Out of Sight (Progenitor Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Screams rose out of the crowd behind her, rushing closer.

  She whipped around, staring at a pair of green gee-vees racing down the street, neck and neck. The one on the left swerved toward the opposite side, clipping a few pedestrians and throwing them into the wall. One guy disappeared under its six wheels. Three EGSF gee-vees covered in flashing lights pursued them; armored figures hanging out the sides fired their rifles at the fleeing cars.

  Sima shrieked and dove to the ground two seconds before a man less than fifteen feet away from her took a bullet in the leg and hit the sidewalk howling. All five vehicles rumbled by, kicking up a wind that whipped her tunic and hair about. Moans of pain emanated from those hit by the cars or shot by accident.

  Tires squealed in the distance, and a tremendous crash shook the earth. Seconds later, a great moan of stressed metal like the final wail of a dying giant rang out. A second heavy crash rumbled, much stronger than the first. Sima pushed herself up to stand. Four blocks away, a huge cargo transport lay on its side, the nose end smashed into a building. The box portion at the back had ruptured, spilling thousands of small, silver packets all over the road.

  EGSF officers leapt from their vehicles and opened fire on one of the gee-vees that lay in the street near the truck, its nose end crumpled from an impact. The two men and one woman inside never even got the doors open before the hail of bullets shredded them. Another pair of women and two men scrambled out of the second gee-vee, which had rolled upside down. They all had guns, but none made a move to return fire at the cops, instead ducking and shouting while disappearing into an alley.

  The EGSF officers gave chase, ignoring the bleeding man struggling to crawl out of the flipped over cargo transport.

  Normally, a scene like that would send any rational Outcast looking for the nearest place to get below ground, lest they got caught up in the fallout. However, the temptation of thousands of nutri-packs laying out in the open proved too strong to resist. Sima headed toward the crash, against the flow of fleeing pedestrians. She weaved around people for about a block and a half before the crowd thinned enough to let her up to a full run.

  A few other Outcasts came running from nearby side streets and dove into the sea of free food, scrambling to stuff their pockets with as much as they could get their hands on. Sima joined the fray with the eager abandon of a small girl encountering a vast field of candy. She skidded to a stop on her knees in the glorious bounty, scooping up handful after handful of the squishy Mylar pouches, and stuffing them in her front pocket. When that filled, she pulled the front of her tunic up to form a bowl, and kept on grabbing.

  The driver from the cargo transport shouted at them, calling them thieves and rats.

  She ignored him, scrambling to gather up as many packets as she could.

  “Seps!” yelled the driver. “Stealing my cargo!”

  No! Sima lunged to her feet, clinging to an armload of nutri-packets. Even the mere accusation of being a rebel could be fatal. A few pouches slipped from her grasp as she pivoted toward an alley, but before she could take two steps, EGSF officers came running out of the side street where the gunfire had been raging seconds before.

  “We’re not Separatists!” screamed Sima. “He’s lying!”

  “Don’t move!” called a male officer, pointing his rifle at her.

  Sima couldn’t have run if she wanted to; every muscle in her body locked.

  The other Outcasts, some dozen or so, panicked. A man and a boy about her age reacted as she did, with paralysis. Other teens and some twentysomethings took off running in random directions, a few dropping their collected nutri-packs.

  Three officers opened fire on the fleeing Outcasts, but the one pointing his weapon at Sima didn’t shoot. Voices cried out in agony from seeming everywhere. The terrible thunder nearly made her bladder let go.

  Sima stared down the barrel of a rifle for two seconds before shrieking, “Please don’t kill me! I’m just a kid!”

  “On the ground. Do it slow,” shouted the man aiming at her.

  She let the packets fall around her feet and raised her hands out high and to the side. Gradually, she lowered herself to kneel and then lay flat on her stomach, gazing sideways over a sea of shimmery silver plastic at two inert bodies and three teens writhing in pain.

  Boots tromped up, inches from the top of her head. She couldn’t see, but felt the rifle still pointed at her. Seconds passed. A woman shouted, “Clear.” Hands wrapped in armored gloves patted her down. Upon finding no weapons, the officer pulled her arms behind her back and locked metal restraints around her wrists.

