by Ellery Kane
I am a barbarian. I am my father. “Can I see my test results?”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“No, sir.”
“Your insubordination is an insult. You will report to my office tomorrow at zero eight hundred, and you will accept your assignment.”
“Or?”
Ryker slaps my face and dislodges a memory. The first time I saw my dad hit my mom. The first time I didn’t stop him. The first time I knew I was a bad person. “Or you’ll face the Remediation Squadron yourself.”
I spin on my heels and walk away, but inside I’m already running.
I don’t have a plan—obviously. But I do have two goals: Steal my file, and get the hell out of here. Ryker says a goal without a plan is just a wish. Well, screw him. For once, I’m glad I’m strung out on Emovere. I’m going to need it.
I fast walk to my bunk. Ollie’s bed is still neatly made, sheets tucked tight at the corners. Everyone else is asleep. I stuff my pack with a few T-shirts, extra ammo, rations I scavenged from our snack drawer, and the book that lived under my mattress for the past two years, two months, and seventeen days. The book that belonged to my mother. I unfold Ryker’s old letter one last time and scribble a message at the bottom. I hereby discharge myself. Good luck finding another barbarian. I put it smack dab in the center of the bed, where it can’t be missed. I don’t have time to look back.
I’m relieved the office is still pitch black. No one’s on to me—not yet, anyway. But they will be as soon as I break the window, so I might as well make it count. I square up, with the butt of my gun pointed at the top of Ryker’s door, where his name is spelled out in black letters. And I let ’er rip. The crunch of shattered glass thrills me like my first joyride. As expected, the alarm blares, and I know I’m on borrowed time. I reach through the hole, let myself in, and beeline for the locked cabinet. It’s waiting for me, and it has what I want. There’s only one option. I have to kill it.
I take a few steps back. Ready. Aim. Fire. The cabinet springs open, dead. I examine its innards with my flashlight. The files are marked by number, and I count aloud.
“Two-forty. Two-forty-one. Two-forty-two. Two-forty-three!” I want to open it right there. I need to know if Ryker’s telling the truth about me. “It doesn’t matter, Quin.” It does. But I’m leaving anyway. No matter what it says.
I can’t hear them, can’t see them, but I feel them behind me. They know where I’m headed. There are only three boats on this island. The recruits use them every week for the jump test, and they’re all moored near the lab. I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint, until I can see Ollie. He’s standing outside under the spotlight of the entrance, squinting his eyes, searching the darkness. He’s looking for me. I’m sure of it. The gun readied in his hand gives him away. I veer left for the gate that leads to the water.
“Are you crazy?” he yells at me. “Maze just radioed down here. He told me to shoot you on sight.” He starts walking after me.
“So shoot me.” But he doesn’t. “Or come with me.”
“Come with you? Where? They’re gonna kill you, man.”
“Open the gate, Ollie.” He fingers the key clipped to his belt loop. It’s the only copy, and it’s always maintained by lab patrol. Ironic. Sick, really. I’ve been my own warden all along.
“Legacy 243!” The voice is undeniable—Ryker—and he’s completely unglued. “Stop! Back away from the gate!” He’s running down the path toward us, half-dressed, three soldiers trailing him.
“Ollie, please. They want me to lead the death squad.” I turn and fire two shots, one into the hull of each boat, leaving the third for me. If I live.
The key lands in the dirt in front of me. I don’t look up. He’s not my friend. I just grab it and go. Past the gate, I wade into the ice water, waiting for someone to shoot at me. I pull the starter cord, rev the engine. Still waiting. I turn the throttle, and I can’t believe my luck. They’re just letting me go.
“243! 243!” I feel nauseous. I tell my eyes to stay down, but they don’t listen. They follow orders. “This is all your fault.” Ryker fires a shot into Ollie’s back, then another to his head, murdering us both. And I know he’s right.
Up here, it’s like tonight never happened. Like I never left. From the top of Coit Tower, I can see Alcatraz, but it doesn’t look real. Those lights may as well be in another country. Another planet even. I feel like an alien here too. Disconnected. Severed. Completely alone.
