Chosen Different_Book 1

by Nat Kozinn

  "Lord, I don't know if you can hear me, but I want you to know I am sorry. I didn't mean to kill any of my brothers and sisters. I've tried to live righteously. I've tried to follow the teachings of Cabot, but your Forgotten Sons won’t let me. They sent my own kind to hunt me down like a dog. I don't want to be a sinner, Lord. If you can hear me, please give me a sign. Tell me if I am on the right path. Tell me if hurting the government men will make them stop chasing me. Tell me how to stop being a sinner. Please, Lord I beg you."

  >>>I have heard your prayers, my son.

  Tom opened his eyes and looked for the source of the voice, but there was none. The voice had come from inside his own head. It sounded like his own voice.

  "Lord? Is that really you?"

  >>>I have seen your struggles, Thomas Calhoun. The path has not been easy for you. Still, you must stop what you are doing. Killing the government men will not bring you peace. It will simply ensure that more of my Chosen Sons hunt you.

  "Please tell me what I should do. Where did I go wrong?"

  >>>Your mistake was granting salvation to Forgotten Sons who did not deserve it. You must be careful of whom you feed on. The rich and powerful may deserve punishment for living off the largess of my Chosen Sons, but you are not the one to deliver that punishment. Content yourself to feed only on the poor Forgotten Sons. Give salvation to those Forgotten Sons who benefit the least from the slavery of my Chosen.

  "But how can I atone for all the sins I already did? How can I make it up to you for killing three of your Chosen Sons?"

  >>>In times of prayer, I may speak to you. You will act as my instrument to deliver to me certain Forgotten Sons who have earned their place in heaven. By doing my bidding down on earth, you will earn your way back into my good graces. In fact, I have a task for you now. Not but three blocks from where you stand there is a young man named Brian Leonard. Can you smell him?

  The Beast sniffs the air. It is late. There are few men out on the street. One man’s scent stands out like a rose in a garden of weeds. "I think I do."

  >>>Brian and his union have fought bravely to stop the expansion of Ultracorps and its Chosen Son slaves, but he has played his part. It is time for him to join me up in heaven. Deliver his soul to me and you will begin your march back to righteousness.

  "I will, I swear it. Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to make good on what I've done."

  >>>You may show your appreciation by doing what I have asked of you.”

  "I’ll do good, Lord. You’ll see.”

  #

  The Beast picks at his teeth with the large claw of his index finger. He loses focus and slices his gum open. He howls in pain. It has been four days since he had Gavin read Chosen Sons. The Beast has been anxious the entire time. He is having trouble staying patient. He wants to go to Gavin, he wants to embrace him. He wants to talk to him about just how great it is knowing that they are both part of God’s chosen race.

  The Beast knows he cannot do that. He knows if he goes after Gavin at his Ultracorps job, someone would spot him. They would tell the police, the police would come after The Beast, he would kill them all, and the government would send more OEC agents. The Beast would end up having to sin again. The same thing would happen if The Beast went to Gavin in his Ultracorps house. The Beast knows this, but that doesn’t make it any easier to wait.

  He drops to his knees to pray for guidance and strength.

  “Lord, I know I’m being greedy. I know you’ve already done more than I deserve by giving me a chance at redemption, but I’m begging you, talk to me. Tell me that saving Gavin counts for something. Tell me I’m following the path you want me to.”

  The Beast waits, and waits, but there is no answer. The Beast starts to get angry. Why would God speak to him only when there is killing to do? The Beast thought God wanted more Chosen Sons to accept Cabot. Isn’t saving Gavin’s soul worth more than saving the souls of some pitiful humans?

  The Beast needs someone to explain this to him. He needs someone who can make sense of God’s plan. Maybe Pastor Newman would know. Maybe there’s some part of Chosen Sons that The Beast doesn’t understand. He sets off towards the church.

  21

  All Different individuals are required to maintain a think.Net account at all times, at their own expense. The records of all activities and transactions on that account must be made available to law enforcement agencies whenever requested. Different individuals can have no expectation of privacy on think.Net.

