Maladapted

by Richard Kurti

  The intruder thrashed desperately, arms flailing. He managed to grab a steel cosh from his pocket and bring it cracking down across the side of Cillian’s head.

  The pain barely registered, the adrenaline rush was too strong.

  THUNK! The cosh smacked into his head again and a crimson wash trickled down Cillian’s face.

  The smell of his own blood ramped up his rage. He grabbed the intruder’s fist and crushed it in his hand, harder and harder until he heard a sickening crack. The intruder screamed in agony and dropped the cosh.

  Cillian loomed over the man, who just stared at his broken fingers in disbelief.

  “Who are you?” Cillian demanded.

  An agonized grunt was all he got back.

  “Tell me!” Pulsing with anger, he picked up the intruder and hurled him against the couch, sending the CyberSpecs skittering across the floor.

  Cillian stalked menacingly after him, stunned at the overwhelming power in his veins. It was as if he was in someone else’s body. “What do you want with me?”

  He saw terror in the man’s eyes.

  “What do you want?!” Cillian was firing with too much energy and the intruder knew it. Scrambling for his life, he lunged for the hallway and bolted through the front door.

  Cillian paused, drew breath. He felt no fear; this was a hunt now. He strode after the intruder, legs powering across the distance, senses alert to everything, and heard the click of fire doors closing up ahead.

  Easy.

  He sprinted down the corridor in pursuit and smashed open the doors into an emergency stairwell.

  Stop.

  Listen.

  Feet on concrete – running upstairs.

  No escape up there.

  His prey was cornered.

  Cillian pounded up the steps, 3 at a time, abandoning himself to the thrill of the hunt. He kicked open the final set of doors—

  And was suddenly overwhelmed with light.

  He was on the Solar Deck, where clusters of mirrors focussed sunlight onto massive arrays of panels to power the apartment building.

  Cillian went absolutely still, tuning in to his surroundings, trying to sense his enemy.

  At street level the fog was still clearing, but up here the light was hard and brilliant, making the solar panels creak.

  Cillian stalked further out onto the deck. The only escape was back through the fire doors. Sooner or later his victim would have to make a break for it.

  The quiet crunch of gravel.

  Cillian froze.

  Crunch. Over to the right – the intruder was trying to hide.

  Move further right.

  Outflank him.

  Then with a lurch of disappointment, Cillian realized his mistake. He saw a TechBridge, a lattice of steel girders wound with power cables linking this Spire to the next one – another way out.

  Suddenly feet scrambled on the roof shingle as the intruder darted for the bridge. Cillian chased after him, dodging between the solar panels—

  Closing in fast—

  Trying to head him off—

  He would get him—

  Without warning a bolt of searing heat slammed into Cillian.

  He snapped his eyes shut, shielding his face with his hands, but the light was too intense and he dropped to his knees, twisting his head away, and crawled blind, hands groping, until he was out of the blistering beam of heat. He looked back. The intruder had spun one of the parabolic mirrors around, turning light into a weapon.

  Cillian scrambled to the left, away from the scorching beam, but it was too late. He saw his enemy climb along the last few metres of the TechBridge and vanish into the building opposite.

  Furious with himself, Cillian lashed out, punching the nearest mirror, which shattered under his fist.

  18

  Tess stepped off the tram at Cotton Wharf and shivered.

  Nothing had changed. Stylish apartments converted from 19th-century warehouses still lined the dock; massive loading cranes, remnants of a grand industrial past now turned into street furniture, were still twinkling with winter lights.

  And yet everything had changed. 2 days ago Tess had walked away from here as an agitator, a dissident. Now she was returning as a killer.

  The pulse-bomb had blown away all her fuzzy thinking. As the smoke of shock cleared, she understood that her life would only make sense if she accepted that she was now a stormtrooper for The Faith until the day she died.

  She walked briskly towards an old tea warehouse that had been turned into a private college: Institute for Cultural Studies was carved proudly above the huge steel doors. As she brushed past wealthy traders hurrying in the opposite direction on their way to work, Tess couldn’t help feeling that familiar twinge of resentment. Unlike most of these people who lived in Cotton Wharf, she had known poverty: what it smelled like, how it cut into your soul.

  When Tess had arrived in Foundation as an orphan and a refugee, she had been greeted with hostile indifference by a city that saw her as nothing but a burden.

  “Foundation City helps those who help themselves,” was the proud civic boast.

  But if you couldn’t…

  She remembered the series of Placement Homes with painful vividness: the humiliating catalogue of rejection, the adults who never had time, the tired clothes and crumpled shoes that were constant reminders of your worthlessness.

  Until the moment when Blackwood had appeared from nowhere, like a miracle, and given her a world that wasn’t tenuous. He placed her in a school run by The Faith, where people listened, where she woke up to the same faces that were there the previous night; where she learned to have hope again.

  That complete strangers would reach out and offer salvation had filled the 9-year-old Tess with such burning loyalty, she’d dedicated her life to The Faith that had saved her. Eventually she’d earned her place here, in the organization that hid behind the facade of the Institute for Cultural Studies.

