Maladapted

by Richard Kurti

  “I understood what was supposed to happen,” Tess cut across him. “The electromagnetic pulse was supposed to knock out the train’s systems, gridlock the Metro, not kill and maim.”

  “Their fail-safes failed. That’s not your fault, and it’s not mine.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. “How can you be so calm? After what we just did?”

  “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I planted the bomb. You ordered it. We killed them.”

  “Listen to me. It was their own arrogance that killed those people.”

  “It was supposed to be a protest! Not murder.”

  “Their technology failed them when they needed it most. How much more proof do you need?”

  Tess looked down to avoid the dark intensity of Blackwood’s gaze.

  “Maybe now Foundation City will start to realize how misguided it is.”

  “Since when did we become executioners?”

  “This is what courage looks like.” Blackwood reached out and lifted her face. “The courage to make a stand. And you have nothing to worry about. There’s no trace you were ever in that carriage – we’ve made sure of that. Revelation will protect you no matter what. You know that, don’t you?”

  Tess said nothing.

  “Now pray with me.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll help.”

  “It won’t.” Before she could stop herself, Tess felt her tears drip onto her hands.

  “Don’t … please…” Blackwood put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Truth is never an easy path to follow. That’s why we have The Faith.”

  “They were just innocent people,” she whispered.

  “They weren’t. No-one we have ever targeted has been innocent. In its rush for progress, Foundation is more ruthless than we will ever be. We have principles, but Foundation has nothing, only greed and arrogance. The City needs to unravel because it’s wrong, and it’s Revelation’s duty to be at the heart of that struggle. We are stormtroopers of The Faith.” He held her hands in his, firm and reassuring. “Only the weak would stand by and do nothing. But you’re not weak, Tess. You are one of the strongest we have.”

  “I don’t feel strong.”

  “Without The Faith, what we did was senseless murder. But with it, we are fighting a just cause.”

  Her eyes flicked over his face. He was offering her a lifeline.

  “The Creator Made Man from Love,” Blackwood urged. “But the only thing Foundation City loves is wealth. And ambition. And technology. And insatiable change. People have lost sight of what really matters. That’s why we’re fighting.”

  And finally, Tess glimpsed a way that her blood-soaked future could make sense.

  “Even though the carnage wasn’t intended, I really believe it was the Creator’s will,” Blackwood said.

  “How can we ever know for sure?”

  “Because the horror of the bomb has exposed a much darker horror.” He reached into his jacket, took out a smartCell and swiped open a photograph.

  Tess looked at the picture of a teenage boy carrying his dying father out of the swirling black smoke.

  “Who is he?”

  “Not who,” Blackwood warned. “But what.”

  9

  Cillian didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the Trauma Ward; it seemed like hours since they’d transferred him to the Liberty Hospital, but he couldn’t be sure.

  They’d isolated him in a high-dependency cubicle and plugged him into all manner of BioMonitors, making it impossible for him to get up.

  On the bedside table one of the nurses had laid out the things they’d found in his pockets. He reached for his smartCell and turned it on. Messages scrolled across the screen, from concerned friends, colleagues of his father and there were even some from pushy journalists trying their luck.

  Cillian swiped the screen clear; he couldn’t face dealing with anyone yet. But just as he was about to toss the smartCell back, he noticed the social media apps blinking furiously. He touched the icons and was astonished to see streams of new messages: propositions from DigiFlirt, Friend Requests, Buddy-Ups and Likes, hundreds of taps from complete strangers. As he glanced through the feeds, he realized they were all chattering about TV images of him emerging from the burning Metro station. A few had even made snappy compilations to licks of music.

  While his father was dying, Cillian had been going viral on the Ultranet.

  Nauseated at being some kind of ghoulish celebrity-of-the-moment, Cillian blocked all the social apps. He needed silence to think, to get his bearings.

  The door clicked open and a tall medic with a shiny face entered; Cillian recognized him as the doctor who had tried to save his father.

  “How are you doing now?”

  He couldn’t even begin to answer a question like that.

  “I’m Dr Lomas.” Gently he sat down next to the bed. “We tried everything, but your father’s injuries—”

  “He was a doctor too,” Cillian said bitterly.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He spent his life helping people, but when he needed it, you let him die.”

  “I’m sorry. But everyone in that carriage…” Lomas’s words tailed off awkwardly.

  “Why are you keeping me here?” Cillian glanced at the monitors and could immediately see there were no irregularities in the patterns of the data. “Unless you’ve found something wrong?”

  Lomas was taken aback by his directness. “We just need to make sure. After what you’ve been through, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Lucky?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Cillian looked at Lomas intently, trying to understand what he was really thinking. Something didn’t seem right about the doctor’s sympathy.

  “Do you remember much about what happened?” Lomas asked. “It just seems impossible for anyone to have walked out of that unscathed.”

  So that was it. They knew something strange had played out in the carriage, but they didn’t know what.

  “Why do you need to know?” Cillian asked warily. “Isn’t it enough that I’m alive?”