I lay back, head propped on my pack, and open my file. It’s like the book of me. The Book of Quin. I scroll until I find it. Empathy.
Skills Test Results
Pre-Protocol Post-Protocol
Propensity to aggression 80th percentile, high average 95th percentile, superior
Risk-taking behavior 85th percentile, high average 99th percentile, superior
Problem-solving 95th percentile, superior No change
Empathy 85th percentile, high average 60th percentile, average
Verbal communication 30th percentile, low No change
Athleticism 98th percentile, superior 99th percentile, superior
Leadership 95th percentile, superior No change
CHAPTER TWO
April 1, 2040
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through …
—Robert Frost, A Servant to Servants
I jolt awake. My whole body throbs, like it’s one thick muscle, with the memory of a dream. Or the dream of a memory. Both. Is that a flashlight in my eyes? Someone’s here to kill me. Ryker? My father? I scramble for my gun and fire a shot. Whoever it is explodes into a million little pieces that fall over me like cool rain, soothing me. I can sleep again.
I open my eyes into brutal sunlight. Not a flashlight after all. It takes effort to lift my head, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t. I wasted a whole clip this morning, dead-ending bullets into the wall opposite me. The position of the sun, the way it’s punishing me, makes me guess it’s mid-afternoon. But it hurts too much to lift my arm to check. Coit Tower—my oasis—feels like the desert now. And I’m a snail without a shell, drying up in the heat. I wait for the buzzards to start circling. Ryker said if we ever stopped cold turkey it would kill us. I must be dying. Maybe I just wish I was.
I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth and try to swallow. “Hel—lo.” The word climbs up my throat, but gets stuck halfway. I need water. The prospect of sitting up, grabbing my pack, zipping it open, and drinking seems impossible. But the longer I lay here, the more I think—Emovere. Emovere! EMOVERE!—and thinking is dangerous.
I reach for the tablet at my side. I’ve already read it cover to cover more than once. I can’t stop reading it. I hold it up to block the sun from my face. It feels heavier than before. Like whatever’s in it is growing. I open it and flip to the part I still can’t get over, the part that reads like a bad made-for-TV movie. But it’s undeniable, right there in black and white. That name. Dr. Victoria Knightley. What are the odds? The same mad scientist who cooked up Emovere evaluated my dad. High risk, she called him. No kidding. They let him go anyway, unleashed him on my mom like a rabid dog. I wonder what the great doctor would think of me. A chip off the old block. That’s probably what she’d say. Fancier though, like Mr. McAllister demonstrates the same violent tendencies as his father. And as much as I’d want to, I couldn’t disagree.
With a flame of rage flickering inside me, my fingers find the picture at the end. It’s the only part I can stomach because it’s me, but not me. It’s been fourteen years since that picture. In the Book of Quin, that’s practically a lifetime. I don’t remember that day. Don’t remember any birthday parties. Don’t remember what it felt like to sit on my mother’s lap. I can’t even remember that feeling—being loved—but I must’ve been. It’s there in her eyes. I stare until the picture starts to blur. Then I gather what’s left of me—aching bones and
flesh—and I stand up.
“Whoa.” Bad idea. Way too fast. With the drumbeat of my heart throbbing in my head, I stagger to the wall and hold on. If I fall, I’m not sure I’ll get up again. In fact, I’m sure I won’t. I’ll decay, become a carcass, and the meat on my bones will taste like Emovere. Even the buzzards will spit me out.
I wait until the rush subsides, then I fish my canteen out of my pack and choke back a few long gulps. Finally, when it seems fairly certain I’m solid on my feet, I look out at the city. It’s completely still. No movement, no sound. Anesthetized, like me. And it’s all my fault. Really, it is.
I never told anyone, but at the first rally, I purposely aimed a little left of center, nailed the guy in the shoulder. Just a flesh wound. Ryker barked at me all the way back to the island. I said eliminate the target, not slow him down. End him. He always called them targets. Like they did something wrong. Like I was the hero. Like he didn’t pick them out of the crowd—eeny, meeny, miny, moe—at random. I didn’t miss again. No more hiccups, as Ryker would say. I hit every target victim. Bull’s-eye. I exceeded expectations. They shut down the whole city because of what I did.
