Mutant Rising

by Steve Feasey

  Melk

  ‘I said I was not to be disturbed! Come back when –’

  ‘Sir?’

  Melk recognised the voice. He turned in his chair to take in the face of his most trusted aide, General Razko. Well built and still an imposing figure, despite his years, it was clear from the military man’s expression that whatever news he bore was not good.

  ‘What is it, General?’

  ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘Well … ?’

  ‘There’s been another ambush on a transporter.’

  ‘The mutant children? Another food shipment?’

  ‘Yes to the first, not quite to the second.’ He hesitated. ‘They hit the vehicle we were expecting from C2. The one carrying the latest batch of injections.’

  Melk sat unmoving, his eyes fixed on the general’s.

  ‘Unlike the other raids, they didn’t just unload the stuff they wanted. They took the transporter too.’

  ‘DAMMIT!’ Melk roared, getting to his feet and smashing his fist down into the electronic equipment mounted into his desktop, shattering the screen. ‘How did they know?’

  ‘It’s not at all clear that they did. At least not at first. We think it started as another opportunist hit like the previous two. But the albino … he read our agent’s mind.’

  ‘Jax.’ Melk’s lip curled and he shook his head. ‘How much did she know?’

  ‘Very little. She knew the shipment was covert, but not the nature of it.’

  Melk, deep in thought, rubbed at his chin, oblivious to the cut on his hand and the tiny droplets of blood oozing from it. When he spoke again, it was mostly to himself. ‘Even if they manage to find out what was hidden in there, it’ll mean nothing to them. This is just a … blip.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ the general said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The laboratory’s findings? The videos and data you requested? They were supposed to be sent on a separate vehicle. It appears somebody got lazy and stored an omnipad with the information along with the shipment. The files have an extremely high level of security, as does the device itself. We should be safe.’ Razko looked over at his boss, his eyes drawn to a bulging vein that had appeared across the top of the man’s head. ‘I do have a piece of good news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Agent Horst managed to activate a small tracking device inside the transporter before it was taken. We’ll know where the vehicle is very shortly.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘We’re having a few technical problems with our equipment.’ He put his hands up. ‘Nothing we can’t fix,’ he quickly added.

  ‘I want whoever is responsible for allowing that data to be transported along with the other cargo found. You are personally to see to it that they’re punished. I also want the transporter located within the next thirty minutes. Is that clear?’

  ‘Might I make a suggestion, sir? I think this is the perfect time for us to deploy our other recent project.’

  Melk frowned, trying to figure out what the military man was alluding to.

  ‘Not the cyborg?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s not ready. The scientists are still worried about various systems. They want to rework the haptic feedback on his legs, and –’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr President, the scientists always want more time. I’d have thought that you, as a man of science yourself, would appreciate this. They’ll never be satisfied with the ’borg until it is, in their eyes at least, perfect. I’ve looked into this myself, and in my opinion it’s as ready as it’s ever going to be. I also believe it’s our best chance to capture these young mutant rebels. Every time we send an ARM team after them, they manage to get away. Maybe a lone hunter would stand a better chance of trapping this prey.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with that, not on the first mission at least.’

  ‘Then maybe a small hand-picked support team?’

  Melk thought for a moment, an ugly smile slowly forming on his lips. ‘I’d want to see the ’borg before we let it loose.

  ‘Of course. When would you like to do that?’

  ‘Now seems like as good a time as ever, don’t you think?’

  Registration

  Principal Physician Groll glanced up as the woman, her partner and their twin teenage children emerged from the doorway of the treatment room to his left.

  How long had he been here, in this place? And how much longer did he have until he was relieved?

  He and his staff were all cooped up in the hastily erected structure set up to register the Mutes prior to their relocation, and he hated it. It was about as far from his sterile, high-tech laboratories back in the Bio-Gen building inside the City walls as could be imagined. It was the smell: even the harsh surgical disinfectant he’d insisted the place be cleaned out with couldn’t dissipate the terrible reek of these mutants. And here he was, the senior health advisor on the Principia, forced to deal with the unwashed masses. The Mute family were almost at the exit now, the twins – it was strange how many of them were born to Mutes – rubbing at the top of their arms near the shoulder and grimacing a little. The father said something, no doubt asking if they were all right, and the pair nodded. All four made their way through the exit.

  From the device on his desk, a message from the operatives in the other room flashed up before him, confirming that all of the preceding family members had been injected without any problems. If he’d seen that same screen text once this morning, he must have seen it a hundred times. The message, like this entire process, was grating on his nerves. ‘Monotonous’ didn’t even begin to describe it. The Mutes in the line outside were ushered in, each family group clutching their papers as they looked nervously about them. He checked their names, asked them some questions about their medical history, confirmed they had their travel dockets and then pointed them in the direction of the treatment room for their ‘vaccination’. And it was this last act that was bothering him more and more as the day went on.

