EVO Nation: EVO Nation Series: Book One (science fiction/ urban fantasy)

by K. J. Chapman

  TORO 61 looks in our direction with an expression of confusion and pain in his eyes. His skin is wet with sweat and his hands tremble on the gun. He watches me approach whilst the other TORO stare off into nothingness.

  “Are you okay, you don’t look well?” I ask.

  He stands a little straighter. “I am not unwell.”

  “Really? You look ill to me. I think you need to see Dr Simmons—”

  “Dr Simmons is already informed,” he interrupts. “Return to your shower.”

  I do as I am told and join the others in the shower. Yana chats to me about how much she misses watching the British soaps, and then disappears behind her curtain to shave her legs in front of her TORO.

  I absentmindedly wash my hair and think about Dr Simmons and TORO 61. There is clearly something up with him, and when he said Dr Simmons was already informed of his condition the hairs on the back of my neck had stood on end. None of it makes sense. Why did she tell me what she did? Why ask me to look after my TORO? And why is he now acting odd?

  I dry myself, throw on some scrubs, and take the only spare seat beside Golding. He is quieter than the day I first met him, but Yana and Haydn are oblivious as they hold a conversation all of their own. Yana plays with the tufts of her fringe as she giggles.

  “Why the gloves?” I ask Golding. Now, feels like the right time to get to know him.

  He puffs his lips out. “They’re one of Roscoe’s brilliant ideas. He’s not entirely sure how my ability works and it bugs the crap out of him. My pupils change when I’m influencing someone, but I have to physically touch them for it to have any effect. I ain’t sure why, but I do. So, I have to wear these things.”

  “Why metal though? Do they hurt?”

  “Yep, they rub my hands raw, but Roscoe will only remove them if I’m under sedation. The metal is to carry charge; they can be magnetised to stick together.” He shakes his head and his eyes hold the same sincerity I had seen when he asked about my Dad. “I’m not a violent guy. I’ve never used my ability for anything like that...a bit of fraud maybe, but nothing serious. That was how Roscoe found me in the end. I was reckless with my ability. I was plain stupid.”

  I believe him, and having a serious conversation with him shows him in a different light. Yes, he is still a little gob-shite, but he seems like an alright guy. We’re all in this together. Roscoe is the common denominator in our messed up lives, and I know I have to make more of an effort to be friendly. Although, there is a good chance I don’t know how. Friendships and I aren’t acquainted.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Why am I asking that so much today?

  He smiles more to himself than me and nods. “You’ve just spent thirty-six hours in solitary and you’re asking me if I’m alright? I guess I am. I’ve been in here for five weeks, and I think that you coming in here has reminded me that this isn’t okay. When did I start accepting this as okay? I want to be like you. I want to fight back.” His head hangs as he fights back sobs.

  Yana and Haydn look to me, their eyes wide with shock. Golding’s sudden emotion has taken us all by surprise. Tears spring onto Yana’s cheeks and Haydn awkwardly pats her arm.

  I take Golding’s hand and hold it in both my own; the metal glove is warm from the shower and smooth to the touch. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Being okay is all we have, but that doesn’t mean we give up. We don’t quit... we’re EVO baby,” I say, with a sudden confidence.

  “Hell yeah, WE’RE EVO BABY!” Golding howls, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  Yana and Haydn cheer too. ‘Why not,’ I think, joining in with their huddle, but we quickly get manhandled away from our little scrum.

  TORO 61 drags me out of the group, his eyes swimming with tears. His breathing is too fast and too hard.

  He studies my face, restraining me, but at the same time pulling me in close to his chest. “What is happening to me?” he whispers. His voice sounds different- emotional.

  I’m not sure what to do. He is about to fall apart and I know I can’t let that happen. A hundred scenarios flash through my mind, but I settle on the one that will involve getting both TORO 61 out of the room, and getting the attention of Dr Simmons. So, I close my eyes and fall limply to the ground.

  Chaos erupts around me. Yana squeals, and the sound of shuffling and struggling feet echoes through the room. The protests at being restrained are replaced with demands that the TORO get me a doctor.