  “Of course. It’s just…” Lomas stood up, leant across and started scrolling through different scans on the monitors. “A few cuts and bruises, a bit of smoke inhalation.” He stared at the images. “It’s incredible.”

  Cillian tried to read the doctor’s face; he could see how baffled he was, how hungry for answers. Part of him was screaming to open up and tell someone about the inexplicable strangeness of the crash, but another part was warning him that maybe he shouldn’t trust this stranger.

  They looked at each other in silence for a few moments, before Lomas realized he wasn’t going to get any more. “When you’re ready, you’ll need to see the hospital clerk. There are some formalities.” He smiled uneasily and turned to go.

  “When can I see my father’s body?”

  “I’m afraid … that’s not going to be possible. It was another terror attack. Revelation ramping up their tactics.” Lomas rocked uneasily from one foot to the other. “So everything is evidence. Including the bodies. Sorry.” And with that, he hurried out into the corridor.

  Cillian watched the door as it slowly clicked shut, leaving him alone again.

  Alone and baffled.

  He was being bombarded with ragged bits of information that refused to fall into a pattern. He closed his eyes, desperate to think, to concentrate so that he could understand—

  A sudden barrage of flashes interrupted his thoughts. Cillian gave a sharp tug at the tubes and wires tying him down, pulling them all off his body, and walked over to the window.

  There was a scrum of photographers and news crews on the hospital forecourt, teeming around the City Mayor, who appeared to be giving a press conference. It was impossible to hear what he was saying through the sealed windows, so Cillian flicked on the WallScreen.

  “…marks a terrible escalation in the tactics of th
e extremists. They hide behind their Faith, but the truth is they are violent criminals, attacking the values we hold dear: innovation and technology, freedom and profit; a modern, democratic city where people can realize their dreams, fulfil their potential, build a better future. I promise you, those who seek to destroy our values will not succeed.”

  Cillian remembered how his father had always thought that beneath the bonhomie, the Mayor was ruthlessly ambitious. He wouldn’t have been impressed by this attempt to spin tragedy into political advantage.

  “The terrorists who have attacked Foundation City will be hunted down. There will be no hiding place for—”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” An intensive care nurse ran into the room, ushering Cillian back towards the bed. “You can’t just unplug yourself. We thought you’d had a heart attack.”

  Immediately she started resetting the monitors and trying to reattach Cillian, but he pulled away.

  “I want to go home now.”

  “You’ll have to talk to the doctors—”

  “No. I don’t have to talk to anyone. I don’t belong here.”

  10

  Gabrielle sat in silence, her fingers flicking between the news feeds on her tablet, searching for an unexpected announcement that somehow Paul had survived. But all she found was one blood-soaked image after another.

  And amid the carnage one particular image kept recurring: Cillian emerging from the smoke, Paul draped in his arms as he drew his final breaths.

  She put the tablet down and cradled her head in her hands. Memories of Paul tumbled through her mind: his wry laugh, his logical mind, the determination in his eyes that tried to hide his sadness. More than anything, she remembered his courage; he knew they were stepping outside conventional morality, but he’d never faltered.

  Now all his talents had been wiped out in an instant, defeated by ignorance, destroyed by people who refused to accept the true power of science.

  It was a bitter irony that this was exactly why Gabrielle had started P8 all those years ago: to fight the dreadful fragility of life.

  She paced over to the gallery rail and gazed down into the cavernous open-plan void, criss-crossed with glass and steel walkways. P8’s headquarters had been designed to inspire. The space was flooded with light, all the faint-hearted scepticism of the world kept out by a wall of secrecy. In this protected space, people could think freely, quietly push the boundaries of understanding…

  And they did.

  Now the results were out there, walking in the world.

  She picked up her tablet and enlarged the still of Cillian holding Paul’s maimed body. Without knowing why, people had been captivated by this raw depiction of survival. Even though they didn’t know the truth, on some level they seemed to sense it. They were drawn to it instinctively.

  Instincts.

  If there was one thing Gabrielle’s research at P8 had taught her, it was that primal instincts were one of the most powerful forces in nature.

  She tapped the image to reveal its stats: half-a-million shares already. That was vindication enough. Determination tightened in Gabrielle’s guts; she must not waver.

  To be intimidated by terrorism would be to betray Paul’s memory. She hadn’t flinched in the past; she would not flinch now.

  She tapped Messaging and summoned her team.

  11

  The 3 of them walked briskly under the glass dome of the roof solarium, their sneakers squeaking on the rubberized floor.

  “We know it’s Revelation,” Cole said, diligently handing Gabrielle a set of pictures showing various electronic billboards across the City. “These were all taken in the last hour.”

  Gabrielle flicked through the printouts. Each one showed a display that had been hacked, its shimmering advert replaced by the ominous warning: How dare you sport thus with life?

  “It shows how frightened they’re getting,” Gabrielle said pensively.

  “You know, I wouldn’t be so sure it is Revelation,” Paige objected. “It’s a huge change in tactics for them. Kidnappings and cyber-attacks are more their style.”

  “But they’re being pushed into a corner.” Gabrielle handed the pictures back. “Deep down, Revelation knows it’s only a matter of time before the laws are relaxed. And when we finally come out and publish, people will be astonished at what we’ve achieved.”

