Deprecated

by Michael Karr

  “What about you?” he asked.

  Rylee shook her head. “Right now, I have a hard time looking past all my problems. I don’t feel like there’s room for hope.”

  “What about that picture of your parents?”

  “That seems really unimportant right now.”

  It should be unimportant. What difference did it make whether she ever saw a photograph of her parents? It wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t bring them back. Wouldn’t help her come to know them any better than the stories her grandfather told her did. And yet, it was important to her. She couldn’t really explain why. Perhaps it would prove that they had been real. That once, life really hadn’t been the way it was now. People used to smile, and have families, and play at parks.

  That’s what Serghei was doing for her. Often during his salvaging run, he’d come across old computers that had not been destroyed in the floods, earthquakes, and wildfires of Desolation. When he does, he removes their hard drives and brings them back. Some of the disks have restorable data. He takes those and runs some sort of algorithm on them to find any information on Hannah Lynn Day or Asher Kyle Day—her parents. In particular, a photo.

  Serghei believed strongly that on some hard disk in the area a photo must exist. People used to store their entire lives on computers. The best hard disks to search were those from old datacenters. But such hard disks had become harder to come by, as the Alliance tended to requisition them.

  Still, she hoped.

  Her parents had both been killed in an earthquake. She was just a toddler. Her parents were on their way to a place called Leavenworth for a romantic weekend getaway. Their first since Rylee had been born. It was just a short drive through the mountains, from Seattle where they lived to Leavenworth. But the earthquake struck just as they were traveling through Stevens Pass. Their car was crushed by a boulder.

  Rylee was too young to remember their deaths or the earthquake, whose scars could still be seen wherever you looked. In the cracked and splintered streets, the collapsed buildings and bridges. She could only remember the storms that came later. The wildfires. The food shortages. The loss of her home, and her toys.

  They called it Desolation. Though, it wasn’t a thing—or even a single event. Five years of relentless earthquakes that yielded mile-wide chasms in the earth, floods that engulfed entire cities and states, storms that sent down bolts of lightning like the heavens were at war with the earth and whose winds could level entire forests. Mother Nature gone mad.

  Natural disasters, as they were called before Desolation, had been common enough. But never had they struck with such fierceness and frequency. For years, the planet was thrashed. At first, cities and countries managed to curtail the effects of the destruction. People were rescued, electrical grids restored, bridges rebuilt, roads repaired, supply chains reestablished. Eventually, though, there were too many people to save. Too many roads to repair. Too many shelves to restock with food.

  Gradually, a century-old infrastructure broke down. Commodities stopped flowing. World economies collapsed. Governments disbanded—what good were laws when there was no way to enforce them. Wildfires burned. Floods rose. The earth fractured. Disease swelled. Hunger spread. And people died in droves.

  By the time Desolation’s fury subsided, earth’s population of twelve billion people had been almost entirely annihilated.

  Nathaniel Steele, CA of the Alliance, is credited with saving the lives of most of the people who make up the Alliance today. His company, Steele Corp., was developing a new nanomolecular vaccine to combat the spread of various diseases during the early years of Desolation. The vaccines were effective, but by the time Steele Corp. received approval from the FDA, the global distribution and mass production of the vaccine was all but impossible. So, Steele ordered the vaccines be distributed to local hospitals in Seattle and surrounding areas. Later, Steele distributed food from his own personal stockpile of food stores. Rumors claim he’d stockpiled five warehouses full after the first few storms of Desolation hit—before anyone knew just how bad things would become. He also took charge of the city of Seattle, organizing relief efforts, and bringing order to a city in chaos.

  To many, Steele was a hero. To her, he was the one threatening to take away her only surviving family member. At that moment, she’d give up ever seeing a photo of her parents if it would just save her grandfather. Wishful thinking. That sort of thinking wouldn’t save her grandfather. Only action would. If she only knew how to act…

  “I know this is going to sound selfish of me to bring up,” she said hesitantly. “But how are we going to save my grandfather from Deprecation?” She couldn’t keep her voice sounding a tad hysterical. “If we don’t figure out who’s behind these murders soon, they’re going to take him. I can’t talk him into running away. And I’m all out of ideas.”

