Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  “I don’t even know who’s in here.” It seemed ridiculous to go looking for trouble. She hoped the man would tire himself out. Perhaps he just needed to kill a few people before he returned to his normal book-loving self.

  “This is only slightly worse than school.”

  The memory of sitting in her history class continued to haunt her. Between the obscene level of homework and grueling expectations placed on her by an asshole teacher, she thought she might have a mental breakdown. They were in the midst of discussing the implications of the Middle East closing its borders to foreign nations. While she had no love for the instructor or the subject, it was an opportunity to pass notes back and forth with Conthan. Of all the people in the high school, that angry boy had been her only real friend.

  When the officers knocked on the door and exchanged whispers with the teacher, her intuition said they were discussing her. As they waved for her follow them, it became increasingly obvious they weren’t normal cops. Outside, a synthetic waited next to a van, giving away the Corps. It started at a local hospital where she had several vials of blood drawn. Later, a doctor confirmed the tests had returned positive: she was a Child of Nostradamus.

  There were no special abilities at first, nothing that seemed worth mentioning. The dry skin had been the first change, almost to the point where it burned. When it cracked open and bones surfaced, she tried to hide it, unsure of what would happen when they found out. The bone around her brows protruded next, first a small spot and eventually her entire forehead. The hiding came to an end and she became a victim of more blood tests and x-rays and as it progressed, so did the research.

  Her life as a high school teenager ended.

  A growl brought her back to the present. The library, the one place she expected to be quiet and filled with hushed whispers, housed a loud grunting man somewhere in the stacks. If she didn’t know better she might assume it was an animal wreaking havoc until it found a way to escape.

  “Hello?” Stupid. She didn’t know how to subdue somebody. She endured physical testing as part of her research, but not enough to be building muscle like at the gym. Practicing yoga in her free time didn’t seem sufficient for the task in front of her. Perhaps if she survived she’d learn to box or at least start lifting weights.

  The space grew quiet, the man seeming to calm down. She eased her way forward until she reached the checkout desk. The antique computers resting on the surface gave away how long it had been since the Facility used the library. If she didn’t start sneezing it would be a blessing.

  “We’re prisoners here,” he said.

  The man stepped forward, climbing over spilled books, his face covered in blood. His calm demeanor frightened her more than his rage. If she turned around and ran, she would probably be able to reach her room and lock the door. She observed the man closely as he kicked books out of his way, approaching her.

  “I know,” she said.

  “We’re the ones with power. We’re the ones chosen to receive these gifts. Yet we let ourselves be locked away like criminals.”

  The newest addition to her quad, the hyper reflex guy, knew more about prisons than most of them. Not all Children were thrilled with their gifts; most she talked to discussed how abilities ruined their lives. If not for her gifts, Sarah would have been at the prom, dancing the night away instead of having marrow samples taken. Because of a fluke of nature, she would never apply for jobs, fill out resumes all in the hope to make something of herself.

  “I didn’t ask for this.” No point in lying, she might as well engage in conversation in hopes it prevented her engaging with her fists.

  “Neither did I,” he admitted. “I’m powerful now. The world is mine for the taking.”

  “That’s a delusion of grandeur.”

  “You hide. I see you, girl, you’re ashamed of what you are. You’re pathetic.”

  “Ouch, because your opinion of me matters.”

  “Do you understand what you could do with your abilities? Nobody could stop you.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Instead of being the victim and letting them study us like lab rats, join me. We could take over this Facility, free our brethren.”

  “Brethren? Are you serious? Most of the people here are criminals because of thoughts like that. Just because you have abilities doesn’t make you above the law.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?”

  “What about before you had abilities? Didn’t you spend more time in prison than out?”

  He growled as he stepped forward, approaching the far side of the checkout desk. The man wasn’t large; he probably stood a few inches shorter than her. She had watched him do pushups in the common area, and she knew underneath his clothes were well developed muscles. She wondered if the majority of his anger came from his small stature? Perhaps he had been picked on or bullied in school?

  “You’re a lamb being led to the slaughter.”

  “I’m a girl trying to survive.”

  The growl started low. She wished she knew the man’s name, so she could yell at him to stop being stupid. If captured, the Facility would put him in a secure cell with the other dangerous Children. If he made it past the Marines, he’d be hunted until they terminated him. The man was an idiot.

  “Cut the shit,” she demanded. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  With two steps, he jumped on the counter. He moved like a cat, almost graceful in the certainty of his movements. Hyper reflexes? She didn’t have a clue what that meant. The man could move fast, and before she finished the thought, he stood above her. “You’re their tool, girl,” he shouted. She cringed as the spit from his mouth rained down on her.

  The blow to the side of her face caused her head to snap sideways. She hissed in response. Scientists poking and prodding at her had never tested her endurance for pain. Perhaps the constant ache of the growths numbed her, or maybe the bone themselves served as armor, but for the first time, she didn’t hate her abilities.

  “You are so fucked.”

