

Paladin Hill

Issue 1.

Origin

Paladin Hill

# Issue 1.
# Origin

Sam K. Gordon

Copyright © 2019 by Samuel K. Gordon

The author asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available

from the New Zealand National Library

ISBN: TBC

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters,

places, dialogue and incidents are the product of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual

events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded,

decompiled, reverse engineered, scanned or distributed in any

printed or electronic form without the express written

permission of the copyright holder.

# About Paladin Hill

This is something I have wanted to do for a long time. What is now called Paladin Hill has been lurking in my mind since I was a teen (I'm now in my mid-thirties if that is any indication). It has been picked up, ditched, restarted, scrubbed and burnt so many times I've lost count. I wanted it to be my own foray into the world of comic books. My world to play in. My characters to bleed. I'm certainly no artist, and I certainly don't have the money to pay someone. With the rise of e-books it was a logical move. All I had to do was write the damn thing and get it out there. Scratch that itch and get it out of my system.

It's an ode to all the things I loved growing up (and still do). Larger-than-life characters fighting to save or condemn the world with superpowers, swords, gadgets and a blend of fantasy and science fiction. It has been a labour of love to finally unleash this work. The issues are done in bite sized, comic inspired chunks with each story arc occurring over three or more books. This origin story will be over three issues with a paperback will collecting them all once they've all been published.

Our press has a fledging Facebook page here where I'll post updates about new releases and art etc. We also have a newsletter here if you'd like to stay informed via email. Please consider subscribing as it really helps us grow our brand and ensure you're informed of our new releases.

Stay tuned.

Sam.

# Contents

  1. A Snake in the Capital Burrow

  2. Take me away.

  3. When the drugs don't work.

  4. Sleeping Giant of Idaho.

  5. Something is wrong with the boy.

  6. Talent exposed.

  7. The men and women of Atlanta.

  8. Convoy.

  9. Fugitive.

  10. Apologies.

  11. Run.

  12. In hostile territory.

  13. A new method.

  14. Death follows.

  15. Growing claws.

  16. Pay your dues.

# Chapter 1

A Snake in the Capital Burrow

The limousine pulled to a stop beside the Capital entrance. Two marines in formal dress stood at attention to either side of the closed elevator shaft, weapons held before them. They were hulking brutes, towering over normal men and women. Augmented with a cocktail of steroids, gene-therapy and bio-engineered implants, marines like these had turned the tide on the war with their Pro-Human feats of strength and ability. Kurniec should know, he had helped create them.

And that was the problem.

The iris of the elevator telescoped open and the limo pulled forward onto the waiting platform. Kurniec looked at the nearest marine as he passed, attempting to recognise the soldier, and wondering if this man knew who was in the car. He felt like a sort of fatherly figure to them. He had birthed them anew, moulding them into what they are now. This particular marine, however, was younger, so unlikely a veteran of the war. His batch had been more refined, more stable. Men like him were not the reason Kurniec was being dragged to the Capital for a private hearing. It was their forebears - the rushed and required Mark Ones.

The hypocrisy irked Kurniec no end. Congress had begged for an answer to the overwhelming numbers and sophisticated weaponry the A.R.C had deployed. He had delivered in spades, giving the United States and her allies the greatest creation in bio-engineering, bar none. They were more than just super soldiers. They were the next step in human evolution. Now the war was over, these insects, these hypocrites, they demanded answers?! They thought to reprimand him? They had another think coming...

He watched the elevator descend through the tinted windows of the limo, his mind going over the cost of building a structure so large and deep underground. The platform slowed to a comfortable stop. Floodlights illuminated the underground cavern. The limo crawled down a paved tunnel wide enough to fit an armoured tank brigade. Light glared back at him from the white washed concrete walls as they passed parked cars and military vehicles. Soon the limo stopped by another checkpoint. The driver wound down the dividing window.

"Wait for me here," said Kurniec.

The driver nodded and raised the window. "Follow me," said Kurniec, turning to the other passenger in the car. "Try to keep yourself inconspicuous. The pocket trump is only useful if the rest of table is unaware, or some such. I never did like five hundred..."

The boy blinked at him, his unsettling eyes as dull and emotionless as the glass eyes on a doll. "As you say, Uncle."

Kurniec repressed a shudder. He opened the door and made to get out, pausing to turn to the boy. "You understand what I require of you once we are inside?"

The boy rolled his eyes.

"Of course. Of course," said Kurniec. "I forget sometimes."

He slid out of the sleek limo and walked to the barred security door, adjusting his immaculate navy suit and practising his best smile. More Pro-Human marines stood at ease. The soldiers watched him approach, their calm demeanour belying their superior cunning and ferocity. Using these men to guard a post was like using a tank to watch a dog-door — absolute overkill and potentially dangerous.

Kurniec grunted. They turned a blind eye on his creations when it suited their purposes.

A guard stationed beside the entrance left his security booth. He wore the black suit of a Treasury agent and the removable Tac-piece and R.F implant of the services. He was a child compared to the stationed marines.

"May I see your I.D, Sir?"

Kurniec sighed. Everyone on the planet knew who he was. He fumbled in his pocket for the government issued badge, then passed it to the guard.

"Thank you, Sir. This is current," said the guard, handing the badge back after scanning it with his optics.

The blast door cranked open, exposing the foyer of America's Capitol City, a multilevel bunker housing all branches of the executive office and military. Wooded pathways and floral gardens surrounded a central column which raised several stories above and below the current floor level. A wide concrete path stretched from the blast doors to its heart of steel and glass. It was perhaps one of the greatest feats of structural engineering ever performed. Part of him hated it. His rivals had won the contract, using tech his marines had stolen from the enemy no less. He wasn't lost to the irony.

He strode forward, leaving the guard behind before he could raise an objection to his nephew. It was best to move fast and not draw attention when hiding the boy. Men and women enjoyed the artificial sunlight and scrubbed air of the gardens around him. He recognised some of them as senators and members of congress. He walked as fast as he dared, hoping to avoid meeting anyone of note. As he approached the glass doors of the Resolution Tower, he spotted some journalists waiting covertly to the side, perhaps hoping to catch him or one of the House members unaware. His meeting had been announced publicly but it was a closed session. He kept his head down, focusing on where he was going. At the automatic doors he risked a glance sideways. A female news anchor was staring straight at him, her face a mask of confusion. Kurniec sighed in relief. The boy was good.

There was another security station inside, staffed by men and women in black suits. The Pro-Humans were kept outside it seemed, as you would treat a dog. Kurniec signed in the registry.

"Through the scanner, Sir," requested a battle scarred agent, the Tac-piece hiding severe burns to her head. They were likely due to Plasma, technology the A.R.C had experimented with on the battlefield.

Kurniec walked through the full body scanner, the agents watching him intently.

Eat it up, he thought as he smirked.

His nephew followed through the scanner, the agents looking anywhere but at him.

"If you would follow me, Sir," spoke the female agent, extending a hand in the direction of the wide, tiled stairs. She escorted him up one level to the new House of Congress. They walked down a corridor that overlooked the Congressional Chambers and artificial gardens outside. At the end of the circular corridor was a series of private rooms. She stopped at one and knocked.

"Come in! We've been waiting," came a surly reply.

The agent opened the door for Kurniec, her lips compressed in a thin line.

Kurniec and his nephew walked in. Hostile and friendly faces greeted him. Arrayed along a rectangular table sat five men and women from the Select Security Council. Several aides stood in the back holding files and yawning. Kurniec smiled at Congressman Holmes, the one man in the room that might be on his side. He had some skin in the game, as he had voted on the original bill. Whatever happened, it would be interesting to see how he acted. Kurniec sat at the waiting table and chair, set at a distance from the congress members. His nephew took his position in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Kurniec held up a hand to wait.

"David, thank you for joining us," said Holmes.

The other congress members made a range of faces, expressing their own feelings.

"As you know, this is an informal meeting, and we thank you for taking time with us to get to the bottom of this... particular problem," said Holmes, casting a wary look at the man sitting beside him.

"It is not a 'problem'," spat Congressman Reiner, "It's a grade 'A' disaster! How did you not know about this David? You must have known this would happen?"

"Could you be more specific, please?" asked Kurniec politely.

"You fucking know what I'm talking about, you smug little shit!" shouted Reiner, jabbing a finger at Kurniec.

