by J. Kowallis
I tap my nose, a little joke London taught me, and crinkle it. “Hence the reason she’s struggling.”
Nate swears and runs a warm hand down my back. The same way he did to Olivia once, I’m sure. I think back to what happened to her. The blood. Her hands. The gun shot. The sounds all come roaring back again. And again. And again.
Had I told him what I’d seen—her future—he would have stopped her; like he’d stop me now if I told him what I’ve seen.
I step away.
“What?” he asks, incensed.
“Hmm?” I look back at him.
“Reg, why did you just step away from me?”
I duck my head and look out over the city. “You know why.”
Nate sighs. He leans over the balcony, making fists while he grips the rail, his shoulders tense, looking out. “This is never going to end, is it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t do that, Reg. Don’t act like you don’t understand.”
My head drops. “Sorry. I’m not trying to pretend. I just don’t know if I can stop seeing her.”
It’s so silent, I can’t even hear us breathe. Mute coldness is all there is between us these days. Silence. Pain.
“How long are you going to keep punishing us for what happened?”
“Punishing us?” I stand straight and stare at him. “How am I punishing us?”
“You feel guilty.” His jaw sets. “Why?”
Where do I start? How do I start?
“You think this is all my fault? Right?”
My eyes widen. “No, I—”
“. . . you think I don’t care.”
I shake my head. “I think I saw my friend’s death before she did and I did nothing. I think I can’t stop watching her pain. I think I kissed the man who loved her,” I can’t finish the sentence, ache filling my chest, and I have to pause. “. . . while she was in agony. I think―” my voice grates and I swallow. “No, I know it’s my fault.”
“That’s bullshit.” His voice stays measured. Controlled. It makes what he says all the more cold. “Liv made her own choice; one she would have made even if we’d tried to chain her up. You didn’t stop her, and I didn’t stop her. Lobb killed her. Now, you jump, you avoid me, you do everything short of shedding your skin to get away from me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” he turns to me, slowly. “Ever since Olivia died you’ve been holding it over my head. Sure, you’re mad at yourself, but don’t pretend you’re not angry at me too. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ransley. She asked me today what the hell was going on between us. Surprise, surprise, I had no damn clue.” He cusses under his breath and it goes silent. “So, I guess I could do it,” he finally adds.
“Do what?”
“Talk with Ransley. Help her to understand that sometimes you fall in love with people who don’t give a shit.” He says it with such a calm nature, so detached, that it cuts through me.
Nate turns to leave and I spin around to face him.
“That’s not true and you know it!”
“Then what’s the truth, Reg?” His eyes are cold. “What?”
I breathe deep. I feel the tears building; filled with everything I’ve wanted to get out for the past month.
“I’m so,” I pause. I’m so what? Furious at myself? Terrified that he told me he loves me? Heartbroken that he believes I don’t feel the same way? Furious at Lobb? Dejected? Frustrated? Mortified?
“I’m struggling with Olivia’s death.”
“And you think I’ve been celebrating? Glad she’s out of the way so I can have you? Is that it?”
“Dammit, Nate.” My eyes fill. He’s a blur. “Don’t do this. I know you haven’t. I can’t talk to you about this because I know you’ll tell me it’s okay, and it’s not!”
“Fine. Let’s get it out. Talk.” He waits, his arms crossed, staring at me with an over-emphasized anticipation.
“Don’t be like this, Nate. Liv was such a good friend to me. She cared about me. She loved you. Before she died you kissed me . . .”
“We kissed each other,” he interrupts. “That’s what this is about, then? Yeah, I felt you up, you bit my lip, and we made out while Olivia was still alive.”
“Nate . . .” the tears flow down my face.
He ignores me and his voice lowers. “Of course, that’s not the real problem is it? To serve up the real sundae of shit, Lobb cut off her fingers. He shot her—one of my best friends—recorded it, and played it for us to watch. I still wake up with nightmares. I thought what I saw in the military would haunt me for the rest of my life but I never thought it would be this. Now when I need you most, you ignore me. I still wake up gripping anything I can get a hold of, but you wouldn’t know that. I guess we’re supposed to go through this alone then. Never talk about it. We’ll just make each other miserable for as long as we’re working together.”
“No, I―” What? Is he wrong? Have I been there to talk to him when he wakes up in a sweat? Have I not ignored the tension between us? Lied to him about my visions? I am miserable. He’s miserable.
Nate sets his hands on his hips and looks into the apartment. “Dammit, Reg. I’m not going to force you into something you can’t do. I get it. But I’m not going to expect anything else. Not anymore. Not if this is what you want.”
He reaches down to open the patio door. It slides open smoothly and he turns to leave.
“Nate.”
He stops, but he doesn’t turn back. He waits. Waits for me to apologize. Probably hoping I’ll bring him back.
I want to. I want to have him hold me. I want to comfort him. I would give anything to feel like I wasn’t filled with absolute darkness, knowing what I’ve done, what’s still going to happen to me.