I follow the street with my eyes, the one I walked to get here. My brain burns, craving what I don’t want, wanting what I can’t have. That street is not what I hoped it was—the way to salvation. It’s a road to nowhere. And a new thought overwhelms me: What if I’m worse than my father?
I figure I’ve got one chance. Figuring is all I’ve been doing for hours. That, and staring at the road to nowhere, waiting for the invasion. I know Ryker will send the Guardians after me. He can’t bear to let me win. And my one chance? Find the Resistance. A feat even Ryker couldn’t achieve.
When I see it—her—it’s already twilight. I lean forward, squinting. I don’t trust myself. Not after this morning. She’s not real. She can’t be. But her hair is a ruby. It catches what’s left of the light and reflects it back to me. I watch her circle the block. She’s moving slow and deliberate, like she knows she’s being watched. Not by me.
“Elana.” I say her name aloud to test myself. Nothing. I imagine that time I kissed her. That time she kissed me back. I take inventory: her freckles, her lips, the way she smelled like cinnamon, her green eyes wanting more of me. Still nothing … aside from good ole reliable guilt, of course. It’s the only thing inside me Emovere didn’t kill. Max was right to punch me back then. I took her heart—it was already cracked—and I flat out broke it. I break everything. Including myself. And now, two days clean, with one of my best—don’t say it—on the street below me, I still can’t feel anything. Whatever’s wrong with me, I’m starting to think it’s not fixable. This Iceman Quin might be permanent.
Elana—it must be her—turns down a side street, just out of my sight. And I’m in a tug of war.
Go to her. She’s probably alone just like you.
Or maybe she found Max. They need you. C’mon, Iceman, who are you kidding? Elana needs you like she needs a bullet to the head. And Max? He looks up to you, so he’s already doomed. Friends are liabilities, remember? And you’re the biggest liability of them all.
I put my head in my hands to quiet the noise inside it. When I look up again, there’s a man stalking Elana’s path. But not just a man. A Guardian. My eyes dart down the road to nowhere. He can’t be the only one. This is it. I’ve brought the invasion. And the first casualty is Elana. My fault. My fault. My fault. My—
What’s left of my MRE ration makes its way up and out of me, splattering the toes of my boots with chunks of military-grade meatloaf. Amazing. It looks just as appetizing as when I ate it. I beeline for my gun, already calculating the virtual impossibility of hitting him from here. 210 feet up. Poor visibility. Moving target. Not to mention the dicey emotional state of the shooter. The withdrawals. The hallucinations. The upchucking. For all I know, this is just one massive trip coming down from Emovere, and what I’m really about to shoot at is a—
I can see Elana again. She’s running. And so is he. I take a rattly breath. Here goes nothin’.
I wait. And wait. And wait some more. I’m good at waiting now that my blood’s not spiked with Agitor. I wait until I think it’s safe and longer still for good measure. One chance, Quin. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t muck it up.
After the moon rises and the night is still, I walk to him. There is no invasion. Just one Homo habilis. Like the frozen guy we studied in sixth-grade science. One iceman just like me, but not. This iceman has my bullet in him. I’ve never seen it up close before—the entry point, the hole in the flesh, the opening where death gets in. Ryker always made sure of that. And now, seeing it, I’m not sure why he whisked me away to a hero’s welcome. It’s not so bad, really. It’s a perfectly round circle of red. It should be worse. It should look like what it is.
He’s on his stomach, so I flip him over. Greenhorn 100. I’m glad I don’t know him. Not that it makes it any easier. Or any harder. Right, Iceman? I put my palm over his eyes and close them. His skin is cold and waxy. Then I go full Guardian Force on him. I take his radio and his gun, pull his pockets inside out. Strip the memory card from his phone and kick the shell into the gutter. I save the thing I’m dreading for last. Real or not, I’m glad Elana disappeared. I wouldn’t want her—or anyone—to see me do this.
