by K. F. Breene
Mr. White’s brow scrunched up. “But some people can work with thought commands without an implant. The tech is still supposed to work . . .”
“Yes, sir. Ah . . .” Trent wiped away sweat. “Technically, yes, the best and strongest minds can still think commands without an implant. But the results are anything but impressive. They have to be very close to the tech, and focus ten times harder. Only the very brightest can guarantee accuracy with all the crisscrossing of . . .” He clasped his hands to keep from waving them around. Waving wasn’t helping him come up with words. “Data. Or, you know . . .” He reclasped his hands to stop himself from waving them again. “Interference from all the wireless systems in place . . .”
Mr. White blinked a few times before scratching his nose in what could only be irritation. This wasn’t going well. “My field of expertise isn’t organic matter,” he said. “Break this down for me differently. What is the end goal?”
“Oh. The end goal. Yes, sir. I should’ve started with that, maybe.” Trent offered a smile. It wasn’t returned. “I’m trying to further the human capacity for hands-free command. I’m trying—my goal is to make complex commands not only plausible, but more effective, and with a larger array of electronics. I’m trying to expand on a good thing.” His laughter wasn’t contagious, it seemed.
Mr. White’s jaw clenched. He looked at Ms. Hutchins. “It seems to me our time and budget would be better spent working on the electronics and not on our extremely expensive assets.”
“He is below the Curve in communications,” Ms. Hutchins said in a disapproving scowl. “It’s a failing that holds him back.” Trent shifted uncomfortably. “We hope to remove the need for an implant in these matters. We’d still issue an implant for tracking and controlling purposes, of course, not to mention the plethora of other applications, but activating one’s wrist screen, interfacing with consoles—all would be organic with the new generations, with exponentially increased results.”
“I see.” Mr. White’s gaze homed in on Trent’s idea board. He squinted, and a crease worked between his brow. “And why natural births? Why not just test this compound on the lab-born assets? That seems more cost-effective, and they are in greater supply. If something were to go wrong, it wouldn’t be as grievous.”
“Well, you see,” Trent said, trying to collect his thoughts, “in the Enlightened Ages, when we adopted the outside-womb incubation, we started choosing which characteristics and attributes each baby would inherit. We always chose the best attributes—still do, of course. We want the best for our children, after all. I don’t know about you, but I’m happier with a strong heart, good eyesight—”
Ms. Hutchins cleared her throat suggestively.
“But,” Trent said, getting back on track, “with only lab-controlled creations, we started to see a stalemate in evolution. Our race mostly flatlined. Everything was too controlled—”
“I don’t need a history lesson, son.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Trent wiped his brow, and then wiped his newly wet fingers on his suit leg. “Basically, I’m hoping to hurry along the next phase of evolution. This will all be perfectly natural. Mostly. I’m just following the natural curve already in progress, and attempting to speed it up. A tiny bit at a time.”
Mr. White’s shoulders rolled. “I see. And these?” He jerked his chin up, indicating the pictures on the idea board.
“Yes, those. Sir.” Trent moved the image of his compound out of the way to make room for the faces and stats of the assets he’d researched. “I’ve gone through the breeder roster and selected brain patterns and skill sets that I think will work perfectly. All are two or three clicks above the Curve in mathematics, reasoning and logic, and analytics, with fast processing capabilities. They are strongly geared toward hands-free controlling, especially her, her . . . and him.” Trent tried to shake the pictures with his own hands-free controlling. A blond woman and dark-haired man wiggled. The other woman jerked. The rest shimmied.
He wasn’t as good at hands-free as the breeders in question.
“Based on our testing in the animal labs,” Trent said, “this serum shows real promise.”
“Side effects?” Mr. White asked, stepping closer.
Trent bumped against his desk to maintain distance. “We haven’t had—”
“All of that is carefully detailed in the report, sir,” Ms. Hutchins said, glancing out over the floor again. Faces whipped back toward their work stations. Trent’s pulse sped up—meetings never lasted this long with Mr. White. Not ever. It had to mean good things, like perhaps the green light to continue on as planned . . .
“Yes, of course.” Mr. White tapped the air above the blond woman. “I recognize this asset. She’s the best we have in major defense systems, I believe. She’s local.”
“Yes, sir,” Trent said. “She is my greatest hope. Driven, content in her position, and has a very low compassion rate.”
“Compassion rate—what does that matter?” Mr. White looked over the other faces, his presence imposing.
Trent edged out of his work pod so the air wasn’t tinged with the musky smell of the antiaging face cream that so many upper-level staffers used. They each had two different bodies housing replacement parts and organs—why didn’t they just switch out their skin instead of applying that glop? Ms. Hutchins looked like her tight red bun was stretching her face beyond its capacity.
“Natural birth means the parents are subject to biology’s hang-ups.” Trent itched his nose. The smell wouldn’t go away. His eyes were starting to water. “If a bond between parent and infant develops, there really is no telling what the parent will do. And in this situation, with three masters of defense, two specializing in weapons, and the best systems specialist in our conglomerate, possibly the world . . . well, let’s just say, if they wanted to tear down this company to save their child, they could very well do it.”