"Don is referring to the reports of... 'super-powered' children, David," said Congresswoman Alvarez, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Which reports," replied Kurniec spreading his hands. "I haven't seen anything official."

"Please, David... We're getting it up to here in our own districts," said Congresswoman Klein, raising a hand to her throat. "You must have seen footage of these teens. It's been all over the news. Kemprex must know what's going on?"

All five members stared at him intently. Kurniec looked at each one, scribing the details of their expressions to memory.

"We have been doing some research of our own, yes," replied Kurniec.

Reiner leaned forward, his skin turning a brighter shade of red. "And? What did you find Mister Kurniec?"

Kurniec leaned back in his chair. "We have found that indeed some of the offspring of our Mark 1 and Mark 2 'Super Soldier' programs have exhibited signs of inheriting altered genes from their parents. The test group has been too small, however, to pinpoint any specific conclusion."

"Kids are fucking exploding into flames, Kurniec! How do you explain that?" shouted Reiner.

Klein put a hand on his shoulder, attempting to calm him. "It is more than inheriting a little strength or resistance to cold weather, David. These kids... these teenagers can do some very strange and extraordinary things."

"I'm aware."

Reiner shuffled some papers on the desk before him, a gesture which seemed like the flexing of his muscles. "I have some numbers I'd like to go over with you, David. The Mark 1 series of the Pro-Human program had how many inductees?"

"Let me check my bank account and get back to you."

"Thirty thousand and change. How many do you think survived the war?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure you're going to tell me..." grinned Kurniec.

"Stop dicking around, David. This is serious," warned Holmes.

Kurniec wiped the shit-eating grin from his face. "The stability of the Mark 1 soldiers had a seventy three percent success rate. The casualty rate of the Mark 1's was around fifty two percent. That would leave approximately ten thousand survivors from the war."

"And how many do you suppose had children?" asked Alvarez, her fingers knotted together.

"Does it look like I'd know that?" said Kurniec, rolling his eyes.

Alvarez shot him a steely gaze. "Homeland puts a figure of approximately sixteen thousand. And those are just the just those sired by Mark 1's."

"That is a lot of children, David," said Klein. "A lot of dangerous children."

Reiner leaned forward. "And what about the other generations?"

Kurniec shrugged.

Alvarez let out a long sigh. "Approximately sixty thousand children have been sired by Pro-Humans."

"That may be true, but only those sired by the first two batches have unstable genes. The Mark 3's are rock solid," said Kurniec.

"And why is that?" replied Alvarez.

Kurniec leaned back in his chair. "When President Adams came to me, we had already been trialling a program. The results weren't as impressive however. He wanted something that could destroy the enemy, not merely survive longer. Time was short, but we had the foundations. The Mark 1 soldiers were developed and shipped off to Europe and Asia. While stronger than the following generations, the artificial organs we implanted were not perfect. This was improved in the Mark 2's with a sacrifice to their general strength and size. There was still a high failure rate, however. We hit the nail on the head with the third and final generation, removing a particular gland that was causing issues and fine-tuning the altered gene sequence."

Reiner slapped the paper on the table. "Is there any risk that our current generation of Pro-Humans will spawn these monsters?"

"No, not according to our tests and research," replied Kurniec.

"So, you have been conducting your own tests?" asked Klein.

"Of course."

"And..." prompted Reiner.

"And we want answers," replied Holmes, giving Kurniec a level stare. "It took someone five minutes to connect these kids to the Pro-Human program. The press and Justice are talking and the noises are not good, not to mention the vitriol coming out of the Senate and House."

Holmes looked to his fellow members before carrying on. "There are going to be inquiries and hearings for months if not years on this."

Holmes stretched back in his chair, his gaze falling away from Kurniec. "Everybody is looking for someone to blame, David. You and your company are the obvious choice."

Kurniec looked to Holmes, one of the men who had championed him a decade or more earlier.

The others looked at him expectantly, perhaps waiting for him to break down and beg for a deal. He would never beg.

"The government of the day signed a contract. President Adams pleaded for me to do something," said Kurniec, his voice rising. "We were losing. I delivered the Pro-Humans. My program turned the war around. Now that it's over, that it is safe, you turn on me? You want to make me responsible?" Kurniec barked a bitter laugh. "I will drag each and every politician who comes after me down. I have the resources."

"Don't you threaten us, you arrogant shit!" yelled Reiner, thumping the desk with his hand.

"Don!" snapped Klein. "Keep it clean!" She turned to Kurniec. "Listen. Nobody is blaming you, David. But we need answers. The press demand answers. What can we expect from these 'Super Kids'? Are our Pro-Human troops safe? Will they develop a third eye or tentacles?" she said laughing.

Nobody else shared her brevity.

Klein dropped her false smile. "We need to know what we are facing, David. Do we need to take every Pro-Human's family into custody? Is there a cure?"

The House members looked at him, waiting for a reply.

"Is there a cure, Mr Kurniec?" asked Holmes.

Kurniec shook his head.

"God-damn it" snapped Reiner. "I knew you couldn't help!"

Alvarez leaned forward. "This is not good, David. We will have to proceed with formal hearings... perhaps sooner than we hoped."

"Kemprex's share price will drop if you even hint at a hearing," growled Kurniec, his hackles rising.

"That's not our problem," replied Reiner.

"I was granted immunity by President Adams..." said Kurniec, slamming the table.

Alvarez shook her head, turning to her aide and signalling her over. "Someone needs to pay. The people demand blood."

Kurniec snapped his fingers once.

The aide stepped forward, folder in hand. She paused midway across the floor, her face going blank.

"Jessie, the papers, please?" asked Alvarez.

Jessie dropped the folder to the floor, scattering paper across the carpet.

"Jessie! What's got into you?"

Alvarez looked to the other aides. They had all frozen in place, their eyes blank. "What is happening?"

Kurniec tapped his finger on the desk. "There won't be any investigation in to me or my company."

"You are full of it if you believe you can simply buy off or control any member on this panel, Mr Kurniec," said Klein.

Kurniec smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I'm not buying..."

"We will bury you, you arrogant shit," snapped Reiner. "We have..."

Kurniec snapped his fingers again.

The congress members slumped over one by one, Reiner garbling a strange cry as he was cut off. Kurniec stood and stretched his back. He looked at his nephew who stood hunched over in the corner, breathing heavily.

"Can I talk to them?"

"Yes," panted the boy.

"Will it have any influence?"

"Yes."

Kurniec smiled and approached the catatonic congress members, removing a letter from his pocket and placing it on the table. "I have here my company's official response. You will take it as gospel. It outlines my proposal to capture and contain the children affected by the Pro-Human programme. It will be heard on the floor. This inquiry shall disappear. I will not be prosecuted or indicted in any court."

He looked at his nephew.

The boy nodded. "I may need to... remind them in the future. They will obey for now, however."

"Good. I'm proud of you," said Kurniec.

His nephew rolled his eyes.

"Do you have the names of the others? I want this issue gone."

The boy bowed his head. He swayed from side to side as he probed the minds of the congress members. "I have them."

"Then you know who to see next."

His nephew nodded, wiping at the sweat on his brow with his sleeve.

"I'm going home," said Kurniec straightening his tie. He gave one last look at the stunned House members. "We must prepare for our new guests."

# Chapter 2

Take me away.

"I'll never do it."

"Why not?"

"Mom won't let me," replied Connor meekly.

"Boy, you are a real pussy!" said Joshua, slugging Connor on the arm. "First you chicken out on that fight with Mark, now you admit your mom is the boss? Pfft!"

Connor fumed silently as the larger South African put his arm around him and shook him. He was much smaller than his friend, heck, he was smaller than almost everyone. A guy like Mark — a six-foot-something football jock that could bench-press two Connors simultaneously — could knock him into next week. Connor wasn't a coward, he was smart not to fight. Right?

Henk stepped closer to the poster, tapping his finger on the heroically posturing infantryman, staring off into the distance, rifle resting on his muscled shoulder. "What's wrong with this? Is your mother a commie sympathiser?" asked the Dutch boy.

"Mom is no closet Red." snapped Connor. "She served her time on the front. Did either of yours?"

Joshua and Henk looked at each other. Connor winced. Both had lost family. Joshua shook his head, mumbling something in Afrikaans.