  “It’s okay,” Preston said, his voice confident. “Serghei has a plan to help with that. We’ll discuss it tomorrow night. Can you make it?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there.” One way or another.

  EIGHTEEN

  Getting her grandfather out of the apartment proved easier than Rylee anticipated. Several weeks had passed since her grandfather had gone over to Lloyd’s for a game of Dominoes. Lloyd was an old friend of her grandfather. They enjoyed getting together and reminiscing about the days before Desolation.

  Her grandfather had said he wasn’t really in the mood for it. Too tired. But after she pestered him sufficiently, and laid on a guilt trip about how she wanted to go out but didn’t want to leave him alone, he’d finally relented.

  “Fine, I’ll go, if it makes you happy,” he had said. “If I didn’t know any better, I would have said your grandmother taught you how to nag me like that.”

  That comment saddened Rylee. She’d never known her grandmother either. At least, she didn’t remember her. She was too young. Like her parents, her grandmother was dashed out of her life by Desolation.

  With her grandfather out of the apartment, she made preparations to leave.

  “And where are you off to?” Grayson asked, as she slung her unloaded rifle over her shoulder. Even though she still didn’t have her ammunition back, she hoped the appearance of the rifle would dissuade any creeps from trying anything with her.

  “That’s none of your business,” she said, not bothering to look at him.

  “I need sugar,” he said.

  She paused, looked up at him, and blinked. “What?”

  “Sugar. I need it. Can you get me some?”

  “Look, I don’t give a rat’s tail what you need. I’d really love it if you went away, and left me and my grandfather alone.”

  She grabbed her earpiece, and put it in place. Then, she made for the door. With a side step, Grayson barred her way.

  “Get out of my way,” she growled.

  He held up his hands. “How about a trade. You get me some sugar, and I’ll give you back your bullets. I’ll even put in a good word with your grandfather. Maybe he’ll give you back your little pistol.”

  For a moment, she considered him. His dark brown eyes looked pleadingly into hers. Eyes the color of dog feces. Eyes she would never trust. She shoved past him.

  * * *

  “The brace is fairly simple in concept,” Serghei explained, holding up a piece of paper with some hand-drawn diagrams done in pencil. “Two exoskeleton supports run along the inside and outside of the leg, and are secured at five points with straps. A hinge at the knee permits the leg to bend. Now, here’s where the magic happens. The lower portion of the supports connects to a small platform, with approximately the surface area of the bottom of the foot. However, this platform extends a few centimeters beyond the natural length of his leg, you see? When he steps, the platform will hit the ground, and not his foot. Any pressure will run the length of the supports, and be taken up by his upper leg. This should facilitate walking without stressing the fractured bone. Though, the rigidness of the foot platform will mean he will walk
with a noticeable limp.”

  Serghei beamed at them proudly. Rylee looked back at him dubiously. The idea seemed good, but all she saw on Serghei’s cluttered workbench was a scatter of random pieces of metal, screws, and some tools she couldn’t identify.

  “So, how’s it going?” she asked.

  “Terribly,” Feng said from across the room, on the couch.

  Serghei shrugged. “Well, the straps that hold the supports onto the upper leg are proving difficult. I don’t have all the tools and materials I’d like to have.”

  “Can we get them?” Preston asked.

  “Not a problem. We just need to break into one of the Alliance’s machining shops and steal a two thousand pound CNC machine.”

  “You can borrow my backpack,” Feng said.

  Rylee didn’t laugh, but she was glad to see Feng was somewhat back to his old self. At least, he wasn’t yelling at everyone to leave him alone.

  “If anyone can make it work, you can,” Preston said, picking up a long metal piece and inspecting.

