Human
Copyright © 2019 by C R MacFarlane
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-1-7753564-5-5
www.blueponypress.com
For Avery, who has always been there.
HALUD DEGAZO, FORMER POET LAUREATE of the United Earth Central Army, clenched his hand over his stomach and fought back a wave of anxious nausea.
Across the dark ante-chamber, lit by a single, red, incandescent bulb so their vision could adjust to the dark, a dozen rebels drew their hoods and secured black masks. All their clothes were black, and they nearly blended into the dark wall behind them, except for gaudy, blue tassels that hung from their shoulders, the significance of which he had yet to understand.
“Ready, Poet?” the leader, Athos, called to him.
Halud forced himself to nod. “Yes.”
The door opened and they slipped into the street. A handful of stars lay scattered across the purple-black night, the lights of the Central City obscuring all but the brightest constellations — the sky here was nothing like the unfettered views from the freightship.
The freightship. A wave of nausea stopped him in his tracks. Gal, Kieran, Sarrin — oh Gods, Sarrin! He pressed his five fingers to his heart, praying. It was his fault. Finding his sister had been a set up. If he hadn’t gone to rescue her, walking right into Hap Lansford’s trap, they would still be alive.
But she would still be in the prison on Selousa — his mind flashed the vid Hap had shown him of her strung up, screaming like an animal — a prison he never should have let her sit in.
What a fool he’d been, politicking, playing ‘the game.’ How clever he thought he’d been, strategizing, gaining favour, playing at alliances. He’d lived in his luxurious apartments in the Speakers’ compound, while his sister rotted in Evangecore. Gods only knew what they had done to her.
“Are you coming?” Athos stood in the street, turned to face him, while the others had all disappeared ahead.
“Yes, yes, sorry.” Halud shrugged, adjusting the pack on his shoulders, and pulled on his own mask. “Ready.”
“You don’t have to come with us.”
“I do though,” he said, much as it terrified him.
“Your information should be enough to get us in and destroy the lab.”
Halud shook his head. “I have to. For her.”
This was his plan after all. In his last broadcast for the Speakers, he had reported on a vaccine for Xenoralia nervosa — the Red Fever. It was meant to protect infants from acquiring the disease, but Halud had seen the first child inoculated, watched its eyes turn from murky, dull brown to crystalline pale blue — identical to those of his sister and all the other Children of Evangecore. The vaccine wasn’t protecting against new Augments, it was creating them.
Athos nodded. “I understand.”
Halud sprinted with Athos after the others. The mask over his face restricted his breathing, but it only made him feel stronger, more determined. The pumping of his arms and legs, and the thrashing beat of his heart, exhilarated him. This was what it felt to be alive, to take action, to actually do something instead of sitting at his Poet’s desk.
The Hospital of the Gods — the most advanced medical building in existence — loomed ahead, a big, concrete, blocky building at the base of the Speakers’ tower. Halud clutched the pendant around his neck — a gift from years and years ago that had been given to him by his father, as his mother lay on her deathbed with Red Fever and he fled into the woods with Sarrin. A pendant he had long considered too dangerous, but now seemed exactly right. The gold casing was carved — something abstract, not at all in the taste of the Artist Laureate — and the jewel held in the centre was a deep red, casting the medallion in flickering fire. The very existence of something so beautiful, so full of colour, was defiance, and he tucked it under his cloak, letting the flames fuel him.
The rebels spread out around him, separating into groups. Halud’s team clustered behind him, the backpack of explosives shifting on his back. These were not the same rebels as there had been ten years ago when John P led them; these were kids. John P had disappeared years ago — dead, according to Gal — but small cells of the rebels lived on.
He’d been lucky to find the lair, following the old symbols carved into nooks and crannies of buildings that led him there. Lucky that they still used the hideout, and lucky that they’d taken him in, believed him when he told them everything he knew, and luckier still that they were willing to help him.
He tapped his fingers against the timer in his pocket, pausing as the other teams got into position. After so many years of being idle, even this small waiting seemed too long. He could never undo what had happened to his sister, but he could stop it from ever happening again.
From across the square, Athos held his hand up in the air, signalling they were ready. The other team leader did the same. The rebels beside Halud took off running, all three teams planning their incursion simultaneously.
He hesitated. Was this what John P would have done? Not for the first time, he wished the old leader was still around. John P had been a legend in his time. No one before or since had ever given the Speakers such pause, no one had come so close. For a while, Halud had thought maybe John P still lived, was still in hiding — foolishly, he’d thought Galiant Idim, the washed up starship captain, was John P — but it was clear the old rebel leader was well and truly gone.
So the fight fell to him. Blood rushed in his veins as he ran after them, putting on a burst of speed to overtaking the others. He was not a trained soldier like Sarrin, but he had been infected with the virus all the same, his strength and speed augmented far beyond that of the regular folk.
Breathless, he reached the East entrance, and followed the ramp down to the service door. He nodded at each of them once, waiting to see their response that they were ready.