  TORO 61 places me in the recovery position, but I slowly, convincingly, push myself to sitting. Yana, Haydn and Golding look relieved, and I feel bad for deceiving them, but TORO 61 is still struggling to keep his composure.

  “Prop her legs up or something,” says Haydn.

  I stand, hanging from his arm, trying to keep my body between him and the other TORO, and then a flustered looking Dr Simmons rushes in. She scolds TORO 61 for not keeping me on the floor.

  “I’m fine. I just need to go back to the cell,” I say, desperately trying to draw her attention to the real issue. I grip her wrist pulling her in closer. “The cell now,” I hiss through my teeth, and flick my eyes in his direction.

  She understands, and saying a quick goodbye to the others, I shuffle out of the shower room playing my part pretty well.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TORO 61 drops me onto the bed and takes his usual place at the side of the room, whilst Dr Simmons props my feet up with pillows.

  “I was faking,” I say, as she leans over me. “He was losing it. What have you done to him?”

  She looks back at TORO 61, and then kneels on the floor beside me. “It’s low,” she says, testing my blood sugar. “Really low.”

  “Sod my blood sugar. What have you done to him?”

  The door swings open and Roscoe breezes in, surveying the room. His eyes come to rest on the back of Dr Simmons’ head. “What is this?” he asks, waving a hand like he is wafting a bad smell.

  “The EVO fainted in the shower block.” She continues checking me over whilst I try my best to look overcome.

  “And?”

  “And I will start an IV drip,” she adds.

  “You will do no such thing—”

  “She is hypoglycaemic and dehydrated; the result of thirty-six hours without food and an inadequate amount of water. She needs an IV. Without one it could take days, possibly a week or more for her to return to her full strength. You need her at full strength,” she says, her voice quivering.

  Roscoe walks to the bed, bending down over me. “Perhaps, she’ll remember this the next time she disobeys orders,” he says, smirking. “Get her the IV, but make it quick. You’re needed in a meeting at Top Site.”

  He leaves and we both take a breath. I hate the affect that man has on me.

  Dr Simmons places a cuff on my arm and takes my blood pressure, her hands shaking. “What is it you are experiencing, TORO?” she asks, not turning her head to look at TORO 61. He doesn’t reply at first, but she waits patiently for an answer.

  “Visions,” he says. “Like dreams, only they feel real.” His voice is an awful mixture of TORO and human anguish.

  Dr Simmons nods to herself. “They’re memories, your memories, and they will keep returning to you. I unlocked them during TORO maintenance last night.”

  “What?” I ask on his behalf.

  “We’re not so different.” Her hands tremble more than ever.

  “You’re EVO?” I mouth rather than speak, and she answers with a nod.

  TORO 61 steps out of position, and for a moment I think he is going to grab her and frogmarch her out to Roscoe.

  “Roscoe already knows,” she states. “I’m only reversing the damage I have caused. I am a memory manipulator. I started working with Roscoe four years ago when I was introduced to the O.R.O program. He wasn’t aware of my ability then. The Organic Robotics Objective was Roscoe’s brain child to create the perfect fighting machine. A marine who didn’t have an emotional response to an otherwise highly emotional situation would be able to m
ake reasoned, rational decisions under intense pressure,” she says, quickly.

  “Organic Robotics? Is that what the TORO are- organic robots?” I ask, disgusted.

  “In a way, yes they are- mentally at least. I was intrigued and highly involved. Conditioning was, after all, a common military practice. Quick response to certain stimulus was essential on the battlefield, but it was Roscoe who had first suggested using the technique under a form of hypnosis to effectively brainwash a subject into a state of indifference. The marines were drip fed subliminal messages alongside the conditioning program to instil a guideline for the TORO they would become. Respect for authority, right verses wrong military conduct, even correct manners were incorporated into the program.”

  My eyes meet TORO 61’s. The man not the TORO looks back at me.

  “Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation was stage two of the objective,” Dr Simmons continues. “All the helmets were fitted with the device to work in harmony alongside the conditioning program, and in theory, switch off the higher level thought processes and allow for the employment of pure, uninhibited reasoning. When I noticed that TORO 61’s T.M.S device had stopped working yesterday, I decided to take the chance to right my wrongs.”