I unbutton his jacket and splay it open. There it is. His field pack and everything in it: two vials, five needles, one already loaded. I take it out and hold it up close. If that needle could talk—who am I fooling? It’s already got my ear. It’s whispering, “Just one more time, 243. You can stop in the morning.”
I uncap the needle and poise it right over the biggest, bluest vein. And I wait again. I need to do that, so I know I gave myself a choice. So I know when I crush that needle and everything else in the field pack under my boot, it was my decision. Not Ryker’s. Not Elana’s. Not fate or circumstance. For once in my life, I want to know I did the right thing.
CHAPTER THREE
April 2, 2040
I’m a poor underdog,
But tonight I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.
—Robert Frost, Canis Major
I lay out the bagged components of my MRE. Meatloaf again. Gray, boring, sad meatloaf. One look at that glob is confirmation of why Ollie always called them Meals Rarely Edible. And with that thought, I’m suddenly on my feet, bounding down the stairs to the base of Coit Tower. I owe it to Ollie and to myself. Near the bottom, I grab the rail, feeling the rust peel off on my fingers, and skip the last six steps. A small whoop! escapes my mouth. I feel free. Finally. I’m still an iceman, but a free one. An iceman who just kicked Emovere in the teeth. That calls for a celebration—or at least a decent meal. And I know exactly where to find it.
I stare at the sign above the door. The name is barely visible under a spray of Resistance red graffiti. But I know what it says. Arto’s Deli. I’ve been here before, in another life. A life before I became Legacy 243. When I was still just a stupid kid, flying by the seat of my pants. I met Arto when I was sixteen. I’d just run away from L.A., away from Riverbend. A home for boys, they called it. Yeah, right. It was more like a graveyard where I buried part of my soul. There lies all the good in Quin McAllister. Arto felt sorry for me. Homeless. Alone. Pathetic. Who wouldn’t? So whenever I came around, he fed me. And old Arto made a killer turkey sandwich. Of course, he’s gone now, evacuated with the rest of San Francisco. My fault. I can’t help but think it.
My breath makes a cloud on the large, front window as I lean in to look inside. It’s still intact unlike most of the windows on this block. I try the door, already knowing it’s locked. Arto would never be that careless. A chunk of broken concrete catches my eye, and I briefly consider smashing the glass with it. But I can’t do that to Arto. Instead I make my way to the back, to the dumpster where he found me scavenging like a raccoon. The service door is no match for one forceful shove of my shoulder. The fl
imsy latch pops open, and I’m in, already salivating.
It’s only been two weeks—a calendar on the wall is stuck on March 19—but this place feels like it’s been dead a long time. The display counters are empty; there’s already a thin layer of dust coating the tables; and the air is frigid. I rifle through a few cabinets looking for anything fit for consumption. Aside from a plentiful supply of coffee cups and Arto’s Deli take-out bags, I turn up nothing. Still, I’m betting I can find something fresh in the walk-in fridge. Arto let me clean it a few times as meager payment for his sandwiches.
I hear the refrigerator’s steady hum as I round the corner. The sound is a welcome relief, confirmation that something in this town is still working. A rush of air hits me when I open the door and step inside. Iceman in an icebox. I have to chuckle at that one. My stomach speaks—a rumble of anticipation—as soon as my eyes reach the first shelf. Jackpot. As quick as I can, I gather what I need. It won’t be a masterpiece, not the way Arto used to make it, but as I check off my list, I’m pretty certain it’ll be a feast compared to the alternative.
Sliced turkey
Mustard and mayo
A jar of crunchy dill pickles
Swiss, slightly moldy at the edges
A half-eaten loaf of bread
One barely passable tomato
I haul my loot to the counter, where I begin the assembly. First, the bread. After a quick pass through the toaster, a heavenly smell warms the deli. I breathe it in and, just for a moment, I feel something strange. Comfort. I slice the tomato, discarding the soft, wrinkly parts, and dissect the moldy spots from the cheese. I select the biggest pickle from the jar. Add one dollop of mustard, two dollops of mayo, and the pièce de résistance—a hunk of turkey. My best meal in years is ready to be served.