  Put it out of your mind, he told himself, giving the nearest guard a nod so the man could bark out an instruction for the next in line to approach the desk. Groll had given up on doing this himself after about an hour; his throat was already sore from all the talking he’d done this morning, and he guessed it might still be at least an hour before he was due a break. While he was still inputting the details of the last entry, Groll became aware the Mutes were already standing before his desk.

  ‘Excuse me?’ a woman said.

  ‘Wait,’ he replied, without looking up.

  Eventually he raised his head and took her in.

  Standing before him was a mother and her two children. One, a male infant, was balanced on the woman’s hip, the thumb of his grimy left hand jammed into his mouth. The drool on his lips and chin, coupled with the rosy colour of his cheeks, suggested to Groll that the child might be teething. He guessed that the other child must be a little girl, but couldn’t be sure as she was hidden behind the folds of her mother’s skirt, a wild spray of long curly hair into which a number of coloured ribbons had been interwoven all that was visible to the scientist. Using a system of shorthand he himself had devised, he entered this information into the device before him. He estimated the woman must be in her mid-twenties, and was surprised to discover how attractive she was – for a Mute. She was petite with elfin features, and her skin was the colour of sand, but her eyes were truly startling: the irises a deep purple hue with a fine ring of green just around the pupils. He was about to speak, when the little one – she was indeed a girl – appeared from behind her mother, leaning out to the side and staring at Groll warily as if she thought he might leap out at her at any moment. And it was the sight of the young girl that took Groll aback, causing his breath to catch in his throat. The resemblance was uncanny. In fact, apart from the hair and the child’s inheritance of that fantastic eye colouration, this little mutant urchin could almost have been his own beloved Megren fifteen years
ago! The realisation brought with it painful memories, memories that he could not allow himself, not here, not now.

  He cleared his throat and glanced at his screen, trying to pull himself together.

  ‘Family name?’ he said, when he’d recovered enough to start the interview.

  ‘Feld.’

  ‘How many of you will be travelling to the reservation?’

  ‘Just the three of us.’

  ‘No partner? No Mr Feld?’

  ‘No. My partner disappeared last year. The ARM claimed they apprehended him in the act of selling black-market goods.’ She said this with no small amount of venom, looking at the armed guard standing behind Groll as if he might have been one of the men responsible for her man’s vanishing. ‘They took him away from his family and we haven’t seen him since.’

  Groll glanced at the little girl again. She was of an age that, should she indeed make it to adulthood, she’d have no memory of what her father might have looked like. More unbidden memories flooded in. He remembered how his Megren would sit on his lap and ask endless questions about the world. Every answer he gave was followed by yet another ‘Why?’ until he would give up and, laughing, resort to the only response left to a parent of a precocious child: ‘Because it is, that’s why.’ He missed her so very badly. His life had never been the same since she’d been taken from him.

  ‘Have any of you had any contact with another mutant with a communicable disease in the last three years?’

  ‘Er, yes, I guess. I mean, out here in the slums people are sick all the time.’

  ‘Quite.’

  It was the question to which there was no right or wrong answer; say yes and you went through to the treatment room; say no and you went through to the treatment room. He glanced at the small girl again. As he entered the data, he noted how his usually precise notations were riddled with errors.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ the mother asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just you keep looking over at my daughter.’

  ‘No. Nothing wrong. She … er, she just reminds me of somebody.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Somebody who was very dear to me.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My daughter actually. She was … she was killed in an accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  For some reason, her sympathy irked him. What right did this raggedy Mute have to feel pity for him? A Pure. A man at the top of his chosen field.

  Get on with your job, Groll, he told himself, and was about to proceed with the registration when the little girl stepped forward and placed a small item on the edge of his desk. Made of twisted wire, with a glass bead for a head, the thing was fashioned to look like a tiny person standing on wire legs, its arms sticking straight out at its sides. With delicate little fingers, she nudged it towards him before disappearing behind her mother’s skirt again. He heard her whisper something from her hiding place, but her voice – little more than a whisper – made it difficult for him to catch what she said. He thought it might have been, ‘For the sad man.’

  Groll stared at the thing on the desk surface and made his mind up. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he flashed a sad smile at the mother. ‘I’m afraid your request for registration is denied, Mutant Feld. You and your family must leave.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘D-do you have any idea how long my children and I have queued up outside to get in here? There must be a thousand people in that line out there and some, like me, have slept out overnight so we wouldn’t lose our place. And now, just like that, you tell me that my request is denied!’

  Groll met her angry look with what he thought was his most icy stare. ‘Your partner, the male Mutant Feld, is missing, presumed under arrest. Families were told to report with all immediate members present. You are clearly missing one important member. Therefore your request is denied.’