  She gasped at the painful tightness, unable to suppress a whine of, “Ow.”

  He grabbed her by one arm and dragged her upright. “So you’re not a rebel, huh?”

  “No, sir,” she mewled.

  “Name, age, registration.”

  “Sima Nuvari. I’m sixteen. CR23910822-dash-B0642F12.”

  She’d memorized that number in first grade. Her identity. Citizen Record, birthdate August 22, 2391. The twelfth female child born that day in Block 642.

  “What are you doing here if you’re not part of a rebel attack on this food truck?”

  “I swear I was just begging down the street, but when I saw all this food, I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten much in a couple days.”

  The officer lightly gripped her chin and lifted her so she made eye contact with his blank silver visor. Silence stretched over a minute. Wounded Outcasts nearby howled in pain, causing her to flinch. She figured he probably scanned her, or sent a picture of her face back to the system. If her mother had any care at all, there might be a missing report, but she doubted it. At least she didn’t have a criminal record yet, so he might go easy on her. He pulled all the packets out of the front pocket of her tunic, tossing them on the road before he held up the holocom. The clear plastic bar glinted in the sunlight.

  “I got that from another officer. I was gonna holo him but then the crash… I promise. They wanted to help me.”

  He lifted the front of her tunic and examined her grimy grey shirt. Between its holes and her scrawny figure, it had to be obvious she didn’t hide any drugs or weapons. He emitted a grunt of either annoyance or disdain and let the tunic drop back in place before gripping her shoulder and guiding her over to a large, blue-and-grey gee-vee with EGSF markings.

  No! Please don’t arrest me. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  Too frightened to resist, Sima walked as he pushed her, stepping over a boy her age, shot multiple times, but still alive. Blood bubbled out between his teeth with each breath. Only his eyes moved, tracking her.

  “Shouldn’t have run,” said the female officer tending to him with some manner of medical kit.

  Sima trembled like a frightened child as the man packed her in the cage-like rear seat and slammed the door. Automatic straps crisscrossed over her chest and snugged her against the padded seat.

  Trembling out of control, she almost cried for Mommy, but even if the woman somehow heard her, Sima knew she wouldn’t care.

  10

  Choices

  Minutes passed in blurry sobbing.

  The opposite door opened and the officer shoved an Outcast man in his younger twenties into the other rear seat. Sweat dripped from his face, still red from screaming. Blood spattered all over the left leg of his pants, though he no longer appeared to be bleeding. However, he did look as if the officers gave him an enormous dose of a narcotic. Barely conscious, he lolled sideways as the automatic seatbelt grabbed him.

  Sima looked down at the X of strap across her chest. Between it and the handcuffs, she’d never felt so helpless in her life. Still, if the EGSF hadn’t killed her already, she hoped they wouldn’t hurt her. For the past few days, she’d been trying to make up her mind what to do, and it seemed that the universe hated indecision. Fate chose for her.

  He kept the holocom. She burst into tears again.

  When the same officer climbed in up fr
ont and shut the door, she tried to lean up to the metal grating, but the straps kept her immobile. “Please, can I have the holocom back?”

  He pushed a few buttons on the console and gripped the control sticks. The vehicle lurched forward, a faint whirr vibrating the entire frame. She chickened out of asking again, and sat meekly as he drove down street after street. Fortunately, the windows appeared black from the outside, so none of the vendors who’d recognize her from long hours begging could see her shame.

  Eventually, the car turned left and passed through a three-stage security gate into an EGSF facility. A short driveway past fake grass and a gleaming silvery sign reading, ‘Earth Government Security Force’ led to a ramp that took the car below ground. At the bottom, he steered right, going past several rows of similar gee-vees, then parked in a small space. He pushed a button on the console, which activated a rolling, barred door behind them, turning the parking spot into a large cell.

  When two female EGSF officers and another man emerged from a doorway in front, Sima’s trembles started all over again. The women came around the right side of the car and opened her door. She looked up at them with the most pathetic stare she could summon, not an ounce of it an act.

