Deprecated

by Michael Karr

  Proud? Proud that she’d been the direct cause of an innocent man’s humiliating public execution? Pride was the last thing Rylee felt. Disgust, grief, fury…confusion.

  “That was the worst motivational speech I’ve ever heard,” Serghei said.

  “Whatever man,” Feng scoffed. “Not everything’s like those stupid movies you watch.”

  Serghei’s eyes grew wide. “Stupid, are they? In the future, you do not wish to watch them, is that it?”

  Feng shrugged and pulled out his pistol. “I didn’t say I didn’t like them. They’re just stupid.” He released the magazine, then locked back the slide. The chambered round ejected, and he commenced inspecting the firearm. A Berretta M92 nine-millimeter. Nice gun. “The good guys always win. Which is a load of tripe.”

  Serghei shrugged. “If movies were all strongly anchored in reality, they wouldn’t be so entertaining. Speaking of movies, anyone up for one? Edward Scissor Hands, perhaps?”

  “I think we could all use a little distraction,” Preston said, tossing his empty can of Mountain Dew onto the pile in the corner.

  Rylee didn’t object. In truth, she didn’t think a movie could distract her from her thought. But it was better than sitting in her room, trying to hold back her tears.

  Serghei set his rat back into its cage, then walked over to the wall opposite from where the couch sat, and started thumbing through one of the numerous boxes filled with the shiny disks he called DVDs. She knew he had the boxes organized by decade. After a moment, he pulled out a case and removed the circular disc inside. This he inserted into a small black box. Then he unlocked a cabinet and swung open its doors to reveal a black monitor. With the press of the button, the monitor’s black screen came to life. According to Serghei, all of it, was ancient technology.

  “By the way,” Serghei said, turning back to look at Rylee. “I came across a few servers today.” He pointed to a stack of thin metallic boxes on his desk. “I plan on extracting their data this week. We might find something on one of them.”

  She gave him a weak smile. Her thoughts were already back to Garrison Pike’s murder. More repercussions were coming, she knew it. What she didn’t know is what those repercussions would be.

  NINE

  Carmine O’Conner stood inside the stainless-steel elevator car as it ascended to the eightieth floor. Subconsciously, she adjusted her scarlet waistcoat, tugging gently at the front hemline. She also checked the collar of her white blouse, which she wore beneath the waistcoat, fingering the neckline. Should she do up another button?

  Chiding herself, she forced herself to clasp her hands behind her back.

  This was just another meeting. What did it matter if it was with the CA himself? She would not let that affect her composure. What did it matter that she’d never had a private meeting with the venerable Nathaniel Steele before? As a member of the Advisory Board, she’d been in his presence plenty of times. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder at the nature of this meeting. Being called to his office was a distinction reserved for his Chief Advisor, or one of the Lieutenant Advisors. Not a Sub Advisor, like herself. Was there a promotion on the horizon?

  The elevator chimed, and the doors to the car parted. She lifted her chin and stepped into a small lobby. The heels of her boots clomped loudly on the polished marble floor. Except for a few paintings on the walls, with abstract colors and shapes, the room was bare. No desk, manned by a dutiful secretary. No chairs or bench for sitting. Just the paintings and a pair of double doors, made of a rich mahogany.

  One seldom saw such finery these days. Many buildings had been destroyed by the earthquakes of Desolation. Miraculously, Steele’s own building survived with only nominal damage. Had it not survived, things would be very different today. Carmine wasn’t entirely convinced that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  All PNUs were manufactured in this building. More than once she’d had explained to her that this building contained the only known cleanroom still in operation on the planet. Without the cleanroom, the PNUs could not be produced. Without the PNUs, their chances of rebuilding—of survival, even—reduced to shreds. Or so she’d been told.

  From her point of view, their chances were shrinking smaller and smaller every day. Foul weather threatened the few crops the field workers were able to plant and harvest. Every day, the scavenging crews went out further and further, and came back with less and less. And now, they were killing off each other. In the past few weeks, there had been too many murders.