  ‘And how am I to report with my children’s father if I have no idea where he is?’ Her voice was much louder now, and had a desperate quality to it. She looked back at the next group of people standing behind the rope barrier before rounding on him again. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘If you don’t leave of your own free will, I’ll have the officer here escort you away. I’m sure both of us would rather spare your children that.’

  ‘This was a chance to give my children a new start. You’re denying them that chance.’

  Groll tapped something into the screen and waited while the plexiprint below his desk finished. He removed the small transparent sheet and handed it to the woman. ‘Take that to the ARM. It’s a request for them to let you know the whereabouts of your partner. Once you have the information, come back here and reregister.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Next!’ Groll shouted, wincing at the rawness in his throat.

  After a moment or two of standing there glaring at him, the woman and her children finally made their way out.

  Her exit prompted the guard behind Groll to step forward, the man leaning down to talk to the clinician. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help but overhear what you told that woman. We’ve already accepted a large number of Mutes that didn’t have all family members present. Shall I go and retrieve them so you might –’

  ‘When I want your input, soldier, I’ll ask for it. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut. In fact, I’d like you to swap duties with the other guard over there at the barrier. Perhaps he knows how to keep his nose out of matters that do not concern him.’

  The soldier made a disgruntled noise, but proceeded to do as he was told, striding off to relieve the other man. As he walked away, Groll reached out and picked up the little handmade toy the mutant child had left behind. He turned the thing over in his hand, allowed himself a small smile, then carefully placed the item inside his jacket pocket.

  A fresh group of Mutes presented themselves in front of his desk.

  Tears of anger and frustration fell down the Feld woman’s face as she exited the registration building, pulling her little girl along. She wanted nothing more than to storm back inside and give that pompous buffoon a piece of her mind. She would have too, if the place wasn’t jammed with armed guards.

  She looked down at the plexiprint in her hand. Coming to a halt, she studied it more carefully, not quite able to understand what she was reading:

  Do not try to reregister your children on this scheme. Instead, leave the slums and stay away from C4.

  For the sake of your daughter, please heed this advice.

  * * *

  Jax arrived at a hill overlooking the western side of the vast slums outside City Four. His chosen vantage point afforded him the chance to observe what was going on below without drawing attention to himself. The only thing he wished was that there was some damned shade where he could take refuge. Jax disliked being out in direct sunlight; the intensity of the light hurt his eyes, and if his skin was exposed for even a short time, it would burn and be painful for days. Clothed in his usual black garb, he pulled his hood down over his head to cover his face as much as possible. It provided some relief, but he still squinted as he cast his eyes over the vast sprawl hovels laid out chaotically below him. At first glance the place appeared to have no organisation at all – dilapidated shacks seemed to be piled up almost on top of one another with little apparent thought to access or personal space – but in reality Muteville had a complex system of living, involving distinct wards that jealously guarded their limited space and resources.

  Tia and Rush were somewhere on the other side of the slums, trying to get a meeting with the backstreet bioengineer the girl had first met when she was still a citizen. Something told Jax it was important they find out what the substance in those syringes was. Melk was planning something sinister, he was sure of it. What he couldn’t work out was if the scene directly below him – a huge queue of people waiting patiently to be called into a large marquee-like building – had anything to do with the presi
dent’s plans.

  ‘What are you up to, Melk?’ he muttered to himself. He’d toyed with the idea of simply joining the line, but the sheer number of soldiers and security guards down there made that unsafe. Even with his ability to ‘cloak’ himself from view by altering other people’s visual feedback – a power that meant he could appear as an old beggar woman or a street urchin to somebody who was looking directly at him – he would struggle to avoid being noticed by that many eyes, especially as Melk’s spies would be on high alert. No, it would be better to go down into the slums and quiz somebody there as to what was going on.

  Jax had only ventured a small way into the shanty town when it became clear from the minds of those around him that the residents were preparing to pack up and leave following some kind of edict from President Melk. There was almost too much excitement and nervousness, and he found it difficult to filter out a coherent signal from the myriad of people hurrying to and fro among the maze of alleyways linking the various wards and enclaves. Halting at a particularly busy junction, he watched as families packed what meagre possessions they owned on to makeshift carts set up outside their ramshackle homes. Barrows and trolleys were piled high with stuff, the precarious towers secured with old ropes or cord. Here and there, families were bickering about what was and was not essential; others were fighting about whether they should be going at all.

  He approached an elderly woman standing outside her hovel next to a ridiculously overloaded sled contraption. He was only a few strides away from her when, quick as a flash, she swung a weapon up and shouted at him to back off. Jax took one look at the makeshift thing – a pole with long, rusty nails hammered through one end – and decided he was already plenty close enough.

  He raised his hands. ‘I’m not looking for any trouble, and I have no intention of trying to rob you, if that’s what you think.’ It was. She’d already had to deal with one youth who had tried to go off with her stuff when she’d popped inside her shack for a few moments, and he could tell by reading her mind that she was deeply suspicious of him.