The Recarn Chronicles- Omnibus Edition

by Greg Krojac

  “But how?”

  “I have studied history, Señor Zafar. I can do this. I will do this. Are you with me or against me?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot knowingly condone the extermination of a people. Those innocents among them have no need to die.”

  “But they do need to die. We need to regain the purity of the human race.”

  “Do you hear what you are saying? You’re crazy. You’re evil.”

  “A little crazy I’ll accept, if that craziness ensures the well-being and security of my fellow normal human beings. Evil? No, I refute that. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. I repeat. Are you with me? If you’re not with me, by definition you’re against me.”

  “I can’t be with you. It’s wrong. You’re wrong. Douglas was wrong. I won’t be a part of this genocide.”

  “Then indeed you won’t be. I’m sorry, señor Zafar, that it has come to this, but you leave me with no choice.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  18:22 WEDNESDAY 16 NOVEMBER 2089

  John Fleetwood was walking through Piccadilly Circus with his young family, breathing in the air of a crisp but sunny November morning. He had done so many times before, so many times that he took no notice of the illuminated signs that adorned the building in the north-western corner of Piccadilly Circus, between Shaftesbury Avenue and Glasshouse Street. He and his wife Susan lived just outside of London with their three children, thirteen year old Hermione and the ten year old twins, Harry and Ron. The couple’s friends had made fun of them when they had named their children after characters in the Harry Potter stories but those friends hadn’t seen the fervour that had surrounded J.K.Rowling’s books and then the excitement and anticipation that had gripped children after the release of the Harry Potter movies in the early years of the twenty-first century. In 2001, John had been Melissa Carver, twelve year old daughter of prominent London lawyers Reginald and Fiona Carver. Susan had been a seventeen year old adolescent, Chuck Wilson, who helped out on his parents’ Wisconsin farm and visited the local cinema at every possible opportunity. In 2068, as John and Susan, they had met at a convention in London organised by a Harry Potter Facebook group. They had continued to see each other regularly, their relationship catalysed by their mutual love of the children’s books, and they married two years later.

  Some sixth sense made John look up at just the very moment that something strange was happening to the illuminated advertising that dominated the façade of the building. The usual suspects were there; Samsung, McDonald’s, Hyundai, Nike, and the longest serving member of the small but exclusive community that advertised on that particular building, Coca-Cola. He blinked in disbelief as, one by one, the digital displays became dark, having been switched off only twice before, barring special events and power cuts. Those had been for a period of ten years during and just after World War Two, and again for a few months over sixty years earlier in January 2017, for renovations. Piccadilly Circus looked strangely empty without the familiar glow of the advertising displays, despite the fact that the area was thronging with people going about their daily business. The world famous road junction had an air of sadness about it.

  A few seconds later, the displays burst into life again but the familiar commercial branding was absent, replaced by the face of a stranger, a face that was somehow reminiscent of a thousand film stars, the face of Señor Santino Felipe Garcia. Piccadilly Circus came to a standstill. It was now full of living, breathing statues and more people were pouring into the area by the second. Similar scenes were being witnessed in city centres across the globe as every digital and interconnected piece of equipment on the planet simultaneously received the same image. John and Susan held the hands of their children tightly for fear of the family becoming separated as more and more people stared up at the giant screens. A hush took over the crowd as Garcia began to speak.

  “Citizens of the world. Wherever you are, I would like to wish you a good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Santino Felipe Garcia and I am your saviour.”

  Garcia’s face disappeared from the screen to be replaced by a video of a mother and father in tears as their child was refused life-saving treatment on the grounds of being too young to be useful to society. The father cradled his wife in his arms as she pleaded with the doctor to reconsider his decision.

  “He’s only eight years old. He hasn’t lived his life yet, he has so much more to look forward to. You can’t let him die. There’s a treatment available. I know there is. You can save him. You must save him.”

  The doctor was unmoved.

  “Yes, there are treatments available, but not for your son. He’s too young. As you said yourself, he hasn’t lived his life yet. He has no usefulness to society. I’m sorry, but the rules are there for a purpose. He will be terminated tomorrow morning. You may visit him at 5 am to say your goodbyes.”

  The video cut away to the grieving family as they stood around a memorial plot, their son having been terminated and cremated at the local STC, before a sad looking Garcia’s returned to the screens.

  “What kind of human could treat another human being like that? It’s simple; the doctor is not human – he’s a Recarn. He is not one of us.”

  A message flashed onto the displays all around the world, obscuring Garcia’s face for a moment.

  “I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US.”

  The message disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived. A new video began to play. A sweet looking old lady walked into the beautifully decorated and tastefully furnished entrance hall of a government Self Termination Centre. She was accompanied by her grandchildren and their parents. Everybody was smiling, albeit sad smiles. The old lady’s daughter and son-in-law rested their hands on the shoulders of their two children as the sixty year old woman said farewell to her family.

  “Don’t worry children. I’m going to leave this body soon. I’ll be reincarnated, you know that, and I’ll start afresh with a beautiful new body.”