"They are doing a good thing, you Americans," said Henk, trying to move the conversation along. "My family would like to return one day. We want to rebuild and reclaim, as much as anyone else."

"Just think, you could go to Holland and watch Henk build his house all crooked," laughed Joshua. "Big gun and smart uniform... You'd get all those Dutch girls left behind. Just offer them some rations and a bar of chocolate!"

"You shut up!" said Henk, feigning indignation.

Connor sighed, fantasies playing in his mind briefly. "It's a tad desperate to join the military just to get a date."

"Better than dying a virgin," cackled Joshua, nudging Connor.

"Dude, shut up..." said Connor looking up and down the crowed hallway to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation - his fellow Boise Central classmates walked by in animated conversation, uninterested in what he and his friends were up to. A younger girl nearby gave him a strange look but it may just have been a reaction to his own wide eyed expression. His secret was safe for now.

"They're still rolling out the Mark 3's, boy," said Joshua, slapping Connor on the back. "Imagine your scrawny ass all buff and shit... You'd get all the girls... or boys if that's your thing."

"Yeah," agreed Henk. "Those dudes are massive killing machines. No body fucks with a Pro and lives."

"My dad was a Pro-Human," said Connor. "I've seen the photos of him next to mom."

"Gee, the apple fell far from the tree, didn't it?" smirked Henk.

Connor ground his teeth and flipped his friend off. The truth hurt. His dad had been a towering hulk of a man, according to the few photos he had. Connor was all skin and bones, as uncoordinated as he was unfit. Even if he wanted to join the army he would need to fluke the fitness test.

He heard dozens of different accents as they threaded their way to the exit. British, Irish, Spanish, African, French, Indian — they were all here in little old Idaho and more. The refugees had helped fill the vacant cities and towns in post-war America, taking the jobs the locals didn't want to do or sometimes couldn't. Places like Boise were cultural melting pots — heartland cities that had been forgotten and passed over for generations were suddenly a hot destination for foreigners. It created tensions with the locals, yes. But it also breathed life into a dying and empty countryside which had given so many citizens to the war.

It felt kind of weird that most of his friends were foreign. It was just a fact of life in an American city to be a minority if you were born there. That wasn't the case in the suburbs. Those that stayed or survived, fled to the safety of the quieter neighbourhoods. Suburban black, white, Latino and Asian Americans kept together. The communities they lived in were almost exclusively American. It was the new class divide — Old American versus New American. The politicians and state media claimed it wasn't true. All it took was a look at the difference in funding between the two. The suburbs had better roads, better services and better schools. The city was packed to capacity, running on infrastructure that was decades old. The one thing they did have in the city was better food. The suburbs had burger joints — they had every cuisine you could imagine. The cultural melting pot had obvious benefits when it came to culinary inspiration.

Many of these refugees wanted to return to their homelands. The joint effort to clean up and rebuild was a slow process however, and American businesses and military were relied on for all the heavy lifting. For some countries, such as England, it was impossible, the nuclear contamination too extreme for rehabilitation in this generation or even the next. America had her own wounds too. The East coast had almost been wiped from the map and the desolation wrought through Alaska had left it a wasteland.

Kids like Connor had few options at their disposal in terms of higher education. Hope like hell you won the college lottery or join the military. If you didn't have the right connections, a mundane, low wage job disassembling wartime scrap was probably on your horizon. Connor's family didn't have a lot of money and his grades weren't scholarship material. Realistically, that left the armed services — an option he would avoid given the choice. His parents were both veterans — his mother a medic, his absent father a soldier. Denise never talked fondly of the war. She painted a picture that was bleak and terrifying. There was no mystique or glory in her infrequent tales. Connor knew she had seen terrible things. He doubted he could muster the courage to do half of what she had described.

Connor spotted the muscled form of Mark and his cronies hanging out by the front doors. Connor winced and bowed his head, concentrating on watching his feet. Somebody clucked like a chicken as he walked by. He felt a spike of anger — tempered with the knowledge of his own impotence should anything occur.

"There's the pussy," said Mark, pointing out Connor to any who would listen. "Where are you douches off to? Going to fondle each other behind the nearest alley?"

Mark's friends laughed. The crowd seemed to dissipate around Connor, Joshua and Henk as they sensed the impending violence. Some watched eagerly from the fringes, cameras ready. Connor kept his eyes down, away from anyone who might be looking at him. He wanted to do something. To say something witty and cutting. He froze instead.

"No. We're going to take turns fondling your mom," said Joshua casually.

Mark stepped forward, face red and fists clenched.

"Do you want to join us?" asked Henk. "There's plenty of her to go around."

"I'll fuck the three of you assholes up," snarled Mark. His posse edged closer, creating a solid wall of jock.

Joshua started swearing in Afrikaans, something he usually did when angry. Mark and his crew seemed ready to jump.

Connor really didn't want to get punched. He grabbed Joshua and Henk and pulled them away. "Come on. You don't want to hurt these guys," he babbled, voice breaking. He pulled them through the leering crowd blocking the door before anything further could happen. Mark yelled insults. Others called him a chicken. He could barely hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Joshua and Henk pulled themselves free from Connor's grasp. They emerged through the open double doors into the wane sunlight of an autumn afternoon. Tall res-towers ringed the skyline, the soft grey of their concrete and dirty windows almost blending in but for the glaring LED screens at their peaks that acted as both adverting and warnings lights for straying gyros. A handful of teachers and students fought against the current, early for the evening program. His school was open twenty-four-seven, running three different streams of classes in one day. It was extreme but necessary for many urban schools to cope with the high influx of students.

Joshua shook his head, clearly angry at Connor and what had just gone down. "The fuck was that?"

"Mark being a dickhead. Nothing new," replied Connor.

"You chickened out again! With us!" said Henk.

"We could have done something!" agreed Joshua.

Connor breathed deeply, thinking. "They would have ruined us. There was way more of them..."

"It's better than looking like cowards in front of half the school, bro," said Henk.

Connor looked at the ground. "Fuck! Sorry! Next time I'll let my ass get beaten."

"God... I need to take my mind off this bullshit," said Joshua, craning his neck to the sky. "You guys want to cut loose?"

Henk shrugged. "As long as I'm home by eight. My aunt freaks out if I'm not home an hour before curfew."

"V.R death-match?" suggested Connor.

"Boring," sighed Joshua. "We can do that at home anytime."

"Whatever... You're just scared of another ass kicking," replied Connor.

Joshua looked at him askance, nodding his head thoughtfully. "Oh, I'm afraid of an ass kicking?"

"Are you forgetting what just happened?" asked Henk, pointing back towards Mark.

Connor glowered at Joshua, his argument dying on his tongue. He knew he had nothing concrete to come back with, just hollow boasts.

'Thought so..." said Joshua.

"Fuck you," snapped Connor.

"That's better!"

Henk held up a hand to silence them. "Hey, shut up! I've got a message from this girl I know. She wants to hang out." He was staring straight ahead, his eyes reading messages on his expensive E-Contact lenses. "We should all go. She probably has friends and gear. She's a real party animal."

Joshua rubbed his hands together. "Now that is a plan I can get behind. Where are we going?"

"...She's at Fort Boise Park..." said Henk, concentrating on the text in front of him.

"That's a little... shady," said Connor, trying not to sound scared.

Joshua chuckled. "Of course you would say that."

"It's only a short gyro away," said Henk. "I can shout you a ride."

"What about 'IG 6' or 'The Reyes'?" asked Connor, naming the only two gangs he knew of.

"They don't come out during the day. Often..." said Joshua, slapping Connor on the back. "You've got to get over your fear of talking to girls, man."

Connor shook his head. "It's not that. I'm fine talking to anybody."

"It's done. Gyro is coming," said Henk. "We've got five hours until curfew and no school tomorrow. I plan on making the most of it."

Henk pushed his way through the crowd, making for the nearest taxi platform. Joshua motioned for Connor to go. Connor sighed and followed. Punk and Rock 'n Roll were making a come-back after a decade long hiatus. Connor saw a few groups of kids dressed in the style, their dark leather and denim popular again. They stood in contrast to the brightly coloured vinyl and synthetic craze that a good portion of the school still wore. Connor was still rocking thrift shop finds and military surplus.

Joshua caught up with Henk, sliding a long arm around his shoulder. "So who is this girl, my friend?"