  “I still think it would be easier if we amputated his leg at the knee,” Serghei said. “Then we could just carve him a prosthesis out of wood. He’d be a real pirate. We could even give him an eye patch. He does work on a boat, does he not?”

  “Just keep working on your plans here,” Preston said, setting down the piece of metal. “Now, I think Rylee’s anxious to hear your plans to help her grandfather.”

  Swiveling around in his chair, Serghei stretched his long arms above his head, then stood up. A yawn escaped his mouth.

  “Wouldn’t you guys rather watch a movie?” he said. “I discovered a few new ones on our scavenging run today.”

  “Serghei, this is really important,” Rylee said. “There’s only a few days left.” She hadn’t meant to sound so petulant. Like a whiny child. But she did feel desperate, and in little mood to put up with Serghei’s humor.

  “Fine, fine. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. First, I require a little hydration.”

  Serghei stood and walked over to his stack of Mountain Dew. Grabbing a can from one of the open cases, he cracked it open and took a long swig. The brightly colored can caught Rylee’s attention as if she’d never seen one before. Those drinks were loaded with high-fructose corn syrup. Serghei had talked about it before. It was essentially like guzzling sugar. She thought of Grayson’s plea for sugar. His bargain. All she would have to do is take him one of the cans and she could get back her ammunition.

  Unlike the other members of the crew, she never drank the stuff. Once had been enough for her. If she asked for one, would the others be suspicious? And if she asked for it, but didn’t drink it? Maybe she could sneak one while they weren’t watching.

  Great! Now, I’m plotting how I can steal from my friends to feed an Elect. She could tell them her grandfather wanted it. He would drink it…if she gave it to him. Which was worse, lying or stealing? Or she could just come clean and tell them about Grayson. Sure, that would go over like Desolation’s storms. Especially with Preston. No, they didn’t need that distraction right now.

  “Throw me one of those too, Serg,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Serghei paused with the can still pressed to his lips, and raised an eyebrow.

  From her side, she could feel Preston staring at her, too.

  “It’s for my grandfather,” she said. “I thought it might help if I need to butter him up.”

  Her heart beat against her rib cage, protesting against her decision to lie. What else was she to do?

  Serghei shrugged and tossed her two cans. Hastily, she stowed them in the pockets of her jacket, hoping everyone would quickly forget about them.

  Following Preston’s lead, they congregated around Serghei’s couch. Serghei brought over the stool he used at his workbench, since Feng took up all the space on the couch.

  “I have a plan,” Serghei said, his Romanian accent flowing thicker as he tried to sound dramatic. “It’s very simple, actually.”

  “Just like your plans for my leg brace?” Feng asked.

  “Any idea is more than we have right now, Serg,” Preston said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Serghei took a gulp of the Mountain Dew, and let out a loud belch. “I realized last night that we have been looking at this problem from the wrong angle. Hitherto, we have been thinking about how to find the culprits behind the murders so that the CA will halt the Deprecations. A fine goal. But if we get to the root of the problem, we see that it is nothing more than an accounting issue.”

  An accounting issue? Rylee look across to see Preston’s face reflecting the confusion she felt.

  “Uh…what does that mean exactly, Serg?” Preston said.

  “It means that if the Alliance doesn’t know Ry’s grandfather is sixty, then he won’t be Deprecated next week, you see?”

  “Tripe!” Feng cried. “Why didn’t we think of that? All we have to do is tell the Regulator’s he’s younger, and they’ll leave him alone. Maybe you can talk to my supervisor, while you’re at it. Tell him I’ve actually been working.” Feng shook his head in disgust.

  “We don’t tell anyone anything,” Serghei went on, unperturbed. He held up his fist, the tattooed barcode on the back of his hands facing them. “This barcode matches an ID in a database held by the Alliance. That ID maps to data about the individual. Birthdate, for example. We alter the data, we save Ry’s grandfather.”

  “That sounds promising,” Preston said, but Rylee could tell he was fighting to hold his skepticism at bay.

