Raddocks Horizon (Godyssey Legacy Book 1)

by Duran Cross

  Caufmann nods.

  “Real Thermosteel plasma?”

  Caufmann nods again.

  “May I?” she asks holding out her hand. Caufmann passes it to her cautiously. She wraps her hand around the glass tube. “It really does generate heat. The synthesized stuff doesn’t do that. This one lives up to its name. Where did you get it?”

  “It was painstaking to acquire.”

  “What are you going to do with it? There’s not a lot there,” Hillon asks.

  “This amount is sufficient.”

  “Would you waste what’s possibly the last of the rarest substance in the world on anyone else?” she asks, handing the needle back to him.

  Caufmann places a hand against Rennin’s swollen, bleeding, face in a paternal way. “No. I told him to do something, he did it, and nearly died for it. I ordered him not to engage the target unless he was absolutely sure of success but a true soldier doesn’t know how to fail. I can’t say the same for myself. I spend my time in the lab butchering test subject after test subject in the name of saving more lives, but what has that wrought?”

  “But, sir-”

  “Stop!” he looks at her fiercely. “Thus far, I have only killed people; hundreds of people!”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “They all know what I’ve done! Everyone knows! They lack the courage to oust us from this city, plain and simple. I haven’t actually saved one life during my time here, with my own hands. I am going to save him. I’m going to save one!”

  Caufmann and Hillon waste no more time talking. They work for days, in fourteen-hour shifts rebuilding what’s left of Rennin Farrow’s body. The right arm is amputated at the elbow, replaced with a biomechanical arm similar to the military grade HolinMechs.

  His left leg is removed at the hip. The hip joints and lower back are reinforced with Thermosteel plasma to handle the extra weight of the android leg.

  Rennin is kept in a semiconscious state throughout most of the surgery, as an overload of anaesthetic would kill him. The work on his head is also extremely delicate, requiring him to respond with each minute adjustment.

  Every now and then he’d be present enough to cry out in pain and during the installation of his arm he became fully aware long enough to see his skinless andronic limb. Despite being dosed up again, Caufmann is sure he passed out from shock. His left arm is easy by comparison, and only needs to be reset in position and put in a cast.

  The skull plates are installed last, after a day of rest to let him recuperate a little after the brain surgery. Prototype’s blow did far more damage than they expected.

  Afterwards, all they can do is wait. Caufmann has never performed a human conversion to android, not even a partial one and after exiting the operating room he throws up. He’s never thrown up before either, as far as he can recall. But his memories aren’t always consistent.

  ◆◆◆

  Rennin wakes up with a jolt and sits up almost on reflex. His body feels strange, out of balance somehow. One of his eyes is held shut by something he finds to be a bandage, securely wrapped around his head.

  He’s very off centre, but otherwise feels fantastic. He looks to his left arm to find it is being fed by a morphine drip. Which makes him wonder why he’s so full of energy. He swings his legs over the edge of his gurney, tries to stand, and falls straight over.

  He lands flat on his face, bringing the saline drip down with him, and tearing out the morphine line. He grunts in irritation, rips the saline drip out, and tries standing again but inexplicably feels like he’s balancing on a tightrope.

  A surgeon comes in and jumps at seeing him up. “Mister Farrow, get back in bed right now!”

  Rennin can’t believe it but he’s genuinely pleased to see this person. He smiles broadly, “I’m not five years old and I’m fairly sure, due to your absence of facial hair, that you’re not my mother.”

  “Mister Farrow, I’ve been charged with overseeing your recovery and you’re not due to be out of here for another week.”

  Rennin freezes, “Another week? How long have I been here?”

  “Nine days currently. You underwent drastic surgery, you can’t be out and about.”

  Rennin’s grin turns predatory, “I feel great.”

  “You need another week of recuperation.”

  A flash group of images enter Rennin’s mind of Caufmann’s face and an injection of something burningly hot at the base of his spine followed by a blinding wave of pain before blacking out again.