Was he ready?
He clenched his fists and exhaled. Yes. His heart beat around in his chest, and for an instant he felt like he might pass out. But this was the time. This was the moment.
A faint glow lit up the access pad beside the door, and one of the rebels carefully entered the sixteen digit code they had been provided by an inside operative. It took forever, Halud shifting foot to foot, but the pad beeped, flashed green, and the door slid open.
One of his team let out a nervous laugh. She tried to stifle it, but the others teased and giggled. A smile broke on Halud’s face.
The corridors under the hospital were pitch-black. He followed the wall by hand until his eyes had a chance to adjust, one doorway, two doorways. At the seventh doorway, he stopped, the team fumbling around behind him. Once again he approached the door controls, this time pulling a plastic key from his pocket. The door sprung open, and they slipped inside. A faint glow illuminated the end of the long, small corridor, and they ran towards the seldom used room.
In the light coming from one of the hospital’s large power generators, Halud shifted the small backpack to the floor, unclipping it to reveal the shining home-made bomb. Two of the rebels bent, taking the bomb, and went to attach it to the generator, right beside the structural support at the back of the room, the same as a half-dozen other teams were doing throughout the building.
“Done,” they announced.
The woman guarding the door let out a nervous squeal. Halud couldn’t stop himself from smiling. After all their careful planning, this would finally be a blow the Speakers wouldn’t see coming. Maybe it would change things, maybe not. But if they made enough noise, if the hospital crumpled even partly what they predicted, people would start asking questions. And if e
nough people started asking questions, maybe just maybe some truths would start to surface.
Halud nodded. “Set the timer.”
They moved like shadows, their faces distorted in the glow of the generator. Halud lifted his backpack, now empty, and followed them down the long corridor. The minutes until the timer detonated, and the bomb on the generators ripped apart the structural support, hopefully collapsing this very corridor. One of the rebels let out a cheer.
Lungs burning, Halud revelled in each pump of his arms, each slap of his feet on the damp concrete floor. Here they were, alive, powerful. It reminded him of Sarrin, a sudden suspicion that this must be what the Augments felt like in the war, and it felt as though the two of them were connected.
He clutched the pendant at his chest, holding it to his chest as he ran. When this was all over, he would find Sarrin, and they would run in the woods, brother and sister again. It would happen, she was still alive, he had to believe it.
Dim light filtered in from the main corridor, outlining the door they had come through. He raced towards it, ignoring the niggling fact that the lights had been off when they entered — they were so close. He threw his weight into the door, pushing it open.
The others nearly crashed into him as he stopped abruptly. In front of him, in the dim light, stood a wall of grey-clad UEC soldiers. They wore a strip of black with the insignia of Strength —Hap’s soldiers, elite soldiers. A dozen las-rifles pointed their way.
Halud swallowed dryly as the door swung shut behind them.
They had been too noisy, too confident, celebrating before they were even out. But this was the basement of the hospital in the middle of the night, they had studied the security systems and patrol routes, no one should have been there to hear them.
Raising his hands in a gesture of peace, Halud stepped forward. He modulated his voice, turning it so the pitch and timbre dug into their subconscious and made them want to listen. “Gentlemen, I believe there has been a misunderstanding. There’s no need for laz-rifles.”
But the laz-rifles did not drop.
A dark cord dangling from one of the guard’s ears caught his eye: earpieces. They couldn’t hear him. But it wasn’t a standard part of the uniform — protections against the explosions, maybe?
He reached for his mask, pulling it off to reveal his face: the trump card. He was still the Poet Laureate, hadn’t been denounced publicly, Hap knew he was still the face the folk trusted. “My friends,” he said, taking another step to be sure they could see him in the dull light.
Laz-rifles lifted with a uniform precision, the guards bringing the sights to their eyes. “Down on the ground,” yelled the one in the centre.
Behind him, one of the rebels whimpered, and he heard all three of them shuffle to the ground.
Halud brought his hands up. “I am the Poet Laureate of the First Speaker —,” he tried.
“Get down!”
His limbs went cold. “I am Halud DeGazo —.”
“I know who you are. Now, get down.”
He looked across the line. They did know who he was, none of them had so much as flinched when he pulled off his mask. They’d come with ear plugs. Whoever led them, knew Halud would be there and knew the power he wielded with his voice.
The door to the small corridor clicked open, causing Halud to turn involuntarily, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. The figure that slipped through from the dark was tall and lithe and terrifyingly familiar.
“Commandant,” Halud breathed, leaning as far away as he could manage before he stumbled to catch his balance.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, the explosive device bouncing carelessly in her one hand. “You’re really not very good at this, Poet.” Her fingers dug into detonator, pieces clattering across the floor. “The hospital was an obvious target, although I was surprised that you would resort to this level of violence.”
He found his voice, maybe too loud: “What are you doing here? The Comrade left a week ago.”
She faltered, a frown creasing her otherwise placid features. “Yes. My services were required elsewhere.”
