Evolution (The Repatriate Protocol Book 7)

by Kelli Kimble

  Evolution

  Book Seven of the Repatriate Protocol Series

  By Kelli Kimble

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelli Kimble

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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

  Cover design by Victoria Cooper of Victoria CooperArt

  Editing by Abigail Stefaniak of AbbeyEdits

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  For Bill, Brian, & Lydia

  Books in the Repatriate Protocol series by Kelli Kimble:

  Repatriate Protocol (Book One)

  Expatriates (Book Two)

  Volunteers (Book Three)

  Choosing (Book Four)

  Purging (Book Five)

  Searching (Book Six)

  Chapter 1

  The first time I noticed my ability, it was with the dog.

  I was eating lunch—some weird stew my mother threw together from leftovers. It was okay, nothing special, but it would fill my stomach, and that was always a good thing. We’d gone without often enough that I would eat just about anything.

  The dog was sitting next to me, looking up at me. I always gave her my bowl to lick, so I imagined she was waiting on that. But, I happened to look down at her, and she bobbed her head ever so slightly, while licking her lips, and in my head, I heard a very distinct: Please?

  At first, I thought it must’ve been someone else. I looked around and even went to the kitchen to see if anyone was in there. But, nobody was around. It was just me, my bowl of stew, and our dog, Chia.

  I sat back down and tried to finish my stew. But, I heard it again. This time, I looked down at Chia, and she seemed to nod.

  “Was that . . . you?” I pointed at her. I mean, she was just a dog; maybe she didn’t grasp pronouns.

  She nodded again and licked her lips. She looked from me to the bowl. Food. Please.

  The thing is, I didn’t hear it. It was entirely in my head—and I don’t mean ‘in my head’, as in, I made it up. I could hear it only inside my head.

  I went back to the kitchen with Chia at my heels. The pot I’d taken the stew from was empty, except for the gravy-like liquid clinging to the sides and bottom. I set it on the floor in front of Chia.

  She immediately began to lick it, even putting a paw inside it to hold it steady, while she maneuvered into every nook and cranny. I went back to eating from my own bowl. Soon, though, she was back at my side. Good. Food good.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” I said. I finished up the remains of the stew and let her lick that bowl, too.

  You might be wondering why I wasn’t shocked or scared by this sudden ability to hear the thoughts of a dog. Let me start from the beginning.

  There was a time when the people in my city felt persecuted by the rest of the world. So, the leader devised a way to kill off as many people as he could. More or less, he wanted to bring the rest of the human race to the brink of extinction so that he could dictate the rules of all. Morbid, right? The science of it was a closely-guarded secret, but somehow, he brought on a long winter that killed off most everyone else. There were pockets of humans left here and there, but not many.

  That was about 1,300 years ago. In that time, the city where I live had a major surge in technological advancement, and there was a time when every person born received an implant that would allow them to communicate telepathically with anyone else who also had the implant. Very few people didn’t have the implant. Usually, some medical reason—or maybe a punishment—would mean someone wouldn’t get one.

  But, in the last 20 years or so, the city fell on harder times. Even though the implants were recycled from person to person, there came a point of saturation, when they just didn’t have enough to go around. It came time to start deciding who would get one, and who wouldn’t. Naturally, people who had powerful jobs or influence would continue to get them for their families. So, people who worked menial jobs—like janitors, housekeepers, and farmers—didn’t give their children the implants when they were born.

  I didn’t think I’d been suddenly given an implant while I was sleeping the night before. So, the only explanation was that it was a natural phenomenon. Generations and generations of people—including my parents—had received implants. My mom and dad didn’t learn to talk until after I was born. Since I didn’t have an implant, both my parents had to learn to talk, so they could communicate with me. Some other people could talk, too: Politicians, cops, lawyers. But, they still had implants and mostly still communicated telepathically.

  But, it follows that, after many generations of people who communicated telepathically, someone would come along who’d created their own mechanism to carry out the same form of communication. It’s just evolution, right? That’s how we got opposable thumbs, and why we no longer have wisdom teeth.

  So, I was the first big step in the evolution of that feature, which was a really good thing. Without the implant, I was doomed to repeat the lives of my parents: In an unimportant job, doing menial things, and most likely, I’d marry someone in similar circumstances, and we’d have a child who wouldn’t get an implant, either. The cycle would continue.

  At first, I couldn’t hear people. Only animals. Maybe their brain structure was simpler, or maybe I just didn’t want to hear what adults had to say in their heads. But, if I stood near an animal, and it directed some thought at me, I’d hear it. I imagine they said more than I could hear. Don’t most people have a pretty constant dialogue running through their brains? I know I do. But, I heard a squirrel yell, No hurting! as it scurried away from me. I heard Chia ask for food, belly rubs, and bathroom breaks. I heard the neighbor’s cat tell me to screw off—though not as politely as that.

