by J. Kowallis
“How much?” she croaked.
“Two pounds,” he answered, sticking his hand into his pocket and pulling out the crumbled mass of pesos he had.
The woman shuffled behind the curtain, her sharp hips thin enough to make it through all the garbage. Moments later, she emerged with a tied cloth filled with flour. She snorted and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “One hundred thirty pesos.”
“What?” He felt his gut drop. “One hundred thirty pesos for two pounds of flour? You have to be insane, woman!”
“One hundred thirty pesos, Señor. I dare you to find someone asking less.”
Estevan felt his nostrils flare. One hundred thirty pesos ate up more than half their money. Two pounds of flour would only get them through a week. Maybe less. How had the price jumped so high in a matter of weeks?
“Unless you’d like to try Public Four?”
He glared at her. Food piled onto tables plentifully within the walls of The Public. But no one with a sane mind ventured there. Desperation showed on her face, even through her severe tone. She demanded money for her own needs, just like he demanded it from the gambling circle. He counted out the pesos and handed them to her before he took the bag and stalked out of the trailer. How would he feed them now? One week? That was barely enough time to get Ransley back into shape for a fight. She needed two. She wouldn’t recuperate fast enough on only a couple flour cakes a day for her meals.
His boots hit the road, hollow in his ears. The stomping of his pacing interrupted the silent night.
Only one of them would be able to eat, and she was the one who needed it. In order to make the flour stretch, he’d have to go without for a week. Estevan thought of his stomach twisting, turning, and begging him to fill it.
It had to be done. He couldn’t let her know he was going without. If Ransley found out he was giving her all the flour cakes, she’d refuse to eat. Even if he explained it to her. She wouldn’t do it.
The rocks crunched beneath his feet in a rhythmic pattern. He walked faster. There was only once choice. He hated it.
The Argolla.
If he didn’t keep moving, the first person he saw would be the unfortunate recipient of his fist. No matter how he tried to control his temper, sometimes it wasn’t possible. Even at sixty-three, he didn’t feel peace—the complete opposite of Ransley. She may not have been a peacemaker—with him playing her guardian and father, she lost that chance—but she always acted more collected, more controlled than he was.
Estevan’s feet slowed down and the puffs of his breath on the air became larger and more frequent. The sack of flour dropped to the ground and growls tore through his throat.
“¿Cómo pudiste hacerme esto?” he roared.
He swung a fist at the nearest tree. The bones in his hand cracked, and jagged stings of pain coursed through his arm. Strangled yells exploded from his throat while he cradled his hand against his chest. He breathed hard, looking down at his hand. The bones were broken—very broken. The tree’s bark had clawed at the skin on his knuckles and they bled. Each time he attempted to open his hand, pain seared through his hand.
Wild roars swelled again from his vocal cords. He swung with his other fist. Again he beat at the tree, constantly keeping his broken left fist raised, warding off the invisible force pressed on his chest.
“She trusts you! Not the Argolla!”
Again. Again. One. One. One, with the good hand.
Never a two. He held the second broken mush of a fist to his body.
The tissue oozed blood. Bones moved around. He collapsed against the tree, offering two final weak fists to its rough bark. He pressed his crumpled face against it, breathing in and out the smell of the wet wood. His hand hung limply at his side while his warm breath melted the frost clinging to the tree. Estevan’s face curled in disgust and exhaustion, hating himself.
The fire within him gradually died, leaving ashes. He turned and leaned on the tree, letting his body sink to the freezing ground and cradling his old hands to his body. Both throbbed painfully, sending shocks up his arms.
Ransley couldn’t see him like this. Pathetic. Weak. Broken. She was going to be furious.
The moon above seemed to cast a glow of disappointment on him and he felt it. How was that even possible?
Los Ángeles. He had to take her there. The next two fights would drain her. Both would be there, in the small town of San Martin, to cover expenses—all in preparation for the big city where she could possibly make two thousand pesos.
That was, if she survived.
The street fighters in Los Ángeles were brutal. He would know. He had been one of them. In fights where no weapons were allowed, every man carried a jagged piece of steel on his waist, a broken shard of glass tucked up their sleeve. Something easily hidden that could cut through tendons or arteries—even aid in a brutal fish-hook to the cheek.
He’d seen one man ripped from the corner of his mouth all the way to the bottom of his ear.
There, hiding her gift wasn’t just a nicety, it would be imperative. She’d have to in order to be safe from The Public—especially in the Argolla. Only those who stood out disappeared. Even those who were smarter, or simply taller than others. No one knew why they were taken or what happened to them once inside the filthy gates of The Public. Stories of machines, of surgeries, and brain transplants swirled through communities. Many of them so unbelievable that perhaps they were true. They could take her. He’d never see her again.
Estevan pushed his stiff body up from the ground. He knew it was wrong to take her there. But it was the only option for survival. With the amount of money she was now making, and the price of flour the way it was, he’d never eat again. They couldn’t afford to stay, and her body couldn’t take doubling her fights to scrape by.
If they stayed, they’d both slowly die. If they left, they might die faster, but at least they had a chance of success.