  She jabbed her fist toward his chest. Quickly, he dodged enough that her knuckles barely connected with his torso. The man’s speed allowed him to step off the desk and roll backward to a standing position. She didn’t know how she would fare against a seasoned thug, but she found the prospective of hurting him alluring.

  “Running away from a teenage girl? There goes your superior argument.”

  He charged. The palm of his fist landed hard squarely between her breasts. The impact forced her to take a step back, but not before he retracted his hand, cradling it against his body. She was covered in bone; even the space beneath her clothes was mostly consumed by the sharp spikes of calcium.

  The next punch landed on her stomach, one of the few vulnerable spots left. She bent over, heaving at the pain pulsing through her body. She swung out wide, a poor attempt to get him away from her. The small man ducked the blow and knocked her hand to the side, causing her to spin around.

  He wrapped his arm around her neck, squeezing the fleshy part of her body. Her elbow launched backward, connecting with his ribs, causing him to scream loud enough to make her ear ring.

  Tiny orbs of light appeared, telling her she was close to passing out. With a boney knuckle, she ground into the man’s hand, slicing through the skin and grating her finger against the bone. She twisted, cutting apart his hand as he attempted to hold her.

  A darkness crept in along the sides of her vision. Her lungs starved for air, and despite her open mouth, she couldn’t draw in a breath. With her other hand, she dug her bony nails into his forearm, tightening her grip until the sharp blades sliced through his muscle. He shoved her hard, sending her to the ground.

  A deep inhale didn’t seem enough. Quick exhale, another cough as she inhaled, pushing away darkness on the edge of her vision. The screaming from behind made her flip on her back to see what would happen next. The man inspected his arms, the blood dripping to th
e library carpet. It took her brain several seconds before she came to grips with the fact she had caused the blood. She inflicted the damage, defending herself.

  When the military came for her, she had gone peacefully, coerced into believing it was in her best interest. When she moved from the research center to the Facility, she didn’t argue, scared the alternative meant winding up in a body bag. When the Warden told her to stop the man, she did it for a chance of normalcy. Now, as she climbed to her feet, she wanted to kick his ass. For the first time since she discovered she was a Child of Nostradamus, she felt in control.

  Sarah felt powerful.

  The man dodged her first punch. He ducked underneath her second. Cradling his arm, he stepped outside her reach. He didn’t yell like before, he reacted, staying one step ahead of her. When she leaned in, hoping to tackle him, he spun about, his foot sticking out, catching her shoe and sending her to the ground.

  She scrambled to her feet, fearful the Child would try and attack her again. The man didn’t approach, instead watching her like a predator studies its prey. Her middle school self-defense course hadn’t prepared her for taking on sociopaths.

  “You can’t win, child.”

  “Neither can you.”

  He had one more step, then she would have him pinned between her and the desk. She inched forward until he backed against the massive wooden structure. Bringing her fist out wide, she aimed for his chest, the largest part of his body. Without effort, he jumped straight up, landing on the large piece of furniture, moving safely out of her reach. Her other hand slammed into the wood, tearing apart the surface, leaving a dent in the top.

  He kicked forward, the toe of his shoe connecting just under her jaw, one of the places with little protection. She flew backward, trying to absorb the impact of the blow. Sarah tripped over her own feet and landed hard on her back.

  The man grabbed the computer monitor and jumped down. He walked closer, holding the archaic equipment high above his head. Her bones were strong, but she imagined they were as breakable as any normal limbs. The monitor might be enough to crush the bone. She panicked.

  The tear in his shirt appeared a fraction of a second before the bang. The man froze, the monitor hovering above him. Then his arms went limp and the machine fell to the ground just to Sarah’s side. She scooted away, never taking her eyes off the wound. Blood stains spread along the fabric until he reached down and put his hand over their source.

  “But...”

  He fell to the ground. Sarah screamed at the dead man as she tried to climb back to her feet. Once his body crumpled, he stopped moving. Sarah turned to run out and knocked into a woman standing in the doorway. Instead of stumbling, the woman acted more like a cement wall, causing Sarah to take a step back.

  “You killed him?” Sarah asked.

  “Would you rather I let him kill you?”

  The woman’s face appeared emotionless, as if she was unaware she just killed a man or that she stood near a dead guard. Sarah didn’t know if she should be thankful or fearful of the woman and the gun in her right hand.

  Unlike the guards covered in dark body armor, she wore a bright red suit hugging her body. It took a moment before Sarah remembered the story of the hunter in red. Prisoners talked about a woman working for the military that hunted them down. It wouldn’t have been such a popular discussion except the people in the Facility suggested she might be a Child herself.

  “You’re with the Corps?”

  The woman’s hardened eyes focused on her and a chill creeped up her spine. The woman didn’t answer as she stepped to the side of the exit. Sarah’s uneasiness only intensified as she saw the Warden standing next to the body of the fallen Jenkins. The tightness in her stomach paled in comparison to the headache starting just behind her eyes.