  Rylee didn’t speak, thinking it best if she just kept her mouth shut. Otherwise, she feared her feeling of hopelessness would catch, like a bad cold. But, Desolation! Did Serghei honestly believe they could gain access to the Alliance’s databases and modify her grandfather’s personal records?

  “So, how do we do it?” Preston said.

  Serghei smiled. “We break into Regulation headquarters.”

  “But you said yourself before that it would be too hard, and take too long.”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind. As I said, it’s all how you look at a problem. Furthermore, the playing field has changed slightly in our favor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Now we can walk in the front door, uncontested. You heard the announcement. Regulation is asking for tips from anyone regarding the homicides. Just like us, they’re desperate for information. They’ll take anything. And you, Preston Hyde, are going to go there and give them one.”

  NINETEEN

  Carmine O’Connor sat at her desk inside Regulation headquarters rubbing her temples. A bad habit of hers she employed when she felt overstressed. One in a leadership position, such as hers, should avoid such idiosyncrasies. Those under her might interpret them as weakness or uncertainty.

  Of course, her PNU could keep her from falling back to such habits when her natural inclinations tried to kick in. But there it was again. She didn’t want to rely so heavily on her PNU. To her it felt superficial. It wasn’t her willpower changing herself. It was her PNU changing her. A subtle distinction when the PNU was bound to the neurons in her brain. But it was there.

  Over a week had passed since Steele had appointed her the new Chief of Regulation. A job she felt unqualified for. Still, she committed to the job. If she must track down the killer by patrolling the streets every night herself, she would do it.

  Not that it would do her any good. As yet they had no viable lead on who the murderer was. No plausible link between the victims. No common theme in the killings themselves. Except for maybe bafflement.

  The perpetrator had hitherto left no shred of tangible evidence. No fingerprints. No footprints. No camera footage. No witnesses. Nothing but corpses.

  Garrison Pike: dead of apparent strangulation. Prasad Balay: dead from suffocation by a pillow. Jonathan Breznen: dead from possible poisoning. The autopsy reports were still underway to confirm the poisoning.

  Thanks to the victim’s PNUs, Forensic
s had been able to salvage most of the victim’s recent memories and replay them. Until being appointed as Chief of Regulation, she’d never truly valued the memory extraction capability the PNUs enabled. Despite that capability, however, she felt they were no closer to cracking the case.

  In the strangulation case, Pike saw a masked figure attack. Then the attacker’s bulging outstretched arms—supposedly with his hands wrapped around Pike’s neck, while Pike clawed at the arms, trying to get free. Then the scene went black. Garrison Pike dead.

  In the pillow case, there was…wait, did she just refer to it as the pillow case? Desolation! She’d actually been calling it that to her officers. The Balay case. There. That would help her not sound like a complete moron.

  In the Balay case, Prasad Balay saw nothing. The pillow apparently covering his eyes. Only muffled screaming could be heard.

  The poisoning case was trickier. The effectiveness of memory extraction decreased after death. Or, at least, that’s how she had understood it from the forensic technicians. The number of recoverable memories decreased as a function of time since the victim’s death. They’d presented her with formulae, and other technical nonsense. Bottom line, they couldn’t replay far enough back to know when the victim—Jonathan Breznen—might have ingested the poison.

  At that moment, Carmine was going through the mind-numbing task of hunting through the victims’ medical histories, personal effects, interrogation reports from friends, colleagues, neighbors, and bosses. All in hopes of uncovering a solid link between the victims, or a potential suspect. Whoever was committing these murders was excessively thorough.

  But Carmine would catch him—or her. Failure was not an option.

  There was the rumored disappearance of William Steele, the CA’s son. Could he be behind the murders? Thus far, her investigation had not led her in that direction. Perhaps it was time to visit Steele’s laboratories.

  She stood up from her desk. She wasn’t sure why she even had a desk. All the information she needed for the case were stowed away in her PNU. There were no physical documents to read or handle. It did give her somewhere to rest her arms, and something to sit behind to assert her authority.