Children of Gravity

by E. R. Jess

  Makz clapped his hands together. “I am having a hard time breathing, but I also don't really care,” he joked. “But, thanks. Just don't turn it off yet,” he said warily.

  Jenna agreed, “Not until you can get some help from a doc. I can bandage it with your shirt.”

  “Not a good idea, I'm afraid. I've had enough of these to know not to do that,” He warned as he looked around. He had been in the area before, a brownstone brick residential area. “We're near civilization, more or less, let's get there before my brain smartens up.”

  Makz and Jenna left the shaft entrance. Jenna was limping and sore. Makz had a new spring in his step.

  They tracked on for another two days, stopping little to rest. Jenna kept Makz's implant running and Makz did his best to act like he didn't need help. They made it to their first stop.

  Worth Dying For

  Port Brunswick was a sad burg, a toppled-over township. The skyline was like broken teeth. The buildings that remained were caked in petrified soot. The air was fat with pollutants drifted over from a quartet of industrial sectors upwind. Port Brunswick's namesake port was a horseshoe-shaped bay lined with a boardwalk. The lake itself was bone-dry and a few sailboats slept in the dusty bowl like toys left at a bathtub drain.

  Alessa and Kagan paused at the border of the bleak town, the sight feeding palpable worry into the group, fostering a new anxiety that narrowed Kagan eyes. Alessa sighed and got moving first. Eight reached them, hauling a large sack. “It's certainly no Noble,” he whispered.

  Kagan tossed a glance at Eight and offered, “You coming with us? Alessa can handle the bulk of the group, come with Dernen, Sam and I. Think you could help delve the crowd?”

  Eight nodded, “Yeah, I just might be able to. It wouldn't be a real deep look into everyone's past, but an overview could help. You want me at the door?”

  Kagan thought for a while. He struggled with the thought. Decisions weren't usually hard for him, but the labor was intensified by his anxiousness. “By the door,” he said finally, “Then get your ass inside for my little speech.”

  Eight smiled uneasily and added, “I'll see what I can do. But let's face it, I can barely read people sitting with them for an hour.”

  The group split up unceremoniously at a muddy crossroads at the cusp of a graveyard of hover cars. Alessa moved the pacifists through the junkyard. They made a camp amongst the stacked hunks of plastic and metal. Across a cracked expanse of blacktop, the meeting place loomed. Dernen, Sam, Eight and Kagan headed to the meeting from the long way around. A redundant precaution, but no one ever questioned matters of safety. Dernen and Sam walked together, Dernen watching his footing carefully. Eight and Kagan walked ahead of them, slowing to their pace.

  They reached the building. An old theater with half a roof. It was lit with torches behind iron cages. Kagan, Dernen and Sam approached a collection of rusters at the door. They were simple folk at first glance, but Kagan could detect the bulge of a weapon here, the adjusted stance of a gunman there. Kagan, in an action from some long dormant instinct, slyly checked the gun at his hip. There was none there and hadn't been for the better part of a decade. He sighed in relief, not because he missed his gun, but because it was absent. He sometimes had dreams of holding guns. He dreamed that, as hard as he tried, he couldn't rid his hands of them. Not a hard dream to interpret.

  Kagan approached one of the men as he advanced to him. “Kagan,” He said simply.

  The man, dressed in a tattered suit, looked him up and down, looked at his companions. “Walk over here,” The man demanded, gesturing to another man holding a bulky electronic device with both hands.

  Kagan recognized it. It was an old vector camera lodged in with some other machinery. Kagan raised an eyebrow instead of asking his question.

  “It's not connected to the Outernet. It's just for detecting barcodes. We don't want no citizens here,” The ruster said with some fatigue. He had probably been saying that all night.

  Kagan shrugged, complied, and stood in front of the machine for the scan. Invisible light coated him for a brief second and the man operating their makeshift scanner nodded. Kagan moved on and the rest of them stood for scans. Dernen looked hesitant, but quickly let it go. Putting oneself directly in the eye of an Outernet camera was tantamount to posing for one's own wanted poster. Dernen closed his eyes as he was scanned. He swore to himself he could feel a tingle under his skin from the device. They got inside and separated, Kagan heading backstage, Dernen and Sam finding a place to sit. Eight leaned against the outside wall and watched the people going in.

