Chosen Different (Book 1)

by Kozinn, Nat

  Tom waived his right of extradition to the Houston MA. He also waived his right to a trial, pleading guilty to two counts of murder. Arnold’s sentence was thirty-five years to life in prison. Upon admission to prison, a doctor examined Tom. The Genetic Incongruity Scan had recently been developed, but it had still not been implemented around the nation. The Miami Metro prison still relied on a doctor's evaluation to determine if a prisoner was a Different.

  Just as Tom could not admit he had killed his parents, he could not admit to being a Different. He told the police that Arnold Taft was twenty-three. Tom was freakishly large for a sixteen-year-old, but simply huge for a twenty-three-year-old. The doctor gave Tom clearance, which meant Tom would spend his thirty-five to life sentence in Miami MA Lockup, not Great Basin Prison.

  Life in jail was tougher than Tom could have imagined. The meager meals were not enough to satisfy his ravenous appetite. He went to bed every night suffering from hunger pains, but he knew he deserved the agony.

  Tom was surrounded by violence. He was large enough to be left alone, but the other inmates fought all day and night. The fighting would stir the monster in Tom. It made him afraid he might lose control. It made him afraid that the beast in him would take control, and he would kill again. The one place where he could find peace was the prison library.

  Tom had never been much of a reader, but he decided to spend his days reading the word of God. He scanned through the Old Testament, then the New Testament. He even read some of the Koran. Tom was searching for answers, for some explanation as to why God would create Tom just to curse him. Why did God make Tom, if all he did was cause suffering?

  Tom found his answers one Sunday in the library. He was in the back, searching for something new to read when something caught his eye, the tiniest corner of a paper poking out from under a bookcase. It took all the strength in his malnourished body to lift the shelves up. The book was thin, more like a pamphlet, really. The worn cover read, Chosen Sons: The Book of Cabot.

  Tom knew what this was. He knew that if anyone saw the book in his hands, they would add another twenty years to his sentence. Cabot was a madman. He had killed billions of people and almost destroyed the entire human race. Cabot was a bigger monster than Tom; Tom was sure of that. Maybe Cabot could explain why God hated Tom so much.

  “Here is the record of the 3rd book of our Lord, as spoken to His vessel Cabot: ‘I am your Lord. Take what I tell you now and spread it to all mankind. Make my truth known to any who will listen,’” it began.

  #

  "‘You must simply claim your thrones as kings of the new earth.’ The Lord said.”

  The last line read, Tom placed the finished pamphlet inside his shirt. He held it close to his chest as he went back to his cell for the night. His mind was racing. Cabot had turned Tom's world upside down. Tom was not a monster, he was not cursed, and he was not a Different. He was a Chosen Son.

  God had made the Chosen Sons as His new race. Mankind had rejected God. It chose instead to revel in its own greatness, in the greatness of science and invention, in the greatness of nuclear weapons and spaceships. Mankind imagined these achievements as solely their own and refused to recognize the Divine that surrounded them.

  God had grown tired of mankind and its hubris. He decided to create a new race, one built more closely in his image. This new race would be capable of such miraculous feats they would have no choice but to accept the role of the Divine in their lives. They could not help but love the Lord in return for the gifts they had been given.

  In order for His Chosen Sons to thrive, the Lord needed to eliminate His firstborn, His Forgotten Sons. God worked through Cabot, commanding him to make ten plagues to end the reign of the human race and create a new world made just for the Chosen.

  Tom was so powerful, so strong, because God had blessed him. Tom was made to survive in the harsh world Cabot created. God had given Tom a spark of the Divine. He was closer to God than any human could ever be. Tom's suffering was not special. The Old and New Testament were both full of pain for many of those God touched. Tom's trials were nothing compared to those endured by Moses, or Job, or God's own son.

  Ever since Tom had killed his parents, images of that night had kept him awake. Tom's suffering was over now. The Lord had saved him. He was not a monster. He was more like an angel. For the first time in many months, he slept through the entire night.