  Rennin looks hard at the surgeon, “I’m leaving.”

  “No you’re not.”

  Rennin takes a heavy step forward on his left leg and glares down at the doctor who is a clear foot shorter. “If I’ve been here nine days then it’s October the 2nd, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what that means?”

  “No.”

  “I’m at least two-hundred and sixteen hours late for work,” and with that, Rennin leaves.

  Barely a minute later, Rennin is walking up the street feeling fresh as a daisy. He’s still in his hospital gown but he’s got his pants on, at least. He’s carrying the rest of his armour-weave clothing in a bag, along with everything else he had on him the night of the rally.

  The watchman decides that he will wear it to work. His armour-weave gear is black, just like his work uniform. He feels far too confident for someone straight out of hospital. Though when he thinks about the bandage on his head a grim thought occurs to him.

  He promptly ducks into the nearest restaurant and hears an alarm buzz once but takes no heed. Stepping up to the coffee machine, he asks for a latte before walking straight for the restrooms, ignoring the strange looks from the two serving staff.

  Rennin steps up to the basin to examine himself closely in the mirror. The upper left section of his face is obscured with bandages. The eye he can see looks normal. Normal for him at least; it’s still grey shot through with violet.

  Good start.

  Slowly raising his hands, Rennin unwraps his head to see what’s beneath.

  Come on, be normal. When the bandages fall away he finds that’s not so. His left eye is shot through with violet, as expected, but the rest of the iris is shining with a bright gold, glittering like a tiny star with a black centrepoint.

  His scrutiny of himself increases, magnified to the point where he does notice a few irregularities with his head. The section covered by the bandage looks almost too perfect. His cheekbone is well defined, and the form of his forehead on that side looks as if carved by an artist.

  It would be unnoticeable to anyone who isn’t as aware of their visage as he is, he constantly checks himself for any signs of decrepitude daily and knows himself well.

  He presses his face, kneading through the skin for anything unusual. It all feels normal. No, wait…that isn’t right…

  A join line. He presses further, gaining the distinct impression that this line is some kind of seam. He follows it with his fingers up his temple and around the top of his head, and down the middle of his forehead.

  Another look at the golden left eye brings it home. That whole section of his head is fake, moulded, and installed like a faulty vehicle part.

  Perhaps Prototype smashed him up worse than he thought, even though he swears he could still see with both eyes after taking that hit to the head. Unless he was seeing double with one eye.

  Then he remembers bracing his leg against Prototype’s chest and firing through it to get to that disgusting android. No one walks on a leg that’s been shot through in only nine days. It’s completely unheard of even with all the medical miracles of the modern age.

  The door to the toilets begins to open but Rennin slams it shut again, wedging his foot against it.

  “Give me a minute!”

  A moment of panic, and his pants are down. Rennin looks at his leg. It is in perfect condition without even a scar on it. Like in his face, the bones look ever so slightly more defined, sharper s
omehow, especially around the kneecap. He feels around his hip, the bone is more prominent than before. He pulls his pants up quickly, reaching into his bag for his singlet, and notices his right hand.

  He remembers seeing it skinless for just a second during his operation. He has to blink the image away then looks closely at each hand by holding them up next to each other. The right is perfect and that is not comforting in the least. His knuckles, fingers, wrist and even his fingernails look engineered and the bones look sharper just like in his forehead and leg.

  He looks up to the mirror to his glowing left eye and a fierce frown cross his face even though he looks ten years younger.

  Rennin walks out of the toilets fully dressed in his armour-weave with his face set in stone. The staff at the counter have made his latte, and hand it to him cautiously. He doesn’t acknowledge them but takes the drink, throwing a bunch of notes at them before striding out oblivious to another buzz from the door alarm.

  After a few odd glances from passers-by, he pulls his hood up trying to hide his glowing eye. His bulky form itself draws enough attention. He knows he stands out, but despite trying to stay alert and paranoid he can’t help feeling fantastic.

