The rupturing of the cloud on the screen looked like it was moving slowly but Hazel knew better. Particles within the cloud were shooting faster than she could comprehend, yet its billowing puffs seemed to crawl upward. Given the reputation of the Mainland government, she wondered if what she was seeing on the screen was real at all, and not some conjured up recording of the past. All of them had seen or heard the missile take off from Mainland, but that didn’t mean anything. It could have been an empty shell for all they knew.
She tore her eyes away from the screen and continued her walk through the streets and to her destination. The rest of the city may have been enthralled with the sight before them, but Hazel was on a mission. She had to get medicine for her dying father.
She feared that the ceremony of peace displayed through weapons of mass destruction might keep shops from staying open. There wasn’t a person in Mainland who wasn’t staring at some screen. Even her blind father sat and listened from his bed at the commentary by the newscasters. He might not have been able to see the explosion, but he understood what was happening all the same.
These people that littered the streets were rougher-looking than people farther inland—than those who Hazel had grown up around. Everything about the new Mainlanders, as President Morris called them, was different. Their hairstyles, their clothes, the way they talked, the way they looked at Hazel—so different. Even after five years of living among them, Hazel felt like an outsider. The only thing she had adopted was their clothing style, but that was only because that was what was available to her. A brown tunic fell past her hips. She wore a thick leather belt that tightened at her waist over worn trousers made of a gray denim. Some of the women cut their hair short and even dyed it white or some unnatural color like purple or blue. Others might have fashioned it into spikes, or even shaved part of the head. The men did much of the same, though they less often dyed their hair. Most people displayed works of art through permanent ink scarred onto the skin on their arms, hands, or necks. Names, landmarks, dates, or symbols that meant something to each person, were displayed in various colors. Hazel had none of this. Her long red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her white skin was free of tattoos, though she wore some scars of the past. In her plainness, she was set apart from the others.
The Outlanders, or new Mainlanders, had always been this way. Long ago when they had been displaced and marked as enemies of the surviving human race, they had created their own culture and way of living. Now that they had brought it to Mainland, it created an even greater disparity among the people—economically and socially. Because the Outlanders had refused to blend in and tone down their barbaric ways, they remained set apart. In a way, the Outlanders were okay with this and everyone knew it would take some time before things were sorted out. But it had already been five years and the new Mainlanders were still Outlanders.
They were forced to remain within their zone. They had been given a large portion of land to the south while the rest of the city lived comfortably in all the other zones. And for the simple reason of keeping peace, the Outlanders weren’t allowed out of the Southern Zone, and the Mainlanders weren’t allowed in.
Though the government denied it, Outlanders received poor medical services. The quality of food was subpar. Living conditions were cramped and often dirty. Very little effort was put into maintaining the Southern Zone. To Hazel this seemed wrong. She couldn’t count how many abandoned buildings there were throughout the city. There was plenty of room for the new Mainlanders to expand.
But in the name of peace, the new Mainlanders remained Outlanders. And Hazel was one of them. This wasn’t by choice either. She had foreseen the disparity and had tried to move herself and her father out of the Southern Zone. But it had been too late.
It had only been two days after the great battle between the Outlanders and the Mainlanders. A knock on the door had startled Hazel. When she answered and found Bracken standing in the doorway with armed guards behind him, she thought she was about to be put under arrest. Instead, he simply reported to her that she no longer had a job with the government and any attempt to leave the Southern Zone would result in her arrest.
Hazel had tried to argue, but there was no arguing. She had betrayed the man and he found some satisfaction in giving her this news. She always felt that Bracken needed to get that last word in. Because he had lost the battle, he needed to make her life as hard as it could be.
“Look on the bright side,” her father had said. “We get to stay in our house.”
Hazel didn’t want to stay in the house. It was still a source of bad memories. The whole Southern Zone reminded her of the night she lost her sister and mother, and the night her father lost his vision. The Outlanders had been responsible for her family being torn apart. Now, she was one of them. The only way she could accept that fact, was by telling herself over and over that only the people who killed her sister and mother were bad—not the Outlanders as a whole.
And this was true as far as Hazel had seen. Though she felt like an outsider to the new Mainlanders, they didn’t always treat her as such. No one seemed particularly friendly, but they weren’t mean either. Most were just disgruntled by the apparent lack of equality among them. And they didn’t hold Hazel accountable for the sins of the government. In fact, most never knew that Hazel had worked for them. Almost no one knew that she was the reason there were robot police all over the place. She was happy to keep that bit of information to herself.
Mostly, she didn’t speak to people unless they spoke to her. She kept quiet, and often found herself holed up inside her house, tinkering with some gadget that would never be finished. She also spent a lot of time these days tending to her ill father who, at this point, was bedridden and weak.
Hazel could now see the druggist shop down the street. There were plenty of people crowded around it as usual, though most kept their necks craned for a good view of the screen in the street behind them.