  11

  Let it be said clearly and with broad meaning: the 14th Amendment does not and cannot apply to Different individuals. The danger they pose is simply too great to afford them equal protection under the law. Congress, or the executive branch, shall have the power to pass whatever laws or regulations they deem necessary to control and monitor Different individuals.

  Chief Justice Garret Dwight

  Majority Opinion: United States v. Geiger

  What was that? I whirl around and crane my neck up just in time to catch a glimpse of a pigeon flying off. No matter how many times I tell myself to relax, I can't stop overreacting to every little sound I hear.

  I'm out here trying to help people. I'm trying to stop muggers, drug dealers, or murderers. At least, that's what I tell myself. I know that’s not the whole truth. I know I'm really looking for signs of The Beast. I don't want to admit to myself that I'm worrying more about an urban legend than the actual dangerous criminals I'm much more likely to run across.

  I did find that kidney though. That wasn't imaginary. It could have been The Beast. But there are more likely explanations, like an unlicensed doctor. There are hundreds of those in the slums. Even a demented serial killer has a higher degree of probability. Still, no matter how unlikely it is, I find myself watching out for The Beast.

  Why does the human mind do that? Why does it worry about our most unlikely fears instead of what might actually happen? Why is everyone so afraid of monsters and murders when they are most likely going to die of heart disease or cancer? I don't even know what it is I'm on the lookout for. Animal tracks? Patches of fur? Gnawed bones? What trail does a cannibal Different leave behind?

  I walk down the street, lost in thought, and barely notice a man standing on a stoop until he speaks to me.

  "Hey old man, you trying to be calm?" he asks me with a grin that's missing several teeth.

  He's covered in tattoos and has a big scar down his cheek. He's standing on the stoop of a rundown Pre-Plague house, waiting.

  "What?" I have no idea what he's talking about. What does he mean be calm?

  "You looking to score? Tranq? Old man, are you looking for some Tranq?"

  "Oh, Tranq, selling Tranq, that's what you're doing."

  "Yeah, I am, you looking to be calm or what?"

  "No, I'm not interested in any poison. Thanks, though."

  "Whatever, you not looking to score, then get the hell out of here. I'm not looking to chit-chat," he says and shoos me away with his hand.

  "Even if I did want some poison it wouldn't matter. My Differentiation makes it useless on me."

  I give him a quick glance at the D on my hand.

  "I don't care about your story, freak. Now like I said, if you ain't interested in buying, take a walk," he says and stares me down. He’s trying not to show fear, but I see him quake just a little.

  "I'm not interested in buying. I am interested in getting you and the filth you sell off these streets. Don't the people here have enough problems, without you getting their kids hooked on junk?" I say and stare back.

  "Listen, freak, I don't want to hear your nonsense. I don't know if you're crazy or just stupid, old man, but I'm telling you one more time. Get out of here and do it right now or we're going to have a problem."

  "We already have a problem. I have a problem with punks like you who think they're tough. I have a problem with the fact that no one stops you from selling your garbage to kids. I have a problem with you threatening me."

  I grab him by his shirt collar and glare into his eyes, he's scared. Good, I'm sure a l
ot of hardworking people have been frightened of him before. It's about time he got a taste of his own medicine.

  "Hey Rico, get your ass out here, and get this freak off me!" he yells.

  I hear a rustle from inside the house. Someone is coming out and he sounds large. It's my turn to be scared, but I don't shake. Now I can prove that I wasn’t crazy to think I could work for the OEC. Now I can make a real difference in this world. I hope I don't break my wrist this time.

  I have to take this first guy out before his friend joins the party. I still have him by the collar, so I throw him into the stairs head first. He takes a big hit and looks like he's down for awhile. I ready myself for Rico.

  He throws open the door and charges out. He's also covered in tattoos, and he's huge. Three hundred pounds and only some of it is fat. He’s stronger than me, but he should tire out more quickly. Of course, I might not last that long considering the baseball bat in his hands. I turn on my adrenal gland and get it pumping as fast as it can. I feel my muscles surge with strength. I guess it's time to do this.

