by Sean Kennedy
Mac stepped through the door and looked relieved to see his old friend kneeling by the locker.
“Jacob’s in trouble.”
“What’s happened?” Vincent was at once in motion, following Mac down the stairs. Whatever needed to be said could be said later. Now and once again, the mission was all.
“I woke up and checked on him about two hours ago, that's when I started searching Zone feeds. I found him on the Alcazar cameras.” Mac said as Slate followed him through the front door.
“The netscreen said he was to report to Alcazar for orientation, he must have made his way there this morning.”
“By himself?” Slate asked as they weaved through the cargo stacks towards the pressed dirt road.
“Another boy went with him. They appeared friendly, but he’s an unknown.” Mac opened the door of his autopod tow truck beside the cul-de-sac stack.
As Vincent climbed into the passenger's seat, Mac passed him a set of A/VR goggles.
“I’ll drive, you watch.” Mac said, and Vincent slid on the interface with a jerk as the tire’s tread caught.
Vincent watched recorded footage play from where Mac had paused it. It was from the security cameras inside the Alcazar Facility, and the timestamp read 8:53 am this morning, barely an hour ago.
He recognized the small boy from the picture as he walked into a room with ‘Foundations’ written above the door.
Chapter 9
As Jacob followed the wristband’s arrow, weaving through the crowd, he felt the pace becoming more frantic as nine o’clock approached. He wondered if the others in the hall could even see him. Everyone treated each other as irrelevant, rushing into classrooms.
His wrist arrow turned and pointed to a doorway with ‘Foundations’ printed like a bus stop epitaph above it.
Inside waited another auditorium style lecture hall, but this one had only benches on the wide tiered steps sweeping away from a podium that sat like an oyster's pearl in its rounded shell.
Far more people sat in the lecture stands than in Petrov’s orientation, but none looked as young as Jacob. He suddenly liked being ignored in the hallway better than the staring eyes of the bench stand crowd.
Jacob found the closest seat on an open bench, again in the front row and sat as the uniform red clock transitioned to 8:54 am. He turned to look back at the crowd, but as he did a crash rippled like a shockwave from the slam of the door.
A desperately thin man, far thinner than Mac, with sunken eyes and immaculately groomed graying hair, marched into the class. He wore a spotless three-piece gray pinstripe suit over a bone white collared shirt, fastened tight by a small scarlet bowtie. He had the gait of an angry man, with long strides and the stern features that came from perpetual scowling and gritted teeth.
Not a sound was made, no one shifted their position or even breathed, making the rustling of the instructor’s clothing seem all that much louder in the acoustics of the curved lecture hall.
He reached the podium and stared down into the blank wood grain. Jacob watched his eyes twitch as if reading, and recognised the signs of an augmented reality implant.
After what seemed like a long silence, the instructor’s eyes looked up from the podium and scanned every face in the room, stopping on each for half an instant before his eyes glided to another, reading overlaid information from his Minds-I display.
His eyes paused when he reached Jacob. “Jacob Faith.” he said, and his voice was far deeper than Jacob thought it would be, like someone speaking from down a dark hole.
“My name is Mr Crew, have you been to orientation?”
His mouth was dry so Jacob cleared his throat to speak. “Yes sir.”
A sudden blast of pain slashed Jacob. He felt it slide up his spine and punch into his head and Jacob was left gasping.
“I just told you that my name is Crew and you will refer to me as Mr. Crew, and stand to your full height when you speak, you stunted clone!” He shook his head in disgust.
“You all should take note of how small and underdeveloped Jacob is.” Crew announced to the stone silent lecture hall. “It’s a perfect example of failed genetic tampering that corporate arcologies do to their proprietary citizens. It makes them useless unless they're in a specialized society.” He paused, as if waiting for his reply, but Jacob was still trying to control his breathing.
“I’m afraid you will find reality quite a bit different than the fairytales they spun for you in your tower cage, Jacob. Luckily however, I see from your record that your arrival here can be useful. We are just covering exoplanet history.”
Jacob saw a thin slit smile creep across the old man’s face. “Tell us all Jacob. What do you know about the Space Corps?”
Jacob stood before saying, “Nothing Mr. Crew.”
Crew gave a cold laugh. “Did you not know that your uncle was in the Space Corps, Jacob? Did you not know about the corruption charges from their dealings with Kaizen Corporation?”
“No, Mr. Crew.”
“You see?” He spoke to the rest of the class, “completely wiped, as useless as a snifter in the gutter.”
Jacob slowly sat back down, unsure if he should as Crew went on. “The Space Corps was one of the contributing factors to the downfall of democratic society. If it wasn't for the market discipline of the species, our whole planet would have fallen into financial chaos.”
Jacob felt Crew’s voice pressing into his head. “Imagine if you will, thousands of people doing nothing but using resources with no job description whatsoever. Having a military in space is like putting a fence on an asteroid, Completely pointless and a solution for problems that don't exist!”
Crew turned his attention back to Jacob. “It's because of your family’s science fantasies that your Cornucopia arcology fell apart Jacob. The fate of all failed ideologies is to bring you to this trash heap, and it's up to Alcazar to try and salvage something from you human garbage. It’s your so-called parents’ fault you’re here Jacob. Do you understand?”