"I met her last week at Sweat Junction. You two were busy working, if I recall. We danced all night, amongst other things..."

Connor felt a stab of jealousy. Henk always seemed to glide through life without any effort. Girls and parties were the top of his priorities. He seemed to find his way into both of them every alternate day.

Joshua scratched his chin. "How'd you get around the curfew?"

"My aunt was working that night. I stayed in the club until the morning. The bouncer didn't even check my fake I.D," laughed the Dutch boy, leading the way up the ramp to the gyro stand. A bright yellow gyro descended from the sky onto the waiting platform, the current from the multi-fans tussling the boy's hair. Henk opened the sliding door, gesturing for his friends to enter. Joshua climbed in eagerly. Connor hesitated for a second.

"Come on, Hill," smiled Henk. "It will be fun, I promise."

Connor nodded and slipped inside. Henk got in and closed the door.

The gyro's interior had two double seats facing each other, just big enough to fit four people. It smelled of body odour and cigarettes but it was clean.

"Where are you gentlemen heading to," chimed the A.I pilot.

"Fort Boise Park," said Henk.

"Right away," replied the A.I.

The cab's fans accelerated, their roar increasing until the artificial baffles kicked in, cancelling the noise. It lurched into the air, ascending to the correct altitude and joining the public air-lane. Joshua leaned forward, hands on his knees. "You said she had friends. Are they pretty?"

'We will see, buddy," replied Henk, sitting back with a big know-all smile on his face.

Connor stared out the window as the others talked about girls, parties and mind altering substances. It was a common topic. Connor couldn't relate to them on many levels as alcohol and drugs did nothing for him. Try as he might, drinking, smoking or snorting had no effect. He was awkward enough as it was without being able to cut loose and imbibe some artificial courage. Nobody had noticed it yet, as Connor always found a way to leave the party early, before anyone could see him stone sober. He assumed he just had a good metabolism.

Skyscrapers both old and new filed past, gyros hovering around their lofty peaks like honey bees. The tall buildings stopped by the river's edge. Ahead were the tenement buildings built post-war to house the influx of refugees. It was a rougher neighbourhood, sure, but it had its benefits. The best food halls and dance clubs were found in these darker, more confined streets, products of the mixed and varied cultures that inhabited them. Drug use and violent crime were higher here, orchestrated by a number of youth gangs. Many of the groups were real or imagined imports from overseas. They clashed with each other and the stronger local gangs, who had a head-start and better contacts. The curfew was largely in place to target those crews which used hordes of unemployed youths. In the gangs they had the prospect of making good money and the offer of brotherhood and safety. It was little wonder there were so many kids playing gangster.

The park where they were heading was in the centre of this tenement zone. It had been hotly contested by the various mobs. The wars had ended in a stalemate, making it an unofficial neutral area to meet and trade. The skate park was usually crowded with bored youths looking for cheap entertainment. Low level drug dealers often plied their wares amongst the visitors — nothing serious enough to get the attention of the cops or gangs. He hadn't heard of any serious injuries here lately. There was always a first though...

The gyro started to drop.

"Are you listening Connor?" asked Joshua.

"Hmm?"

"Henk was saying this girl is into some freaky shit. You're not going to pussy out are you?" said Joshua, gripping Connor on the shoulder. "Don't make us look like fools, right, Hill?"

Connor cast a glance at the hand on his should then back at Joshua. "Does it matter?"

"People talk," explained his friend. "If you look bad, we look bad by association. Don't make us look bad. I haven't been laid in weeks."

They measured each other up over a long stare. The chime of the A.I broke the silence.

"We have arrived at your destination."

The gyro rocked as it set down on a raised landing pad overlooking the park. Henk raised his hand to the watching scanner.

"How much?"

"Twenty four dollars U.S, please."

"Ok," he said, revealing an R.F bracelet.

The A.I scanned the Henk's bracelet. "Your transaction has been processed. Have a good day gentlemen."

"Follow my lead, 'gentlemen'," said Henk smiling.

# Chapter 3

When the drugs don't work

Henk led the boys through the busy skate park. Graffiti covered every solid surface in a dizzying display of colours and styles. At this time of year, the park seemed like it was dying. The unkempt grass withered to brown and the naked trees were robbed of their foliage. Patches of mud and puddles of water collected in every dip and corner. Connor watched out of the corner of his eye, wary of gang members wanting to make trouble. Groups of teens stood together, smoking E-Cigs, watching those skating. Nobody seemed to be wearing gang colours. Connor sighed in relief.

"She's just up here," said Henk, pointing to a stand of leafless trees.

Joshua was buzzing with anticipation while Henk seemed buoyed with smug satisfaction. They walked through some bare trees to an open clearing, where two girls sat on a tree trunk facing each other, hoods hiding their faces. Smoke hung above their heads in the calm of the grove. The sweet scent of the decaying leaves mixing with the pungent smell of tobacco. Henk whistled loudly. The girls turned to face the noise.

"Hey! I brought my friends," said Henk walking up to the girl wearing a dark red hooded sweatshirt. Henk pulled back her hood and planted a passionate kiss on her waiting mouth.

"Hello, babe," said the girl, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Henk and the girl continued to kiss. Connor stared at them with a jealous hunger.

Joshua closed in on the other girl. "I'm Joshua," he said, thrusting his hand at her. "Henk didn't say he knew so many pretty women..."

"Sara," replied the girl, shaking his hand.

"Is that a French accent?" asked Joshua.

Sara nodded.

"Um... Très bien. Ravi de vous rencontrer," said Joshua, putting on a fake accent

"Nice to meet you, too," replied Sara.

Henk and his girlfriend stopped kissing, wrapping their arms around each other as they giggled. "Sorry, boys. Excuse my manners. This gorgeous creature is Claudia."

Claudia waved at the others. "Hi, boys."

"The awkward one at the back is Connor," said Henk shrugging, his eyes locked on Claudia.

Connor realised the two girls were staring at him. He smiled nervously at them and tried to act more relaxed. Sara laughed and turned to Joshua who had sat almost uncomfortably close by her on the tree trunk. Claudia and Henk started making out again. Connor looked away, trying to find something else to focus on.

"What are you girls up to?" asked Joshua.

"Just relaxing and planning our night," replied Sara.

"Really?" asked Joshua. "Are there any parties planned?"

Sara shrugged. "Maybe. We shall see..."

"What about the curfew?" asked Connor, shuffling closer to the others.

Sara giggled. "It's fine as long as you don't leave until the next morning. Have you never had a 'shut- in' before?"

"There are many things Connor hasn't tried," said Joshua, nudging Sara.

Sara and Joshua laughed.

Connor's face went beat red. "Whatever..."

"Nice come back, Hill," said Joshua. "Are you having a 'shut-in' tonight, Sara?"

Sara picked up her phone. "That was the idea. We're waiting on the address. They don't send the invites out until an hour before they open. Sometimes the cops shut them down. Wait and see I guess..."

"Oh, that reminds me," said Henk, coming up for air. "Did you score any gear, babe?"

Claudia slid out of Henk's embrace, a coy smile on her lips. She picked up a child's backpack. "What's your poison?"

"Damn! What did you get?" asked Henk, wide eyed.

Claudia opened the bag and shuffled through its contents. "A little Lace. Some Smooth. Two points of Kett..."

Henk reached for the bag to inspect it himself. Claudia held it away from him. "Noooo... Where's my payment first?"

Henk gave her a hasty kiss.

"Nice..." said Claudia. "But that doesn't pay my bills."

Henk laughed and dug into his pockets, bringing out a wad of plastic bills. "How much for the lot?"

Claudia thought for a moment. "Three spot for the whole bag."

Henk handed the cash over without a qualm. Claudia snatched it from his hand and started counting.

Connor blinked. It was more money than he made in a fortnight. Henk just wasted it all on a bag of drugs like it was nothing. Connor looked to Joshua, one finger pointing at the stash of psycho-actives. His friend was really trying to pour the charm onto Sara who seemed happy with the attention.

He walked away, suddenly finding himself very jealous of his friends and uncertain of the whole situation. It was obvious that he would be the fifth wheel in this party. He was tempted to just walk home and be done with it.

"Hey, Connor! Did you want to try some Lace or what?" shouted Joshua.