  “But what if public opinion is actually against us?” Paige said.

  “Knowledge drives this City. Unless Foundation legitimizes what we’re doing, there’ll be a brain drain. And that’s how city states die.”

  “They also die through anarchy and terror,” Paige said anxiously. “They implode.”

  “We need to hold our nerve,” Gabrielle said calmly. “In the short term, the less people listen to Revelation, the louder it will scream and the more dangerous it’ll become. It’s why fanatics always turn to violence in the end.”

  “Well they certainly know how to tap into money,” Paige said. “To knock out the Metro with a pulse-bomb, that takes some doing.”

  “Money and destruction always find each other.” Gabrielle gazed through the glass wall of the dome, looking out across the skyline. “It’s people who want to create things that struggle.”

  “All I’m saying is they won’t be easily stopped.”

  “I know.” Gabrielle nodded. “You’re right. But nothing we do here is easy.”

  “On a more practical note,” Cole was anxious to ease the tension between the 2 women, “it means Cillian’s at risk. Revelation will have seen his picture. They’ll be putting two and two together. It’ll make him a target now. We should help him.”

  “Not necessarily,” Gabrielle said, turning the problem over in her mind.

  “We can’t protect him unless we bring him in.”

  “Let’s think it through. The whole point is to leave them out there, right? To see how they behave, how they integrate.”

  “Normally, yes. But—”

  “So if we bring Cillian in, we risk wasting his entire Line.”

  “Surely we’d be saving the Line?” Paige wasn’t going to back down. “We owe it to him to keep him safe.”

  “No-one wanted things to turn out like this. But now it’s happened, we have an incredible opportunity.”

  “You’d seriously risk sacrificing him?”

  “No-one’s sacrificing anyone.” Gabrielle was adamant. “And that kind of emotive language doesn’t help.”

  Paige flipped her sunglasses down, covering her eyes.

  “We have to be smart, logical,” Gabrielle said. “We can play this to our advantage. Cole, you see what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, but … you have to admit, without his father, Cillian’s vulnerable.”

  “And vulnerable is interesting. I’m fascinated to see what he does now, with no protection.”

  Cole nodded. “I get that.”

  “Paige?” Gabrielle looked at her searchingly. “We all need to be behind this.”

  Paige hesitated; she seemed reluctant to get into a full-scale confrontation. “Sure.” She nodded tersely.

  “Which means our immediate concern is dealing with loose ends. Paul wouldn’t have had a chance to tidy things up. He may have left us exposed.”

  “I’ll brief security,” Cole said, turning to go. “They can start covering our tracks.”

  “Make sure they’re thorough,” Gabrielle warned. “You know how I hate carelessness. For want of a nail, and all that.”

  12

  The cold air slammed into Cillian as he left the stifling, overheated hospital. He dug his hands into his pockets and started to walk.

  But where to go?

  No way could he face the empty apartment, not just yet; it was still too raw. He’d have to take refuge in the university instead.

  Because he’d won a Fast-Track scholarship 3 years early, he wasn’t expected to live in like all the other students. Instead the university had given him a dedicated study-pod, a room where
he could bunker down and lose himself in numbers whenever he wanted. Right now that felt like the safest place in the world, a cocoon of solitude.

  The flurry of winter in the city drifted past. Everywhere he looked, Cillian’s mind instinctively picked out evolving patterns and translated them into numbers: how the smoke rose from street stalls roasting chestnuts, the ebb and flow of people on the crowded pavement, the complex rhythms of steam billowing from the Maintenance-Bots that kept the sidewalks clear of ice.

  For as long as he could remember, Cillian had been able to see the mathematics behind the world the way other people saw colours. His mind could effortlessly wrap itself around the most abstract patterns; and yet despite all that, he was completely baffled as to why his life had just unravelled so catastrophically.

  It left him feeling strangely alienated, as if all along, the streets and buildings of Foundation City had been nothing more than a painted backcloth that had torn under his fingers like a bit of stage scenery. Right now the only solid things in his life were the granite paving slabs under his feet, and he felt a primal urge to keep walking on them.

  As he turned into Lepanto Plaza, Cillian saw the ice rinks swirling with young children speeding carelessly in circles, their nervous mothers struggling to keep up.

  Memories flooded back of his father bringing him here on Saturday mornings. He’d always imagined the skating rinks would become a kind of family tradition, and somewhere in his mind were fanciful images of him taking his own kids on the ice while Paul filmed it all.

  Now the mental sketches of what might have been had to be wiped.

  Suddenly Cillian felt a deep longing for human contact. He took out his smartCell, then remembered that he’d blocked all his social apps. Edging into the busiest part of the crowd, he stopped dead and let the throng of people flow around him, trying to feed off their energy: office workers hurrying back from lunch, students laughing and drinking coffee as they cycled past, tourists on frantic schedules.

  But now that he looked closely, Cillian realized that for all the crowds and bustle, no-one was really here. One way or another they were all plugged into the Ultranet, living somewhere else, laughing with someone else.