But I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Nate’s head bobs a couple times. Then he leaves. I take a deep breath of the pine and clean soap drifting back at me. My chest feels like it’s collapsing. I fall to the ground, curling my legs up to myself. I love him. More than I can say. It doesn’t change the fact that I can still see Olivia and what happened. Every time I close my eyes.
The past, the future. I can still see the glass wall. I can still see Nate being shot. The clouded vapors could take over my future, they weigh me down.
I’m already dying inside.
―ROYDON―
Numbers rotate on the projection in front of me. They disappear, leaving moving prints of circles. My fingers reach out and I can feel my eyes moving around in my head to keep up with where each of the circles are.
1,2,3 . . . 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 . . . .
With each touch of my finger in the air, the numbers in the circles reappear and freeze and others continue to move.
. . . 14, 15, 16, 17 . . . 18 . . . .
The key is to remember exactly which circle represents which number, and touch them in sequence. I understand the concept of the exercise. It expands the mind, and creates opportunities to multitask on several levels at the same time. Remembering where the numbers were, where they might be going, and which have already been identified.
. . . 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 . . . 41, 42, 43, 44 . . . 45, 46 . . . .
I stop when the sequence completes and reach over to shut down the program.
“That’s phenomenal, Roy. Each time you run this, you complete it faster than the time before.” Dr. Folland’s footsteps from behind echo over the marble floor.
“Are you sure the program is running randomly? You’re not making it easy by creating a standardized pattern are you?” I ask.
Dr. Folland smiles and shakes his head. “Completely unsystematic. And you beat it each time. This time in under,” he checks the time on the screen, “ten seconds. Just remarkable,” he finishes in a whisper, writing notes onto his personal screen.
“Not as fast as I could. I paused a couple
times and that cost me. What I worry about is how that may hurt my progression in the future. Mainly on real-world applications. I hope by running through this again and again it may weed out any hesitancy.”
“You’re pushing yourself. Good. That’s what we want. The more you push yourself, the more you’re able to develop. We have done all we can for your genetics and abilities, but like any muscle or lesson, exercise and practice make perfect. That’s exactly what we’re looking for. I believe that’s what you’re looking for.”
I nod. “Perfection comes through diligence. Perfection is what makes us strong. I understand.”
“Right. Now, before your training ends for the day, we want to see you take advantage of your other ability.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “My Astral Projection?”
Dr. Folland crosses his arms. “I don’t know, Roy. I don’t think you should be calling it that. After all, you never actually formed projections of your consciousness, but physical copies. What you can do, Roydon, crosses the boundaries of AP, and you’re into Corporeal Fission. You’re not . . . projecting one physical form of yourself within a small area, but you’re physically generating multiple reproductions of yourself that you can . . . theoretically, produce and send anywhere.”
I nod. Hearing him describe it that way proves to me how far I’ve come from where I used to be. My previous abilities were simply parlor tricks compared to the functioning capabilities of my mind now. And that understanding makes realize how much I owe to this society.
“Let’s try something, shall we?” Twenty armed guard trainees enter the room and I watch them closely. “These are our top guard graduates from the last round of instruction. You can split to any amount of duplicates you want. I’m not going to limit you. There are now twenty men and women here. Let’s see what you can do.”
My breathing deepens and I look at each person in the line. “What’s the goal? Disarm?”
Dr. Folland nods, then turns to face me once more and in an undertone, his voice rumbles. “Can twenty dead fighters retaliate?”
In unison, each trainee turns to face me, their guns raised. The doctor leaves the room, and it’s me and twenty unknowing guard trainees. In a single thought, fluid and natural as lifting a finger, five identical forms of myself appear in the room. Five seems fair. I’ve strategically placed myself perfectly in order for each version of myself to take on four men. Four to one. Four armed guards and me.
Shots fire and electricity buzzes in the air around me. I duck. My leg slides out, knocking the first guard down. My concentration is split so many times I’m finding it difficult to hold on to which consciousness I’m seeing from. Of course, it’s difficult, but not impossible.
An elbow wrapped beneath my arm pops with a twist.
I kick at a man’s thigh.
A gun slides to the ground and I pick it up, taking out one, two, three.
I wrench a man’s wrist sideways and plow my elbow into his face.
Another gun drops. I fire again, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
A set of powerful arms plows me from behind, shoving my body into the granite floor.
When I see myself fall, I turn and shoot the weapon in my hands, blasting the man in the skull.
I grip a man’s head in my hands, twisting violently to the side until his neck breaks. Before I can reach for his weapon, the butt of another is rammed into my temple, knocking me to the ground. I jump to my feet. A hit to his gut, a foot to his groin, and an elbow to the back of his neck when he leans forward.
Another two shot down. Eleven, twelve.
My wide hand wraps around the top of a man’s skull and slams it into the marble floor. The first time he screams. The second time, he stops moving and I grab his gun. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
I now evenly match the armed men. Five of them, five of me.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
I’m thrown into the wall.
I duck down and shoot.
Nineteen, twenty.
I’m still on my feet. Twenty dead bodies litter the training room and I breathe in and out, panting heavily. It’s harder than I expected. It shouldn’t be.