Medicine was hard to get in the Southern Zone. The doctor had prescribed a new medication for her father and Hazel already knew this would mean trouble.
When she neared the building, she could hear yelling from the inside. Someone was being denied. Either the druggist didn’t have it, or it was too expensive, or there was limited supply so the patient couldn’t get enough of it.
She watched as the robot police charged into the store and grabbed the man by his arms. The man tried to struggle but the robots were too strong. They tossed him to the ground. Hazel watched them closely, noting that neither of them had their barrels out. They were able to assess the situation for what it was—a disgruntled citizen who wanted his meds and couldn’t get them. They were probably scanning his body, trying to detect any metal like a knife or a gun.
She wondered what went through the robots’ thoughts. These two were programmed with Soul like all the others. They thought like humans. They felt emotions like humans. It was their look, however, that separated them. No matter how much compassion a robot might feel, no matter how much anger or happiness, it didn’t matter. They were still robots. And the less human they looked, the less they would be treated like humans. She couldn’t help but assume this was what Bracken wanted. Soul allowed the robots to make real-to-life determinations without needing a human to assist them. In this case, it might be difficult for a robot without emotions to tell if this man was hostile or not. But based on the situation and the ability to feel empathy, they could know why the man was angry and that he probably didn’t pose a threat.
The man’s red face eased from a scowl to a limp, defeated expression. Tears welled up in his eyes and soon began streaming down his cheeks. People in line who weren’t staring at a screen watched the man on the ground as he screamed and cursed at the robots.
“You don’t know what you’re doing! I need it! I need it!”
“You know the regulations,” one of the robots said. “You cannot obtain medication without proper identification.”
The man re
ached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. “I have it right here!”
“It’s expired.”
The man slumped down, lying full on his back as the tears continued downward. Hazel felt sorry for him. He was completely powerless to do anything. And everyone knew it took weeks to get new identification. For all Hazel knew, the man didn’t have weeks. Or maybe he was just addicted. Either way, he wasn’t getting his drugs.
She looked away from the man and stared straight ahead. The line got shorter and shorter. Some were turned away empty-handed. Others got what they needed. By the time it was Hazel’s turn, she figured it was a coin toss.
The man behind the counter looked up at her with uncaring eyes. She was surprised he looked at her at all. She turned her head from side-to-side noting the two robots standing guard. There were always robots stationed near the druggist, even when the store was closed, robots were there. The government feared people would overtake the store since medicine was so limited. This kept the people under control. And it didn’t take much for the robots to drag someone out like that man a few minutes before. Any hint of escalation meant being tossed out. Any show of aggression meant being arrested.
“What do you need?” the druggist said impatiently.
Hazel pulled out a slip of paper. On it was her father’s prescription, the ticket to his health.
“I need to pick up this medicine for my father,” Hazel said.
The druggist took the paper from her hands and stared at it down his long nose, his eyebrows forming hundreds of deep wrinkles on his forehead.
“And here’s my father’s identification as well as mine,” she said, handing him two more pieces of paper.
The man took them without looking up from the prescription and his lips tightened together. Finally, he shook his head and looked up at Hazel. “Sorry. This medication can only be picked up by the person it is prescribed to.”
“What?”
“Did you not hear me?”
“No, I heard you, but I don’t understand. I’ve been picking up my father’s medication for months and I’ve never been told this.”
“You’ve been picking up this medication? Or is this a new one?”
“It’s a new one,” Hazel answered. She could feel her cheeks getting hot. She was not prepared to be on the wrong side of the coin toss. She couldn’t be one of the people turned away.
“That’s why,” the druggist said. “Any new medication has to be picked up by the person on the prescription, or he needs to come in and give consent that you can pick it up for him.”
“Do you see the medicine?” she said, her heart pounding harder. She could feel her fingers ball into fists involuntarily and her knuckles cracked as a result.
“Of course I see it,” he said as he set the papers on the desk in front of her.
“Then you know my father has a serious condition,” she said. “He’s bedridden. He can’t just come here and pick up his medicine or give consent.”
“Then the doctor should have put you on the prescription,” the druggist said with a smirk.
“No!” Hazel didn’t realize her fist had slammed against the druggist’s desk until the pain was already shooting up and down her arm. The robots on either side of her turned to face her, standing ready.
The druggist looked up from her with a serious expression, his eyebrows pointed up and his mouth slightly open as if he was ready to say I dare you to push it.
Hazel took the dare. “If he doesn’t get his medicine, he’s going to die.”
“That is not my responsibility,” the man said. “It’s your responsibility to know the laws.”
“I’m not leaving until I get those meds.”
“Are you really so stupid? Do you think you are in a position to make that declaration?” The man’s face softened into a devious smile as he leaned back in his chair. He felt the power, Hazel knew. Though, if it weren’t for these robots, she was sure this man would have been dead years ago. He cleared his throat. “Do you know how these robots operate?”