  “Ms. O’Connor, Mr. Steele will be with you momentarily.” The message came directly into her PNU-enhanced brain, interrupting her stream of thought. The deep, monotone voice was not one she recognized. Nor did the sender of the message transmit a profile by which she might identify him. Not that it would have mattered much. She didn’t know the man. The voice was sufficient to tell her that. Among the benefits of her PNU was the complete and total recall of everything that happened to her. Every conversation, face, voice, action—all stored safely within the PNU.

  Carmine stiffened her back and straightened her shoulders. Steele evidently intended to make her wait. Likely she was being watched at that moment. Very well. She would wait.

  Ten minutes later, the double doors opened swiftly, and two men dressed in gray suits and wearing identical striped ties stepped out. Bodyguards. Mechanically, they moved to either side of the threshold, forming a gauntlet for her to pass through. The right-most bodyguard curtly motioned for her to enter.

  Keeping her eyes fixed forward, refusing to allow the bodyguard’s gaze to intimidate her, she strode forward. The doors opened into a sweeping room with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching the full length of the back wall. Four more gray-suited bodyguards stood stiffly along the windowless walls.

  Carmine fought back the urge to smirk. A little paranoid, Mr. Steele?

  A man in a double-breasted, royal blue suit with faint pinstripes stood behind a broad mahogany desk in front of the windows. Nathaniel Steele. Chief Administrator of the Post Desolation Reconstruction Alliance. And, as far as anyone knew, the most powerful man in the world. Carmine paused just inside the room, waiting.

  “Please, come in, Miss O’Connor,” Mr. Steele said in an even tone. Neither warm and inviting, nor cold and hostile. Direct. Businesslike.

  Carmine stepped down onto the lower platform that covered most of the room and approached the desk. As she walked, she fought against her natural propensity to divert her gaze downward or to the side. Instead, she kept her eyes leveled on Steele. Confidence was ninety percent posture. Of course, she could have tapped her PNU to calm her nerves and eliminate any outward display of weakness. As a rule, she preferred to rely on her PNU enhancements as little as possible.

  Steele watched her like a hawk tracking its prey. Could he sense her own insecurity? Having any Enhanced male look at her always made her uncomfortable. Who knew what they were actually seeing. What false reality their PNUs were creating. She’d heard the stories. Teenage males—newly Enhanced—using their PNUs to visualize the women around them without clothing. And similar such atrocities. It revolted her.

  A Persian rug hushed the clomp of her heels as she drew closer to the desk. Just behind a pair of studded leather armchairs, which sat in front of the desk, Carmine paused. Steele nodded, and held out his hand toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat, Miss O’Connor.” He did not come around the desk to shake her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, following the invitation. Though, it had sounded more like a command.

  She crossed her legs and discreetly pulled the hem of her black pencil skirt further down. It didn’t quite reach the knees. Careful not to appear sloppy, she perched on the edge of the seat, her back as straight as the CA’s blue tie.

  She expected him to sit in his own chair behind the desk. He did not. Instead, he came around the front of the desk, and sat on the front of it, his left leg hooked, his other keeping contact with the floor. The pose was semi-casual. But he pulled it off
without losing any of his poise. In fact, she found the position subtly…commanding. Now, he towered over her. It was a position that said, I have the upper hand and I always will.

  “You’ll forgive me, Miss O’Connor,” he said, his voice still even and professional, “if I forgo any pleasantries. I’ve never been one to comply with social protocols.”

  He paused, and she nodded in assent.

  “I assume you’ve heard the report,” he went on. “Needless to say, I am deeply troubled by this apparent trend, Miss O’Connor.”

  Mr. Steele stood and walked to the windows behind the desk. For several moments, he stood there, his back to her, the low gray clouds outlining the perfect lines of his suit and slicked hair. She wouldn’t be surprised if he commanded those clouds to disperse and they obeyed.

  “With Chief Pike’s loss,” he said, turning abruptly around, “Regulation is in need of a new head. That is why I have called you in today, Miss O’Connor. I want you to fill his vacancy.”