  “Out,” said the tall woman.

  Sima looked down at the straps. “I can’t move. I’m tied in.”

  “Oh, my fault,” said the guy behind the wheel.

  A beep came from the front, and the automatic harness released her.

  While the man who arrested her and the other guy dragged the unconscious male Outcast away, Sima wobbled to her feet in front of the two women. The shorter one, an Asian with the name Cheng, L according to her uniform, shook her head. Her partner, a much taller dark-skinned woman with short dreads, sighed, almost radiating pity. Sima glanced at her nametag, Hunt, A.

  Each grabbed one of her arms in a firm-but-not-painful hold, and walked her across the little garage cell to the door. She kept her head bowed, sniffling, barely managing not to throw up from nerves, as they led her down a corridor, past a doorway, and around another curving hallway to a door.

  The room they stopped in had a small metal table and two chairs on the left. Straight in front of her, a showerhead stuck out of the wall over a drain, but it had no privacy curtain or barrier of any kind. Storage cubbies, all with code locks covered the right wall.

  While Officer Cheng moved to shut the door they entered from, the other woman removed Sima’s handcuffs.

  “Now, listen up, kid,” said Officer Hunt. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay? You know you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” muttered Sima.

  Hunt pointed to the table. “Place all your possessions on the table, including your clothes.”

  “Do I have to take my clothes off?” whispered Sima.

  “This will go better for you if you obey commands without question,” said Cheng.

  Blood rushed to Sima’s cheeks, but she walked the three steps over to the table and stared at it.

  A minute later, Hunt sighed. “Look, kid. This isn’t fun for us either. Just procedure, okay? Do it and get it over with, and we can all get on with the rest of our day.”

  Sima sniffled as she pulled her tunic off over her head. The faded pink garment had been one of the last things her mother ever—begrudgingly—bought her. She made a halfhearted attempt at folding it and set it on the shiny steel table. One by one, she untied the power cables around her calves and stepped out of her crummy sandals. The ice cold steel floor made her gasp.

  She next untied the string holding her pants up, and let them drop, stepped out of them, and put them on the table. Standing there in a ratty grey T-shirt and panties, she turned toward Officer Hunt and clutched the pouch hung around her neck. “What about this? It’s all the money I have.”

  “Everything goes in a box,” said Cheng. “You’ll receive it all back when you get out.”

  “How long am I going to be here?” asked Sima.

  Officer Hunt shrugged. “Not our call. We don’t even know what you’re here for, other than being a NV.”

  “NV?” asked Sima.

  “Nonviolent offender. That’s why you’re taking your own stuff off and we’re having a nice little pleasant moment,” said Hunt, smiling. “Move it along a bit, huh? You smell like an ORC. I’m sure you’re tired of bein’ covered in stink, right?”

  Sima took the pouch off and set it on the tunic before peeling her T-shirt off. That it stuck to her back made her cringe. She couldn’t bring herself to face the women with no top on, and stood there shivering in shame for a moment before working up the courage to remove her underpants. Those, she’d had for a little over a year. One of the few non-food items she’d spent money on.

  “You know,” said Sima, half-laughing out of sheer embarrassment. “I don’t remember the last time I was naked.”

  “Yeah, you smell like it’s been a long time since you had a chat with a shower unit,” said Cheng. “Grab the edge of the table and bend forward.”

  “What?” gasped Sima, wide-eyed.

  “Take it easy, kid,” said Hunt. “No contact. Just a routine scan to make sure you don’t have any contraband hidden on you.”

  “I’m naked!” She grasped the table as instructed. “Where would I hide contraband?”

  “Wow. You’re either innocent as hell or a really good actress.” Cheng removed a small electronic device from her belt and walked up behind her.

  Sima braced for awfulness, mentally feeling her mother’s boyfriend grab her butt. Fear pushed her up on tiptoe, and her legs almost gave out.

  “Easy, kid. Relax,” said Cheng, way too close behind her. “It’s over already. Scan’s clear.”