You have no idea.
“I don’t have to do anything for you,” he said.
“You’re a snake,” Hazel said.
“And you’re an unruly citizen.” He turned his head to the robots. “Get her out of here.”
She grabbed the papers in front of her and then felt cold metal hands clutch her arms. They held tightly, but not forcefully.
“Will you leave willingly?” one of the robots asked.
“You know you wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for me,” Hazel said, just above a whisper. The words came out absently as she stared forward, not at the druggist, not at the robots, but at the wall.
“Will you leave willingly?” the robot repeated.
She felt their grips tighten and this time it started to hurt. The anger inside her chest wanted to burst out, but she was powerless. In a way, she saw this as retribution for ever creating Soul in the first place. If she had never created it, these robots wouldn’t be here. The Outlanders wouldn’t be here. There would have never been an all out war. She would be able to get whatever medicine she needed for her father.
The robots didn’t ask her a third time. With all her strength Hazel tried to pull her arms from them but she may as well have been trying to pull a truck that was moving away from her.
Struggling all the way, she kicked and fought until she found herself face down in the dirt, the robots standing over her, watching for more aggression.
“If you don’t leave now we will be forced to arrest you.”
“This isn’t what you were created to do,” she said as she pulled herself to her knees.
“It is.”
Hazel shook her head. That’s not why I created you.
“Now go,” the robot said. “Obtain your medicine in accordance with the law.”
Her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her teeth might break, but the robots weren’t concerned with her any longer. She felt hopeless and they didn’t care. They had a job to do and that was it.
She wondered what the point was of creating robots with emotions if they just learned to suppress compassion. She knew there was a different reason the government wanted her to create Soul, but she had made it long before she ever worked for them. As far as she was concerned they were there to help people, not police them. Not to keep them from getting help.
She stood from the ground and brushed the dirt from her pants, ignoring the stares of other people in line who may or may not be getting the help they needed. Her eyes went up to one of the screens in the street, the mushroom cloud still ominous and looming. It was meant as a symbol of peace, but that was impossible. Using a weapon of war to symbolize peace makes it no less a weapon. There is no ignoring its original intention.
No. There was unrest in Mainland and it was growing. She wondered, as she walked slowly back toward her home, if they were on the brink of another war.
Hazel had no plans of starting another war, but if war was on the horizon, she would join the fight willingly.
4
Anger never left Des. Even days after journeying through the bleak wilderness, the image of Bernard’s body and the bodies of all the villagers was fresh in his mind.
He sat crouched in a dune, as he had for the last six hours, and waited for Earth to turn away from the sun. The view of Mainland was as he remembered it, though now there weren’t gaping holes in the outer wall that billowed with smoke. The corpses of battle no longer littered the ground. Blood and tears didn’t turn the dust into mud as it once had. Mainland seemed to be at peace, though looks could be deceiving. It had been five years since he had walked away from this place. He remembered looking back only to see Hazel and Nolan watching after him. A small part of him wished they were still there waiting. It was a strange thought and completely illogical. But they were familiar to him. They were the only part of this place that was familiar to him.
This was his birthplace. He had been an instrument of war
here, his original purpose had been to kill. His time spent in Mainland had been only about a week; he had spent more time in caves. But it wasn’t the place nor the amount of time that gave him the sense of … what was it? Nostalgia? The word didn’t seem appropriate. His time in Mainland had been horrible, yet there was a lingering fondness deep within him—something that made him care about this place. His experiences here haunted him daily, but they also brought him back to reality. He had always planned to come back, though never like this. Never with revenge as his intention. Though, revenge was just a word. He knew he hadn’t thought the process through. He had no one person to blame. The enemy was unseen—a mystery. However, vengeance was his only way to cope with what had happened to his friends.
Five years had gone by and Des had changed. He was a different person than when he had left. How naive had he been? What things might he have done differently had he known what he knew now? He wasn’t sure there was an answer to that question. Truth was, he knew as much about Mainland as he did when he left—that it was a corrupt place full of people who were thirsty for power, thoughtless in their deeds, and uncaring about the rest of the world.
Yet, not everyone was evil. There was Hazel. He remembered how she labored over doing the right thing. She could have ignored Nolan Ragsdale and his insistence that the government was corrupt. She could have held on to the feelings of hatred against the Outlanders for what they did to her when she was younger. But instead, she had done what was right. Des had seen that from the very beginning, which was why he had followed her every move. She was his creator. She didn’t create Des for evil purposes. He had been made to kill the enemy, to spare human lives. Though that had proven to be the wrong way to go, Hazel’s intentions had always been pure. That was why he trusted her. In fact, she was the only person Des trusted.
Prototype Exodus (Prototype D Series Book 2) Page 3