  Revelation.

  The moment Tess walked through the doors, she could feel the security cameras on her. This was no ordinary college.

  As Tess touched her hands on the fingerprint readers and looked into the iris-scanner, she could feel the receptionist’s gaze on her.

  “Welcome back, Tess.”

  Gone was the normal cool indifference. There was a respect in the receptionist’s voice that Tess had never heard before.

  “They’re expecting you downstairs.”

  Downstairs. That was a first too. Only the inner circle were allowed there. “Do I need an access code?”

  “No. You’re cleared now. Just touch the pads.”

  Everything really had changed.

  The building was a brilliant mix of old and new. Underneath the roof, with its massive iron girders, was a large communal area where everyone ate together. Lining the brick walls were glass cubicles; on the ground floor these were briefing and preparation rooms and on the upper floors there were bedrooms where the students lived.

  As she walked along the central gantry, a girl of her own age with a crazy mass of curly hair hurried towards her.

  “Tess! All anyone can talk about is you.” Erin’s voice was a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “Are you going to a safe house for a while?”

  “I think they’ve got another assignment for me.”

  “Already?”

  Tess glanced down into the dining area and saw the uneasy looks in the other students’ eyes. She was no longer one of them. The Metro bomb had pushed her across some invisible threshold.

  “I don’t want to be late,” Tess said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Sure.” Erin stepped aside. “I’ll come and see you after.”

  The strangeness followed Tess down into the vaulted basement, where Blackwood and 5 members of the Suprema were waiting. Tess only knew them by sight as they were too high up in Revelation to have any dealings with ordinary students; yet now each in turn stepped forwards to embrace her.

 
“By the Gift of the Creator.”

  “By the Gift of the Creator.”

  They whispered the words to her like a blessing, wrapping Tess in a cloak of heroism.

  Then they all got down to the ruthless business of fighting for The Faith.

  19

  Cillian had never seen so many people in the apartment. While one paramedic dressed his head wound, another filed the injury report; beyond them 2 uniformed police were questioning the security guard from the Spire’s Cockpit who had seen the chase on CCTV and called the emergency services. Over by the window-wall, prying with professional deftness, was Detective Qin.

  “You’re certainly having a rough week,” Qin said, his curious eyes dancing around the room. “First the Metro, then this…”

  Cillian looked at him in disbelief, angry that he should be so flippant.

  “I checked your records,” Qin went on, unperturbed. “You’ve never been the victim of crime, then in a couple of days…”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “The timing’s suspicious.”

  “How can you think they’re related?”

  “You ever come across any radical groups at university?”

  “No!” Cillian didn’t try to hide his incredulity.

  “What about religious factions?”

  “Right now I’m working on the rotational properties of 5-dimensional objects. You really think I’d have any interest in religion?”

  “Why the attitude? I’m trying to help.”

  “Can’t we do this another time?”

  “Now is good.” Qin waved the paramedics aside so that he could focus more intently on Cillian. “You must’ve been hiding something in here. It was a professional job – the intruder knew exactly what security you had and how to get around it.” He pointed to the electronic box that one of the uniforms was removing from the Main Control Unit. “That Disabler – we normally only see those in commercial espionage.”

  “I’ve no idea what he was looking for.”

  “He didn’t steal any tech?”

  “No.”

  “Valuables?”

  “No.”

  “You see anything obvious that’s missing?”

  Cillian glanced around the room, but everything seemed to be in its place.

  “Don’t you think that’s strange?” Qin persisted.

  “Lots of things are strange right now. Too many.”

  “Yeah … I certainly know that feeling.”

  Qin crossed the room and picked up a toolkit. “He brought this with him. Almost like he was planning to do some DIY.”

  Cillian looked at the toolkit: screwdrivers, spanners, a set of blades; it was the sort of thing you could pick up at any hardware store.

  “Ideas?”

  “I don’t know.” Cillian shook his head wearily. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Qin drummed his fingers on the toolkit as he put it down. “Have you always had a bad temper?”

  “What? I don’t.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” Qin picked up the CyberSpecs that were now sealed in a plastic evidence bag. “You really went for him.”

  Cillian felt suddenly uneasy as he realized that the whole encounter had been captured on the Specs.

  “Seems to me like he was searching, not stealing,” Qin said. “Until you interrupted.” He touched the pad on the side of the Specs. “It’s an ugly scene.”

  Cillian watched as the video replayed on the lenses.He saw his hands slamming the intruder into the wall, crushing his skull. It was sickening to see the look of violent rage on his own face.

  “Wouldn’t have marked you down as such an aggressive type,” Qin observed drily.

  “He was in my home!”

  “He could’ve had a knife. You didn’t know. You just went for him. Maths student becomes have-a-go hero.” Qin tossed the Specs back onto the table. “Almost as if you were trying to protect something.”

  “I was frightened.”

  Qin crouched down and gazed at him searchingly. “What was he looking for?”