He pushed the long, ragged, gray strands of hair out of his face with his swollen and broken hand. With painful gritting, he picked up the sack of flour with the other hand and tucked it under his arm.
It was the only choice they had. Ransley would welcome it, but she’d know something was wrong. But if she won, the reward money might even be enough to get them out of Argentina. Away from the reaches of The Fourth Public.
Only if she lived.
―CARMEN―
“Buenos dias, Doctor Folland.” Carmen Mata hung her bag on the hook near her station and adjusted the bottom of her jacket.
“Buenos dias, to you too, Carmen.” The doctor’s small robotic eye blinked twice, looking in her direction.
“So,” she said, sitting in her chair. It let out a rush of pressured air, cushioning her perfectly. “How many are we working on today?”
Doctor Folland turned to the projection screen behind him and reached his hand out, moving digital files around. “It’s going to be busy today. We’re looking at ten, maybe thirteen. I’m afraid a lunch hour might be out of the question.”
“And I was so looking forward to the steak today,” she said, deflated. “Who first?”
“Female. Age twenty-one. Blonde hair, brown eyes, of Brazilian descent. I.Q. isn’t impressive, but she managed to evade a troop of fifteen guards a week ago. Finally caught up with her yesterday when she took out two of our men with the remaining bullets in the subject’s gun. Didn’t waste a shot. The bullets went straight between their eyes.”
“Excellent targeting abilities, quick movements. Perhaps a strand of determinate drive would enhance her natural tendencies. Would you like to observe her DNA traits?” Carmen slipped a control glove over her fingers and strapped it around her hand. She maneuvered information in front of her on the second screen, listening to the doctor’s reply.
“Yes.”
“Uploading the file now.”
An image of a young woman materialized in the air in front of Carmen. The subject had an oval face shape with small heart-shaped lip
s. Wide brown eyes, but the brows were slightly offset, with a scar cutting one brow in half. “Face is near proportional. Slight alterations necessary, but the female’s numbers indicate a good candidate.”
To the right of Carmen, a cybernetic shape of her own hand was stationary in the projection like a molded imprint. She reached up and slipped her own gloved hand into the image and a warm sensation waved down her palm. A few seconds later, she slipped her hand out and pushed the information to the side. “Approved.”
“Good. I’m recommending mounting brain wave functions, including but not limited to targeting, speed, emotion deduction, and facial reconstruction. Carmen, if you’ll get to work on that, I’ll be back in an hour to approve.”
Carmen nodded. “Yes, doctor.”
The doctor left the room, the door sliding shut behind him. After opening a few files, Carmen panned her hands across, increasing the view on a scan of the young woman’s head. With a few selections, the flesh disappeared, the skeleton vanished, and the subject’s brain expanded in size, taking up the entire space of the room. That way, Carmen could truly be inside her work. She panned in again and rotated the image of the brain around in front of her.
She got to work rewiring connections, intensifying neural pathways and reconstructing areas that were underdeveloped. Increasing the intelligence quotient in each mind always proved to be the hardest. Many were different from others, and the same pattern didn’t always work for each individual. Just as each fingerprint curved and twisted differently, each mind formed in a different way, to a certain extent, claiming the unique features that made the individual stand out from the masses of mindless dribble existing on the planet.
The time it took to rewire and heighten the untapped corridors of a mind turned out to be lengthy and difficult. If she didn’t wire it correctly, it would cost her dearly. This was why Dr. Folland trusted her abilities so much. In all the years she’d been in her position, she hadn’t gotten it wrong once.
Her hands flew back and forth, refitting and multiplying functions. Her own agility increased the more she worked. A variety of options opened up to her, and logically choosing the right one became simpler.
Her eyes darted back and forth through the digital brain, her hands conducting the movements of the pathways like a fast-paced symphony. This particular young woman, she found, was dreadfully inept at making creative decisions. That would need to be increased. Along with logic, creativity was necessary in order to see the broad spectrum of possibilities in tactical and logical decisions.
The familial connections were too strong. Those would need to diminish in order to get her to accept new standards of living and strengths of The Public society. With the young woman’s increased exactness and capability to learn, she would make an excellent Modifier. Of course, with her targeting abilities, she’d most likely be assigned somewhere else under the supervision of the guards somehow.
Carmen had become one of the best Nexis Modifiers. She excelled in it. The more complicated cases—those with mental disabilities who had survived the war, but were brilliant analysts and exceptional sages, hampered by physical limitations—were always brought to her. She prided herself in the work she did. Perfecting those who were weak and making it possible for them to rise up into their assigned roles. Roles they would never be able to imagine for themselves. It was thrilling. It was liberating. Even though she wouldn’t admit it, it was empowering. To have that kind of control over someone else’s life gave her chills. Martin Lobb, the creator and benefactor of the Nexis project had hand selected her. She’d been made for this. Her previous life held no meaning. In fact she could barely remember it.
She finished the last alterations on the brain chemistry and contracted the files. After reapplying the skeletal structure and flesh, the young female’s entire form reassembled and Carmen expanded the face in front of her. She gently reached out with her hand, tilted the eyebrows, reshaping them, removed the scar, and filled it in with natural hair growth. She then took a closer look at the face. With eyes so wide apart, the face was a little out of proportion. Carmen removed the skin and muscles once more and selected both eye sockets of the skull with her fingertips and moved them a hairline closer.
