Her heart raced as she unlocked the door. A closed-in smell greeted her, but no rotten odor. Good. Vera hadn’t tried cooking again. In a drug-induced haze, her mother often started preparing a dish only to fall asleep or forget about it. It was a miracle there’d never been a fire.
Lucy entered the small living room to find Vera asleep on the couch. Snuggled under blankets, for once her sleeping mother appeared peaceful. She checked on her breathing, then turned off the digital screen humming away with a cooking competition show. After a quick check of the bedroom and bathroom, she was satisfied they were alone.
Relieved, she pulled off her boots and winter coat and retrieved her oversized “Boycott Hate” sweater from a drawer, pulling it on. She plopped on the couch at her mother’s feet, sighing as she regarded their scant furnishings. They’d never had much to begin with; the digital screen was the one luxury Vera hadn’t sold off to support her jade habit. Bare walls screamed for art, but Lucy hid her new pieces ever since her mom had pawned her paintings during a binge.
From under the couch, Lucy pulled out a long, flat box and placed it on the small table that functioned as their dining area. Pushing aside old junk mail, bits of tissue, and other clutter, she opened the box and laid out her important tools: two paintbrushes, one pencil, a sheet of paper, and three tubes of paint. She started sketching, and as she drew, she replayed the music in her mind, watching it come alive on the canvas in front of her.
She outlined the old conservatory and the pond and trees surrounding it. Humming, she gazed at her sleeping mother. So peaceful now. Tomorrow would be a different story. She shuddered at the thought of dealing with Vera’s massive hangover in the morning.
How long would it be before one of her mom’s drug-dealer boyfriends became violent?
Could her new neighbor teach her how to fight?
Three
No more unannounced neighbors arrived after the skinny teenager named Lucy.
The next morning, Ida faced a cracked bathroom mirror. She would have to dress better than her usual combat boots, skinny black pants, tee-shirt, and black leather jacket. Today was different. Time to make a decent impression.
How humiliating.
It was bad enough she had to adjust to civilian life and find a job. The military had added insult to injury when they sent her to live in Spark City. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t return to New York. Her life there had been on the streets, and she’d requested not to be assigned there for fear of getting sucked back into a dangerous life.
But Spark City, of all places? A city in the middle of the former United States, renowned for being dangerous and corrupt, and for having the world’s largest population of hybrids. Not to mention a ridiculously wealthy mayor.
She didn’t like politicians with unchecked power, and she didn’t trust hybrids at all. Ida had counted herself lucky her military life had been nearly mutant-free. Her squad had been 100% human until Jessa had joined just before she shipped out.
The stories. Were they true? Accounts of hybrids leaping from ground level into fourth-floor windows, lifting heavy objects, and fighting with their claws.
Could hybrids turn on their fellow human soldiers? She’d never had to fight beside one. All the same, she was glad they were on her side.
The mutants looked almost human except for their distinct animal traits. Their hybridization resulted from genetic experiments with DNA. While researching on her tablet, she’d learned Spark City had been a safe haven once; hybrids had been welcomed and encouraged to settle there. But now times had changed. Humans had grown suspicious of their strengths, and with Vance Drem as mayor, their rights had been slowly eroded.
There would be no avoiding the hybrids here.
And now she found herself in front of a box of old clothes, regarding her scant wardrobe. What would be acceptable for a job interview? Her appointment was in an hour, and she needed to hurry.
She’d been issued a few civilian clothes, including a white button-down blouse and navy-blue pencil skirt. After putting them on, she inspected herself in the mirror, first tucking in, then untucking the shirt and hating that she had to wear these clothes. Resembling a normal, boring office worker wasn’t her idea of a good time, she thought, rolling her eyes. Maybe she could find work where she could use her hands—building or tearing things down.
