Human Superior

by C. S. Won

  Human Superior

  By C.S. Won

  Copyright © 2019 by C.S. Won

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE - Blowback Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  PART TWO - The Impossible Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Harold Varney approached the man who was slumped over in his seat.

  The man was rocking back and forth in a slow, deliberate manner, with his gaze fixed to the ground. His hands were clamped together in his lap, and his lips moved quickly like he was reciting a prayer, but there was no sound, not even when Harold came closer. The man’s jet-black hair, long and unkempt, brushed against the scruff layered on his jaw. The trench coat he wore, much too large for a man of his size, hung loose from his frame, like a child wearing his father’s clothes.

  He had been sitting there for at least twenty minutes, and for twenty minutes that’s all he did. No one lodged a complaint against him, and to the man’s credit he did nothing to bring attention to himself, but this was no rest area for the unfortunate, the indigent, and the displaced. This was a place of business, not a shelter. Appearances had to be maintained.

  Clicking his heels loudly to announce his presence, Harold stopped before this man, and waited for a response. The man did not look up even when Harold cleared his throat.

  “You need to leave, sir,” Harold said.

  The man did not respond. In fact, he didn’t even as much as flinch or stir. He just continued to stare at the ground, murmuring in near silence. Harold repeated the command, louder this time.

  “You need to leave, sir.”

  This time the stranger finally moved, and he lifted his head to look at Harold. His shadow cast this stranger’s face in darkness, obscuring much of his features, but even then, Harold could see the surprise in the gleam of his eyes, as if he was astonished that someone would dare inconvenience him during his moment of quiet. Harold waited for a response, but the stranger kept silent. He repeated the command once more.

  “You need to leave, sir.”

  A couple of confused blinks, then the man cleared his throat.

  “Leave? Why?” he said finally.

  Harold sighed. Please, not today, he thought to himself. He pointed at the front entrance. “If you take a right out of here and go a few blocks down, there’s a shelter that will give you a place to stay for the afternoon.”

  The man looked puzzled. “Shelter?”

  Does he want me to come right out and say it? “I’m not in the business of bruising a man’s pride. So please, get up and walk over to the Shepherd’s Inn, so the good folks there can give you a place to rest your head for the day. Otherwise, I’m going to have to make a scene, and I don’t think either of us wants that.”

  The man gave Harold a few more confused blinks. “Wait a second, you think I’m—” He looked at his own attire, pulling at his coat, smoothing out the wrinkles, then chuckled. “Oh, I get it now. I see. I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here. I’m—” He chuckled again. “—despite how it appears, I can assure you that I’m no vagrant. I’m supposed to be here, in fact.”

  “You are?”

  “I have an appointment today—a job interview.” The man waved his arms around to emphasize the point, gesturing at the lobby floor before them. It was a wide-open space, tiled inch by inch by precise measurements of concrete and marble, a great swath of it blanketed by the sunlight streaming through a high window over the front entrance. Exotic plants lined the walls to the side, providing color to the jungle of grey and brown. Men and women in business suits hurried past them, their hasty steps echoing off the floor in thumps and clicks.

  “Is that so? And who are you interviewing with?” Harold asked.

  The man rubbed his hands together in a series of wrings and twists. “I’m meeting—personally—with the Founder of Red Mars Incorporated himself, Morgan Duffy. We’re scheduled to have a face to face.” He fussed with many of the loose threads on his coat and flitted away any free strands towards the floor. His eyes darted to his left and right in stealthy but obvious glances, as if he was expecting something to happen.

  “Morgan Duffy?” Harold said. Why would he meet with a kid like this? “What’s your name?”

  A pause. “Oliver Rogers.”

  “Mr. Rogers. Okay. Alright, Mr. Rogers, if you’re here for an interview, then why didn’t you check in with us?”

  Oliver looked surprised by the question. “Was I supposed to?”

  Harold didn’t answer.

  “I apologize then. No one told me I had to check in once I arrived. I merely thought I just had to walk in and wait,” Oliver said.

  “How can anyone know you’re here if you don’t tell anyone?”

  “Uhm . . . magic?” Oliver laughed nervously at his poor joke. “Again, I apologize, I just . . . I guess I didn’t know proper protocol. I’ll chalk it up to frayed nerves. Interview with the big boss himself making my knees shaky, you know?”

  “It’s funny you say that, because as far as I know, Mr. Duffy doesn’t conduct interviews with recruits. Why would he make an exception for you?”

  Oliver hesitated. “Maybe I stood out?”

  Harold’s first instinct was to grab this kid by the scruff of his neck and toss him out onto the sidewalk, but the slightest chance he was telling the truth made him stay his hand. Best to cover all his bases first before he acted.

  “Stand up,” Harold said.

