowed him down. ‘Please, sir, I’m hungry. You got any food on you, mister?’
Fast on your feet for someone so hungry.
Deighton pulled his coat tight around him and checked the seal on his mask.
‘Get a job, you runt.’ He hadn’t planned on speaking to them, only to flaunt his wealth and status. Remind himself he was nothing like them.
But the boy blocked Deighton.
‘Come on, mister. Been out ‘ere all day. Got nothin’ to eat. Come on. Help me out. You got credit instead of cash? I’ll take either, or both if you’re willin’. I ain’t fussed.’
The boy’s cheap cockney accent was a nice touch.
‘There’s nothin’ for me. I tried everythin’. Even tried gettin’ on the transfer list, but they turned me ’way. Please mister, help out a friend.’
That didn’t surprise Deighton. Irregularities in the boy’s face and posture hinted at his poor genetics. The abnormalities could be fixed with money or the right contacts. But the government couldn’t save everyone.
The boy’s attitude grated on Deighton’s last nerve. ‘I know your kind, turning tricks for the men down the back alleys, pretending to enjoy it when all you’re after is your next fix. You disgust me.’
‘Is that what you’re after, mister? I can do whatever you want.’ The cockney accent melted away and the boy’s eyes grew large.
Deighton dug around in his coat pocket. The boy’s eyes followed the movement.
‘I’m flattered. But I’m far too old for you and well out of your league.’ Deighton produced a card. ‘I always carry these around for people like you. The world doesn’t need your kind. But I’m not totally without a heart. I can see you need a little encouragement.’
The boy groped for the card.
Deighton held on to it for a moment longer and stared at the boy. ‘Get going now, you don’t want to be late. I hear they’re doing a midnight special.’
The boy snatched the card with a coupon for a half price deal at one of the termination clinics.
‘Get off the streets, you little shit,’ said Deighton. ‘And if I catch you out here whoring yourself to decent folk again, I’ll have you arrested.’
He stepped around the boy and walked towards 22nd Street NW and his ultimate destination—Les Fontaines, a private club and restaurant. Deighton smiled at the nonsense with the boy that had served as a distraction from his tremors.
‘Son of a bitch. Think you’re better than me?’ the boy shouted after him. ‘I’ll fucking show ye who you’re dealing with, ye crusty old shit. Come back here and fight me like a man. Fucking coward.’
Deighton’s shoulders shook with laughter as he rounded the corner on I Street NW. He looked back at the boy. With the right trigger, he could force people to reveal their true colours. The boy dropped his bowl and followed him. Deighton shivered with excitement.
‘Who the fuck do ye think ye are?’
Another beggar jumped to his feet.
Deighton grinned. ‘What happened to your accent? Have you no need for it anymore?’ Deighton’s bodyguards moved closer, but he indicated for them to stay back. He wanted the boy to think he had a chance at winning this.
Just as the boy lunged at Deighton, the second beggar yanked the boy back and whispered in his ear.
‘I don’t care who he is,’ said the boy. ‘He won’t speak to me like that.’
‘That’s right, listen to your friends if you know what’s good for you.’ Deighton’s creaking laugh broke up the words.
He nodded to the beefed-up bodyguards, who would have snapped the boy’s neck had he asked. But Deighton liked when people suffered a little. The weapons were out and the distinctive crackle of electricity filled the air. His guards pumped a few non-lethal shots into the boy. The boy jerked when he hit the ground.
Deighton left the writhing boy behind. Tears soon replaced his laughter as his condition—the condition he’d hid for so long—made his future uncertain. He’d worked hard to keep it a secret and to find a solution to his problem. Serena was that solution.
A man wearing a gel mask scanned Deighton’s identity chip and unclipped the red velvet rope. He called the turbo lift in the box-sized foyer where Deighton waited with his bodyguards. Deighton noticed a faded tattoo on the doorman’s right hand. A tribal mark, possibly. Several tribes immersed in old world cultures still existed, but risked being left behind as society moved on. Would new tribes form after his plans for alteration, or would the new Exilon 5-bound race transcend such triviality?
The lift doors opened on the seventy-seventh floor: the penthouse. He stepped into the bright restaurant and pulled his jacket sleeve down to hide the nail indentations in his hand. His bodyguards sat down at a table close to the door.
Les Fontaines was a quirky French restaurant offering the best views of Paris. High-definition visualisation screens offered varying 360 degree views of Paris. The view alternated between the Champs-Élysées, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and various other well-known places in Paris.
A waiter greeted Deighton and showed him to his usual table. The waiter handed him a gold DPad with the menu on it. Marble floors, tempered glass tables and chairs covered in deep purple velvet added to the expense. So too did the real waiters. A bust of Oscar Wilde—the controversial Irish writer who lived and worked in Paris—was near one window. A painting by Vincent Van Gogh hung on one wall. The works of dead artists, once worth a small fortune, meant little to people fighting for survival, but they still held value for the rich.