Shit. She had no decent shoes to wear. Out of time. She ditched the skirt, opting instead to wear her black pants and combat boots with the white blouse. Adding her black leather jacket to the equation and grabbing her black scarf, she was more presentable than usual, but not by much. It would have to do.
After pulling an old brush through her short, wavy hair, she applied a bit of smoothing product she’d discovered in the barracks during her last night in the military. It made her crimson-red locks shine. Black mascara, eyeliner, and dark lipstick against her pale skin finished her look.
She grabbed her small leather backpack, pushed the conservatory’s heavy front door shut, and secured it with the same rusty padlock that had greeted her when she broke in. Hopping on her motorcycle, she slid on her helmet, and kickstarted the engine. She’d blown her entire military check on the bike, even ordering it ahead of her arrival so it would be waiting for her.
Her choice had been get a real apartment or the bike. No contest, she thought as she eyed the dilapidated green structure she now called home being swallowed by angry vines. Daylight revealed more graffiti and broken glass panes—too many to count. Well, if anyone else broke in, she didn’t have much to steal anyway.
Breathing in the chilly air, she wound through a narrow street, past a small pond surrounded by trees. After a few minutes, she emerged into city streets, veering south to the center of R Section.
The city’s tallest towers were centered in R, home to Spark City’s business and government offices. All the streets began with the letter R: Rock Street, Rushmore, Roosevelt, and so on.
She steered her bike along Rushmore, and parked it in front of the building where her appointment would be. As she pulled off her black helmet, she peered up from the base of the skyscraper, taking in the immense height: at least forty floors. Not a building she wanted to take a face-plant off of.
Sometimes she couldn’t help it when a dangerous thought infiltrated her mind. Envisioning a fall from such great height made her stomach clench. She’d seen enough dead bodies and healed enough people near death to know the frailties of the human body.
She pushed a hand through her hair. Time to focus.
After clearing the front security desk, the guard—a short, hairy man in his mid-thirties—had looked her up and down and then directed her toward the basement. Opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, she entered a long hallway and searched for office number 43.
Inside the room, she approached a reception area where a woman in glasses spoke into a terminal. With barely a glance, she pushed a biometric screen toward her. Ida removed a glove and pressed her palm firmly against the scanner before taking a seat.
Several others waited in hard, blue plastic chairs. She breathed in deeply, silently, willing herself to calm down. Hating anything that involved being questioned or judged, she wished the city had just assigned her a job instead of this ridiculous interview process. Even factory work would have been preferable.
A screen played a local TV station—WXSC. The captions said, “Marine Kills Eight, Self at South Shore Warehouse.” In her military exit interview, she’d been briefed about violence and shootings in Spark City, especially among former soldiers. A suspicious thought nagged at her. Why weren’t these soldiers being looked after?
Ida glanced at the other appointment holders silently waiting their turns. One man, a tall, broad-shouldered black man with a scar above his temple, was called. He followed a woman through a door.
Another man and woman remained, but their gazes turned away from her. She crossed her arms over her chest, felt the snug fit of her leather jacket. The other wom
an wore pants too, but had a business-like suit jacket on—dark brown with pinstripes. The man seemed older, with gray hair and stubble from days without shaving. He wore dark jeans, a faded green jacket, and appeared hung over. Well, at least she wasn’t the worst looking person in the room.
After another ten minutes, they finally called her. “Sarek.”
Ida followed a woman down a hallway to a tiny office where she was asked to remove her jacket for vaccination. “Flu? I already had a flu shot last month.”
“Well, you need to take it again,” the woman said as she opened the pre-packaged syringe.
No way in hell. “I have a thing against needles. I’m not taking it.” She swallowed hard and clenched her jaw.
“But it’s required. Everyone exiting their military service must get vaccinated,” the government staffer said.
“Not me. I’ll take my chances with the flu.”
“Flu can be deadly, you know.”