“Chute wash.” Mr. White snorted and backed away. His lips twisted into a wry grin that was terrifyingly malignant. “The two other competing conglomerates in this world are trying to pry our prized assets out of our hands—that woman being one of them. That failing, they’re trying to kill them to knock us out of the intelligence race. Hell, son, even the various governments in North and South America lost power to us during the Turn. A couple assets taking down a super power?” Mr. White chuckled, a sound like a dry wheeze. He clearly didn’t laugh often. “Doubtful, but I admire your spunk. Get this in the works, Ms. Hutchins. I want more stats on my desk early next week.” Mr. White shook his head and stalked away.
“Yes, sir.” Ms. Hutchins gave Trent an assessing glance before turning for her office.
In his boss’s wake, Trent stared at the faces spread across his screen. They all looked back with smug expressions, as if to say that Mr. White was wrong. That if they wanted to, spurred on by a hard-coded impulse only Mother Nature could program, they would tear it all down to snatch away their child. Weirder things had happened. Heck, Trent had felt those urges more than once, and that was only from a faux bond created by proximity in the child’s early years.
His gaze roved over the blond woman who was three clicks above the Curve before a shiver arrested him. She knew the system front and back, along with how to create devastating weaponry and practice hand-to-hand combat. Trent would hate to see someone like that raise hell.
Possibly choosing her wasn’t the best of ideas . . .
Trent waved his hand through the air, scattering the faces. He needed to stop thinking of worst-case scenarios. Everything would be fine.
Chapter 3
The delicate light fell across Millicent’s brow. She fluttered her eyes open and adjusted her vision to take in the beautiful sunrise over the green fields. Bright yellow rays sliced through the deepening blue, meeting the horizon with fiery orange and pink. She inhaled deeply before stretching her arms wide.
“Good morning, Ms. Foster,” said a pleasant female voice localized in the bed area.
“I do apologize, miss.” The intensity of the sunrise faded somewhat.
“Better.” Millicent swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stared for a moment, letting the beautiful tableau lighten her spirit.
“Transportation will arrive five minutes late, miss,” the computer said.
“What’s the delay?” She glanced at the green letters within the wall screen, reading 0636.
“Your craft has an extra passenger this morning, miss. They encountered a delay through the tech district. They apologize for the tardiness.”
“An extra passenger?” Millicent frowned as she got up and pulled open the glass door to her cleaning stall.
“Yes, miss. I was given no further information.”
Her frown was more pronounced when she entered the stall and closed the door. Millicent thought, On, and a blast of warm air pushed against her body from all sides, sweeping up her legs and stopping at her midriff. Three beeps had her closing her eyes and holding her breath. The air rushed up against her top half and face, disinfecting as it ran over her skin. She exhaled as the jets shut off and pulled back into their cavities in the wall.
“Is this a business person, or a government investor of some sort . . .” Millicent allowed for the application of lotion before exiting the stall. She stared out the computer-generated window for a moment, waiting.
“That information is classified, miss. I pushed the issue, but received no response.”
Millicent took the proffered suit from the extended mechanical arm, but then paused. Slowly, she replaced the clothing. “Give me a suit with more defensive capabilities.”
“Of course, miss. I apologize for not thinking of that.”
Millicent waited as the suit disappeared into a slit in the wall. Pictures of clothing options cycled across the wall screen until the feed finally stopped on a bright-pink suit with flared sleeves. The conglomerate’s insignia decorated the right breast.
“What else?” Millicent said.
More clothing choices cycled across the screen, pausing on various options that might fit the situation. Unfortunately, those in a darker color either had too much hardware or more complicated schematics than she wanted or were too light in both. The conglomerate wouldn’t knowingly put her in danger, but she’d nearly died on three occasions from their shortsightedness. She had no idea why this civilian was being allowed to ride with her in her private craft, but it was safe to say a precautionary wardrobe was entirely necessary.
But a bright-pink one?
She sighed heavily. “Go back to the first choice.”
The various attributes of the suit flashed across the screen as the horrendous item shot through the wall. Millicent squinted at the screen’s image before thinking, Enlarge. Labeled hardware flashed larger before revolving so she could familiarize herself with the needed commands.
In distaste, Millicent removed the suit. “Who chose this color?” A pair of boots shot through next.
“Aubrey, your AI clothing specialist, took the liberty of specially making that suit for you, miss. I believe it was commissioned last spring, 2546. That color was in the height of trend.”
Only half a year ago. It’d probably stay in trend for two more years. Colors that awful usually wouldn’t die.
Her mind turned back to the passenger approaching in her transportation. Her transportation. “Since when has my transportation become a conglomerate bus?” she asked. “I should’ve been asked.” She shook her head as she stepped into the suit. “At the very least, notified. This is appalling. I’ll be taking this up with my higher-up.”
“Of course, miss. I was assured that this was a rare circumstance. I do apologize.”