  “Sir?” Oliver said.

  “I said stand up.”

  Oliver frowned but obeyed, his coat rustling as he stood.

  “Let me see some ID,” Harold said.

  Oliver pulled out his driver’s license and handed it to Harold. The name listed said Oliver Rogers, just as he claimed, and the face in the photo matched the man standing before him: dark-brown pupils, smallish eyes, black hair, and pale with a slight golden tint. Birthday was marked November 4, 1992. Issued by the state of Illinois, so an out-of-towner.

  It looked legitimate, although Harold wasn’t so sure. Unfortunately, he was no expert in spotting phony IDs, so he couldn’t say either way. He handed the license back, then took his baton out, making a circle in the air with it. “Open your coat.”

  Oliver didn’t comply with the order. His eyes continued to shift
in every direction, almost as if he was afraid that someone might see what he had hidden underneath, and it wasn’t until Harold took a step forward with his baton raised at hip level did the kid eventually relent, plucking the buttons loose on his coat until it sagged free. Reflex took over and Harold slid his hand over the gun sheathed on the other side of his hip, squeezing the leather holster, his breath locked in his nose. Oliver saw the reaction and slowly opened his coat in response, to show that he meant no harm. The eventual reveal showed nothing except for a navy suit, a crisp, white dress shirt, and a sky-blue tie to anchor it all. A sharp contrast to the ill-fitted, wrinkled coat he wore over it. Harold eased his hand away from the gun.

  “Like I said, I’m only here for a job interview,” Oliver said.

  “Move against the wall and spread your legs,” Harold said.

  Oliver did as he was told this time with no hesitation, putting his hands behind his head, and standing against the wall. Harold began patting him down, which drew a few curious stares by people passing by. In all honesty none of this was required, but the kid displayed enough suspicious behavior that it at least warranted the action.

  “You were supposed to check in with us if you had a job interview,” Harold told him, repeating the lesson.

  “I’m sorry. I honestly had no idea. I won’t make that mistake again,” Oliver said.

  Harold finished the pat down, his search producing nothing except for what was supposed to be there. He turned Oliver around.

  “I’m going to check on a few things, then make a call to the company to let them know you’re here,” Harold said.

  “Is that really necessary? Can’t I just . . . wait here?” Oliver asked.

  Harold furrowed his brow. “How else are they supposed to know that you’re here if I don’t notify them?”

  Oliver barked out a stuttering laugh. “Of course, of course, how stupid of me. Please, go right ahead.”

  Was it possible that Oliver was just here for a job interview? He certainly appeared young enough for the role, and despite his hair being a little messy, and his demeanor twitchy and nervous, he didn’t seem homeless either. Notwithstanding the unflattering appearance of his coat, there was no body odor, his breath didn’t reek of alcohol, his teeth were white, his eyes were clear, his face was clean, and his suit sharp. But what of his apparent naivety around proper protocol? Perhaps it could be attributed to mere ignorance, or as Oliver had said, nervousness. So, as absurd as it seemed, it was plausible that the kid thought all he had to do was show up and wait until the Founder himself came down to personally greet him. Millennials, after all, had an annoying habit of thinking the world revolved around them.

  Harold made his way back to the front desk, pushing in through a swinging gate, and slid in next to his partner, Al Summers, who kept an impassive watch on the array of CCTV monitors in front of him. He had a half-eaten donut clenched between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What’s the verdict?” Al asked.

  “Not homeless,” Harold said.

  “Hah! I told you. You owe me a beer.”

  “The last thing you need is more empty calories. Besides, you were wrong too. You said he was a drunk.”

  “He’s not?”

  “Just a kid who’s here for a job interview.”

  “Really? Him? With the way he was stumbling in here, I had him pegged for a tosspot. Guess the kid was just clumsy.” Al finished his donut, then kissed the crumbs off his fingertips. “Well, my guess was closer than yours, so I win on a technicality. I’ll be expecting that beer in a cold glass.”

  “You can expect it in a big glass of nothing. No such thing as a technicality in a wager.” Harold picked up a phone and dialed in a four-digit number. A woman’s voice spoke through after just one ring.

  “Red Mars Incorporated, this is Amber speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Hi Amber, it’s me, Harold from security.”

  “What can I do for you, Harold?”

  “I have a kid here who says he has a job interview with you guys today. Should I send him up?”

  “A job interview? We don’t have anyone scheduled for an interview today.”

  A pause. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain. What was his name?”

  “Oliver Rogers.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Hold on . . .” The sounds of a keyboard clacking. “There’s no one under that name on the docket today.”

  “Is it possible he was added in at the last second?”

  “I doubt it. Someone would have notified me by now if that was the case.”