The door slides open and Dr. Folland walks in with a straight face. No tell-tale signs of strong emotion—excitement or rage. But he’s pleased. “Roydon, this is very impressive.”
“It was difficult . . .” I breathe in and out. “More difficult than I believed it would be. My focus was off and I found myself in situations I could have prevented. I allowed myself to be vulnerable at times.”
“Yes, but not to the point of being in danger.”
I fold my arms across my heaving chest. “Don’t make excuses for me. I want to do it again. I need the practice.”
Dr. Folland smiles at me. “I’m sure you do. At least you feel you do. However, I feel differently, and we can’t spare the guards. I think you’re ready.”
“For what?”
He sticks his hand into the pockets of his white lab coat and he beckons to me with the other finger. “I want you to look at something.”
I glance at the dead bodies on the floor and step over each one, following the doctor. Through the doors, he leads me down a brightly lit hallway. A second door meets us along the wall and he presses his hand to the pad. Numbers appear on the pad and he looks at me.
“Security measures. You understand.”
I nod and look away. I can’t see the doctor’s fingers press the pad, but my reflection looks back at me from the polished chrome walls. My hair is pulled back onto a haphazard bun at the back of my head, and my eyes are wide awake. Focused. Sharp.
I hear him touch the pad in a sequence of eight numbers. Judging by the hardness in which he touched each number and the sound of each soft dud, my initial guess of the combination is 34558622. Although, without trying it, I can’t be sure. Something else I’ll have to work on.
Once inside, he shows me a series of projection panels in the center of the room. Lined up side-by-side are four personality profiles. Each profile is blank. All of them, except for one.
I run my eyes down the information. Carmen Mata. Public Four employee, and Nexis modifier. She’s thirty-six years old, five-foot three, with copper eyes and black hair. It tells me how long she’s lived in the city, when she was run through the Nexis, and any other relevant information to her present life. I remember her. The day the other three attempted to attack the building, she was there.
“Do you know this woman?” Folland asks.
“Yeah,” I point to Carmen. “She’s a Public Employee. I’ve seen her before, but I’m not sure what she does for The Public. Who,” I point to the other blank profiles, “are the others? Why are you asking me all this?”
“Well, let me explain.” Dr. Folland points to Carmen’s profile. “This woman is one of our most skilled modifiers. A few days ago, she was kidnapped.”
“The day I was attacked.”
“Exactly. We have a feeling these people,” he motions to the other three profiles. Each simply states Male—Female—Female, “are holding her. We sent a team of guards to the apartment building to search, but so far, there’s nothing. We monitored Carmen’s apartment for six hours after the break-in. No one ever showed. But even so, whether they’re at the apartment or not, this city is large enough, that with the right technology, they could hide here for months. We know they have that capability because none of our cameras caught them.”
“You want me to find them.”
Dr. Folland nods. “In a sense.” His robotic eye swivels to the side to look at each profile again while his natural eye stays on me. “This is your first mission for Public Four. Normally we don’t assign such high-priority tasks to new citizens, but I know you have a personal understanding why we want them caught.”
Personal, no. Although I do understand why he’d say it that way. During the fight, one of the women continued to try and reason with me like she knew me from my previous life.
I nod. “
They threaten the stability and functionality of Public Four and the Nexis project. I’m not sure how, but they somehow believe they can help me. If that’s the case, getting them to seek me out may make this assignment easier. If I can make myself available to them, they might allow themselves to be vulnerable enough for me to bring them in.” I fold my arms. “After all, there are only three of them.”
“Agreed.” The doctor ushers me out the door. After the room seals off behind us, he faces me. “Your mission starts now. Do whatever you can to observe them. Learn who they are. If possible, bring them in. But,” he holds up a finger and his voice hardens, “do not harm any of them. We need to find out all we can about them. At least before we notify President Lobb.”
Inside, I can’t help but think the doctor is a fool. President Lobb would want to know everything. It would be unwise to hide anything from him. Perhaps Lobb may even have answers to who these people are. But, I know where my responsibilities lie for now. I know what I need to do.
“I understand.”
My consciousness splits five ways and we surround the doctor. I may owe him for what he’s done for me, but I know which of us really has the control. He looks slightly nervous at each of us, but I can tell he’s trying to hold an air of superiority.
“Remember, don’t hurt any of them.”
“I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise anything.”
―ESTEVAN―
Ice-cold wind raged through the city, whistling through broken glass windows and shaking loose shutters as the purr of the two motor bikes rumbled down the road. It was noon, and not a soul walked the streets. Each person would be asleep or passed out on a floor somewhere. Everything looked like they’d left it. Garbage blowing across the broken pavement, and smells that curled the hair in your nose.
Estevan pulled his bike off a side street and then turned in toward a narrow alcove. The bike roared louder in the enclosed space as he drove up and over a pile of shattered lumber and concrete. Once over the mound, he turned the bike off. Petey followed him, rumbling over the hill, the bike’s wheels turning over a particular large hole in the debris, but he managed to get over and pulled his motor bike beside Estevan and followed suit. When they were sitting in silence again, Estevan swung his leg over and got off.