  Nine year old Toby gave his ailing grandmother a hug.

  “Will you come back and visit us, Nanny?”

  “I wish I could, Toby, but I’m only human, just like you and your mummy and daddy. I won’t remember any of you. But I won’t be in pain anymore.”

  She went over to the bank of registration computers and identified herself. The family had said their more personal goodbyes at the house so she simply gave a cheery wave goodbye and went through the blue door to the preparation suite. Garcia’s voice cut in.

  “This is what you don’t see.”

  The video continued. The preparation suite was just as beautiful as the STC entrance area had promised. The LED lights built into the walls displayed various relaxing scenes from nature and the best of human architecture. At the time that the elderly woman entered, one wall showed a tropical beach, another a view of snow-capped mountains, and the third showed scenes from Venice, Italy. The fourth wall was plain, the tedium broken by half a dozen numbered metal doors. Dotted around the room were several people sitting on sofas. The old lady was shocked to see that they were of all ages, of all shapes and sizes, but that they were all naked as the day that they had been born (although heavily pixelated for the video). A friendly looking young woman, dressed in a white overall and with the STC logo on her breast pocket, approached her.

  “Hello, Mrs Pickford. Welcome to Newbury’s premier Temple of Departure. My name is Emma and I’ll be your attendant for this next part of your journey. If you’d like to take your clothes off please?”

  “My clothes? Why?”

  “It’s policy. Your clothes will go to the poor and needy.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must insist.”

  “I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you.”

  “If you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have no choice but to call security, who will remove them by force. I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

  Mrs P
ickford most certainly did not want that and was visibly shaken by the change in Emma’s demeanour, but she complied, although not before complaining about her loss of dignity. Garcia was aware that there may be children watching and he wanted to bring the population onside, not to alienate them, so Mrs. Pickford’s now pixelated figure handed her clothes to Emma, who told her to go through door number three. She had expected Emma to follow her into the new room but she had disappeared to take her clothes to the furnace.

  A young man stood in the corner of the room, contemplating the angle where the two walls met. He turned around and stared hard into Mrs Pickford’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry Mrs P, I’m not into oldies.”

  Mrs Pickering had kept her good looks and was secretly proud of that fact, but she felt extremely violated to be naked in front of this young upstart.

  “Listen to me, young man…”

  “Shut it! I can’t be doing with your backchat.”

  The young thug walked slowly to a single chest of drawers that stood in another corner of the room, opened the top drawer, and removed a pulse gun. He pointed it at the old woman.

  “Turn around and get on your knees.”

  Mrs Pickford did as she was told. Seconds later she was dead as a fatal bolt of electricity passed through her body. Her killer took a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Spillage on aisle three.”

  The watching crowd was stunned into silence. Garcia’s face came back into view.

  “What kind of human could treat another human being like that? It’s simple; the staff of the STC are not human - they’re Recarns. They aren’t like us.”

  Again, a message flashed onto displays worldwide.

  “I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US.”

  Garcia’s image started to speak again.

  “Fellow humans, we have suffered enough. It’s time for us to shake off our shackles. It’s time for us to take back what is ours. It’s time for us to stand up for ourselves, to stand up for humankind. Recarns are not human. Recarns are mutants, a mutant plague upon our existence. Do you remember this?”

  A new video started playing, showing a terrified schoolgirl being dragged out of her classroom to the playground and being shot in the back of the head by a Defender.

  Garcia returned. He knew that he would soon have non-Recarns eating out of the palm of his hand.

  “Remember the Massacre of the Innocents? Those children were Recarns. If they are willing to do this, to execute their own kind, their own children, in cold blood, do you think that they will have any reservations about killing you, about killing your children? The answer is no. No, they won’t. We must deal with the Recarn menace for our own survival, for the survival of humankind. We must root them out of their hiding places. We must give them no chance to destroy us. That friendly neighbour or work colleague who seems to know a lot about historical events? They were probably there. They are Recarns. The school friend who always comes top of the class in History tests? They were probably there. They are Recarns. Make no mistake, they are watching you, awaiting their chance to hand you over to the authorities and increase their standing in the nefarious organisation that has oppressed us for decades

  “Well, fellow humans? What do you say?”

  Garcia raised his right arm to the heavens, clenched his fist, and punched the air three times.

  “I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US.”

  He repeated the gesture again and again as more and more people around the world joined in. Soon Piccadilly Circus was a sea of raised fists punching the air and chanting loudly.

  “I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US. I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US. I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US.”

  John Fleetwood gathered his family around him and whispered.

  “We’d better get out of here. It’s not safe for us to be here.”

  The family slinked away from Piccadilly Circus, their day out ruined, as did about two dozen other Recarns.

  ***

  Sitting in the front room of their father’s house, Michelle Boone and her sister, Caitlin, looked at each other, the shock of what they had just seen on TV clearly visible on their faces. Caitlin trusted her sister but she had to say something.

  “Mitch, did you know about this? He’s talking about genocide.”