  Kagan met with a gentleman at the stage door, he was emaciated and hollow-faced; time and environment hadn't been kind to him, and neither had civilization. He was well scarred. His neck, hands and face were pocked with burns and cuts. He had seen some portion of hell, and Kagan was flushed with empathy, then wariness. He could have been a good man torn up by the Free City, or he could have been a bad man suffering from a fate of his own doing. None of it mattered, Kagan knew. Their meeting was the end of the line for many. He assumed it would attract all manner of people. Everyone had their own idea of what was worth dying for out in the wastes.

  “Kagan, I'm Manet. I hear you have a small collection of souls to add to our cause?” the man asked with the query lingering in his eyes.

  Kagan held his tongue. “Good to meet you, sir.”

  Manet looked at Kagan's face for some emotion, something telling. “Well, then. If you've something to add to the discussion, you can speak in a half hour from now,” He said, “You came highly recommend from the other chosen representatives.”

  Kagan looked about the backstage area, “Will there be introductions?”

  “Afterwards,” Manet answered, “There'll be time for that at your own leisure. We don't want to linger here. A man of your talents, well, you understand.”

  Kagan nodded knowingly. Kagan felt his past bubbling up and manifesting inside him. Fragments of memories appeared, and Kagan fought to ignore them.

  Manet glared at him briefly, then led Kagan to a wall with maps and pictures pinned up. There were the raid plans. Kagan looked at them but didn't study them. He didn't want to know the details. Manet looked at Kagan carefully once again. “Perhaps you could tell me something about what you plan to bring to the table before we go over the details? I've heard much about you, that you have an unparalleled will,” Manet asked.

  Kagan looked at his feet, then sighed. He took Manet aside and spoke clearly, but quietly, “Manet, I'm going to have to save that for my turn to speak. Let me just say that my will is dedicated to preserving what is dear to me.”

  Manet gave a satisfied smile, “Indeed, then I will be patient.”

  Eight, standing watch outside the meeting, spotted a stocky man, a man with murder in his eyes. It was too surreal at first for Eight to comprehend, but he thought he could see the man's memories begin flashing before his eyes, something that had never happened to him that easily. The man was severely troubled and he was up to no good. This was not something visible to anyone else, but Eight saw it and then a flood of visions and sounds slammed into him as the man passed by. He didn't have to delve into the man's mind. It was all there, presented to Eight whether he liked it or not.

  Makz.

  Killings. Revenge and suicide. A wall of violence and flashes of pain that almost knocked Eight off his feet. All of this in a few bare moments. He could see years of Makz's memories clearly and had a hard time sorting them out. The man had the most raw rage that he had ever detected. Eight thought for a moment that he could be the person he saw all those years ago, Revan, but this man was different. This man was conflicted, in personal turmoil. All of it spelled serious danger. And before long, he heard the name Kagan rattling around in the man's head.

  Eight's delving ability wanted him to run, but he didn't. Eight left the street and went to Kagan inside. Eight found him alone behind the stage, thinking of something to say to the crowd. Eight interrupted
him hastily, but quietly, just in case someone was listening, “Kagan, you have to go, we all have to.”

  Kagan disagreed, “No one's going to start shit here. Everyone has enough trouble.”

  Eight took his arm, “I'm not stressing this enough, apparently. We have to go. There's someone here you don't want to be in sight of.”

  Kagan nodded. “Alright, tell the others. I'm up next, I'll keep it quick. Give a shout if he comes in.”

  “Keep it really fucking quick,” Eight demanded as he left.

  Eight went back out front to warn Alessa. She was across the street with the rest of the group. He started to jog over. Someone got in his way.

  “Hey, chump, you eyeballing me a minute ago?” Makz said with some humor in his voice.

  Eight stopped dead. He must have been staring at the violent man without realizing it. The Auspex took a breath and began to follow Makz's memory path, usually a short process that was, at that time, hindered by wave after wave of horrible recollections. Eight couldn't read him clearly, and so he couldn't predict what he would do next. He lost his breath and said, “No, sorry, you looked like an old friend of mine.”