Connor saw the four of them sitting along the tree trunk, sharing a vial of Lace. Henk was blowing a thick plume of vapour in the air, his eyes glazing over. Joshua was giving him a stern look, one hand on Sara's knee. Connor bit his lip, thinking. He had tried Lace before. It hadn't done anything for him. If it helped to restore some points with his friends it was worth it. Maybe.

"Yeah," replied Connor, walking back.

Henk handed the vial to him. Connor inspected it in the light. "Is it any good?"

"Like you'd know?" scoffed Joshua.

"It's pretty mellow stuff," said Sara. "Good to relax with."

Connor raised it to his lips. "Okay..."

He breathed deeply, inhaling the scented vapour. A sensation of warmth washed over him, starting in his lungs and radiating outwards. He breathed out, the tension he had been holding in his body releasing. "Wow..." As he swayed side to side he could feel the effects wearing off.

"You okay?" asked Claudia, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep," replied Connor, taking another hit. He exhaled and repeated, a childish need to impress the others overcoming him. The radiating warmth had become a torrent. He lost himself in the sensation cascading through his mind and body.

"Woah! One is enough, dude," said Henk, snatching the vial from his limp hands.

Connor tried to grab it back but stumbled forward and hit the ground.

He heard laughter. Somebody flipped him on his back and slapped his cheeks. The pain didn't register, like it was happening to someone else. Connor giggled and reached for the lights dancing in the sky.

He woke up, his body in a cold sweat. He shook the last vestiges of the drug from his mind and sat up. The sun had almost gone down and this part of the park was virtually pitch-black. He heard the sound of people making out. Claudia and Henk were on the tree trunk several metres away from him, engrossed in each other. He assumed Joshua and Sara had gone elsewhere.

Claudia saw him stand, steadying himself against the trunk. "Are you okay, Connor?"

"I'm fine," he replied.

Henk turned to him, red eyed and ashen. "You survived!"

Connor nodded back at him.

"Are you going to come to the club with us? Joshua has phoned his sister and told her he is staying with me tonight," said Henk, slurring his words.

Connor shook his head. "I have to work early in the morning."

"Go straight to work from the club. You can do it..." said Claudia. "Come dance with us."

Connor's envy of his friends reared again, and for a second, he thought he could do it. Go to a club and find a girl...

But no.

He knew he would waste the night, standing in the corner, unable to talk or move — an awkward observer in a room of debauchery.

"No. I had better get going," said Connor, shaking his head.

"Your loss," replied Claudia before kissing Henk.

"Do you need money for a cab?" asked his friend.

"No," replied Connor, perhaps more hotly than he intended. "Keep your money. I can walk."

Henk shrugged and got back to business with Claudia.

Connor picked up his fallen backpack and left, his face burning red. He felt like a fool. Hanging out in dodgy neighbourhoods and taking drugs, all so he could meet girls. Or at least his friends could. He kicked at the fallen leaves on the ground.

Lamp posts illuminated the skate park. Most of the skaters had left. A few groups sat around smoking and drinking. They watched Connor walk by, sizing him up. Connor prepared himself to run. He heard laughter but nobody accosted him. A police gyro flew overhead, patrolling the perimeter of the park before disappearing toward the tenements. Connor reached the sidewalk and headed north. Trucks and cars passed him, their headlights bathing him in yellow light. Drones flew above the sidewalk, trailing neon advertisements on flexible LED sheets, while above them a stream of glittering gyros left the city for the suburbs. Few people walked the streets in this neighbourhood after dark. Those that did eyed him warily and kept their distance. Many of the shop fronts were empty, their windows boarded over and the graffiti of the competing gangs vying for space.

His phone buzzed - a message from Joshua.

Where did you go?

Home, replied Connor.

You won't get the girls unless you turn up...

Connor ignored the last message. He was sick of his friends pestering and pressuring him. They were trying to involve him in their entertainment, and he appreciated it to a degree. He just wanted to do things on his terms. He opened the map application on his phone, checking how long it would take him to walk home. He had about two hours until the curfew. His route would take about two and a half if he walked. He was going to have to run to make it. Connor sighed and slipped his phone away. He started jogging, tightening the straps on his school backpack as he went so it didn't flap around. He had always dreaded anything physically demanding. Especially sports that involved running. Perhaps it was the discomfort, or how ungainly he looked doing it.

Several blocks passed without difficulty. He was usually breathless after several hundred metres.

"Is it the Lace?" he said to himself

He sped up, pushing a little harder. His body responded without issue. Connor whipped down the sidewalk at a sprint, stopping only for the occasional pedestrian crossing. He expected to develop a stomach cramp or his lungs to give-in. His chest felt fine. In fact, he felt powerful. A smile crept across his face, impossible to ignore. He hollered and cheered, confusing those nearby.

He arrived home within an hour, walking the last few steps up to the front doors without faltering. He paused to breathe the cool night air in, marvelling at how well he felt. Future possibilities stormed through his mind. "Maybe I can get a scholarship after all" he whispered to himself as he jogged up the stairwell to his family's apartment, navigating the flights of stairs without a problem to the sixth floor. It was an older building from before the war. While it was run-down, the occupants kept it relatively clean of rubbish and graffiti. The lifts were a different story. Some animal used it as a toilet. Connor avoided it when he could. At his door he punched in the code and slipped in, the electronic lock buzzing until it latched.

"Who's that?" came his brother's voice over the competing sounds of death metal and a V.R game. His younger brother was almost taller than him, a fact which annoyed Connor no end. They were complete polar opposites. Connor was slight of stature, nervous, plain and pale. Avery was solid, charming and handsome with a dark coffee complexion. They looked and acted so dissimilarly it was hard to believe they were brothers.

"Me," replied Connor.

"Did you bring dinner?" asked Avery after a pause.

"What do you think?" said Connor, dumping his bag and coat in the hallway. He walked into the tiny lounge where his brother stood, visor over his head and plastic controllers held in his hands as he turned in a tight circle, shooting at V.R enemies. Shoot'em ups were fine, in Connor's opinion. They all had the same government sanctioned vibe, however. As though they were still a conditioning tool to desensitise the younger players to the horrors of war. The second gen games had helped the U.S armed forces achieve a higher acceptance to kill amongst its new recruits, boosting it from below twenty percent to somewhere in the sixties for all shots fired. Guns were fun. But swords and sorcery were more satisfying, scratching that fantasy itch he'd always had after watching re-runs of the rebooted Star Wars trilogy at an impressionable age. He'd far rather swing a melee weapon in V.R, cleaving hordes of Orcs or faceless galactic grunts in twain, even if it did look dorkier to the observer.

"I think you brought me dinner," said Avery, clicking his controller with every syllable. "Otherwise you have no excuse for being out so close to curfew."

"I was with my friends."

"You have friends?" asked Avery with feigned shock.

"Says he, that does nothing but play games every chance he gets," scoffed Connor.

"I only play games when I'm home, because it beats talking to you." Avery paused his game and tipped the visor back to look at his brother. "And what were you doing with these friends so close to curfew?"

Connor frowned. Taking drugs in a shady park like an idiot...

"Hmm?" pestered Avery.

"Just hanging out, you know."

"I don't... Enlighten me."

Connor walked out of the lounge. "I can't talk to you when you're like this. I'm going to make something to eat."

"Hook a brother up, brother," said Avery, unpausing the game.

"As you command" sighed Connor.

# Chapter 4

Sleeping Giant of Idaho

Something sinister was afoot. A rotten smell assaulted Connor's nose, waking him from his sleep. It wasn't the first time that morning.

"Can you stop farting, dude? My head's right here!"

His brother laughed. Connor raised a foot and kicked the lump shaped depression in the spring mattress above him. Bunk-beds were a hazard at the best of times - doubly so when a walking bio-hazard of a brother slept above you.

"Ow! Chill, dick!"

"Every morning! Every fucking morning!" yelled Connor, aiming another kick at his brother's back.

"I'm helping you get up... Ow!" replied Avery, laughing.

Connor rolled over to check his phone. "Some fucking help" he moaned. It was five to six in the morning. Five minutes before his alarm went off. Avery's ass ran on schedule it seemed.

"Was I right?"

"Shut up," snapped Connor, throwing back the blankets. "I hate you so much."