  “No. I had no idea. I can’t believe that Zafar would have sanctioned this.”

  “Have you seen or heard from Zafar recently?”

  “No, I haven’t, which is strange. I just assumed that he’s busy with admin stuff, whilst he takes over from Douglas.”

  “Douglas?”

  “Of course. You don’t know. Douglas was the name of the Businessman. He died a week ago. Not sure how. Anyway, I haven’t heard from Zafar since the end of last week. I’m a bit worried, to be honest.”

  “Well, it looks like we should be worried about this Garcia than Zafar. This isn’t good.”

  ***

  In a terraced house in Swansea, Wales, Tamsin Davies was in her bedroom trying to watch a YouTube video on her Smart TV about the latest teenage fashions, but every time she clicked on the link to play the video, it appeared to get hijacked by some other recording.

  “Mum. Mum. There’s something wrong with YouTube.”

  Denise was busy trying to balance the family accounts and could have done without any interruptions. She hated the way her teenage daughter preferred to shout down the stairs rather than to come downstairs herself and talk to her mother face-to-face, but children had always behaved like this and probably always would; she knew that she would never be able to train her to behave otherwise. She decided to ignore Tamsin’s shouts.

  “Mum. YouTube’s not working properly. Come and see.”

  Denise knew that she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until she went upstairs and saw what her daughter was shouting about. She put her own tablet down and made her way up the stairs. She pushed the bedroom door open. Tamsin was sitting on her bed, her tablet in her hands, getting more and more frustrated at the disobedience of the YouTube application. She thrust the tablet towards her mother.

  “Look. Look for yourself.”

  “What are you trying to watch?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Every video I try to watch keeps changing to another video.”

  “Have you tried switching the tablet off and then turning it back on again? That’s always the first thing you should try.”

  “Duh… wish I’d thought of that. Of course I did. But it still won’t work properly. Try it yourself. Choose a video.”

  Just as it’s difficult to think of what to say when somebody wants you to say something in a different language, the choice of videos was vast and Denise couldn’t think of one to choose. Tamsin was becoming impatient.

  “Come on mum. Any video.”

  Denise chose a music video at random and waited expectantly. Instead of showing a live performance from a concert that she and her husband, Rory, had been to the previous month, the screen turned dark and a face appeared on the screen, before playing a video showing a child being refused medical treatment.

  “Who’s this, Tamsin?”

  “He calls himself Garcia. Whoever he is he’s a creep. Keeps saying that Recarns are dangerous and that we should rise up against them.”

  “Maybe your tablet’s been infected by a virus.”

  “That’s what I thought too, so I phoned my friends Karen and Alison. It’s happening to them too. It happens whatever video we try and play. Try another one.”

  Denise was a big fan of a comedian from the latter part of the twentieth century, so she tried to play a clip from an Eddie Izzard show. She would have loved to have seen him perform live but, although he had lived to a great age, he was gone now and she had been born too late to see one of his shows when he was still performing.

  “You’re right. This isn’t Eddie Izzard, it’s that Garcia man again. And a video of an old woman at an STC. And what’s this slogan that keeps popping up?�
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  “You mean this I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. WE ARE US? Well, Karen says that her mum told her that it means that this Garcia is one of us.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “As opposed to a Recarn, I think.”

  Denise tried to watch another video but watched instead a video showing the Massacre of the Innocents.

  “This is bad, Tamsin. This is very bad.”

  “Why is it bad, mum? He’s on our side. Us humans.”

  “It’s bad because he’s advocating fighting all Recarns, good and bad.”

  “Well, they’re freaks anyway, aren’t they?”

  “No. They’re different. That’s all. And please don’t call them freaks. It doesn’t help.”

  “OK, mum. They’re different.”

  Tamsin still considered them to be freaks but she couldn’t be bothered to get into an argument with her mother. Denise put her daughter’s tablet down on top of the bed.

  “That’s better. Can I go back to my accounts now?”

  “Knock yourself out, mum.”

  ***

  A three bedroomed detached house in Esher, Surrey, saw an advertising executive beginning to panic.

  “Is that your phone or mine?”

  Malcolm McCreadie could hear the phone but couldn’t see it. He had had it in his hand five minutes ago, so it had to be in the living room somewhere. The sound was muffled but it was definitely ringing. His wife, Sonya, came into the living room.

  “I’ve changed my phone to have a different ring-tone to yours. Plus, mine is in the kitchen. It’s yours.”

  “I can’t see it anywhere.”

  “Try moving things then. Have you checked down the back of the sofa?”

  “No.”

  “Well, check then.”

  “It won’t be there.”

  “How do you know if you haven’t checked?”

  The ringing stopped. Malcolm was getting agitated.

  “Call my phone from yours.”

  “Please.”

  “Please.”

  Sonya started to head towards the kitchen to fetch her phone when Malcolm’s phone started ringing again. This time he headed straight towards the black leather sofa, dug his hand between the leather cushion and the back of the sofa, and pulled out his still ringing mobile phone. His wife grinned.