  Makz glared and barked, “Oldest pickup line in the book. Are you local militia, LCS, you son of a bitch?” And Makz went for Eight's wrist, to spin him around.

  Eight was startled, not by Makz trying to grab him, but that he saw it coming a mile away. Eight couldn't get a good memory path going in his head, but his subconscious let him anticipate Makz's individual motions. Eight managed to spin out of the way and stood there like an idiot, surprised at his own reflexes.

  Makz was not impressed. He went to push Eight into an alley, away from too many prying eyes and Eight ducked in a swift motion and found himself beside his attacker. Makz, frustrated beyond belief, took a right-handed swing at Eight's jaw, missed as his target dodged the blow, then a left, which Eight deflected in one motion, and using Makz's momentum, put Makz on the ground. Makz landed hard on his ass. It left Makz with a puzzled and almost amused look on his face. “It's like fighting water, who the fuck are you?” Makz asked, but his question hit no one's ears. Eight maneuvered away from him. And even though Eight was in plain sight, he knew exactly where to step to be out of the man's vision. Makz eventually caught on, seeing him run across the street.

  Makz stood and dusted himself off. He had to admit to himself that he was impressed after all. Some scrawny punk had just bested him. Second time in recent memory. Makz went after Eight and called to Jenna who was waiting nearby, “Help me get this asshole.”

  Jenna put her hands up in confusion. “Why are you always getting in fights?”

  Makz took her arm. “Everybody fights,” he said.

  “Makz, you should be taking it easy until we can patch you up. That's a false sense of strength you're feeling. Your implant can't keep lying to your brain forever,” Jenna said as he dragged her along.

  Makz scoffed, “Well if I feel good now then there's no real difference. Now is all we got.”

  “Jesus, man. I am not going to listen to you whine about how much pain you're in when it hits,” Jenna scolded.

  Makz and Jenna reached the junkyard. Broken hulks of cars and trucks loomed overhead. Makz peeked down one alley, then another. “So which way did he get to?” he asked. Makz shook his head, “Slippery bastard.”

  “Why are we bothering with this one? There's a whole stadium full of people that can answer our questions.”

  Makz spat. “Just point me in his direction, he's got all the answers we need.”

  Eight not only saw Makz coming, but he could tell which way he was going to look. Eight got to Alessa and said, “Fall back to the road we came in on. Bad blood here.”

  Alessa nodded. She had the others round everyone up as planned and move them out. They left most of their things behind, planning to return later, if they could, to retrieve them. Alessa then ran after Eight, who was walking back to the meeting place.

  Eight stopped her. “Not a good idea. This man is real trouble.”

  Alessa, catching up to him, had the look on her face that said she wouldn't take no for an answer. “Then you go warn Kagan while I distract this guy,” she said plainly.

  Eight put his hands out, “No, this is not some ruster with an attitude. He is here to kill Kagan and he's got all the skill he needs to do it. You get out of here and I'll keep him busy.”

  Alessa had more protest on her lips when Makz and Jenna came flying out of the junkyard. Alessa, a nearly spitting image of Jenna, but older, froze in place. Makz slid to a halt in the dust, drawing his gun. Eight saw the whole scenario, almost like watching a movie, before they appeared. Eight dove for the pavement feet first right at Makz's legs. Makz jumped out of the way, but not in time. Eight tripped him to the ground and began punching his bad rib. Alessa screamed in disbelief. Jenna went after Makz's gun that had slid into some refuse. Makz's eyes went wide; instead of pain, a brilliant flood of euphoria washed over him. Eight got off of him as Makz crawled away, a stunned, but not troubled, look on his face. He started dozing off, high as a kite. The intense pain caused his implant to sedate him.

  Alessa gave Eight a horrified look as he stood there with his fists clenched. Eight said to her while he watched Makz carefully, “It's okay, I can hit him. He can't feel pain.”

  Jenna found the gun and pointed shakily at Eight. “I assume you can,” she said, nervously. Jenna kept the heavy gun up as best she could as she demanded, “She will be coming with us.”