He lay staring at the mattress above him, the gears in his brain still engaging, searching for the fortitude to get out of bed. The lingering smell was too much however. Connor swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He picked up his phone, using its light to find his uniform. Pieces of it had been scattered across the floor, more or less how he had left it two days prior. He performed the obligatory smell test. The shirt was a little fresh — nothing a spray of deodorant couldn't fix. He fished out some clean socks and drawers from his cupboard.

Avery turned over, pulling the blankets over his head.

"You getting up?"

"No school."

Connor rolled his eyes. "You need to get your ass a job then."

"Whatever. I'm going back to sleep. Have fun mopping floors," replied Avery, yawning.

Connor flipped him off and stomped out of the room. In the hallway he paused, checking to see if his mom's bedroom door was open. It was closed, indicating she was home after a shift at the hospital. Connor grimaced and changed tack, tip-toeing down the hall to the bathroom. He shat, showered, shaved and dressed himself in his pale green polyester uniform. A liberal spray of deodorant and some product for his hair, he was ready to face the day. Almost. He inspected his face, running a hand over his light brown skin.

"No zits. Not even a bump," he said, smiling at the thought of his unfortunate brother.

Black hair, slight build, brown eyes, agreeable face. He was nothing to write epic poems over. The other, more exotic boys at school got all the girls — like Henk and Joshua. He was plain old Anglo-Latino. He was a dime a dozen compared with the French or Italian studs roaming the halls. He sighed to himself.

"Can't polish a turd, Hill. Lipstick on a pig would do better."

Connor crept back out into the hallway, grabbing some protein bars from the kitchen for breakfast before leaving their apartment. It was a drab pre-war block well past its prime. Half of the windows didn't open, and every room could have used remodelling a couple of decades ago. It was not the kind of place you brought a date home to, not that Connor was drowning in a proverbial sea of girl. He wouldn't dream of bringing anyone home, especially if his brother was in. Avery went out of his way to embarrass him at the best of times.

"You have to find a girl first," he moaned to himself as he walked down the cold concrete stairwell. Connor had stopped taking the elevators as they seemed to have a mind of their own. That and they smelled of piss. Best not to risk getting stuck in one this early in the morning.

It was a chill morning in Boise. Frost stuck to the handrails and patchy grass outside the apartment block. Connor shivered a moment, breathing in the musty, wet smell of the city and breathing out plumes of foggy breath. The cold feeling slowly dissipated as his body adjusted, until it was little more than a nuisance. He wasn't sure why he wasn't bothered by the cold compared to others, unlike his mother. He just dealt with it a lot easier. Connor placed ear-buds in his ears and selected a playlist on his phone which matched his mood. He settled on a trusty playlist of punk and metal classics. He strode down the stairs with hands in his pockets and into the street, heading downtown to the military hospital where he worked on his days off from school. His mother, Denise, had thrown in a good word for him. The pay was peanuts, as you'd expect for a first job, but it helped pay the bills and kept him busy. Other kids his age weren't so fortunate to find a job. At least that's what he told himself as he mopped up blood or puke from the floor.

Traffic was already building at six thirty in the morning. The mass exodus of people for the industrial complexes outside of the city or the decommission fields which fed them. Private buses picked up workers for this company or that mega-farm. Connor kept his head down, avoiding looking at the depressed and bitter adults around him. His lot in life could be like theirs, working jobs which should have been replaced by robots decades earlier. The global economy was so weak at the moment it was cheaper to hire real people again. Bye-bye guaranteed basic wage. Hello indentured slavery. His only hope of escape was wining a scholarship to higher education. Connor hoped his grades would get him into university — one of those fancy ones on the West Coast. Vocational college was more likely, but even then he was up against stiff competition. He had broached the subject of joining the military and receiving an education through them. Denise lost her shit at that.

"The military is not a family, Connor. It's a machine. They won't take care of you. They'll break you down. They'll remove everything that makes you who you are. They don't want people. They want weapons — killing machines. I lost your father to them. I won't lose any of my boys."

Connor knew the armed service was a touchy subject. He hadn't realised how much of raw nerve it was for his mom. His father had been a marine in the navy. That's how he and Denise had met - on the frontline of the European theatre. His dad was a taboo subject. Connor knew little of him and his memories were sparse. His mother had obliterated almost every reminder of him from her life but for Connor and Avery. Connor knew he was regarded as some kind of hero, but the files were still sealed. A buddy from his dad's unit had visited after the war had ended. Connor couldn't have been more than three or four years old at the time. He remembered the regard the soldier had for his dad. It was bitter-sweet, knowing that he was a great man, but never knowing for himself.

A car honked its horn. He had almost walked into traffic, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts. Connor waved an apology. The passenger flipped him off. Connor gave her one back. He hit the pedestrian crossing button and waited as dozens of people queued up around him. He thought about Henk and Joshua. If they had gone to the party as they planned, they would probably be on their way home. Connor wished he could ease up and go with the flow sometimes, just like his friends. The drugs and alcohol they insisted on taking at every opportunity put him off though.

The walk-light flashed green, releasing a horde of people onto the road. Connor threaded his way through the incoming traffic of pedestrians, his eyes down to avoid looking anyone in the face. He carried on like this, for several blocks, passing factory workers dressed in bright neon coveralls stamped with logos and business men and woman dressed in real cotton suits, small holographic buttons proudly displaying their rank within the company they worked for. Bright LED billboards tried to sell him American made electronics, cars and consumables in a constant reminder of the fight against the neo communist religion which had started the war. Beggars lined the way huddled in blankets, some wearing the uniform they had served in as they panhandled for change. It upset Connor that so many heroes had lost everything after the war and that the government refused to do anything of value about it.

At the corner of Fifth he paused to look across at his high-school. Teachers and students finishing off the night shift were filing out. He scanned the crowd quickly but couldn't see anyone he wanted to talk to. He bowed his head once more and turned east, walking the remaining two blocks to Boise General.

Sirens snapped him awake. An ambulance-gyro escorted by two police on air-bikes tore through the sky, their flashing lights painting the still dark street with red and blue neon. All three landed on the Emergency Room docking pad. Several media drones followed, buzzing around the unfolding scene. A mirrored transport-gyro glided overhead. It hovered above the same platform for a moment before turning around and flying away. Connor wondered what was going on to warrant so much attention. Somebody important must have been injured. He quickened his pace.

"I've got to see this," he said aloud.

More police were inbound. Several squad-cars pulled up in the emergency parking bay. Officers in full body tactical gear got out of the sleek armoured cars and filed into the building. Medical staff stood transfixed in shock, watching the faceless police push into the building.

"What's going on?" shouted Connor over the din of the wailing sirens.

"I don't know," replied an E.R nurse, watching the scene unfold with a mix of awe and hostility. "Some corporate official was hurt badly, as far as I'm aware. It doesn't explain why we have so many damn cops in our ER, though!"

Connor nodded his thanks and walked through the sliding doors. Boise General was built post war, meaning it was functional, performed at what it needed to do but was done on a tight budget. The green vinyl floors always looked filthy, no matter how hard he mopped, due to the cheap coating which easily scuffed and took on embedded dirt. All the walls were preformed panels of the same off white. They were easy to wipe down but hard to repair. The maintenance staff got creative hiding the gouges and dents with strategically placed posters and pot plants.

The police were positioning themselves at the entrances and exits leading to the second floor where the aerial ER unit was. Connor approached the police guarding the triple set of elevators.

"Can I go down to maintenance?" he asked, his voice breaking at the sight of the armed officers.

The closest policeman turned to regard him. Connor's own scared reflection staring back at him. "Go away, kid. Nobody is using this lift."

Connor nodded and shuffled away, his knees shaking. He cast a glance over his shoulder before turning down a different corridor which led to the next ward. Panicked and angry staff went about their duties, keeping their distance from the police presence. Connor joined a queue of like-minded staff heading in the same direction to circumvent the police's cordon. He overheard some of what the others were saying.

"...almost bled dry..."

"...treating him for nerve toxins. I haven't seen shit like that since the war..."

"...who gets a fucking police escort these days...?"

"...I'd hate to see the other guy..."

Connor heard a commotion behind him. Three gurneys pushed by some harried, blood-soaked paramedics were thundering down the corridor towards him and the clogged elevators, surgeons and nurses in tow.

"Out of the way! Move it!"