  Carmine sat up straighter. Not out of pride, but surprise. “But sir…” she said tentatively, “I don’t have the background to run Regulation. My duties on the Advisor Board deal primarily with logistics for construction and scavenging. I’ve never even held a gun before. Perhaps, Straufmann? He has some military background, I believe.”

  Richard Straufmann, Lieutenant Advisor to the CA. Also, the most outspoken member of the board. He and Steele often clashed on affairs of the Alliance. Surely Steele wouldn’t mind moving Straufmann off of the board. For the good of the Alliance, of course.

  Steele walked back over, this time coming and standing quite close. Making her wish she had opted to stand.

  “I need Mr. Straufmann to stay where he’s at. Besides, I’m not asking you to patrol the streets of the slums yourself, Miss O’Connor. I need someone to lead the investigation into these homicides. And you are the person I want to do it. I’ve been watching you long enough to know I’ll see results.” He stepped closer, and Carmine found herself looking up uncomfortably into his dark eyes. And when he spoke, he spoke slowly. “I want the culprits found. We can’t afford for this to continue. It destabilizes our fragile existence.”

  He returned to his original spot at the edge of his desk.

  “I understand, sir,” she said, forcing confidence into her words.

  “Damon Gyles will be your aide. He’s well acquainted with Regulation operations and procedures. As well as holding guns. Let him take care of the mundane affairs of your job. I want you focused on this investigation one hundred and eighteen percent. Any question?”

  “Yes. As far as access to sensitive data and—”

  “You have access to whatever you need that is pertinent to the investigation, Miss O’Connor. And if anyone gets in your way, I will personally deal with them.”

  “Does that include your own labs?”

  He leaned forward and his face grew even more serious. “I said whatever you need access to. I won’t hinder you. But take heed that you don’t go on any witch hunts, Miss O’Connor.”

  “Understood, sir.” She stood, and stepped aside of the chair. “I will begin immediately.”

  “Good. Now, there’s one more unpleasant matter we need to discuss before you depart.”

  Again, he held out his hand toward the chair.

  “Have a seat, Miss O’Connor.”

  TEN

  Since Garrison Pike’s death, two more prominent Elects—and a third no one from the slums seemed to know—had been killed. And not a single arrest made for any of them. With each case, the details from the various rumor mills were sparse. Not even Sophie could provide much more than names of the victims.

  Who was behind the murders? Surely, it had to be someone outside the slums. Rylee doubted she and the rest of the crew could pull off a single killing in the Elect sector, much less four. Even with their resources and expertise. If a Norm was involved, he would have to be as resourceful as he was brash.

  Regulation never made a fuss about the death or murder of a Norm. But these were important members of the Alliance. They could not be overlooked.

  And so Rylee was not surprised to find herself on the same rooftop overlooking Workers Square, awaiting another message to the people. Beside her stood Preston, just as before. This time Feng was there. She didn’t know what compelled her to come again, to heed the call of the sirens. Her memories of watching Boney’s execution were still fresh and raw. The news couldn’t be as bad as last time, could it?

  So, she stood there, scratching the tattooed barcode on the back of her hand, and waiting.

  “Don’t you wish you could gun down all those Regulators?” Feng asked. “From up here, if we had more than handguns, we might be able to.”

  He spat on the ground, as if he were imagining one of the Regulators at his feet. Rylee shifted a little. Feng’s intensity startled her sometimes. Of all the members of their crew, she’d known Feng the least amount of time. Both she and Preston had met him through Serghei. How it was that those two were friends, still baffled her.

  “Careful what you say out here, Feng,” Preston said. “You never know what they could be using to spy on us.”

  “Let ‘em listen. I ain't afraid of Regulation.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid. But that doesn’t mean you have to be stupid.”

  “You call it stupid. I call it backbone. Anyway, what do you think these tripe faces are going to announce?”

  Preston shrugged. “Maybe we’re all getting upgraded to Elect status.”

