by Jeremy Flagg
“Money knows money.” Another sip. “You can tear the sleeves off your boyfriend’s flannel, pierce every part of your nether region, cover the side of your head in tattoos, but don’t act like you’re not as privileged as me.”
“I—”
“You don’t like douchebags. Me, I’m not so fond of liars.”
Fuck. “It’s not my boyfriend’s shirt.”
He laughed. His voice had a mix of condescension and far too much confidence. The more she talked to him, the more zeros she added to his worth. Her parents had more money than they knew what to do with. He approached their level of irritating. He might be visually fascinating, but she had a low tolerance for those who placed themselves on pedestals.
The conversation hung in the air as she decided how to fire back at him. She put her back to the bar and rested her elbows on the sticky surface. The space was beyond capacity at this point. If she took a step away from the bar, people dancing would surround her. Even the small alcove where Trish and Rocks had been waiting was overtaken by a dozen ravers.
The crowd thickened while she scoured for Rocks. The man might be called that for his love of sculpture, but his rock hard muscles didn’t hurt either. Her pocket vibrated and she pulled out the phone to see a text from Trish.
[Calling it a night, u want to join?]
Gretchen punched at the keyboard with her thumbs. [And miss the last lady round up?]
[Get lucky, girl. Call if you need us.]
[I’ll keep the noise down when I get home.]
The rapid beat of the music flooded the underground sanctuary as it switched from delivering the synthetic music via auditory implants to massive speakers spread about the room. The bass hit her chest hard enough that she fumbled with her phone and dropped it on the floor.
The Child bent down, picked up her phone with two fingers, and handed it back. “Yes, I’m a Child of Nostradamus.”
Even though he was shouting, she had to read his lips to understand what he said. She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Well, consider me shocked.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t want to know.”
“What’s your ‘thing’ anyways?”
He held out his arms. “Auditory mimicking.” He gave a slight twirl. “I can’t shapeshift or lift a car over my head. I can fucking whistle. It’s amazing I swear.”
In 2012, cults believed the world would end. They cited Nostradamus, saying he predicted the demise of mankind. They poisoned one another, dying in their belief that some astrological event would end the race. Even sane people were worried. People capable of seeing the future weren’t common, but they existed at that time and many believed Nostradamus had been the most powerful psychic ever. He saw something.
A light erupted in the sky in November of 2012, destroying the hope they might survive the year. Mothers hugged their children and said prayers as the end of times descended upon them. The world didn’t explode. The light in the stratosphere may have caused a few minutes of static on the radio and knocked out the cable, but life returned to normal.
“Bitter that you’re no Florence Grace?” she asked.
The slight rise of his lip flashed his teeth, accompanied by a low growl. His red gums broke up the blue stains on his face. Gretchen imagined how the ability to mimic sound could ever be considered useful. In the scale of awesome abilities, his had to be one of the worst she ever encountered.
Years ago, during a movie award’s acceptance speech, Florence Grace, a Hollywood beauty, had beamed from ear to ear as she thanked her supporting cast. Between thanking the director for his vision and thanking God for her talent, she groaned in pain. The audience of elite actors gasped. The woman of the hour clutched the podium, trying to hold herself upright, then losing her battle and tumbling to the ground.
She could have gotten away unnoticed if she allowed the medics to put her on a stretcher and wheel her to the ambulance. But a producer in a control booth had the foresight to position a camera on the celebrity. As she slid off the gurney, another gasp erupted. Where a white actress with exquisite cheekbones lay, now a black woman with full lips and chiseled lines stared into the crowd.
The man’s abilities were indeed lame. Florence could only change her pigment and the tension of her skin, but it was more than he managed. Florence had been killed in her West Hollywood loft, murdered by a group of “human purists” bent on protecting mankind. Thankfully they evolved since.
“What do you want with me, child?”
“Gretchen.”
“Jed, Jed Zappens.”
“The painter?”
“More of a mixed media kind of guy.”
“Not humble either.”
“I’m a Child of Nostradamus. I am probably the lamest Child ever born and yet the government was so nice they gave me a collar filled with explosives. Humble is not in my nature.”
“Being angsty sure is.”
Movement on the landing near the exit caught her attention. With so many people packed into the space, the men in head to toe black almost seemed to blend in. The soldiers held guns against their chests, appearing poised and dangerous. They pushed the patrons on the stairs downward, sealing off the only exit out of the room.
“The Corps?”
Jed turned and a high pitched yelp escaped his lips. He reached back and grabbed her arm, squeezing her bicep firmly. Nails dug into her skin as he tightened his grip at the appearance of a synthetic. The human-like robots accompanied the Corps on the news all the time. Created to reduce military casualties, they were more than unsettling with their blank faces and the clunky way they walked.
“I’m dead.”
“And a drama queen?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “You don’t understand. Part of the freedom agreement is not breaking the law and keeping a low profile. If they don’t shoot me on sight, they’ll file a report that I’m surrounded by dealers and addicts and somebody will detonate this bomb.”