  It is all he can do to not grin maniacally.

  He checks his watch to find it’s almost lunchtime so continues on his way to the Godyssey Lab. He realises that he’s walking heavier on his left foot than his right. It’s giving him the appearance of a limp. I’ll worry about that later when Caufmann is in my sights.

  He can’t help but notice the streets are unusually full of people. He remembers that Caufmann ordered the schools closed after the rally. It certainly explains the rampant younglings running around, hopped up on goofballs or whatever it is that keeps them from seeing their own pitiful existence in Technicolor.

  Finally reaching the lab he pauses at the gate. Looking across the courtyard and up at his tower, he wonders who has been covering for him. Probably Wanker. Rennin turns around and looks across the street to the Perseverance bar.

  Haven’t seen Carla for a while. His eyes flick back toward the lab briefly. They’ve lasted over a week without me, they can last until tomorrow.

  Rennin enters the bar. The place is deserted apart from Carla. She must be just starting her shift because she looks like she just woke up. The weapon alarm arc over the door buzzes, startling her slightly; her look of shock quickly turns to anger. “Where have you been?”

  “In hospital.”

  She looks him up and down and rolls her eyes. “Bullshit,” she resumes wiping the bar top, “Get out.”

  He walks up to the bar and displays his left wrist. It is still wrapped with a hospital identification tag. “See?”

  She grabs his arm and has a closer look. “This says the emergency surgery wing,” she says, looking him over anxiously. “Exactly what happened to you?” she asks running her hand along the dried blood staining his hood.

  He unveils his head showing his face, his new artificial eye, and his arm, telling her selected highlights of how he incurred his injuries, strategically leaving out the particular details of the android and what he remembers of the surgery. “So there you have it.”

  Her face is horrified. She places both his hands on the bar top to look at the differences. “My god…” she runs her fingers along the knuckles of his right hand.

  “And this,” he says putting her hand to his face. He gently presses her fingers along the bone seam in his forehead.

  Her mouth falls ajar in shock. “I’m sorry, Rennin, I had no idea and when you swaggered in looking perfectly healthy-”

  “It’s alright,” he cuts her off.

  She comes around to the other side of the bar and hugs him. “You don’t have much luck, do you, Trigger?”

  5.

  Unrest

  It’s been a week since Rennin left the hospital and nothing has happened. Nothing interesting, as far as Rennin is concerned. Work has been dreary, with Caufmann spending more time in the restricted section than anywhere else.

  He glances over to Wanker. He’s been reassigned to the clock tower, continuing to keep an eye on the place just as he was while Rennin was being rebuilt in Horizon Hospital. Rennin emits an exaggerated sigh. Wanker pays no heed, so Rennin takes another look at his watch.

  “Nice bracelet,” says Wanker.

  “You can’t buy style.”

  “Can’t afford it, you mean.”

  I wonder when I can get out of this hole and into bed with Carla. Just like he has spent every night this week.

  The bone irregularities are spreading across his entire body, more by the day. First it was just his artificial limbs that were showing an odd sharpness and symmetry in the bone structure, but it’s been spreading outwards from there like some kind of weed.

  The seam in his forehead has sealed over and disappeared. Most of his head is showing the odd distinctiveness now, as is his entire right arm, most of his right leg and his spine. He’s tried to contact Caufmann but hasn’t managed to reach him.

  He taps his foot nervously and tries to relax, but he can’t.

  ◆◆◆

  William Caufmann is standing behind his desk. He’s in his office for the first time in days, gripping the bridge of his nose fiercely. Mepida Rethrin, Talati Hillon and a sickly Jellan Roths stand in a line opposite the doctor.

  He takes a wheezing breath that sounds like air forced through a spinning fan. “It’s a good thing, don’t you see?” he says without a hint of pleading.

  Roths responds instantly, “How could this possibly be construed as a good thing?” she almost yells.