  Article 2 Section 4 of the Different Act of 1996

  Calling this an antique store is a stretch by any definition; it's more of a junk shop. It's full of all sorts of things from before the Plagues. There are books, toasters, washing machines, refrigerators, and dozens of other electronic devices I can't recognize from any think.Net shows. Now they are all useless. Of course, they've all been picked through for any copper or steel.

  There are more televisions than any other thing. I don't see any that are intact. In the New York Metro Area, there's supposed to be a television station that still broadcasts. There are enough wealthy people there to pay for the televisions’ electricity to keep the station running. All that money for something worse than think.Net. Wealth makes people do silly things.

  “What were you looking to buy?” the guy behind the counter says.

  I remember my conversation with P-Dub on think.Net. Even though I only have 111.5 hours until I’m supposed to meet The Beast, it was still a difficult decision to make.

  <<
  >>>P-Dub.

  <<
  >>>My name is P-Dub.

  <<
  >>>What up Gav-Balls? You finally call to ask me out? I’m insulted. You should know I’m out of your league.

  <<
  >>>It works easy. Everyone down there takes cash only and doesn’t ask any questions.

  <<
  >>>By dancing for my amusement… Where do you think you get the cash? The bank, you have a job don’t you? Professional Fast Food Eater or something like that?

  <<
  >>>You really are a wuss, huh? If you’re so paranoid, there’s a place for that too. There’s an Antique Shop at Lincoln and Colorado. Go and tell them you want something rare, something with character, then tell them how much you want to spend. Say that exactly. It’ll look like you bought an antique, but really you get a piece of junk and your cash. They keep 10% for the trouble.

  <<
  >>>You want some more recommendations. I saw this Morpher girl down there last week, let me tell you…

  “Hey, earth to kid. What are you looking to buy?” the shopkeeper asks again.

  I almost forgot I wasn't in my old man disguise. I think I'm safer doing this as Gavin Stillman. The police aren't on the lookout for him. They still think the vigilante is an old man.

  The junk shop attendant is a friendly-looking guy with a big smile. The two guards do not look friendly. They keep their hands on the guns at their hip, just like every other antique shop.

  "I'm looking for something rare, something with character. I'm looking to spend ten thousand dollars," I say, just like P-Dub told me.

  "That's an expensive request. I've never seen you before and you just waltz in and ask for a unique heirloom that pricey, it's a little suspicious. I hope you don't mind if we check you out," the cashier says.

  I feel a Telepath creeping into my mind. One of the guards is more than just muscle. He's trying to peer into my memories, my thoughts. He wants to see if I'm a cop. I do show him my thoughts, but only those that I want him to see. My job, my roommate, my frustration at work. I hide anything that might make them hesitate to give me the money, like the fact that
I'm going to use it to commit what's technically a crime. I can feel the Telepath looking through my mind, but I get to control the feed of information. That's how I fooled the Section 26 Telepaths. That's why they don't know I can do this.

  The cashier smiles at me. His Telepath must have given him the okay.

  "I have just the thing." He picks up a round piece of aluminum with hinges on the back and hands it to me. "A Waffle-Mate, it will give your apartment that touch of class. If you'll just think.Net me the money, it can be yours, and I'll get your change."

  I get a think.Net transaction request for ten thousand dollars. That's just about every penny I have left: my father's life insurance payment, this month's rent, and even my Cost of Living payment. If I survive the month, I'll be hit with a hefty late fee and an interest rate hike. I'm hoping I’m around long enough to have that problem.

  "Thank you, just a moment," the cashier goes into the back. I hear him shoving paper into a bag. He comes back and hands me the bag.

  "There's your change. Don't forget your Waffle-Mate," he reminds me.

  I walk out with the useless appliance and what I really bought: a bag full of money. I walk a few blocks counting it. Nine thousand dollars in old paper money, that's all they take in Santa Monica. The kinds of things they sell around here are the kinds of things people don't want records of on think.Net.