  I didn’t tell anyone about it. It seemed silly, really. I mean, what use is it to hear animals talking? Especially if it was only when they were talking to you? Anyway, I knew everyone would think I was just fantasizing about getting my own implant. I’d wanted one ever since I was old enough to realize I’d missed that opportunity, thanks to my parents’ low-level employment.

  If I started saying I could hear the dog talking, I was pretty sure it was only going to make my parents feel guilty, at best—and angry, at worst. So, I just didn’t say anything.

  Then, after a few weeks, I realized if I tried, I could talk back to the animals without moving my mouth. I practiced on Chia—until she wouldn’t come into a room while I was in it.

  “What’s wrong with the dog?” my dad kept asking everyone in his rusty voice. As if we could all read the dog’s mind. Well, I could, but I didn’t want to say so.

  I tried out my thoughts on other animals I saw. Most of them were startled by my intrusion and ran away. One cat allowed me to pet it, after I offered it a piece of moldy cheese I’d fished out of the bottom of the refrigerator. It wouldn’t talk back to me, though.

  After I’d been talking to animals for a few months, my aunt came over with her two-year-old daughter, Arisa. I was supposed to look after her, while she and my mom “caught up” over coffee. I took her out to the backyard to play.

  Unlike m
y mom, my aunt had managed to get a pretty good job as a teacher, so Arisa had an implant. Also, because my aunt was so education-focused, Arisa could read and spell—even though she couldn’t use a toilet yet. Naturally, she did not do those things out loud; she used the chip. She didn’t know how to talk.

  “You want to swing on the swing?” I asked. I pointed to a swing my dad had hung from a tree when I was small.

  Arisa looked at the swing but didn’t respond.

  “See? Here. You sit on it, like this, and then you swing your legs, and it carries you back and forth. See? It’s fun.” I jumped off the swing. “You want to try?”

  You do, said the voice in my head.

  I pawed at my ear with my hand. It felt quite different from an animal’s voice, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. “Okay,” I said. I got back on the swing, and she smiled and clapped her hands.

  Swing! shouted the voice.

  This time, I clapped my hands over my ears. “Stop that,” I said. “It hurts.”

  Arisa looked at me with a wounded expression. She had no idea what I was talking about; obviously, she didn’t know I shouldn’t be able to hear her—or that there was anything different about me at all.

  “I’m sorry, Arisa,” I said. A single tear dripped down her face. I wiped it away with the back of my sleeve. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just not used to people talking to me that way.”

  Oh, she said. I sorry.

  This time, the voice tickled more than it hurt. Maybe I could get used to it. “It’s okay, Arisa. It’s not your fault. You want to try the swing now? I could push you, if you’re afraid.”

  Okay.

  She allowed me to sit her on the swing and push it gently. She made the guttural sound that passed for laughter from those with an implant and flapped her legs back and forth. She stayed on the swing for the rest of the visit, occasionally demanding I push her some more.

  When it was time for them to go, my aunt came to the back door. Arisa! Time to go!

  I stopped the swing and helped Arisa down. She put her chubby hand in mine, and we walked back to the house.

  My aunt eyed me. I knew she suspected I’d heard her. Her teacher’s habit was to broadcast thoughts to the entire room. My lack of an implant was no closely-guarded secret; it couldn’t be, because I had to go to a special school, where the teacher talked out loud.

  I swing! Arisa said.

  Trying to throw my aunt off the scent, I blurted out a repetition of Arisa’s announcement: “Did you see her on the swing?”

  She nodded, and I transferred Arisa’s hand to hers. Arisa paused and put her arms around me in an awkward hug. Thank you, Nimisila.

  I squeezed her back. I didn’t want my aunt to hear me acknowledging Arisa’s comment. So, I ignored it, instead saying, “I hope you had fun on the swing.”

  Arisa nodded and grabbed her mother’s hand. The suspicious look on her face faded a bit, and she went about collecting her things to leave.

  When she got to the door with Arisa on her hip and her bag over her shoulder, she looked once around the room and said to my mother, You should get rid of Nimisila.

  My mother gasped, and then broadcast her response: You’re lucky she can’t hear you. I can’t believe you’d be so cruel. She’s your niece.

  The conversation made me uncomfortable, so I moved to slip out of the room.

  Look at her and think again. She’s upset because she can hear what we say when we don’t direct our thoughts to a specific person. She settled Arisa on her hip again. She can’t wait to leave the room. She can hear us. Can’t you?

  I feigned interest in my fingernail and again moved towards the kitchen door. “Bye, Aunt Rue.” I took a few more steps and was out of sight.

  They stood in silence for a few more minutes. They might have been broadcasting their thoughts, and I just couldn’t hear them, since I was unable to see them. But, after another minute, the door closed sharply, and my mother sighed in the other room.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, walking back into the room.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Just Aunt Rue, trying to rattle me. It’s been a long time since she’s done something like that, is all.”

  “Like what?”

  “You didn’t hear her, right?” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear and pulled me to her for a hug.

  “Mom, Aunt Rue doesn’t talk,” I said. “You know I can’t hear her.”