  "Mess that freak up," the first guy says as he spits out a mouthful of blood. He looks like he's got a concussion though and falls down when he tries to stand back up.

  Rico yells and charges at me, swinging his baseball bat wildly. With time slowed down, I can easily dodge his blows. After six swings, he's starting to get tired, and I see an opening at his kidney. I punch it with my right hand, hard. He drops the bat and lets out a scream that I silence with a second punch to his throat. I follow up with an uppercut that knocks him down. That should do it.

  I hear something behind me and turn just in time to see the first guy charging at me with a knife. I step out of the way so he doesn't stab me in the chest, but he still catches me with a slash just above my left eye. I constrict my capillaries and cut off an adjacent artery. If I didn't, I'd be blinded by the blood from the cut.

  The man turns back around to face me, and I put my hands up. I search my mind for any memories on how you're supposed to fight a guy with a knife, but I've got nothing. I suddenly feel very ill-prepared.

  The thug charges, slashing at me wildly. My instinct is to block the slashes with my arm. I end up with my left forearm sliced open before I realize how stupid that is. At least his wild slashes gave me an opening for me to catch him with a right cross to the face, which stuns him. I see my chance and grab the knife, or at least I try to. Instead I end up getting my right hand sliced to the bone between my ring finger and pinky. Why am I so stupid? Who tries to grab a knife?

  I pull back and gather myself. The thug smiles.

  "Time to die, old man," the thug says and charges at me.

  He winds up and tries to stab me. I can't block the knife, but I can block his arm. I throw my injured forearm into the crook of the thug’s elbow, stopping the knife without getting slashed. Then I use my right hand to grab his throat. I put pressure on my two front fingers to cut off his carotid artery, which sends blood to his brain. It takes three seconds for him to pass out. I drop him relatively gently to the ground. He shouldn't have any permanent damage.

  I turn around, ready deal with Rico in case he's recovered, but he's nowhere to be seen. I guess I scared him off. He should be scared. I'm a badass. I bet these two will think twice the next time they start threatening some poor soul.

  #

  "Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier!" Howard Cosell yells as George Foreman knocks Joe Frazier to the mat. It was a good punch, but I'm not sure how much I'm getting out of watching this. I'm not as big as Foreman, even after the ten pounds of muscle I’ve added recently. I could stimulate my muscle growth and make myself as heavy as him, but I don't think it would be worth the trade-off in speed. More weight isn't going to help me dodge knives. I do like Joe Frazier's head bob. I might use that one to keep my opponent from landing a clean punch. I'll just have to remember not to try it on someone as large as Big George. Good thing few people are.

  I need to teach myself how to fight. I managed to heal from those knife wounds quickly, but next time there could be more guys with more knives or even a gun. If I can end these fights quickly, maybe I can avoid having to heal in the first place.

  I know this isn't what I should be watching, I could get a lot more from instructional martial arts videos. There are a ton of them on think.Net. I taught myself some basics when I was bored at night in Section 26. I'm too paranoid to look at them now. If I'm going to keep doing my vigilante thing, it's only a matter of time until someone reports me to the police. If the cops start looking for a Different acting like Bruce Lee, they might start looking through think.Net viewing records. I figure if I stick to boxing and the like, they'll classify me as a sports fan, not a self-taught ninja.

  I know I'm just being paranoid, and I know I'm only worrying about it so I don't have to worry about my more immediate concern, my date with Becky. I should have known she wouldn't let me ride the Slug with her to the Hanging Gardens. She was offended that I even asked to escort her. I don't think she's finding my over-protectiveness charming, maybe because she's more than a decade older than me. She's been taking care of herself for a long time and through a lot worse than a Slug ride to the Hanging Gardens. I should worry about her less, or at least tell her about it less.