  I toss the Waffle-Mate in a dumpster that's full of other people's unwanted "antiques." This wouldn't be a tough puzzle for the police to solve. I bet they're getting a cut. Cops need a place to launder money too. I walk the few blocks from the junk shop into the heart of Santa Monica.

  I bet every Metro Area has a place like this. They even had black markets in Ancient Rome. There are always places for people to buy things that the government doesn't want sold. Tranq is everywhere here. Even before I get to the heart of the neighborhood, I'm asked four times if I'm looking to be calm. Tranq is not all they have either. For a price, they offer a plethora of lesser-known, Different-made drugs and even some Pre-Plague stuff. Nothing can stop mankind's will to mess up his brain.

  In addition to the drug dealers, there are the Gratifiers, both Morphers and Telepaths. They are the latest iteration of the world's oldest profession. Then there are the Mind-Scrubbers, Telepaths who can erase incriminating or painful memories. Some can event implant memories, making you feel like you did something that you didn't actually do. People use it have imaginary ski vacations or treks through the Amazon. Sure they are someone else’s memories, but memories are all you'd get from those adventures anyway, and lots of those experiences aren’t possible anymore, thanks to Cabot.

  I can't even imagine what kind of money this black market generates. It's enough to pay off a lot of important people. Nobody even tries to hide what they're doing. They seem confident that nobody is coming to arrest them. There's even a Walter sweeping the sidewalk. They have better government services here than in Becky’s neighborhood

  There seem to be plenty of stores selling just what I need, guns. God bless America. They are the least illegal thing for sale on the black market. Thanks to the Second Amendment, anyone who can afford a gun still has a right to buy one, unless, of course, you’re a Different. The Bill of Rights doesn't apply to us, not the whole thing anyway. We can’t be trusted with guns.

  The government now tracks all gun purchases, which is a bit of an inconvenience for criminal types. They prefer to pay cash and avoid registering. I don't think that's a problem for the gun shops down here. I hope being a Different won't be a problem for them either.

  I pick a shop named "Firing Line" and hit the buzzer to enter. A voice yells at me to hold my D to a window so they can read it. When they see the Gamma, they must think I can't be too dangerous because I'm let inside. Still, the guard keeps his eyes plastered on me as I walk in. He fingers his machine guns as I approach the counter.

  "Hello, I'm looking to buy a gun," I say.

  "That's too bad. We sell cotton candy here," the grizzled old man at the counter says.

  He's got scars all over his face. They look like they are from Cabot's Plague. He tried to scar all the Forgotten Sons so that they knew how disappointed God was with humans. It was one of his least effective Plagues. Less than 8% of the population ended up bearing the marks. Turned out pretty much anyone who’d ever had chickenpox was immune.

  The shopkeeper looks seventy, but I bet he's fifty. There are pictures of him in a military uniform on the wall. He must have fought in the Reclamation, the Government's big push to restore law and order in the late eighties. There are quite a few medals on the wall.

  "As long as it's the kind of cotton candy that can take a man down at fifty yards, then I'll take one," I shoot back.

  This man is a tough SOB. I think he will like me more if I banter with him, or maybe he'll think I'm a punk kid and kick me out of his store.

  "We might have something that can do that. What flavor are you looking for?" he says and points to the counters to his left and right.

  I take a good long look in the displays. There's plenty of Glock 9s, .40 Caliber Smith and Wessons, and dozens of different shotguns and rifles, most of which I recognize from my think.Net research. They are not what I'm looking for. I spot my prize in the center of the display, Smith and Wesson Model 29, shoots a .44 Magnum. That gun is a cannon for your hand. It packs the power of a shotgun in a package small enough to keep hidden from The Beast. Think.Net said that hunters had successfully used the gun on elephants. I didn’t think I’d be able to find such a big gun.

  "Can I take a look at that Ruger .22?" I ask.