  “Sarah, I believe we have much to talk about.”

  Cecilia

  February 13, 1992

  My Dearest Cecilia,

  I have known for years my death would be at your hands. The visions have grown murky, and a shadow hovering over your shoulder prevents me from understanding the circumstances, but I know the last face I gaze upon will be yours. I hold no grudges, my friend, and I hope my death prompts you from veering from the dark path you’ve begun.

  You are contemplating how much I manipulated the future through my position and your power. I wish I could say all my motives were selfless, but you were as much my pawn as I was yours. While you secured your position, I positioned players, those who will continue carrying out my work. While you may believe you have received the last laugh, this has all been part of my plan.

  Be worried, Cecilia. I have orchestrated your demise.

  I look forward to our unholy reunion.

  Sincerely,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  August 19, 2031

  “This will only hurt for a moment.”

  Cecilia Joyce, President of the United States of America, grit her teeth in preparation for the impending pain. For the blink of an eye, her skin burned as if on fire. A sharp hiss broke through her lips as her back arched up off the table.

  “Very good, President Joyce, we have one more round to go.”

  The straps along her wrists started to chafe as she pulled against her restraints. She prepared herself for another round. Seconds later, the burning spread across the surface of her body. Other than the sound of her struggle, the only noise filling the sterile room was the incessant beeping of the heart monitor. The constant chirp distracted her from the stinging on her eyelids.

  “And that will be it for today,” said a voice over the intercom.

  In the stark white room, the only objects were the table—a bright silvery stainless steel contraption—and a screen measuring her heart rate. If she turned her head to the right, she could see through the glass divider to the two women observing monitors and adjusting knobs on a computer screen. They moved swiftly, motivated by the fear their client could cost them their jobs if not satisfied with their alterations.

  “Do you need a sedative, Madame President?”

  “No,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not today.”

  Her head rolled back until she was left staring up at the blank white ceiling. The ambient light in the room nearly blinded her, and all the while, she couldn’t find the source of the brightness. The temperature was slightly lower than her own internal thermometer, causing tiny bumps to spread along her skin. Despite the slight discomfort, the technicians said it helped promote healthy skin regeneration.

  “Just a few more seconds and we’ll get you out of here.”

  The ceiling above her shimmered for a moment and turned into a mirror, creating a replica of Cecilia hovering several feet above. The image zoomed in enough she could make out the color of her eyes. The deep grooves where her crows feet had started to show lessened, the skin tightening right as she watched. The pain of a yearly trip to the Body Shop appeared to be worth it as her face made her decades younger.

  The small nanites coursing through her veins sought to revert the aging process. As they repaired damage to her organs and vitalized the shell of her being, she understood the magic of the scientists. While the medical procedure may cost millions each visit, she was given the presidential treatment at no cost due to her affiliation with the company developing the technology.

  The restraints loosened and she pulled her hands free. As she rubbed her wrists, the red vanished quickly. If she continued to serve as the president, she assumed she could stave off death for at least another couple of decades. Cecilia had heard the oldest woman alive, a young one hundred and thirty three years was a regular at the Body Shop. Several of her parts already replaced thanks to the marvel of modern science.

  A woman in a white doctor’s jacket stepped from behind the glass, reading a computer screen being projected into the room near Cecilia’s table. The revitalizing technician gave a nod, the sense of satisfaction reaching her eyes.

  “The procedure
has worked, Madame President.”

  “I can see that.”

  “We noted that your vision lost some of its acuity. We could restore that by using cybernetic enhancements.”

  “It is appreciated, but I am fine.”

  The woman appeared disappointed at the refusal to accept more of her technology. Cecilia sat upright, swinging her feet over the side of the table. The aches in her joints were gone, and though it would take days for the nanites to increase her muscle mass, her muscles already felt rejuvenated.

  “Can I get dressed now?”

  It was less awkward being in the room alone, but now, sitting next to a doctor covered in fabric, she became painfully aware of her nudity. While she respected every line she earned, every scar, and even the losing battle against gravity, she maintained herself. For a woman closer to ninety than eighty, she a youthful fifty. Vanity was not a trait she had ever suffered from, at least not when it came to her looks.

  “Clothes.”

  The doctor looked up from the pad and realized the most powerful woman in the United States appeared displeased. The scientists often forgot her role, seeing her as yet another billionaire looking to shave a few years off their appearance. Ever since the nuclear reactors were destroyed and she declared martial law, the United States allowed for the repeal of the twenty-second amendment limiting her presidency. She remained determined to not relinquish the position.

  She wielded her age as a weapon, not a weakness.

  The other technician raced from behind transparent wall, Cecilia’s dress hanging on a hanger. She started clothing herself as the door opened behind the glass wall. Many would feel vulnerable in a state of undress, especially as a dashing young man rounded the wall, but she ignored him as she slipped on her underwear and clasped her bra.

  “Cecilia, I see you’re looking radiant as ever.”