Jacob stood again, shuffled back ever so slightly to position his calves against the lecture bench, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes Mr. Crew, I understand.”
“You do?" Crew exclaimed with mock surprise. “Then repeat to us your first lesson Jacob, that it’s your parents fault you are here.”
Jacob took a deep breath, and the air fed something smouldering deep within him. “I understand you, Mr. Crew, but I do not agree. My parents are not at fault.”
A gasp echoed around the room, and Jacob watched Crew’s eyes widen as a sadistic smile creased his lips. Crew’s smile was the last thing Jacob saw before a wash of fresh pain wracked his body.
Jacob's legs stiffened, bracing against the lecture bench and he remained standing though the agony. His body trembling as pain pulsed into the marrow of his bones.
Then, all at once, it stopped. He felt tears stinging his eyes and a new sudden rage, so much stronger for the agony. He braced his legs wider and raised his eyes as Crew spoke. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you quite right Jacob, say that again please.”
His parents were gone, his memory was gone, even Teeva was gone, abandoning him after hooking a pain generator to his wrist. Teeva was wrong, the pain was real, and this was the first thing Jacob had gained control of.
“I said, I disagree with you, it’s not my parents...” Pain impaled his words and his jaws clamped tight, just missing his tongue. It made his body twitch as though dangling on a string.
It was far stronger this time, but the tension in his legs from the nerve response kept him standing. When the pain stopped, Jacob felt a sudden lightness flow through him. He first looked at the base, then up the podium to Eric Crew’s smiling face. He had the eyes of a man who had died years ago.
Crew took a lazy breath to begin another lecture, when Jacob spoke, clearly and with enough volume to split the air in the stillness.
“It is not...”
Crew’s eyes nearly fell from his head.
&
nbsp; “...my parents’ fault...”
His eyes narrowed into a cruel slit.
“...that I am here.” Jacob finished.
Only Crew could see the crowd, gawking with fear and admiration at Jacob’s small defiant stance. Then the pain came, stronger than it had ever been before. Stronger than Jacob ever thought pain could be. Had he not braced his legs, he would have fallen, but he remained standing as suffering chased away his senses.
In the searing chaos, Jacob saw his mother’s face. In the agony of the moment he knew her, and knew he would never feel the warmth of her embrace again. He would never see the light in her eyes, or hear her voice, and the memory made the bottom fall out of his soul.
The suffering consumed him, torching his consciousness into ash. Between the tetrazine, torture, shock and despair, Jacob’s brain folded in on itself. His body collapsed, jerking as it bounced off the bench behind him before hitting the ancient linoleum floor.
Chapter 10
Vincent Slate removed the Immersion A/VR goggles, revealing cold gray eyes with the boosted shine of his bloodstream’s nanites. The recovery truck’s dashboard read 09:28. As the rear side of the Alcazar facility buildings came into view, the truck dangerously drifted through the last corner towards the gates.
Slate handed the goggles back to Mac who slipped them into his pocket.
“Looks like a cerebral shock to me.” Mac said, looking like a driving blind man with his goggle mask still in place. Slate grunted his agreement, still feeling the hum of the nanites racing in his system.
Mac went on. “If they take him to out of the zone...”
“I know. They won't." Slate said, and Mac slowed the vehicle to and easy stop just outside the Alcazar facility’s two-stage delivery gates, beside a weather-worn kiosk.
“Welcome to the Alcazar Reorientation Facility, how can we help you today?”
Mac dropped his goggles and rolled down the window as Slate leaned across to show the camera his face.
“My name is Vincent Slate. I am Jacob Faith’s legal guardian, and he is injured.” The words left his mouth and for a brief moment were free and alive in the air before falling to the kiosk’s synthetic capture, and confined to a digital medium.
His identity was confirmed by zone records of his voice print prior to the kiosk’s reply, “Please proceed to the main office,” and the gates opened.
Mac pulled through the gates. The facility’s cameras would track them, watching if they broke any rules. Speeding, smoking, littering; it would all be traced back to them, and an appropriate fine would arrive at the farmhouse for them to deal with.
Mac followed the ancient asphalt road beside the dusty footpaths. The road circled through prefabricated extension buildings until they approached the old school’s front entrance.
Mac fished into a coverall pocket and pulled out a tiny round plastic nub, close enough to the color of his skin that when Slate slipped it into his ear, it disappeared.
The truck slowed to halt, just at the edge of tire traction, but not yet sliding. Slate had slammed the door behind him before the vehicle came to a stop.
“You’ll need to be fast.” Slate said as he walked, Mac’s voice came through the tiny commlink device. “I’m already in. You reading me?”
“Loud and clear,” Slate said as Mac watched him leap up the steps two at a time before stopping at tempered safety glass doors.
“Be ready.”
“Naturally,” Mac said, and maneuvered the lumbering vehicle to be unobtrusive but ready to roll, near the front of the building.
Recovery trucks weren’t as common as they used to be, but enough zoners drove them that it wouldn't attract attention, providing Alcazar didn’t scan the spectrum around it. If they did, Mac’s modifications would show the beaten old vehicle as an electronic warfare technical.