  I also read up on negotiation strategies on think.Net. If I jump at the Magnum, I'll have to trade a kidney for it, and I'm not sure I could figure out how to regenerate one of those.

  The Vet takes out the gun. I pretend to examine it as he looks on with disgust.

  "A nice piece, but I think I'd like to see something with a little more power," I say after I'm done pretending.

  "Yeah, a .22 might be good if you're expecting trouble at a kid's birthday party. For grown-ups, I'd recommended something more like a Glock. Ammo's easy to come by and it's got plenty of pop. Plus, it's easy as pie to take care of."

  He takes a Glock out, and I pretend to examine it for a while. Then I let out a fake little laugh and say, "Whoa, what is that thing?" I point at the .44 Magnum.

  “That? You don't want that. Thing is a loud as a bomb. You shoot that and every cop for three miles will know right where you are."

  "It's just so cool looking. Isn't that the gun Dirty Harry used?" I ask.

  He perks up a bit when he hears that. He's old enough to have seen the movie. I just saw a reference to it on the think.Net article about Magnums and took a chance.

  "Sure is. We got a Different here who's got some culture," he says to neither the guard nor me. "I didn't think a kid like you would watch the classics."

  "My dad made sure I watched them all on think.Net. Could I hold it?" I say.

  The old Vet sighs but gets the gun out. While he does that, I look up Dirty Harry on think.Net. They have synopses of most of the Pre-Plague movies. When he hands me the gun, I grab a hold of it and point to an imaginary bad guy.

  "You've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?" I recite from the article.

  "Hah, not bad. You're all right. Your pops is, too."

  "He was. He's dead now."

  I should feel bad about exploiting my father's death, but luckily I don't have to. Guilt is not something I miss. I watch what I said sink into the Vet. I think I scored some sympathy points.

  "You want to shoot it?" he asks.

  "I thought that would bring every cop for three miles?"

  "We've got a solution for that problem. Our customers need somewhere to practice. What's the point of having a gun you can't shoot?"

  The Vet leads me down to a staircase in the back. There's a basement, which is not too common in Los Angeles. He opens the door and
something strikes me: silence. The door doesn't echo in the basement, and I cannot hear any air flow. I don't like it. Is he luring me into some sort of trap? I start prepping my body to fight as we head down the stairs

  The Vet turns on the WormLight, which reveals a forty- or fifty-year-old bearded man in the corner who looks semi-conscious. The room stinks of Tranq.

  Who's that? I try to ask, but my voice makes no sound.

  What's going on? I can't hear myself saying it. Now I get it, the guy on the floor is a Different.

  The Vet goes over to the man on the floor and shakes him a bit, which seems to wake him from his Tranq calm. Now I can hear myself breathing.

  "Best two hundred bucks a month I'll ever spend. He absorbs sound and doesn't want to work for Ultracorps. Nobody sells more guns than me because nobody else lets you try it out before you buy. After you buy, you can come back to shoot anytime," the Vet says proudly.

  The lucky Different must have been born before Section 26 and COL obligations. I bet his body is powered by sound too, so no big food bills or the taxes that come with that. He's free to do whatever he wants, but instead he's a Tranq-Head. What a waste.

  "Target is over there," the Vet says and points to a makeshift dummy.

  He loads the gun and hands it to me. It's a lot heavier when it's loaded. The Vet yells to the Different on the floor and the room goes silent again.

  I point the end of the gun at the target and squeeze off a round. It bounces off the wall, ten feet away from the dummy. I try again and only miss by eight feet. I signal to the Different, who's a bit more with it now, and he turns the sound back on.

  "I haven't ever shot before. Could you give me some pointers?" I ask.

  I hand the gun back to the Vet. He reloads it and takes aim down range.

  "You want your feet shoulder length apart. Lead with you left foot. Look down the barrel with your dominant eye and take aim. Breathe in and exhale. Then you want to squeeze the trigger slow, don't jerk it, cause that'll throw you off," he says and yells, "Sound off!" to the Different.