  Rethrin nods her head, “It’s loose in the streets, we all but have an outbreak on our hands.”

  “I’m well aware of the situation, but the outbreak pattern is what’s interesting,” says Caufmann.

  “It’s completely random, William,” says Hillon in a softer tone that stinks of defeat to Caufmann.

  “The vaccinations failed, we know that. I know that. But they succeeded in an unexpected way.”

  Roths scoffs, “Because a handful are immune?”

  “Not so much immune or immunized, more than that. Cured.”

  Rethrin looks sceptical, “Cured?”

  “Try to use those million-dollar minds for just a moment, please. The people already infected with the B-DNA no longer show any symptoms of infection, but there’s a flipside.”

  The three stand waiting.

  Caufmann continues, “The people who weren’t infected at the time of Project Outreach are now twice as susceptible and will mutate exponentially faster.”

  Roths lets out a bitter laugh, “And you still see an upside?”

  Caufmann’s inhuman glare fixes on her. “The toxin resets the evolutionary progress to zero, awaiting instruction. It completely isolates the mutagen in the B-DNA and all secondary exposure turns up nothing. They’re immune. Whereas the others who are exposed to the virus after the inoculation also have their evolutionary clock reset, and once the mutagen latches onto the nervous system—that’s already awaiting instruction on how to grow—all hell breaks loose.”

  Hillon sighs, “We’re finished.”

  “Twenty percent of the population can be saved and we will save them. There are no hostiles out yet, but within a week that will all change. Martial Law will be put in place in a few days.”

  “The city is too big, we’d need an army! Not mention the questions we’re getting since we restricted travel.”

  “There will be a safe zone for the uncontaminated built in the Centre-city District, and the addresses of the immune will be made known to you.”

  “How can you possibly know which ones are or aren’t infected?” asks Rethrin.

  “By accessing the same nano-implants that Primus used to choose it’s CryoZaiyon candidates: Embryon Protocol.”

  After a short silence Hillon speaks up, “Why not send out another shipment of the antigen? Stop the virus dead in its tracks.”

  “T
here is none left to ship. Not nearly on the scale required. A few hundred vials, maybe.”

  “And I suppose they are reserved,” Roths almost spits.

  Rethrin speaks in more of an outburst of sound, “Then what do we do?”

  Caufmann notices his glasses on the desk flashing, indicating someone is using electronic equipment just outside his office. He looks at Rethrin, “When the hostile contaminants emerge, we shoot them. The main priority will be to protect the fortified zone,” he says moving around his desk towards the door in vast strides.

  It flies up and Caufmann is outside in an instant spotting Gainsford, just a glimpse of him shoving something in his pocket.

  Spying.

  Caufmann contains his anger behind an emotionless mask. “Yes?”

  Gainsford takes a step back. “I-I need to speak with you.”

  “Come back later.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” he says turning and walking off briskly.

  Caufmann watches him walk away with burning eyes that glow all too brightly in contrast to his dark sockets. He opens a channel with the tower on his forearm gauntlet, “Ren?”

  Almost instantly, Rennin’s voice answers, “Copy.”

  “Gainsford will be exiting the lab any minute. Take him out.”

  There is a moment of pause.

  “Yes, sir.”

  ◆◆◆

  In the tower Rennin loads his sniper rifle thinking about his last altercation with Gainsford. He isn’t entirely sure what the man could have done to earn a death sentence. Surely Gainsford isn’t smart enough to be a traitor or extortionist.

  Rennin’s face is pensive as he slides in the firing pin, oblivious to Wanker until he gets a slap on the shoulder.

  “Hey, dickhead, you listening?”

  “I have things to do,” answers Rennin.

  “Are you actually going to shoot him?” Wanker says, his jowls shaking indignantly.

  Rennin glances over at the overweight, aging, fattening, balding man-child sitting next to him. “Don’t get worked up, Slabs of Flab, your heart won’t take the stress as well as the weight of your ample bosom.”