Connor and the others made room for the medics and their charges. Connor winced as the bloody, torn bodies wheeled past. Entrails spilled from a writhing man's stomach. It took every ounce of will to stop from vomiting everywhere. He closed his eyes until the gory convoy had passed. The men had been dressed in private security uniforms. Connor assumed they were the VIP's security team. There had been a combination of gunshot and blade inflicted wounds. He dreaded to think of who was capable of doing such a thing.

"Keep these lifts clear for emergencies only!" shouted a senior surgeon, her face red with anger. "Fucking cops have blocked the E.R elevators until further notice!"

The gurneys made it to the elevators followed by the curious and bitter staff who wanted to ask questions. Connor split off from the main pack for the stairs. He walked downstairs to locate his manager and clock in. The images of the security guards played through his mind. You saw a lot of disturbing things working in a hospital, even as a part-time cleaner. Car or gyro crashes were often the worst. It never got any easier for him.

It was quieter away from the constant chaos of the E.R ward. He passed other cleaners and maintenance staff whom he knew, giving them casual nods and greetings. He knew most of them by name but he had a feeling they didn't know his, nor really care. He was just that kid who turned up to help sometimes.

The next level smelled of hospital food and disinfectant. The kitchen occupied over half of the level. Connor had rarely been in there as they had their own cleaning staff. He dodged a trolley on its way to deliver breakfast to one of the wards.

"Elevators may be full," he called to the assistant.

"What? How am I meant to get up to level three?" replied the woman with a German accent.

Connor shrugged. "Cops have locked the place down. Just saying..."

She ignored him and slapped the call button. Connor left her, walking several doors down the hall to the duty manager's room, removing the ear buds before his boss could see them. Kim sat behind the desk this morning. He looked up as Connor entered, the headpiece obscuring half of his face.

"Hey, Hill. You on today?"

Connor nodded and waited by the door.

"Get your gear and head up to the maternity ward. Rooms six and eleven need cleaning ASAP. We've got more expectant families waiting to get in."

"Sure thing," said Connor, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

Connor stopped halfway out. "Yes?"

Kim seemed to go cross eyed as he read the information on his Tac-piece. "Do you know what is going on upstairs? I'm getting a memo that the north elevators are off limits."

Connor shrugged. "I've heard that some V.I.P got injured. There are a bunch of cops in body armour holding everything down."

Kim nodded. "I'll try and find out some more." He turned from Connor to stare at the wall. "I thought we had left this kind of shit in the war. It was common for a while to read about some top level scientist or official being taken out by agents from the East. It spurred on the camps... Even for those of us who had been born here..." Kim shook his head, dismissing his past. "Just do what the police say. Don't give them an excuse to lock you up."

"Sure thing, boss," said Connor, leaving.

The storage room was next to Kim's office. It was a decent sized room, large enough to house several rows of shelving holding the various chemicals and spare equipment the cleaners and maintenance staff required. They had a set of chairs and table set up near the sinks they used to fill their mop-buckets. Windows at ground level gave it natural light and an opening for the workers to sneak a cigarette during their lunch break. Connor grabbed the nearest trolley and dragged it over to the sink to fill the bucket. He popped the ear buds back in his ears as he waited, whistling along to the tune. As he turned off the faucet, cold metallic hands gripped him by the mouth and across his chest, pinning his arms and tearing the earbuds out.

A flat voice spoke softly, all human emotion scrubbed clean by the cheap vocal speakers of the user's helmet. "Are you alone?"

Connor's body shook, his sensibilities failing him. What the fuck was going on?

"Are you alone?" repeated the unknown assailant, gripping his arm painfully.

Connor shook his head as much as he was allowed.

"Where?"

Connor pointed in Kim's direction, his hand shaking.

His assailant spoke, the language alien or perhaps modulated to be unrecognisable to his ears. A dark, sinuous shape moved towards Kim's office.

"Which way to the aerial emergency rooms?"

Connor pointed in the same direction.

His head was yanked backwards. The dark, full faced visor of an A.R.C Phantom filled his vision. He had read about the coalition's stealth unit at school. The skeletal masks were designed to terrify their enemies. He was certainly shitting his pants. The Phantom studied him.

"Show us."

The Phantom released the grip around his throat. Something sharp pricked him in his lower back. Connor whimpered in pain.

"Quiet, now. Lead the way or die."

Connor blubbered a reply, snot and tears streaming down his face. He wanted to run, but his legs shook like jelly. The Phantom propped him up as they walked out of the maintenance room and into the hall. They passed Kim's office. Another Phantom stood in the doorway, partially obscuring Kim's slumped body and the brain matter blown across the back wall. Connor stifled a cry.

A woman pushed through the double doors to the kitchen, her head bowed down as she pushed a heavy trolley. Before he could warn her, a silenced weapon discharged, blowing her head clean open. Connor closed his eyes as she fell to the ground. A cold calm overcame him. In that moment, he knew he was going to die. His initial fear was replaced by something else — something more calculating and angry.

"Which way?" asked the Phantom holding him.

"Through the door and up the stairs," replied Connor, his voice broken.

He risked a glance at the other A.R.C agents. The camouflage pattern on their full body suits was disorientating and difficult to focus on. He had counted four. Were there more? They frog-marched him through the swinging door and up the stairs. He heard footsteps and hurried chatter above him.

"Please don't..." he entreated.

The Phantom holding him shifted to grip his jaw. "Speak again and I will spill your stomach," he whispered through the vocal unit.

Connor nodded his head and closed his eyes, allowing him to go where his captor desired. He felt the other Phantoms creep forward to take up a vanguard position ahead. They climbed four flights of stairs to the second level.

"Which way?"

Connor paused. They could go the long way and double back around to the E.R. Or he could go left, taking them straight to the north elevators, and hopefully the waiting police.

"Left."

The A.R.C soldiers pushed through the door in a blur. He heard screams and muffled gunshots as they mowed down those waiting nearby. Connor felt violently sick and started to gag. The Phantom didn't pause though, heaving him through the door and over the bodies of fallen patients and co-workers. The soldiers cut down anyone in their path, painting the hallway crimson. Connor tripped over the dead or dying as the Phantom dragged him, the cries of terror and pain crushing him.

Tears leaked from his closed eyes. Shame and guilt overcame him. Was he responsible for their deaths? Would they have died if he hadn't told them where to go? Would Kim have died if he hadn't been there?

His foggy, fear laced thoughts were cut short as the Phantom paused. Connor felt the man press the barrel of a gun against the nape of his neck. He gasped. This was it.

The A.R.C agents conferred in their strange language, each watching in a different angle down the eerily silent corridor. They were huddled by the last set of doors which led to the next ward and the north elevators. They seemed to be arguing over something. The Phantom holding Connor shook him and gestured with his weapon. The others removed the silencers from their machine-pistols and reloaded, throwing the spent magazines on the floor.

"Go then," said a Phantom, in English.

His captor nodded and hauled Connor through the door. A dozen paces away stood two police officers stationed by the elevators. The closest officer was dropped with a burst of automatic fire from a machine-pistol. He was thrown backwards by the explosive shells, his tactical armour shredding. The torn body smashed against the stainless steel doors of the lift as the remaining cop dove for cover. Gun fire punctured the hallway, tearing holes in the floor and walls.

Connor screamed, his voice drowned by the percussive crack of firearms and the boom of Mini-Ex. His senses fought to register what was happening. Partially blind and deaf from the gunfire, he was marched forwards.

He didn't see the police return fire from their position ahead. The sound of their gunfire melded with the ringing in his ears and the bark of the A.R.C's machine-pistols.

Something kicked his chest, knocking the wind out of him while his arm was wrenched away. He was pushed forwards, propelled by a wave of force. Time seemed to slow as the pain kicked in. He felt a sense of clarity and serenity wash over him, even as the horrific ache in his chest, back and arm increased. Connor opened his eyes in time to watch part of his missing arm bounce off the wall, spraying blood and viscera all over the corridor. One small part of his mind dreaded having to clean it up.

He fell to the floor.

# Chapter 5

Something is wrong with the boy.

His arm ached. It felt like snakes were writhing around his bicep, lapping and biting simultaneously. It was also numb from the elbow down. He opened his eyes, searching for the offending animal. The bright hospital lights hurt him, making it hard to see. He tried to move but his left arm and chest were restrained. His right arm, the one that hurt, refused to move at all. Had he been thrashing about in his sleep? He turned his head as far as he could. Clear plastic sheets surrounded his bed. There was a hiss of gas and the air smelled sterile. The room was windowless and barely furnished. It appeared he was in isolation or quarantine. Why was he alone? What had happened?