  Eight and Alessa looked at each other. Eight put his hands out and up as he tried to calm her. Tried to calm her his way. “Not likely. Look, let's talk this through and figure out what's going on. I'm no threat,” he said as he began delving Jenna.

  “Not a threat?” Jenna asked incredulously as she pointed at Makz with the gun briefly.

  Alessa spoke up, “Who are you, exactly?”

  “You don't know?” Jenna asked and said, “They've brainwashed you, pulled you into their cult.”

  Alessa smiled uneasily, she walked closer to Jenna carefully. She spoke kindly, spoke honestly, “It's far from the truth, whatever you've heard. In reality, I saved them.”

  Jenna walked backwards. She lowered the gun, but kept it firm in her grip. “I'm your clone, your organ bank. They told me you were taken into the wasteland. And I had to find you because I was programmed to.”

  Alessa put her hand to her mouth. “You're Jenna,” Alessa said, unfamiliar with the name on her tongue, but memories of her came back suddenly.

  Eight's delving hit a wall. He could tell she was a wire, and wires were trained to protect their minds from invasion.

  Jenna let Alessa reach her. The older woman put her hand on the gun, lowering it to the ground. Jenna spoke uneasily, “They told me that I wasn't worth conforming, they dumped me in the fringes. Told me I wasn't a real person. And with you gone, I wasn't any use.”

  Alessa gave a Jenna a careful hug. “Dear God,” she said, her voice trembling, “I didn't know.”

  Jenna sobbed openly, sliding to the blacktop.

  “This is what UPC does,” Alessa said quietly.

  “At least seventy. Some northern scavenger nomads, a few of the wires from Anon, others. Refugees, the lot of them. Just like us.” Dernen said. But they are not pacifists, Dernen thought behind his smile. The Elder man squinted through the poor lighting in the old theater. Tapestries that lined the walls radiated deep and ghostly blues.

  “Well this is a physical matter, not a virtual one,” Sam sighed. “Only need one or two techs to get the job done, and the farther they stay from the Outernet, the better. They can’t depend on digital subterfuge for such a low-tech endeavor. Anyway, from the looks of them, they would rather be on the front line with a riot rifle in each hand.” She chuckled once and turned back to her handheld computer.

  Dernen looked at her for a long while, expressionless. His voice carried great sorrow mostly, “They do at that.”

  The crowd seeme
d to swell to a size that it would remain at. There hadn’t been a meeting of underground city groups and organizations for a long time, but they never turned out a showing much larger. And even still, the people there only represented a tiny percent of the underground community. The danger was simply too great.

  Sam, the pacifist surgeon, broke their private silence sullenly, “Not one hopeful. If anyone wants to take sides, they want to be on the one with a strong arm.”

  Hopefuls where what Alessa called recruits of their group; she thought the word ‘recruit’ sounded too militant. Dernen agreed whole-heartedly with the doctor as he thought, who would want to join pacifists? He expected to find no members there, not with the nature of the night's assembly. The people were planning a strike at UPC to claim some new medical technologies. People would be hurt, but more would die of diseases like AVID, drug addictions like Panzer and Pulse, the list went on.

  There were new technologies that were supposed to rehabilitate the conformed, their neighbors lost to the City-State in mind and body. There was much to fight for. The last thing Dernen would expect would be to find a lost soul in need of rest from violence. Those people had others ways out.

  There were fringe citizens there, The Elder knew it. People who lived and worked under the shadow of UPC. They were curious of the goings on around them, as they knew that their relative safety of their domain was temporary.

  One group was thankfully absent from the meeting. A facet of society far separated from Urban Population Control. Outcasts. Those that opposed everything that Dernen and Kagan and Alessa stood for, those who constructed gangs and organized mobs to terrorize the peoples of the Free City.

  Well, Dernen mused darkly, there are none of those here, or the flames would already be lapping the ceiling.

  Some silence spread through the crowd as Kagan stood up on the broken stage a few rows from Dernen and Sam. Many had heard of him or met him. Kagan had a revolutionary’s mind, a true protagonist demeanor. He held a semblance of authority and command, and the appearance was not deceiving. The underground respected him. He was, at one time, insurrection incarnate.