Ida felt her skin flush as her temperature rose. Despite being a medic, she’d never handled needles. She had a rule with her comrades: her department was resuscitation and they managed needles, syringes, and other medical care. Only her commanding officer, Tyren, knew about her ability to heal. He helped her keep it a secret from the other troops, promising never to reveal her to his superiors. Better to hide her ability. She didn’t want to be trapped like a rat in a military lab as they studied her.
“Look, I know you’re just doing your job,” Ida said. “Do us both a favor and mark it down that you gave me the shot. I won’t say anything if you don’t.” Ida met her gaze as if to reinforce their tenuous trust. “You don’t want me to vomit on your shoes and pass out, do you? That’s how much I hate needles.”
The woman swore and muttered in Spanish under her breath, hesitated, and then shoved the needle into a trash chute. She marked off the shot on her tablet then led Ida down a hallway to another room for her interview.
Ida entered the small office and halted, her chest tightening. From a distance, the person behind the desk appeared normal—but only until you got close. The thing had blonde-reddish hair done up in a high bun. She wore glasses and had smooth peach-colored fur covering her entire skin. Her hands ended in long claws, and a tail rose from behind the creature’s seat, forming what looked like the top of a question mark.
Ida stared at tiny holes in her face where long, pointed whiskers emerged. A sign on her desk read Pamela G. Rose.
Ms. Rose typed furiously into a console on her desk. Her work area was stacked with piles of glowing, buzzing tablets and digital business cards. “One moment. Have a seat please,” she said in a smooth, bright voice.
Ida slowly took a seat, peeling off her jacket in the warm room. She peered at the mutant. The few hybrids she’d encountered had been in military uniforms. Seeing one in a civilian context was unsettling. Only her second day in the city, and she had to face one.
“Now then,” said Rose, stopping her typing and directing her attention toward Ida. She selected a digital folder from one of the piles and began to swipe through the contents. Her long retractable nails clicked against the screen.
After staring at her strange features, Ida forced herself to glance away.
“It’s all right to look. We were engineered with human digits,” Rose said absentmindedly. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be useful. Ms. Sarek, may I call you Ida?”
“Uh, sure,” she replied, wishing for a glass of water.
Rose locked her gaze on Ida. Feline oval pupils narrowed to slits. “I see from your file you’re new to Spark City. Are you settling in?”
Ida straightened, knowing her chances of finding work depended on the strange creature in front of her. “Yes, I found a place to live and moved in,” she said, omitting the fact her new home was a deserted old building she’d broken into. “Things are going well. Finding my way around.”
“Glad to hear.” The mutant closed the tablet in front of her and pushed it aside. “What kind of work are you seeking?”
“I was trained on a lot of equipment as a soldier. I became expert at learning new mechanical equipment or messing with the enemy’s communication systems by hacking. I can do just about anything. I’m a fast learner.”
“Your file has some concerning information. Have you had problems with authority?”
Wow, cut the bullshit and let’s get down to business, thought Ida. She cleared her throat. “Uh, I had a situation where I didn’t agree with my commanding officer’s orders. He was putting the lives of my fellow soldiers at risk.”
“And you disobeyed your commander?”
Ida peered down at her hands, clenching them into tight fists. Tyren had been on leave, and the shitty substitute CO had ordered her squad to advance on a Heavy nest. It was suicide. She’d refused, called him an asshole, and he’d written her up. “I did,” she said.
“Ms. Sarek, your file here says you were a medic.”
“That’s true.”
“You didn’t mention seeking medical jobs in your application. Why not?”
Ida paused, shrugged. “I…I had hoped for something new. A change. Med work burned me out.” She was tired of trying to hide her power. Discovery might mean losing her freedom. She couldn’t handle being studied in a laboratory, or worse, having others control her.
“I see,” said Rose. “I’ll be frank. Placing you in a non-medical job will be difficult. Very unlikely with so much competition for work. Spark City’s unemployment rate is very high. You see this stack?” She pointed to a basket overflowing with talking digital cards. “These are all job seekers like you. Skilled with computers, and smart too. The only difference between you and the other job seekers is your medical experience, which I see from my file was exemplary.”