  “I wish I knew.” Cillian put his head in his hands, struggling to think clearly, frustrated by all these events that refused to fit into a pattern.

  The doorbell rang and more officials filed in.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  20

  When the police finally left, Cillian clambered into the shower and turned everything on to full blast. The hot jets pummelled his body from all directions and he closed his eyes, lost in momentary oblivion.

  Without warning he started to tremble, as the shock finally caught up with him. He gripped the shower head tightly, desperately trying to steady himself.

  If only his father was here, he would know how to handle this, what to do next—

  But Paul was dead.

  Dead, yet refusing to completely die.

  Uncontrollable spasms suddenly wracked Cillian’s body, as if he was going to vomit up all his insides.

  What was happening to him?

  Was he having some kind of breakdown?

  The alarming energy that had surged through his veins when he attacked the intruder – where had that come from? And worse, why had he enjoyed the dangerous feeling of power?

  Cillian forced himself to breathe deeply until the trembling passed. He flipped the jets from water to hot air to dry off, then walked back through to the lounge.

  The victim support counsellor had left her card on the table; was that what he needed? Counselling? Was all this part of some strange post-traumatic stress?

  Maybe.

  But would opening up to a police counsellor just make him more vulnerable? He had the sense that Qin knew more than he was saying, just like the doctor at the hospital.

  Something else was going on – Cillian was sure of it. Forces were shifting beneath the glossy surface of everyday life, like those underground rivers that flowed deep beneath the City, slithering past in the darkness.

  Cillian tossed the card back on the table. He didn’t need counselling; he needed things to fit into a pattern.

  21

  “Everything we’ve learnt about him has confirmed my suspicions,” Blackwood said, as photos of Cillian appeared on the WallScreen in the basement briefing room.

  He scrolled through numerous pictures plucked from social media. “He’s living proof that Foundation City has crossed a line.”

  “We must stop this abomination,” one of the Suprema, a woman with heavy-rimmed glasses, pronounced.

  Tess looked at the pictures on the screen. “Shouldn’t we wait?”

  “Wait?”

  Tess could hear the surprise in Blackwood’s voice – students never questioned the Suprema. “To see if the City has learnt from the Metro attack,” she went on. “Now people know how serious we are, shouldn’t we give them time to change their minds?”

  “When I reflected on his crimes and malice,” Glasses quoted the Frankenstein text by heart, “my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation.”

  Tess glanced at the rest of the Suprema, hoping for discussion rather than decree, but no-one was going to contradict Glasses.

  “The thing is,” Blackwood said, striking a more pragmatic tone, “with Cillian exposed, his controllers will want to pull him off the streets. So we have to work fast. For some time we’ve known that an organization called P8 has been funding radical research, incubating dangerous ideas.” He turned and gazed at the picture of Cillian emerging from the smoke-filled station. “This suggests they’ve gone way beyond that. Cillian should’ve died in that inferno, but he walked out unscathed.”

  “In Foundation City, everything has a price, but nothing has value any more,” Glasses said. “Not even the human soul.”

  Tess studied the photograph, willing herself to forget that she was the one who had put the grief on Cillian’s face. “I think he knows the value of the human soul.”

  “It’s not just about him, though.” Blackwood looked search
ingly at Tess. “My fear is about Generation Zero.”

  “You have no proof of that,” Glasses said impatiently.

  “But it makes sense,” Blackwood retorted. “There’s no point creating just one.”

  “Right now we have to deal with what’s in front of us, not wild theories.” Glasses turned to Tess. “You need to reach out to Cillian. Win his trust. Then use him to cut open the heart of P8.”

  “Haven’t we shed enough blood?” Tess said.

  “It’s because we’re trying to stop blood being shed that you have to do this.”

  “Maybe you should choose one of the other operators,” Tess said quietly.

  “No.” Blackwood crossed the room and sat down next to her. “It has to be you.”

  “After everything that’s happened?”

  “Because of everything that’s happened. You’re upset. Of course you are. Which is why you need to see up close what we’re really fighting against.”

  Tess looked at the picture of Cillian holding his dying father.

  “Don’t underestimate him, Tess. There was a time when people killed each other just because of the colour of their skin. What P8 are doing will divide humanity all over again. Only this time it’ll be for ever. People are sleepwalking into this, and it’s fallen to us to wake them up.”

  92. 93. 94.

  The pull-ups were really hurting now, but Tess refused to stop. She had to keep going until all the doubts in her mind were quashed.

  The iron beam she gripped ran across the width of her room, so she could look at the WallScreen as she worked out. She’d selected images of Cillian to try to get into his mind, but there was something distant and inscrutable about him that was locking her out. Maybe it was that his face was a little bit too symmetrical, or maybe it was the strange sense of composure that surrounded him even in the middle of trauma. The only way in seemed to be through his eyes, which were flecked with vulnerability.

  Tess dropped to the floor and strapped some weights to her ankles.

  Vulnerable meant easy, if you could harden your heart.

  She leapt up to do another 100 pull-ups, trammelling her mind on to a single track: the mission.