“You were demoted,” he surmised, a sudden strength surprising him. Rumours had floated around the Speakers’ compound, passed along by none-other than the ever-smiling receptionist Joyce. “I heard you let the freightship go. I suppose I should thank you for that.”
“Don’t,” she said coolly. “I’ll kill you and your sister the instant I get the chance, but the Speakers have requested you alive.” She signalled the soldiers. “Prepare them for transport.”
The elite guard surged forward, almost too fast for Halud to comprehend even with his heightened reflexes and the massive dose of adrenalin coursing through him. The commandant grabbed his wrist, forcing him to the ground. Soldiers grabbed the rebels, dark covers tugged roughly over their masks, and lifted them up, half-carrying, half-dragging them deeper in the hospital’s labyrinth.
“Wait,” said Halud, “where are you taking them?” He’s struggled to pull away, but her grip was too strong.
Instead of answering, Amelia gave him a feral grin, her iron grip tightening until something snapped in his wrist and he cried out in pain. A heavy sac was pulled over him, obscuring his vision completely. Something pricked his shoulder, and the noises and movement around him faded as much as his sight, and he slumped to the ground.
The commandant’s cold voice was the last thing he heard: “The First Speaker wants him in the Rehabilitation ward.”
ONE
SARRIN DEGAZO BLINKED, EYES RAPIDLY adjusting to the familiar shadows of the room around her. A soft blue glow was the only light in the room. Her sleep had been unusual, soft, and gentle. Her dreams had featured wide woods and ungulate creatures.
Glowing blue goo sloshed in the tank beside the bed as the occupant twitched uncomfortably: Kieran Wood. The engineer. Her friend. She twisted around to get a better look at him, peering over the glass sides. The bio-resonance gel covered his body, only a small air bubble covered his mouth and nose allowing him to breathe.
It wasn’t clear in her mind if she could see or hear or feel him wince, but she reached her hand into the tank and took his. His palms were one of the few areas that had been spared from second and third degree burns when the freightship exploded around him, and she rubbed them comfortingly while his fingers twitched, clutching desperately.
Pain washed through her where his skin met her overly sensitive flesh. She bit her lip, fighting down the urge to snatch her hand back — her strange ability to draw energy from those around her had killed, but Kieran was proof it could do good too. Instead, she pushed soothing calm through the connection, ignoring the monster that pulsed in the recesses of her mind.
A minute later, calm pulsed back through Kieran’s hand, and his grip loosened. His body relaxed, and she knew he had gone back to sleep. She held his hand a little longer. He needed it, to help with the pain.
Still holding him, she laid her head on the pillow, pulling up the blankets with her free hand.
This time, Kieran was in her dreams. He held her hand, laughing as they ran. He couldn’t run as fast as she could, Sarrin half-pulling him as they leapt over roots and branches. Tall ungulate creatures, with flowing manes and tails, galloped through the woods beside them, weaving in and out, close enough to touch, their warm breath puffing over her neck and arms.
She put on a burst of speed as the creatures surged past. Kieran tripped, his legs flailing as he pulled them both down. Instead of being angry, he laughed, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. “Sorry,” he puffed, then he pulled her close, wrapping his body around hers. To her surprise, she liked it, leaning in. Too soon, he pulled away, smiling. “Go on without me.”
The last of the creatures’ hooves crashed by, long tails disappearing in the dense trees. If she didn’t go now, she’d lose them. But she couldn’t leave Kieran.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get back. Promise.”
She snapped awake, her hand free-floating in the thick bio-gel.
Someone stood at the foot of the bed: Leove. She hadn’t even noticed him come in. She snapped her hand from the tank and skittered across the bed, heart racing.
The doctor only smirked and stepped close to the regen-tank to examine the sleeping form inside.
She forced her breathing to slow. Kieran was still here, his hand had merely slipped away from hers in all that blue gel. A good thing too. How foolish she had been to leave it in the tank, to leave it touching him, for so long and while she was asleep. There was no telling what could have happened, what the sick, twisted part of her mind could have done if she hadn’t been there to stop it.
Kieran sat up, rubbing his face gingerly to clear the goop from his eyes. He turned to her, blinking twice before he flashed a smile, not as free as it once was but a smile nevertheless.
Leove drew his attention away from her: “How is it this morning?”
Kieran quirked his lips up, the effect somewhat gruesome with the lines of scar tissue and the bio-gel still covering his face. “Good'nough.”
Leove raised a single eyebrow. “Good enough for what?”
Kieran shrugged, goo sliding off his naked back into the tank. The shrug must have hurt because he winced, and then he slowly flexed and drew his shoulder blades apart.
Sarrin caught herself staring and looked away.
“Good enough for whatever you have planned for today.”
Leove laughed once. “Pain score, I’m here to check on you. Then I’m sure you’ll want to go check on Cordelia and the engines.”
“Pain’s fine,” Kieran said.
“Really?” Leove flicked him in the shoulder