  “I told you.” Sima stood upright and covered herself with her hands. “Where could I possibly hide stuff with no clothes on?”

  Cheng pointed at the shower. “Clean yourself up.”

  “You’re gonna watch?” She gawked.

  “Have to,” said Hunt. “For your own protection, in case you might try to hurt yourself or others.”

  Sima bowed her head and padded over to the showerhead. It had been quite a while, but it’s not as if she forgot how to use one. She tapped the control screen, and soon, warm water blasted her in the face, purging the freezing chill of the room from her bones. A tiny shelf nearby held a bottle of generic blue soap gel. She squirted some into her hand and washed herself, every so often peering back at the two officers who kept a reasonable distance, chatting with each other. Neither one stared at her, though they did keep tabs on what she did.

  After lathering up her hair, she smeared the cleansing gel all over her body. For a little while, the relief of finally escaping the stink of the ORC bin tamped down her anxiety over being arrested.

  “Come on, kid. This isn’t the Hotel Excelsior. Wrap it up,” said Cheng.

  Sima rinsed herself off, hit the button to kill the water, and stood there dripping.

  “Walk over there.” Hunt pointed at a spot near the wall, a few steps to the right from the shower.

  She obeyed.

  “Face me,” said Cheng.

  Sima, blushing as hard as ever, did.

  “No visible tattoos or markings,” said Hunt. “Turn left ninety degrees.”

  Sima did.

  “Turn left ninety degrees again and lift your hair off your back.”

  Sima obeyed.

  “No visible tattoos or markings,” said Hunt. “Turn left ninety degrees again.”

  The woman examined Sima’s left side for a few seconds, then pointed toward the cubbies, at a red X on the floor. “Stand on that.”

  Sima, head down and trying to cover herself as much as possible with her hands, obeyed.

  Officer Hunt punched a code into one of the panels. She opened the door, rooted around inside, and threw a sports bra and set of white underpants generally at the vicinity of Sima’s chest.

  She didn’t wait for the order to put them on, and scrambled into
them as fast as she could. When she looked up, a blindingly pink jumpsuit hit her in the face with the force of a cloud.

  “Put that on,” said Cheng.

  No kidding. Thanks for telling me that. She stepped into the garment, which wound up a little short in the leg, pulled it up over her shoulders, and secured the Velcro at the front from groin to neck. The fabric smelled new, an unusual sensation. Despite it being a hot pink jumpsuit with Juvenile printed in large black letters on the left sleeve and Inmate on the right sleeve, she didn’t mind it so much.

  Officer Hunt dropped a set of thin shoes on the floor, a cross between a plastic bag and slippers. Sima put them on, grateful to have something between her skin and the chilly floor.

  “Hands,” said Cheng, while holding up a pair of rigid cuffs without a chain, merely two lockable rings connected by a hinge.

  Sima considered pleading with them not to, but couldn’t force a voice past the lump of terror in her throat. Mutely, she held her hands out and said nothing as they shackled her wrists. The officers added a thick nylon belt to which they locked the cuffs, then Hunt took a knee to lock a set of ankle chains on her.

  Tears spilled down her cheek at the harsh steel reminder of her status as a prisoner. She fidgeted at her hands, unable to lift them away from her waist. If anyone took a swing at her, she wouldn’t be able to protect her face. With the shackles on her legs, she couldn’t run from danger. Being in restraints mortified her more than having to shower with an audience.

  Cheng punched in a code on a panel by the room’s door, which opened it. “Follow me.”

  Sima shuffled out, able to walk at an almost-normal stride, though she kept stepping on the chain and stumbling. The other woman followed close behind her, but didn’t grab or push. They led her down the hall past several similar rooms where other women and one girl of maybe fourteen stood in various stages of showering, putting on jumpsuits, or being shackled the same way she had, each one under the watch of a pair of female EGSF officers. Realizing that anyone going by in the hall would’ve seen her showering earlier, she instinctively tried to grab her face to hold in the vomit, but her hands jerked to a halt an inch away from her waist.