  I remember coming to the Gardens with my mom when I was ten. It was one of my last good memories of her. She was so excited to show it to me, so happy to see something beautiful in this devastated world. I don't know if I should tell Becky about it. She might think it's sweet, but she also might think it’s creepy to be talking about my mom on a date. Especially considering our age difference.

  The Slug pulls into the station, and I step off the train and onto the platform. It's immediately clear that we're not in the slums anymore. Only the Metro Center has such ornately decorated Slug stops.

  There's a tile mosaic of a map of Los Angeles the city, before the Plagues struck. The WormLights that illuminate the station are encased in ornate crystal tubes, not Pho-Plastic. They even painted the floor colorful swirls, not just grey B-Crete. The station is more impressive than it was when I was a kid. Nice to know the Center is doing so well. Leave it to the rich to make the beautiful more beautiful instead of making the horrible less horrible.

  I make my way up the stairs and out to the street. Just like the train station, the difference between here and the slums is striking. All of the buildings are new. Everything is made of Maceo Steel, ForteSilk, or classic brick. It's like the Plagues never happened here, or even worse, the Plagues actually improved things. It looks like a city from a fairy tale. Even the people are different. Everyone is wearing clean clothes that look brand new, and I don't see patches on any elbows. Everyone walks around lost in the think.Net stare. Half-a-dozen people bump into me as I walk down the street.

  The Hanging Gardens are just a block from the station exit. That block has a higher net worth than a hundred blocks in the boonies, maybe a thousand. Let's see, I read that the average income for an individual in the Metro Center is $115,000. There are four apartment buildings on the block, and they are all about thirty stories tall. If I assume six apartments per floor and 1.5 earners per apartment, that means the average annual income for the block is $124,200,000. I would guess that the average savings rate for someone in that income bracket is about 25%. If the median age in the Metro Center is thirty-four, and the individuals have an average of six years of post-high school education, they have been earning for ten years and have...

  I stop my calculations and just look. I can finish my math later, there's a new Wonder of the World in front of me, the Hanging Gardens. Well, in front of me and on top of me. I can feel my brain struggling to make sense of what it sees. Trees don't grow in the middle of the sky. Landmasses don’t just float. It looks like a dream come to life.

  It doesn't float, not really. The landmass is actually suspended from a series of Maceo Steel spires that surround the island. The spires are attached to the island by ForteSilk strand
s. The strands are strong enough to hold up the island but still so thin they are all but invisible to the naked eye. Most people don't even know the ForteSilk is there. They think that the island actually floats. The reality is only slightly less magical.

  It makes me proud to look at the Gardens. Differents made this possible. Differents aren't just the Plagues or cost of living obligations. Differents made it so that there can be a twenty-five acre wonderland floating in the sky, filled with plants from all over the world. I might not always love Ultracorps, but they did build this, so they can't be all bad.

  I walk up the stairway to the ticket booth and spot Becky. There's a bit of sweat on her brow from standing out in the sun. It reminds me of the first night I met her. I like it.

  "Gavin, hi!" she says.

  She beat me here, and I got here early to beat her. Guess that means she's excited to see me, or maybe the Gardens.

  "Have you been waiting long?" I ask.

  "A little while. It's been so long since I've been to the Center, I forgot how long it took.”

  "When was the last time you were in the Center?" I ask. She only lives twelve miles away, so it can't have been that long.

  "I guess it was about eight years ago. Dad was trying to have some quality father-daughter time. He took me shopping on New Rodeo, window-shopping. Then we came to the Hanging Gardens and finished it off with a dozen donuts for the ride home. The whole day must have cost a year of savings," Becky says and stares off with a smile.

  Seems like a good memory, but I can’t believe she hasn’t been here for eight years. I think about talking about my mom, but I don't want to one-up her.

  "That sounds nice. How are donuts? I've never had one," I ask.

  "Oh my Lord, it's the best thing I've ever tasted. It's like eating a fried, sweet, creamy cloud. The fake Manna ones don't taste anything like them. You Chosen Sons haven't mastered that one yet."