Shit. His point was highlighted by the synthetic pushing a young man who refused to back away from the stairs over the railing. The crowd swallowed him, but nobody treated him like a crowd surfer, cheering and lifting the man. Precision shots by Corps soldiers cut through the music and speakers exploded in a fire of sparks. If she didn’t like the military before, this only solidified her feelings.
Among the several hundred people packed into the sub-basement, they only had one escape which required pushing through a dozen armed men and two synthetics. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. If they escorted her to the police station, her father would give her the disappointing daughter speech, but he’d rescue her.
“They’ll kill me,” whispered Jed.
The tacky fashion accessory around his neck wouldn’t be his worst problem. The moment the military caught him, he would be dead. Children were given no exceptions; caught in a crime, they were dealt with using extreme prejudice. With this many members of the Corps coming into the rave, something nefarious must have taken place. The drugs in Gretchen’s system added a layer of vibrancy as she recalled the girl holding a gun against the man’s back as they left the party.
She pulled Jed’s hand as she dipped low, and he knelt next to her. The only thing worse than being a Child was aiding one. Jed was nothing more than a stranger, an oddity that captivated her attention in a drug-fueled haze. An artist. He was an artist, a man who created beautiful things. She would have done the same for Trish or for Rocks. She wouldn’t let one of her own be blown away.
“Fuck them,” she said. “You’re getting out of here alive.”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but if the jewelry wasn’t enough, I stand out like a giant Smurf.”
“Do you always complain so much?”
She crawled toward the nook where they had been sitting earlier. A man in a black hoodie traded remarks about the police ruining the rave. She pointed to him. “Give me your hoodie and I don’t break a glass bottle against your face.
”
“Whoa, chica,” he said. “You could just ask.”
The man was rolling. Most likely he had popped a few pills minutes ago and the law enforcement was nothing more than a blur of black and silver. He pulled the hoodie over his head and handed it to her.
“They’re not cops, they’re Corps, you idiots,” she told them.
The words agitated the group. Their inability to process the situation reminded her why she avoided hanging out with other people. She would rather be a shut in, work on her art, and be surrounded by creators. At least when she spoke with them, they saw the world as a complex organism, something more than the obvious. These goons, they would die here tonight.
“Here.” She tossed the article of clothing to Jed.
“Why are you helping me?”
“You’d do the same for me.”
He shook his head. “No, actually I wouldn’t.”
“In that case, you owe me.”
“If we get out of here alive, I owe you a drink.”
“A drink? You’re giving me a painting, douche.”
“Fine. Now let’s get out of here.”
People continued dancing, lost to their drugs. Some may have even been hearing music through their auditory enhancements. The bartender didn’t look concerned as he continued taking money from clients and slamming drinks down on the table. Working in a rave, she assumed he was used to the police busting in.
“We’re looking for a teenage girl accompanied by a young man. They may have been seen here,” one of the officers blared through a bullhorn.
“It was her.” Gretchen had no idea who the teenager was, or what she was doing with the bloodied piece of scum. She had difficulty remembering what she looked like, other than how she wedged a gun into the man’s back as she existed the rave. If she shot him, what would the Corps care? Something didn’t add up.
“Follow me.” Gretchen latched on to the artist’s wrist, the sleeves pulled down over his hands, hiding his skin. She dragged him through the crowd, slowly enough not to alert the officers standing up on the ledge.
The attendees whispered. The crowd contained music lovers, hard-core drug users, people looking for excitement, individuals who needed a night out. It wouldn’t be long before somebody started to freak out and it turned into open season on ravers.
“My optics won’t record this shit,” a man complained.
“Mine either,” said his companion.
“Shit.” There would be no witnesses. Nobody would survive. At the end of it all, the news media would claim rival gangs had a territorial dispute. But for that to happen, everybody needed to die.
They were going to die.
Pleather and mesh pushed against her face as she squirmed between two tall men. If she made it out alive, she promised to find a way to stick it to the police state. She didn’t know how, but maybe in her art, or by donating her family’s fortune to some cause supporting the Children of Nostradamus. Somehow, she would be part of the solution.
“Stop.” Jed pulled at her arm, yanking her against his body. He held her close, close enough she was aware of the heat radiating off his skin. The hood hid his face, shadows covering most of his eyes down to his nose. If anybody saw him, they’d think they were lovers, and in this crowd, that’d be expected. He kissed her neck.
“They’re watching,” he said quietly into her ear.
“There’s one behind you.”
“Behind you too.”
A man in tactical gear stared her directly in the eye. The goggles most likely scanned her face and reported back to central command to learn everything they needed to know about her. She wondered if her father’s name would get her out of this mess. Would they spare the child of a billionaire?
“We need to make it to the corner of the room and then up the stairs.”
“There are two of them on the stairs,” he replied.
“Leave that to me.”
“Whoa,” he said. “Don’t act like you have a grip on the situation.”
One of the soldiers pulled at the hood on a man’s head. He held the man’s face steady and gave him the once over. When he was satisfied it wasn’t the one they were searching for, he released him.