Moving away from the face, she brought up the entire body structure. A bone had been broken at some point in her right leg. With a slight modification, weakness was removed and stronger healthier bone-matter would replace it.
More defined thighs and stronger arms in connection with the musculature would match the minimum requirements. With the improvements on her brain chemistry, the added strength in her limbs would give her the benefit she needed to create a subject worthy of The Public.
Carmen glanced at the digital flashing numbers to her left. She’d already been working on this individual for over an hour. Dr. Folland would be there any minute to approve the changes. The moment the thought came, the door slid open and Dr. Folland smiled at her.
“All right, how are we looking, Carmen?”
“Looking well, doctor. The brain alterations took a little longer than normal. I also went into the tissue and bone structure to remove any weaknesses and vulnerabilities.”
“Let me take a look.”
Dr. Folland inserted his clear projection pad into the data slot on her consul and removed it. He then slid it into the larger consul in the back. The files she’d been working on materialized in front of them again. Dr. Folland moved collections of data aside, looking closely at the brain and making sure the makeup would follow guidelines. Often, he would simply stand there with his arms folded, fluorescent light shining off his tired face.
“Yes. Yes. I think this will work perfectly. Go ahead and upload this to the subject in pod number nine forty-two and we’ll let the changes take place over the next three days. All right,” he looked at Carmen, “let’s take care of individual two. We have a male, mid-thirties. Brown hair, brown eyes, dark skin. Mexican descent. This individual trekked from the American territory all the way to Peru. Lone traveler and survivalist. Strengths include creative thinking, deception, and blinding rage. The rage, I would suggest we dial down for cooperation purposes. Perhaps some work on emotions regarding reactions to authority.”
“Crafty intellect. Leadership capabilities. DNA is compatible with The Public, although his physical characteristics . . . need vast improvement. Candidate is approved?” Carmen said, bringing up the extra files.
“Yes. Although, I’d like to be personally involved in his brain restructure. I have an idea I’d like to test.”
She expanded the image of the male who appeared on the screen. His brow ridge protruded, but the contouring of the cheekbones, and the strong shape of his jaw would be quite striking and proportionate when she finished with him. Again, she slipped her hand into the projected mold to approve the files.
Doctor Folland pocketed his clear pad and shuffled behind Carmen. “Some slight reconstruction added to the intellect advancement. Not much. This one may take longer. I’m going to recommend emotion deduction too—it will be sorely needed in an individual like this. Take some time to go oversee the upload to pod nine forty-two to make sure the process is running smoothly. Then come back to finish this. I’ll rejoin you in say . . . an hour and a half? Then we can go over the work?”
“Yes, doctor,” she answered and wiped her gloved hand over the consol screen. The files disappeared and she stood up. Before she left, she typed through icons on the touch pads to secure the information and prevent tampering. Her fingertips flew across the pad, leaving rippling effects with each light touch. After taking off the strap glove from her palm, she placed it on the consol and left.
Walking down to the pods had become her least favorite part of the job. She wasn’t sure why. The pod lab had something oddly discomforting about it. Being around individuals completing the process created an ache in her stomach. Her only deduction over the years was that perhaps there was something in the sterile air causing her nausea.
&nb
sp; She pressed the pad on the wall to take her down to the pod lab. The scanner on the screen ran over her palm, detecting the points of differentiality in her prints and the elevator door slid open. The transparent shaft around her allowed her to view the entire breadth of The Public as it lowered down the outside of the building. The city had grown significantly over the last year. They already needed to expand the walls of the city because of the new apartments being built for acquired individuals. New buildings, new advancements, and even more work for those on the Nexis project. The construction on the walls looked haphazard and the cramped de-constructed buildings only added to the decayed image of the city. In only a few more years, its look and advancement would equal even the construction of The First and Second Publics.
The elevator came to a smooth stop and the door slid open for her. A clean crescent-shaped desk sat to her left. She walked up and nodded at the security guard behind it.
“Place your hand on the pad, please,” the man commanded in a subdued tone.
Carmen placed her hand on the pad and again, her palm and fingerprints were scanned. Within moments, the pad flashed green and the door directly to her right slid open with a soft whoosh of the panel. Inside, the lights were a pale hue of blue green. The black polished marble floor and black walls would hide her were it not for the lights. Around her, individuals were being brought in on gliding beds, being pushed into place. They would soon be placed in pods, ready to be analyzed either by her or one of the other four in her position.
Farther down, a hallway turned and she was led to a separate partition. A clear tempered glass panel slid open for her and she walked into the main pod lab. Standing horizontal along the walls were individuals in striking blue liquid. Small respiratory devices were placed along their teeth, with a protrusion out of the mouth. It looked like a small vent with a singular tube protruding from the middle. The vent covered the subject’s entire mouth and chin, holding it shut and forcing regulated air. Down along the backside of their necks a black cord draped and attached a cranial probe to the system.