by David Estes
When Harrison, who was sleeping nearby—she knows he was watching her like a Hawk drone—slipped away to follow his mother, Destiny immediately started thinking bad thoughts again. It was as if his presence was a barrier to all the darkness inside of her, and when he stepped away the dam opened, releasing the deluge.
She tried to kill herself once, and he stopped her. She won’t try again, not after everything he’s sacrificed to keep her alive.
But she also won’t put him in danger anymore. Not him, not Benson, not any of them.
She knows she’ll be caught and killed if she leaves this place, but that’s better than having any more deaths weighing on her already overburdened conscience. Leaving isn’t an act of bravery; it’s an act of mental survival.
And just because it’s the right thing to do doesn’t mean it’s not selfish.
At least that’s what she tells herself when she slips past the guards at the lifter, using some lame excuse about needing fresh air.
The cold winter’s night welcomes her with open arms as the blue lights of the Hunters’ aut-cars flash past in a blur. She doesn’t even try to hide her face. They aren’t coming for her—not tonight. But when they do, she won’t run and she won’t hide. Not anymore. No, Destiny will face her namesake once and for all, accepting the punishment for her sins.
Chapter Four
Michael Kelly is getting used to that other place he goes.
The pain fades to the background, like the distant and muted glow of a cracked holo-screen. He sees things in that place. Memories. People and places and events he’s kept hidden behind a dark curtain for years and years.
A wet, pink leg pops out. Then another. The rest of the baby boy follows as Janice releases a final groan of exertion. The doctor and nurses expertly deliver the baby, cutting the umbilical cord, swaddling him in a thin blanket. They hand him to Michael, who stares at the creature numbly, shocked by the miracle of life.
His wife is still screaming, pushing the second child out, breathing quickly in between contractions. One of the nurses is holding her hand and urging her to “Push!” Two minutes later Michael’s holding another bundled child, another boy, every feature identical to the first.
When he hands the boys to Janice, she’s laughing and crying and happier than he’s ever seen her. The happiest woman in the world, her smile bigger than he’s ever seen it. “Harrison and Benson,” she says. “My little boys.”
This is the time to smile. This is the time to be happy. But Michael Kelly can’t do either. Even though he knows one of them will have everything the world has to offer, a chance at life, education, love, and so much more, he knows the other won’t have any of it. His life will be lived in a box, hidden away from the world. All because he was two minutes late to the party. All because some strange twist of fate said he’d be the ‘illegal’ one, an unauthorized being.
So instead Michael hides his blank face from his wife and shakes the doctor’s hand. The doctor holds a device in his other hand. So much for enjoying the moment. So much for the miracle of life. This guy just wants to get paid. Using an untraceable LifeCard, Michael pays the doctor handsomely, a sum most citizens wouldn’t be able to afford.
And yet, for his sons, and for the unadulterated happiness he sees on his wife’s face, he would pay any amount. He would make any sacrifice.
So he does.
A lightning bolt of pain shocks Michael away from that other place, his teeth clamping together so hard and so quickly that he bites his tongue. As he stares at the monster before him, the warm, coppery taste of blood fills his mouth.
“Where’s Mars?” he growls, his eyes taking in the wires strapped to various parts of his half-naked body. The cyborg is literally sending lightning bolts through him.
“Who?” the Destroyer says, raising an eyebrow. His mouth opens as if just remembering something. “Oh, you mean that old man who used to be the Head of Pop Con, right? The man who took your place after almost killing you?” He leans forward, staring at Michael with his one remaining eye. The other is a gruesome pit of burnt flesh and scabbed gore, a weird island of humanity and weakness surrounded by metal plates. Michael is dimly aware of the splatters of blood on the cyborg’s face and clothing. “Mars is gone. Well, at least his head is. The rest of him is in the other room, and let me tell you, he’s already starting to stink something fierce.” The Destroyer laughs and Michael grimaces, his body shaking as another jolt of pain courses through him.
When the agony subsides and Michael manages to take another gasping breath, he says, “I won’t help you either. I don’t care if you kill me.”
“Kill you?” The Destroyer’s face lights up as if the very idea pleases him greatly. “You think I’m torturing you for information? To persuade you to help me? You’re thinking of Corrigan Mars. Like I said, he’s gone. This is a whole new regime, and we do things differently. The torture? That’s just for fun. Whether you want to cooperate or not, you’re my bait, and I’ve got a feeling you’ll be able to help me catch the biggest fish of all.”
Michael’s heart clenches in his chest, and not from the pain. He wishes Mars had killed him. He wishes he couldn’t be used now. If there was a way to stop his own heart, to force his lungs to cease their endless expansions and contractions, he would. He’d do it to save the rest of his family.
Please, God, no, he thinks. Spare them. Take me. Take me.
“Take a minute to catch your breath,” the Destroyer says. “Your holo-screen debut will begin shortly.”
As the monster leaves, the gray stone walls of his prison seem to close in around him, and Michael’s stubborn heart pounds relentlessly in his chest.
~~~
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JoseCuervo: The news about Mars’s death is about to break.
BloodyMary: A leak?