  Harold looked at Oliver, who was sitting in the same place. “So he was lying.”

  “Let me go and check with our recruiters just to be sure. Can you hold?”

  “Yes.”

  Jazz music played on the other line. Harold removed the receiver from his ear and looked at Al.

  “Sounds like the kid isn’t supposed to be here,” Al said.

  “They’re checking on it now,” Harold said.

  “What did you say his name was again?”

  “Oliver Rogers.”

  Al rubbed his lips. “That can’t be right.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “You know, the whole time you were over there with him, I couldn’t help but think that he looked kind of familiar.”

  “Really? Who did he remind you of?”

  “You sure he didn’t say his name was Daniel Duffy?”

  Harold stared at Al. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’ll bet you another beer that kid is Morgan Duffy’s spawn.”

  “There’s no way.”

  “Don’t you know what the kid looks like? The resemblance is uncanny.”

  Harold looked over at Oliver and realized, much to his own surprise, that he didn’t know what Daniel Duffy looked like. He knew the name and the boy’s reputation—ostensibly that of a loner and shut-in—but trying to glean a memory of his appearance landed nothing. Despite coming from a wealthy, prominent family, and his father’s appetite for publicity and attention, Daniel Duffy was a complete unknown; a boy who managed to avoid the spotlight and the ever-curious public eye. Pictures of him were rare, even on the Internet.

  But even if this kid really was Daniel Duffy, Harold still found the notion hard to believe. Father and son hardly looked alike. Morgan Duffy was white with a pinkish tone, with dull olive eyes, bright silver hair, and a rounded, pug nose as bright as a cherry. Oliver—or Daniel—was the complete polar opposite of that, with his stark black hair, small eyes, and higher cheekbones. Very little was shared between the two.

  Al swiveled around in his chair to look at Harold. “I’m sure of it. That kid is definitely Daniel Duffy.”

  “Eat another donut, Al. That kid isn’t Morgan’s,” Harold said. “Morgan is as white as my ass cheeks. This kid—he looks Asian. Or . . . some kind of Asian. I don’t know; he’s got a pretty vague look to him, like a mix of things. But there’s no way that’s his son, not with those features.”

  “Morgan’s ex-wife was Chinese, wasn’t she? That could explain the kid’s mutt look.”

  “Just so we’re on the same page here, you don’t actually think that this kid is the Daniel Duffy, right? You’re only saying that he looks like him?”

  Al chuckled, the whole thing amusing to him for whatever reason. “I’d say it is him, and he’s just screwing with you.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he can? He’s the boss’s son. He can do whatever he wants.”

  “But why would he say he’s here for an interview if he’s the boss’s son?”

  “How should I know? Like I said, this whole thing is probably just one big joke to him.”

  Harold looked at Oliver again. He had moved away from the bench and was standing closer to the center of the lobby, where the sun’s light gave him a soft glow. He was looking around, hands gripped tight around the collar of his coat, the first streaks of sweat slidin
g down the sides of his face.

  The jazz music stopped, and Amber came back on the line. “Hey Harold, sorry about the delay.”

  “No worries. What were you able to find out?”

  “I’ve confirmed that we have no interviews scheduled today, or the rest of the week for that matter, with anyone named Oliver Rogers.”

  “Is it possible that it might be off the books? He said he was meeting with Morgan Duffy directly.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. Mr. Duffy left yesterday afternoon for a series of meetings in DC. He won’t be back until next week.”

  Harold slapped himself on the forehead. How could he have forgotten? He received the e-mail about Morgan’s departure several days ago. His absence should have been known.

  “Besides, even if he was available, I doubt he’d have an interview lined up with a recruit. We both know Mr. Duffy doesn’t do that,” Amber said.

  Oliver was shifting more now, so much so that people were deliberately avoiding his path. He kept a tight grip on his coat, pulling it close across his body.

  “Thank you, Amber. Sorry to bother you.” Harold hung up the phone. “There’s no one named Oliver Rogers scheduled for an interview today.”

  “I could have told you that. Listen, I’m telling you, that kid right there is none other than Daniel Duffy in the flesh,” Al said.

  “Man, I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we go and ask, then?”

  “Ask?”

  “Yes, dummy, ask, so we can clear up this little Scooby-Doo mystery.” Al stood from his seat, checking to see if his weapon was in its proper place. “And maybe I can lobby him to give me a raise too. I’m long overdue for one.” He made his way through the swinging gate.

  “Shit.” Harold checked on his own gear then followed close behind. Oliver saw the two coming and took a step back, his eyes going wide at their approach. When the distance between them diminished even further, he took another step back, then another, pulling his coat even tighter against his body.

  “Why does the kid look so spooked? Looks like he wants to make a run for it,” Al said.