  I remember the fall in the shower room and his helmet smashing on the ground. I nod for her to continue.

  “In practice it appeared to work, but that wasn’t enough for Roscoe. The TORO held onto a part of their humanity. It’s human nature, and no matter what you put someone through you cannot take away the essence of them. The intense conditioning program- the things we forced them to see- took their toll. In my first two months in this role, fourteen marines took their own lives. The rest were left as shells, unable to function coherently, sanely.”

  Her eyes are wet with tears as she speaks, and my heart is hammering inside my chest. TORO 61 looks no more than twenty-four at the most, and if he went through that torture four years ago he was just a twenty-year-old. No wonder the TORO are cold.

  With a pinch she inserts a cannula into the back of my hand and attaches the tubes to the IV pack. TORO 61 looks like he is about to throw up and leans back against the wall to steady himself.

  “I couldn’t bare the suicides anymore,” she continues. “I couldn’t even look at the TORO because the guilt just ate me up, so I showed Roscoe what I could do. I wanted to do something, anything to help. The next day we quietly started the manipulation program. I accessed every TORO and locked away the part of them that was fighting the conditioning. I locked away their memories, their loves, their hates, their beliefs. You’ve got to understand that I did it to stop their suffering.”

  “You inflicted the suffering in the first place,” I say, gritting my teeth. “So, you turned them into zombie super soldiers, and then what? You played happy families with Roscoe and assisted him in hunting the rest of us- people like you. You’re not a prisoner here. You’re Roscoe’s right-hand.” The cold of the fluid passing through the cannula startles me, and she packs her bag away.

  “If I refuse to help him now, I won’t just be locked up with you, I’ll be killed. It’s like I told you- I know too much,” she says, getting to her feet. Then, she turns to TORO 61. “She isn’t to move until the bag is empty, and then you summon me. And I’m sorry about what you’re going through, but you need to suck it up marine. Your own memories will return, and I will manipulate your conditioning memories to make the process easier, but until then you need to keep it together for all our sakes. And you—” she says, turning back to me. “Look after him because you’re going to need him. I’ll let the others know you’re okay.”

  Dr Simmons leaves an invisible wake of emotions and questions behind her. For a moment, TORO 61 and I just stare at each other. More composed and holding his gun with a steady grip, he crosses the room to readjust the fluid bag beside my bed.

  “Do you feel better?” I ask him.

  He nods. “Thank you for what you did in the shower room.” His voice is softer, free from the monotones of TORO, and his eyes swim with feeling.

  “You need to work on that,” I say.

  “I do not understand,” he says, setting his jaw into a hard line. He has his TORO head back on.

  “That’s better. You can’t flit between TORO and normal. You need to act one hundred percent TORO, okay?”

  He returns to the wall and stares straight ahead. I watch him, thinking about what must be going through his head. What memory he is seeing- what did the marine side of him think of the TORO? His turmoil is more than justified, but why has Dr Simmons picked him in particular? Why my TORO, and why am I going to need him?

  “You can talk to me, you know?” I say, quietly. “They can’t hear us in here.”

  “Do not forget this cell is under camera surveillance, and I am not permitted to converse with EVO.” He continues to stare at the wall, avoiding my glare.

  After what I have just done for him, it feels like he just slapped me in the face. “I have a name you know?” I snap. “It’s Teddie.”

  “I know, Teddie, but this is hard enough as it is and you’re not helping,” he says. “They expect me to call you EVO.”

  I swallow my pride, roll over, and stare at the wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I lie awake thinking of Dad, Shana, Dr Simmons, and TORO 61. My mind will not empty and allow me sleep. Voices catch my attention from outside in the corridor. It is pitch black and my eyes are heavy.

  The door bursts open, allowing a dull light from the corridor to seep in. Two figures stand silhouetted against the light; Roscoe’s obese frame and a TORO. It isn’t TORO 61; the frame is shorter.