SamAdams: Not from my end, as far as I know. Pop Con seemed intent on keeping it a secret as long as possible, at least until the mayor appoints a replacement.
JoseCuervo: I think it came directly from the Destroyer. Apparently there’s a video.
BloodyMary: What’s he trying to achieve?
JoseCuervo: Not sure. Something must’ve gone down between him and Mars. It’s almost like he wants to gloat.
ShirleyTemple: I should tell the STL Slip. He thinks his bro killed the Destroyer.
JoseCuervo: Wait. There’s more.
ShirleyTemple: Why do I get the feeling this is going to blow my mind?
JoseCuervo: Because it is. The Destroyer sent a second video.
BloodyMary: Something else about Mars?
JoseCuervo: I don’t think so. I think the video is somewhat unrelated.
SamAdams: Have you seen it?
JoseCuervo: Not yet. The powers that be are keeping a tight lid on it. They don’t want this leaking before they can break the story. I’ve never seen them act like this.
ShirleyTemple: But you know what’s on the video, don’t you?
JoseCuervo: Yes. It’s Michael Kelly. He’s alive.
Chapter Five
It feels like years since Benson Kelly’s had a shower. In reality, it’s only been a few days, since Refuge was destroyed by Pop Con.
Still, as he removes his clothes and steps into the warm spray of the cleaner bot moving along the edges of the cubicle, he feels as if the water pressure is scrubbing away more than just grime. Loss seems to fleck off like exfoliated skin. Pain sloughs away like stale sweat, running in salty rivulets down his arms and legs and into the drain. Sadness is cleansed from his body by the bot arms scrubbing at his back and sides.
He closes his eyes and lets the machine do its work, cleansing his body and soul in five minutes of heaven that ends far too quickly, the jets shutting themselves off to save precious water resources.
Pulling a towel around his waist, he steps from the shower, his head jerking s
lightly when he realizes someone is waiting for him to finish.
“It’s just me, bro,” Harrison says.
His brother is naked from the waist up, his body lit by the white fluorescent lights overhead. In the past, this would’ve been the kind of situation that would make Benson feel inadequate, Harrison’s built frame putting his own lean but toned body to shame. Not this morning. Not when for every bulging muscle on his brother’s body there’s a purple bruise. Not when his brother’s ribs look as if they’ve gone toe to toe with a heavyweight champ. Not when one of his eyes is swollen shut. Not when his hand is wrapped in a plastic bag to prevent his bandages from getting wet.
All wounds received because his brother was trying to help him—trying to save him. It doesn’t matter that Benson didn’t approve of his brother’s plan. Harrison still put his life at risk because of him. It’s for that reason that Benson feels a twist in his gut as his brother brushes past him.
“Have you seen Destiny?” Harrison asks.
A pit cracks open in Benson’s heart as he’s reminded of yet another person scarred for life because of him. “Weren’t you with her last night?”
“I didn’t go back to bed after we talked to mom. I was too wired. Still am.”
Benson understands insomnia all too well these days. “No,” he says. “I came straight from bed to here.”
“You look like crap,” Harrison says, closing the door. The machine starts and soon there’s a healthy plume of steam curling over the wall.
This is where Benson’s supposed to joke back and tell his twin that even looking like crap he looks a hundred times better than he does. In a world without population control, where they grew up together, where he actually knows anything about his brother, maybe he would. But that’s not this world. Benson says nothing.
“Did you sleep?” Harrison asks through the door.
Benson starts dressing, considering the question. His eyes were closed for a while. At one point it even felt like he’d entered a dream, his mind drifting off to some foggy place where Luce was still alive, where she could whisper to him and hold his hand and not be scared of his touch ever again.
“I guess,” Benson says noncommittally.
“Right,” Harrison says. “Hey, if you see Destiny, can you ask her to meet me for breakfast?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Janice is waiting outside the bathroom when Benson exits. Again, he flinches, not recognizing her at first. “Gah,” he mutters. “What happened to your hair?” Her previously blond locks are as black as tar, hanging in wet vines around her face. They’re shorter, too, not even reaching her shoulders.
“I heard twin voices,” she says, ignoring the question.
“Mom, your hair,” Benson says.
“Minda painted it. Not for fun. For real.” She absently twirls one of the wet strands around her finger.
“Why?” Benson asks, adding ‘Speak to Minda’ to his mental To-Do list for the morning.
“So I’m not me anymore,” Janice says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
Benson knows he’s been spending a lot of time with his mother, because he understands her perfectly. “A disguise,” he says.
“It’s a start,” she agrees. “Your turn is next. Then Harrison’s. Everyone gets a turn!”
“Great,” Benson says.
He starts to leave but then considers suggesting that Janice not wait outside the bathroom for Harrison. However, before he can get the words out, Harrison exits, sweeping Janice into a big hug. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, making their mother giggle uncontrollably. He should’ve known that Harrison wouldn’t get spooked by her sudden change in appearance. Not for the last time, he wishes he could be more like his twin. Maybe things would’ve been different if he was. Maybe he’d be dead and Luce would be alive. Maybe they’d both be alive.