Millicent bit her lip, thinking this through. She didn’t like unexplained situations. They never turned out well within this conglomerate.
An hour later, she sat on her bench, looking out the window, waiting. Purple numbers flashed across her wrist screen, showing her the time. Ten minutes late.
“Update,” she said, trying to push down her irritation while completely ignoring her anxiety. If she was being punished for some reason, there was nothing she could do about it now. The passenger was on board. She’d have to take what came.
“Please brace yourself, miss. They are pulling up now. Have a safe journey. I’ll meet you at work.”
Millicent’s head jerked back toward her apartment. “You won’t be within the craft?”
“No, miss. No third-party AIs are permitted on today’s journey.”
The anxiety was a little harder to ignore as the glass wall parted down the middle. The image of a field with the sun climbing into the blue melted away into angry gray sky. Cold air rushed toward her, freezing her breath against her face. Across the chasm, another glass wall, smeared with rain, stood between her and the raging environment. A shuddering but sleek hovercraft slid into the protected bay before her, held tight to the side by guiding rails. It docked before its doors parted and a walkway extended, perfectly fitting into the groove of her landing area.
Her breath was shallow as she waited for the doors to open and the craft to stabilize, taking the few precious moments to judge what awaited her. A man in a gray bodysuit, with no conglomerate affiliation, sat near the front partition, perfectly straight backed. His eyes, a strange electric blue that looked like a breeding experiment gone wrong, flashed to her for a moment, roved her suit, and hovered on her sleeves before glancing behind her into her lodgings.
She stepped into the craft slowly, ready for any sudden movement. The usual two defensive guards who escorted her into her department each day sat as they always did, straight backed and eyes forward.
The door of the driverless vehicle slid shut behind her. Then the bay door opened, subjecting the vehicle to the travel ways of San Francisco.
As she sat, she glanced at the stranger. His right brow was a smidgen more arched than the other, and his lips seemed fuller than most men’s. That cleft in his chin was in no way common.
He was a natural born!
Confusion growing, she scanned his powerful body and noticed his calloused and scarred hands.
A natural born like she was, but one who was used to heavy physical exertion. Something was definitely amiss. No natural born would travel without their own security . . .
Not to mention she hadn’t had a passenger since her first day of work, half a decade ago or more.
It was then she noticed his hair. Loosely pulled back from his head, it formed a knot at the base of his skull. A rather messy knot!
Her fingers tingled, and a surge of adrenaline ran the length of her spine. Anyone employed and/or created by the conglomerate, in any department, had to adhere to a strict code of appearance as well as conduct. Long hair was to be properly maintained and styled or pulled into a tight bun. Short hair could be no more than four centimeters long and styled or less than one centimeter and natural. Any staff member caught breaking the rules would be reprimanded and forced to fix it before he left his quarters.
She remembered the subjects she’d tested a week ago. Each had had longer hair than was routine, not cut because the men weren’t cared about.
A chill ran through her as she, once again, surveyed the strength and power inherent in this man’s body.
“Are we stopping anywhere on the way?” she asked no one in particular, hoping for a different answer than the one forming a knot in her gut.
The two guards turned their heads, each with mild expressions of astonishment. She’d spoken on the way to the department as many times as she’d had a passenger.
Annoyed with the continued silence, she quirked an eyebrow, a movement that had been perfected over time to eliminate the need for her to speak.
The left guard recovered quickest. “No, miss. We are en route as usual.”
Not as usual, or there wouldn’t be an unexplained stranger in their midst.
As if hea
ring her thought, the stranger’s head turned slowly until he stared at her. There was something untamed as well as unsavory in the depths of his glimmering eyes. Humor sparkled alongside a maniacal and violent light.
A ferocious powerhouse in incredibly confined quarters . . .
This couldn’t be the conglomerate’s answer to her demands about more thorough testing, could it?
A shiver of fear dumped adrenaline into her body. This being a test was the only logical explanation.
As if the man had heard her thoughts for the second time, his lips pulled into a smile with perfectly straight white teeth. His head turned back slowly until he was looking out the window again. Still smiling. Now at nothing.
Yes, they were testing her most recent update. It was obvious. The man was clearly deranged. Voices were probably sounding off in his head, and not from tech. He was a natural born gone wrong. She’d seen this before. The lottery ball of genes had dumped out a psychopath instead of revealing new traits that could be exploited by the conglomerates. And now he sat here, with no guards of his own, fighting against her new restrictive program.
Millicent tapped her fingers against her legs, seeing the stranger’s smile burn a little brighter. The brows of the guards quirked—they’d recognized something was amiss. Hard not to—the lunatic was sitting right there, smiling at nothing. Even an engineered, Curve-hugging moron could see what was going on.
A burst of perspiration erupted along her brow. She was thankful for the suit she’d chosen.
“I need access to the console in this craft,” she said primly, looking straight ahead at the plain gray partition.
The stranger started to chuckle, of all things.
“We are five minutes out, miss,” the left guard said, eyes wide with disbelief.