  She sighed again and kissed me on top of my head. “I know. I just really wish you could.”

  I pushed away from her, unwilling to bear the guilt reciprocating between us. “It’s not the end of the world, Mom.”

  “I know. I know.” She wandered away to make dinner, and I went to my room to think.

  Should I tell my parents I could hear thoughts? It certainly would relieve them of the heavy burden they’d carried, since they’d been denied my implant. But, I kind of liked having a secret of this magnitude. I was special—not because I could do something nobody else could, but because I could do it without mechanical assistance. Plus, the possibilities were endless; I could spy on adults whenever I wanted to, and I could do it while standing in plain sight.

  ◆◆◆

  At school the next day, the class was abuzz with excitement when I arrived. I sat in my usual seat, between a short and somewhat-chubby boy named Elton, and my best friend, Talika.

  “Where have you been?” whispered Talika. The teacher hadn’t yet started class, but she was lurking around her podium, implying she would begin soon.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What’s going on? Everyone seems excited.”

  “There’s a rumor going around that someone in our class can hear thoughts. Without an implant.”

  I swallowed a great gob of spit that had collected in my mouth out of nowhere. “That isn’t possible,” I said.

  “It is,” Elton hissed, leaning over my desk towards Talika. He had a crush on her and was always trying to get as close to her as possible. “I heard the teacher talking to my mother when she brought me to school today.”

  I rolled my eyes. Elton was too old to be brought to school like a baby. “So, who is it, then?” I said.

  But, before he could answer, Mrs. Darit called for our attention.

  I don’t know what happened in class all morning. My mind was continuously wandering, trying to pick out the moment when I’d let my secret slip. I’d been so careful to cover up my misstep with Aunt Rue, and my parents obviously didn’t suspect anything. Had someone heard me talking to an animal? Could people hear me when I talked to animals? It was possible; children rarely developed the ability to direct their thoughts at a single person until they were seven or eight. Still, I was 12 and well past that point. Maybe, since I was more mature, I’d learned to control my thoughts better than others.

  Or maybe it didn’t even work like it did with the implant. Maybe I couldn’t broadcast my thoughts to multiple entities at once, or maybe I could only hear people and not respond. It was difficult to say and impossible to prove without telling at least one person my secret.

  Just before lunch, there was a sharp knock on the classroom door. They didn’t wait for a response, and the door opened. A man dressed in a dark grey kimono came in. He scanned the room, and my face heated as his eyes approached me, and then swung past. Mrs. Darit went to him and asked what he wanted. He didn’t answer out loud. He may not have answered at all; he didn’t seem to notice her.

  Eventually, he stopped looking at us and turned to Mrs. Darit. They held a conversation. At least, it appeared they did. We were all used to the vague gestures telepaths made as they talked to each other. Over time, most of us had learned to ignore this subtle snubbing of our presence. But, Elton wasn’t having it. “Mrs. Darit!” he called, raising his hand. “Mrs. Darit, we can’t hear what you’re saying!”

  Mrs. Darit had the good grace to blush. She often lectured us on calling out those who excluded us from conversation. Not that it usually did
any good, since most telepaths didn’t know how to speak. “I know that, Elton. This is an adult matter. Please, stay in your seats, children.” She guided the man into the hall and shut the door.

  “What do you think that was about?” asked Talika. Her dark eyebrows were knit together, an expression that caused them to appear as one long, bushy slash across her face.

  “I bet it’s about the natural telepath,” Elton said. He beamed at Talika across my desk. “I just made that up! That’s what we’ll call them: Natural telepaths.”

  This time, Talika rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said. But, the worried expression didn’t disappear from her face. I’m not sure what she was so worried about; I was the one who was about to be singled out as a freak.

  Elton continued to bounce around in his seat. “This is so great. Nothing interesting ever happens to us. Now, we’ve got our own telepath. Natural telepath, I meant.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Darit came back in and shut the door behind her. She seemed a little pale, but she went back to her podium. “All right, children. I’m going off-curriculum for a few minutes. Our visitor came to inform me that someone in our class has developed an . . . ability. One that isn’t uncommon amongst us, but everyone else has this ability only after surgical intervention.”

  Elton’s hand surged up. He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. “Mrs. Darit! Are you talking about a . . . ” He paused and looked pointedly at Talika. “A natural telepath?”

  Mrs. Darit’s eyes widened momentarily, and then she nodded. “Yes, Elton. I am talking about someone who has developed the telepathic ability naturally. ‘Natural telepath’ is a very good description of it. I believe you deserve the gold star today.”

  Elton’s chest puffed out, and he tried to look proud without smiling, but he mostly just looked like a raccoon admiring a shiny object. The gold star was a reward Mrs. Darit awarded each day to the student who did something she found admirable or clever. It was a small statuette of a vaguely man-shaped form, holding a star. She’d told us how, prior to the winter, such things had great value because of their rarity. Now, it wasn’t worth anything because money and gold and riches didn’t have any place in our society.