“Catch up with you later, bro,” Harrison says, offering Benson his knuckles. Benson sighs and pushes his own fist against his brother’s, watching his family head down the hall toward where they’d been instructed to go for breakfast.
He goes in the opposite direction, forcing a bounce into his step, trying to buoy himself up with the good news that at least Minda is well enough to give makeovers, at least somewhat recovered from her gunshot wound.
He finds her in one of the labs, sweeping wet blond hair off the ground while awkwardly balancing on one leg. Her Indian complexion is shadowed by the brim of a hoverball cap. Something about her looks different, but Benson can’t quite put his finger on it. “You should’ve told me first,” he says.
“Good morning to you, too.” She struggles to pick up the dustpan, which is now full of his mother’s hair. She finally grabs it and empties it in an opening in the wall marked WASTE.
“Why not just use a cleaner bot?” Benson asks, genuinely curious.
Minda props the broom against a counter and says, “Because sometimes it feels better to do things for yourself.”
Benson gets that. That’s the way he’s felt from the moment his father forced him to leave home. For a while he relied on Check’s street smarts, but before long he knew he was able to count on himself more than anyone else. And maybe it’s the response to his first comment, too, about his mother’s hair. “I just want to be kept in the loop from now on,” he says, softening his tone. “I’m tired of secrets and surprises.”
“Fair enough,” Minda says. “I think you’ll agree that if any of us are going to set foot outside of this facility, we’ll need to be disguised. We’ll all need new fake retinas, too.”
“I agree with the disguises, but I don’t want new eyes. Not ever again.”
Minda juts out the corner of her bottom lip and sighs, pushing the breath up onto her forehead. That’s when Benson realizes what’s different about her. At first he thought it was the hat covering her hair, but he doesn’t see any hair at all, not even around the edges, only brown skin.
“Are you…bald?” he asks.
She laughs. “I like to lead by example,” she says. “If everyone else gets a haircut, so do I.” With a broad flourish, she removes the cap to reveal her hairless dome.
If Benson’s being honest, even bald she looks pretty good. “Nice,” Benson says. “So…do I get to keep my hair?”
“Most of it, but not your eyes. Sorry.”
It’s Benson’s turn to sigh. He knows she’s right, even if it’ll mean he’ll have to break his promise to himself to never change his eyes again.
“How’s your leg?”
“Painful, but nothing I can’t handle.”
Benson doesn’t doubt that. Minda’s proven herself to be as tough as a crowd-control bot. “And Simon?” The big French-Canadian was stable last Benson checked, but a lot can change in a hurry for someone with two bullet holes in his upper body. The surgery was scheduled for early this morning.
“He’ll be asleep for hours still,” she says. “But the operation went perfectly. They managed to dig the bullet from his intestines and patch things back together. He’ll be sore for a while, but he’ll survive.”
“And the bullet in the shoulder?”
“They left it in. Apparently it splintered coming out of the gun so only a portion of it broke his skin. It’s not hurting anything and they’re afraid they’ll do more damage pulling it out. Knowing Simon, that’ll probably suit him just fine.”
“Yeah, all that guy needs is something else to prove his manhood.” Benson clamps his mouth shut, shocking even himself with the joke.
Minda raises an eyebrow. “I think Harrison might be rubbing off on you.” Benson groans, but she quickly waves away his reaction. “No, no—I meant it as a compliment. Your brother’s not perfect, but having a sense of humor is sometimes the only way to stay sane these days.”
“In that case,” Benson says, “I’m ready for my haircut.”
Minda smiles and picks up the scissors, snapping them together sinisterly. “Have a seat,” she says. “Any special
requests?”
As Benson slides into the chair, he says, “Surprise me.”
Chapter Six
As much as Harrison tries to force deep breaths into his lungs, he can’t stop panic from setting in, making it hard to breathe.
The first fifty people he talked to hadn’t seen Destiny. Which is nearly impossible, considering the size of her frizzy hair. She’s the opposite of forgettable.
Then he found a guard who said she went down the lifter for some fresh air shortly after he left her in bed. They let a Slip outside for some fresh air in the middle of the night. Idiots. Another guard corroborated the unlikely story. It was all Harrison could do not to smash their heads together in frustration.
What’s her plan? he wonders. He’d thought they’d made strides together by escaping from the Destroyer. That perhaps her will to live was back. That perhaps she didn’t blame herself for what happened at Refuge anymore. He was blinded by the unexpected connection they’d formed. He should’ve seen this coming, shouldn’t have left her side last night.
A familiar-looking guy is walking toward Harrison, sporting a Mohawk tinged with blue. His eyes are every bit as blue—almost glowing. Tats run up his neck, curling under his chin. A leopard. A crashing wave. Small hoop earrings adorn his nose and eyebrow. Harrison can’t remember where he’s met the guy, but he’s not in the mood for small talk. He needs to find his brother. They need to come up with a plan for going after Destiny. He doesn’t slow his stride as the guy approaches.
“Harrison—hey,” the guy says, reaching for his arm.
The growing fire inside him plumes out, an uncontrollable rage fueled by fear and panic. He grabs the guy’s arm, twists it hard behind his back, and whispers in his ear. “I don’t have time for this, whoever you are.”