  Roscoe throws the covers from me and my stomach lurches. He doesn’t say a word, just grabs a handful of my scrubs and pulls me from the bed. I sprawl across the floor at the feet of the TORO. The TORO clamps a hand around my hair, wrenching me to my feet. I struggle to free myself, but a blow to the stomach knocks all the air out of my lungs and I cry out in agony.

  Roscoe leaves the room and the TORO drags me along behind. The floor is icy cold under my bare feet and I struggle to keep up. Every time I fall behind, the TORO gives an agonising tug on my hair to bring me up to pace.

  Stopping outside the therapy suite door, Roscoe places his podgy hand against the panel, types in the code, and swings it open. The lights come on instantly causing my eyes to water from the glare. The TORO tosses me into the middle of the room and I slump onto the padded floor in pure shock.

  Through watering eyes, I see Roscoe wheeling in a large, metal trolley with a monitor on the top of it. He whistles to himself as he rummages inside it and pulls out a strange, metal contraption. Alarms bells sound in my head. The door is locked, and the TORO is stood just feet away from me. He has no gun.

  Roscoe thrusts the contraption onto my head; thin metal spines encase my skull with small, circular pads on the ends of each. Two of the pads squeeze tight against my temples. He returns to his trolley, pressing a few buttons. There are two beeps, one from the device on my head, and the other from the collar on my neck.

  “Ok,” he says to the TORO, and a fist plants into my cheek.

  I drop to the floor with spots dotting my vision. Another fist smashes into my mouth. My lip feels like it has exploded as blood sprays the white flooring.

  “Fight back EVO,” says Roscoe, sounding amused.

  I swing a fist, but meet nothing except air. A swift kick to the ribs sends me rolling towards Roscoe. I scream out in pain.

  “Come on, EVO. Use your ability.”

  That is exactly what he wants. The device is scanning me, scanning my brain. Is this what Haydn meant by a brain scan? I’m guessing not. I’m not going to give Roscoe what he wants, no way, no how.

  The floor is padded and uneven. I roll away from the TORO, and as he charges me, I stick out a foot, tripping him. He struggles to right himself, so I use the opportunity to throw myself at him, ripping off his helmet and clawing at his face with my nails. I punch once, twice, an
d then a knee meets my already painful ribs. I’m no match for him.

  “Use your telekinesis, EVO,” coaxes Roscoe. The irritated tones in his voice give me a sudden rush of pleasure.

  The telekinesis makes my body throb with power, like my skin carries an electrical charge. It is there to be used; a burning ball of erratic strength in my chest. I want to use it desperately, but I will never give him the satisfaction. It surges as another knee meets with my stomach, forcing bile to rise in my throat, but I keep my focus and the urge wanes. For the first time in my life I have controlled it.

  Roscoe lets out a crazed roar, sending the monitor soaring off the trolley. The collar beeps to let me know it is activated once again, and a sudden wave of accomplishment ripples over me as I lie immobile on the floor. At Roscoe’s growl the TORO stops his attack and resumes position.

  “I’ve told you I can’t control it,” I say, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

  Roscoe wrenches the device off my head- flinging it across the room- a clump of my hair with it. “You controlled it alright, but that wasn’t the idea behind this particular test. Don’t get cocky, EVO. I will break you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After being shoved back into the cell, I camp out in the bathroom with a cold flannel to my lip and cheek. My scrubs are covered in blood that has dried to a dark brown, and I self-consciously touch the bald spot behind my ear.

  I crawl across the cool tiles, heave myself into bed, and lie in nothing but my underwear. The lights come on meaning the day shift has started. I hope TORO 61 will appear soon to get me some painkillers and clean scrubs.

  The door opens and he enters. “Teddie,” he whispers.

  The sound of my name leaving his lips is a welcome one. It’s nice to feel familiar. I push the covers off and allow him to see my face. He holds the bloodied scrubs in his hands and his mouth falls into an O shape, but no sound escapes.

  “You took your time,” I mumble. It hurts to speak. “Can you ask Dr Simmons for some painkillers, please?” I stand in just my underwear. My older, green bruises are now covered in fresh, purple ones.