  Feng snorted. “Serg’s dream-come-true. No way I’m taking some PNU pill.”

  Rylee shook her head. There was no way she would ever become an Elect either. That was the CA’s perpetual promise, though. One day, everyone would become an Elect—receive the PNU-enhancements, which—more than wealth, food, and status—separated the Elects from the Norms. Not everyone could receive the PNU-enhancements at once, was the excuse. The Alliance’s resources were too scarce. Both to produce PNUs and sustain a large population of PNU-enhanced people required more resources than the Alliance could supply.

  Back before Rylee was old enough to remember, the Alliance would elect one or two Norms each year to be enhanced. That was how their name came about. Elects. But that had not happened in years.

  All the better.

  A movement near the platform caught her attention, and Rylee’s heart quickened. This was too much like the week before. Mental images of that fateful morning immediately flickered through her mind. A contingent of Regulators filed in a defensive line across the platform. An uneasy crowd watched on in silence. A proud figure strode across the platform.

  This time, however, the figure was not Garrison Pike, the murdered Chief of Regulation. It wasn’t even a man. Part of her expected the CA himself to appear on that platform. Such an appearance by the Chief Administrator of the Alliance would surely portend something terrible. She knew it wouldn’t be him, though. The CA didn’t make public appearances anymore. Especially to the Norms.

  Rylee didn’t recognize the woman. She wore a midnight-blue double-breasted frock coat. The skirt of her coat flared out slightly from her trim waist, its hem reaching the top of her knee-high black boots. Her lips were fastened together as tightly as each of the gold buttons running all the way up to the top of the collar brushing her sharp chin. She looked to be in her thirties.

  How could one wear such a coat? Rylee much preferred her own simple jacket. She wore it now. Serghei had managed to mend the torn sleeve and shoulder well enough that the jacket was useable again. And though its smooth, impervious outer shell was now slightly permeable, it still did the job better than wool.

  Beside her, Preston leaned in close to her. “That’s a member of the CA’s Advisory Board—one of the Sub Advisors,” he said quietly. “O’Conner, I think her name is.”

  Well, that was somewhat of a good sign. At least, the CA hadn’t sent one of his Lieutenant Advisors. Still, she would have been happier to se
e a mere messenger, or propaganda functionary.

  The sour expression on the woman’s face showed she didn’t think highly of her task. Like the master’s mistress sent to feed the dogs the table scraps. A job better suited for a servant—or a slave.

  Just as before, when Garrison Pike had addressed the crowd of Norms in the square, Sub Advisor O’Conner’s voice amplified through the square’s speakers without the aid of a microphone.

  “Members of the Alliance,” she said, her words as cold as the morning air. “I come to you this morning on direct assignment from our Chief Administrator, Nathaniel Steele.”

  She paused. An unenthusiastic cheer sputtered through the crowd, mottled here and there with hisses and boos. O’Conner smiled thinly.

  “He wishes to advise all members of the Post Desolation Reconstruction Alliance of the deaths of two important leaders of our Alliance. Prasad Balay, Chief Scientist for the Division of Ecological Development. And Jonathan Breznen, Vice-president for the Bureau of Trade and Commerce.”

  O’Connor paused.

  Is that it? Did they simply call them there to tell them that some more Elects had been killed? News everyone already knew?

  It was too much to hope for.

  “The contributions,” O’Conner went on, “of these upstanding men were invaluable. We publicly recognize them for their loyalty and commitment to the Alliance. Their murders represent a serious crime. One which hinders the work of restoring prosperity to our city and people.”

  She paused again, looking over the murmuring crowd before continuing.

  Rylee’s heart sank. This was it. More executions of innocent lives.

  “Regulation has assured the Advisory Board that we are conducting a full and thorough investigation of the murders. The perpetrators shall be found and dealt with appropriately. These crimes cannot continue. They threaten our very existence.

  “As such, the CA, in conjunction with the Advisory Board, has deemed it necessary to impose new sanctions until the culprits either come forward of their own will, are handed over by the people, or are apprehended by Regulation.