Ida shook her head. “I’m not interested in medical jobs.”
“Well, I’m sorry then. I can’t do anything to help you,” the hybrid said as she removed her glasses and shifted in her seat, which caused her tail to sway behind her. “I’m sure you’re a good person, but employers will turn you down based on your file, and, well, there’s a lot of bias against the violent unpredictability of former soldiers.”
Ida swallowed and wished for water to quench her dry throat. She could feel a migraine coming on.
“The only places that might logically hire you would be hospitals or medical facilities.”
Ida stood to leave. This hybrid, this job placement office, weren’t going to help her. How could she take a medical job? Her abilities were too unknown. Tyren had known her situation, but if the wrong people had found out…
“Wait,” said Rose. “Since you’re not interested, you could seek other work. Nontraditional work…” Her voice trailed off as she fished for something in a desk drawer. “Ah, here it is.” She held out a square digital card between two long nails. “WXSC TV station sometimes looks for help. Odd jobs and such. If you’re interested, you should pay them a visit.”
Odd jobs? She didn’t like the sound of that, but it beat hospital work. Ida took the digital card and muttered a thanks on her way out.
Four
The brisk outside air was a relief from the stifling basement offices. On the busy street, Ida stopped herself from getting on her bike right away, knowing she would speed off too fast. Too reckless. Hearing she was unemployable was bad enough; having the message delivered by a hybrid, even worse.
She examined the TV station info on the digital card. What had the hybrid meant by non-traditional work? Her military skills—fighting and weapons combat—were sought after in criminal circles, but she didn’t want to end up doing anything dangerous. She longed for a normal job. Maybe she’d even meet a guy and settle down. Have friends. All of this was possible, provided nobody discovered her real skill. How long would it be before a boyfriend got suspicious about why she always kept her gloves on? She’d never be normal.
The TV station’s address might as well have been written in a foreign language since she didn’t know the city.
She pushed the card back into her jacket pocket. Should she check it out? It’s not as if she had many options.
Still flushed, she needed air. A short walk would do her good, she decided. Heading down the street, she passed people on their way to or from business meetings and lunch appointments. Men and women in suits flooded by staring into digiscreens. Nearby, an armored police bot stood sentinel, its masked face scanning the passersby.
Free of litter, the streets and sidewalks nearly sparkled in comparison to the sooty, crowded poor districts. Ads for luxury biocuffs, Martian-mined jewelry, and cryogenic spas flickered in the glass walls as Ida wandered.
The hybrid was right—she had no chance at landing an office programming job. Her only choice would be hospital work, maybe. Her military file was a red flag to employers already suspicious of returning military soldiers, most of whom had nasty cases of post-traumatic stress.
The city’s motto should be, “Welcome to Spark City, and good luck finding work. Happy slow starvation.”
She halted, trying to catch her breath. I’d be useful in a hospital, she thought. But medical work meant a life of hiding and being careful about her every move like in the military. She didn’t have Tyren to cover for her. It also meant never getting close to anyone. So much for a normal life.
Her thoughts were interrupted by several people running past and clutching their bags as they hurried away. A commotion was happening in the public square just ahead.
Ida crossed the street, nearing a building where a small crowd had formed. She stood a few people deep, but could see over them when she stood on the balls of her feet.
A tall, muscular man paced the center of the square. Curious, she edged her way to the front of the onlookers. Five people kneeled before him with arms raised in surrender. He held a military-grade rifle, the kind Ida had carried in the war.
The other gawkers craned their necks for a view. The man suddenly pointed his rifle at the hostages. Next to Ida, a man said, “The police are coming,” and hurried away. Other bystanders started fleeing, too.
Brink: A Dystopian Sci-Fi Novel (Rogue Spark Book 2) Page 2