Mac kept ready as he pulled his immersion goggles from around his neck. He locked the doors and opened the windows a crack. He double checked to be sure he wasn’t obstructing the road and slipped on the goggles, casting himself back into the datastream.
Slate’s footsteps echoed through the barren hallways. His scanning eyes drifted from floor to ceiling, noticing cameras and mapping doors as he approached the main office. The windowed door ports offered strobing views of the lecture rooms as he walked by.
The main office window loomed before him. Slate stood inspecting the counter, walls, and ceiling of the office barrier. He counted no less than three lenses past the thick glass.
A small man with pinched features was sitting at a wide desk, staring blankly as he worked with retinal implants. When Slate stopped at the counter, the man eyes refocused and he saw an unmistakable professional cover slide into place.
“Please come around,” the man spoke in a small voice. Slate walked to the office door as a buzzing noise from the reinforced mag-lock allowed him entry.
Typical civilian thinking, a magnetic door next to a wide open counter window made little sense, but the quarantined citizens were roped elephants. Only the young needed pain cuffs, because the young still had fire.
The administrator was standing when Slate walked through the door.
“Please go right in,” he said sweeping his arm to a deep red door in the back of the room. A second safety glass grid door was the only other possible exit, the faded word FIRE still legible on the glass.
Slate nodded and grabbed the red door’s ornate metal handle. He felt the lock release as his handprint was verified, and the door swung open.
Polished hardwood shelves lined the office walls, holding tightly packed books from floor to ceiling, a veritable treasure chest of knowledge hidden away from hungry eyes and dirty fingers.
Sunlight streamed through a tall window, across the brown rug beneath lipstick red patent leather armchairs that sat in front of an actual wood desk.
Like the books, wood was rare and expensive and even in an age of retinal implants and augmented reality, the desk was still a status symbol. A new real leather writing pad rested on the polished mahogany surface, but nothing else.
The office window overlooked what had once been a playground, but had long since been paved over, making a grid landscape around a VTOL landing pad.
Across from the window, a matching leather couch, not long enough to stretch out on in any meaningful way, sat waiting. The lurid red of the furniture felt dangerous, like handcuffs in a toy chest.
“You’ve got no active cameras in there,” Mac’s voice came through the earbud.
Vince coughed and saw two black lenses staring down at him from the top of the bookshelf. One was hidden in the eye of a taxidermied owl, the other in a large raven, each bird's beak pointing at the red leather couch.
“You sure?”
“Anything in there is not tied to the main system.”
Slate heard the electronic lock release, and a tense man in a gray suit with a bright red bowtie entered from behind. Like the desk, the suit assumed authority; more armor amongst antique talismans.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” the suit said as he walked wide around the desk, as though Vincent had come by invitation.
“I am sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Eric Crew, the chief facilitator here. Please have a seat.”
Slate moved to one of the two red chairs and sat down, “I need to see Jacob, please.”
“Ah yes! Jacob. It seems he’s had more damage done to him than we’d thought before his arrival.”
Slate felt nanites surging in his combat senses, but he remained serene on the surface. “How do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” Crew offered, flexing his eyes brows, “the arcologies adhere to some very unethical practices, and what's worse is that clearly, Jacob has a defiance complex.” Crew let the accusation hang in the air as sunbeams slid a rectangle of light between them on the desk.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, but I’m sure we can find some medication.” Slate responded to a flicker in Crew’s eyes.
<
br /> “Not to worry, young Jacob is in good hands. He became combative in his first Foundations course; it was very unsettling for both students and staff.”
“Where is Jacob now?” Slate asked.
“You see, that's what I'm talking about.” Crew went on shaking his head. “You military types don’t listen, it’s just a one track mind with you soldiers, but we live in a...”
“I understand that there are problems, we all have problems, that's why we are in quarantine.” Slate interrupted. “Whatever has happened, the boy has been through a large ordeal in a small amount of time; I'm certain that this won't happen again.”
“Oh, we can be sure of that.” Crew said leaning back in the red leather seat, “Yes, very sure indeed.”
“I've got a medical VTOL inbound, I’m trying to access the flight data now.” Mac's voice came through the comlink.
“Let's be honest Vincent,” Crew continued, “in truth, you are dying, and your file makes it obvious you don't have much time left. The boy is in relatively good shape for a modified child, and you must realize that he will be better off with a complete reinstallation.”
“Bastard.” Mac breathed in Slate’s ear as Crew smiled.
The wipe was designed to remove memories, leaving long-term memories and knowledge intact. Reinstallation is a complete cerebral rebuild. Rather than trying to untie the psychological damage, a reinstallation would medically flatline the mind, then install a new compliant personality and associated memory matrix from scratch.
“I know it will be hard for you to accept,” Crew went on, “but unfortunately the world has moved on from your value structure. Our lives are in the hands of the market now, where they should be. Even you must see this would be best for Jacob.”
Mac’s voice whispered in his ear. “That VTOL will be on the pad in four minutes.” Slate’s expression didn’t change as he listened.
“Soldiers and your kind are no longer...”