“They’re looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
She ignored the question. A rock in the pit of her stomach assured her it was the girl with the gun they wanted. She knew the girl left hours earlier, and without her there, the rest of the ravers were expendable. They were screwed. The moment they pulled at his hood, they’d be dead.
“You can’t do this to us,” a man hollered as an officer slammed the butt of his gun against another man’s face. Two shots fired, two men died. Nobody was going to get out alive, so why go through all this trouble?
“They want them alive.” Gretchen had no idea what was going on, or what any of it meant. As Jed continued to breathe into her ear, she felt trapped in the middle of somebody’s web. She didn’t think this would be how her life would end.
“Now,” she said.
She moved toward the chest high tables. They stood in an area less crowded than the dance floor. Jed leaned against the wall, his head down, almost looking as if he would fit in with the rest of the raver group. If they survived, she needed to make sure she asked why he had come there in the first place.
The agitation continued to increase. “For the people,” cried a man.
More gun fire. Unlike before, the ravers roared to life, pulling at the soldier, dragging him to the ground. A synthetic stomped past them, close enough that she could smell the oil lubricating its joints. A man threw a punch at the robot’s face. The party-goer screamed, his attack not phasing the machine. Its hand reached up, grabbing his head and twisting it, snapping his neck.
Originally, each synthetic had a human operator located on a military base, giving them directions. Now the operator controlled three or four with the help of artificial intelligence. The robot didn’t just kill a man; a real person hundreds of miles away killed a man.
Screams filled the club as ravers panicked. Either the drugs had faded in their systems or they suddenly realized it wouldn’t only be one or two deaths tonight. Now they started reacting to the military.
The machine pulled people off the officer, hurling them into the crowd and into a nearby wall. Amid screams, the haze lifted and partygoers fought back. A woman with nothing more than band-aids covering her nipples held up the fallen soldier’s rifle. She tried to fire the gun, but the synthetic snatched it from her hands. Its fist hit her in the chest hard enough to shatter bones.
The Corps didn’t understand non-lethal force. They ignored the option to use gas to control the crowd. The soldiers did not care about human life. The officers moved into the crowd, trigger pull after trigger pull pushing ravers out of the way. They fell to the ground, clutching bullet entry points as they bled out.
“I think I found him.” One of the armed men pulled back the hood of a tallish man. The moment the cloth fell back, she recognized his face. Needles was the man everybody at the school went to for fake IDs. However, she heard rumors every now and then that he was into something far more serious. The word “rebellion” had been used more than once.
Even from here, his baby blue eyes shined bright enough to catch her attention. They darted to somebody nearby who nodded their head, and then another. Though Needles partook in the less than legal side of New York City, his backstory not so different than hers. The man came from rich parents, and like her, he went to college. He dropped out and now lived off a trust fund.
“He’s got a bomb,” screamed the officer.
Jed lunged, tackling Gretchen. The majority of the room followed suit, ducking and covering their heads as they hit the ground. A dozen ravers remained standing. Through the artist’s shielding arms, she made out several of them pulling out guns.
The bomb never went off. One of the military on the platform shouted a warning. “It’s an EMP, synthetics are down.�
�
The bursts of guns being fired was drowned out in the screams of music lovers trying to find cover. Needles used one of the de-powered synthetics to shield himself as he pulled the trigger of a handgun, downing a guard.
He wielded the firearm with a practiced ease. Along with every other armed raver, she had to wonder if she was witnessing the rebellion. Often demonized in the media, these so-called domestic terrorists were the scourge of the States. Whatever was going down, she and Jed were victims of wanting a night out on the town.
Blood sprayed through the air like paint on a canvas, covering anybody within reach. Jed loosened his grip, his hands checking his body just to make sure he had not acquired more holes since the last self-inspection. She caught one of the Corps staring at Jed. The shock on his face said it all. Jed had been made as a Child of Nostradamus.
“God save us.” She put her hand against Jed’s face. He latched on to her wrist, ready to push it away. The bright colors of the room, the spray of blood, the multicolored hair of every raver transformed into a sea of gray. Even the remaining drugs in her system failed to continue producing radiant colors. Jed’s grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. The confusion on his face let her know he experienced the same colorless world.
“How did you—”
“Chief,” yelled the soldier only a few feet away from them, “we have Children in the room.”
“You—”
“I’m going to keep us alive. I think.”
Her hand slid from his face to his hand. She squeezed her fingers, lacing them with his. “They can’t see us. If you let go, I can’t help you.”
His hand jerked, pulling her back against the wall. They hugged it tightly as a soldier ducked near their legs. The man raised his gun, the sight set on a partially hidden Needles. He balanced himself on one knee, steadying his arms as he peered through the sight.
They were all going to die. The ravers, the people with guns, they were all living on borrowed time. The Children of Nostradamus were strong, something she had to constantly be aware of. Not superhuman, but she could throw a good punch. There were those who could change shape, or make themselves hard as rock. Her gift, much like Jed’s, lacked flare. But she was a Child.