His mind was fuzzy — his recent memories just a blur of emotion and fleeting images.

He had been scared. That was all he could remember.

Why was he in isolation?

"Hello?" he croaked, his panic rising. "Can anyone help me?"

He fought with the bonds restraining him. "Help!"

As he twisted and fought to sit up, the door opened. A figure dressed in a sealed bio-hazard suit stood in the doorway regarding him.

"Why am I here?" asked Connor, shaking his handcuffed hand. "What happened to me?"

The figure studied him silently. Connor waited, his patience waning with every passing second. Without a word, the figure left the room and closed the door.

"Hey! Help me!" yelled Connor, fighting the bonds holding him. He arched his back and bucked. The strap across his chest burst. Connor wriggled up the bed until he could sit up a fraction. He looked down at his aching arm. Blood red tendrils sprouted from the stump above his elbow, connected to the jagged wound of his forearm. As he watched, a new tendril sprouted from his bicep and snaked to the torn arm. The thin filament latched on and started to grow. The pain increased, as if the raw nerves were reconnecting. It was a horrifying and alien sight.

Connor found his wits and screamed.

The wound didn't bleed openly. He could see every fibre of muscle, sinew and bone. The pain increased. The fingers on his right hand twitched.

Connor screamed again.

The door to his room opened. A serviceman entered, a rifle at the ready and a tactical mask covering his face. He took a position in the corner of the room, his finger hovering above the trigger. Another two people entered wearing full bio-hazard suits, only their eyes visible above the mask's respirators.

"You need to calm down, Mr Hill," said the first suit.

"What is happening to me?" yelled Connor hysterically.

"You need to calm down. You will only make it worse."

"Worse than this!?" screamed Connor, nodding to the freak-show on his arm.

The suit pointed at other. "Sedate him now."

The other pulled out a syringe preloaded with a clear fluid, whipping the protective cover off and inserting the needle into the I.V line. Connor writhed in pain for several moments until he felt a chill run through him. He eased back on the bed, panting. He wasn't sure who these people were. The first suit was staring at Connor's wound. The other walked around to check on his charts and inspect the medical equipment hooked up to him.

Connor looked at each of the people in the room in turn. "Will one of you tell me what is happening to me? Where am I?"

"We have no idea," said the first suit. "You haven't left Boise General, yet."

"How did this happen?" spat Connor.

"You were injured in a gun fight between local P.D and an unidentified group of terrorists," said the suit with a note of caution in his voice. "When you were found, you had been hit in the chest and arm with Mini-Ex rounds. The nurse who found you thought you were dead, but when she tried to move you, she discovered these... things growing," said the suit, pointing to his arm. "They were sucking up the blood. Part of the dead terrorist had been digested. Amazingly, your chest healed right in front of her. Then... those things went looking for your missing arm."

Connor didn't believe what he was hearing. These things were inside of him?

"What are they?" he asked, voice breaking.

The suits exchanged looks. "We are not sure," said the other, a woman. "It is nothing any professional this side of the world has ever witnessed. It may be a mutation or the effects of some kind of virus employed by the A.R.C."

Connor bowed his head. "What does this mean?"

The male suit cleared his throat. "We don't know. Your case has been referred to the C.D.C. They will determine what happens to you."

Connor went silent for a moment, his thoughts mixed with raw emotion. "What about my family? Can my mom visit me?"

"She has," replied the woman. "We had you on a strong dose of general anaesthesia. So strong, you weren't supposed to wake up..." she said, checking the intravenous line and drip.

"Please help me," begged Connor. "I want to go home."

"You and everybody else who came into contact with your blood have been quarantined until further notice. It will be up to the leading C.D.C agent to determine when that will happen," said the male suit.

Connor slumped back down in his bed, tears forming in his eyes.

"Listen, Mr Hill. I wish we could help you more, but our hands are tied. Is there anything we can do?

"Can I see my mom?"

"We will contact her," advised the woman.

"I'm starving," added Connor, noticing the hollow pit in his stomach. "It takes a lot out of you, growing an arm and stuff..." he said, failing to laugh.

The suits looked at each other. "That shouldn't be a problem," said the woman. "He needs more saline and plasma. Those new bags have been sucked dry already."

The two suits left, whispering to themselves, leaving the armed serviceman to guard him.

Connor studied the soldier. He was dressed in a seamless military outfit, the kind they wore on active duty in hostile environments. All black and armoured with a sophisticated poly-carb weave. They were almost bulletproof, hence why so many forces used Mini-Ex.

"I'm not a threat, you know," said Connor.

The soldier ignored him, his finger never moving from the trigger guard.

Connor sighed.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think about his arm. The pain was growing however and the terror he felt played in a loop through his mind, alternating between the A.R.C and the thought of being infected with an incurable disease. After a short period of time the door opened once more. A different person entered, protected with a blue bio-hazard suit. They pushed a metal trolley in. I.V bags of blood and other fluids sat beside a plastic meal tray, the food covered with a lid.

They stopped the trolley beside Connor, outside of the plastic film.

"Connor, sweetie, it's me."

"Mom?" asked Connor, sitting up.

Denise nodded. "I came as soon as I could."

She studied him, almost deciding whether to run or stay. Finally, she unzipped the plastic liner and wheeled the tray inside.

"Mom? What's happening to me?" sobbed Connor, reaching for her with his chained hand.

Denise clasped his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. "I'm not sure son. But I know you will be fine. You always are."

"Have you seen this?" urged Connor. "I'm a fucking freak!"

Denise hushed him and bent down to cuddle him - an awkward task in the bio-suit. Denise waited until the boy had stopped crying. "It may be strange, son. But think for a moment. You are alive. It is healing you. This may be scary, but trust me, it is a blessing in disguise." She pulled back to stroke his face, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I was a front-line medic. I saw what Mini-ex could do to a person. The lucky ones died in an instant. The unfortunate ones bled out. You survived, Connor. Think on that."

Connor calmed down. "But..."

"What?"

Connor looked at his arm. "What if it does more than heal me? What if it consumes me?"

Denise patted his chest. "We have the best minds in the world. It won't come to that."

Connor nodded his head.

"Good," said Denise. "Now, I'm in here for another reason... three in fact. Let me take care of your fluids, then I'll come right back."

"Okay. Do what you must," said Connor.

As his mom went back out of the plastic seal, Connor sat up and looked at his arm. A hollow pink tube stretched out, searching for a point on the forearm to latch onto. The colour of his severed arm seemed to change. Connor felt weak. He gagged and closed his eyes.

Denise hooked the intravenous bags up and did her own checks on his charts. She came back inside of the plastic seal with a darkened brow, muttering "They gave enough drugs to stone a horse," before sitting down and cutting Connor's meal up on her lap. She raised a spoon to her lips, blowing on it before remembering she had a full face mask on. "Are you ready for the aeroplane?"

"I'm not a baby, Mom..."

"You will always be my baby."

"Just don't make the noise..."

Denise grinned and made the sound of a propeller plane. "Open wide..." Her spoon drew near Connor's mouth, who was struggling to stop laughing while keeping his tough façade up. Connor ate with vigour, demolishing the cottage pie in mere moments.

"Geez. You were hungry, weren't you? I wish you ate the food I made like this..." said Denise, shaking her head.

"How is Avery," said Connor between the last mouthfuls. "Have you seen him?"

Denise sighed. "I haven't. We spoke on the phone after the attack. He's worried about you. And me, I suppose. The whole hospital is a crime scene. Those animals killed..."

Denise paused, her lips trembling. She raised her hand to rub at her tear filled eyes but the mask prevented her. "So many of my friends died... So many good, innocent men and women... They were slaughtered by those A.R.C bastards."

The deaths of his co-workers hadn't even crossed his mind. Connor felt like a piece of shit, laying there complaining about his relatively minor problems. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Don't be sorry, baby," said Denise, sniffing. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I kind of did," replied Connor, feeling a hollow pit of remorse grow in his mind. "I told them where to go. I told them where Kim was."

She grabbed his hand. "You did nothing wrong, Connor. You were a hostage. They would have murdered you regardless of what you did. I've seen what the A.R.C is capable of first-hand. Terror and wholesale slaughter were their calling cards. You were lucky to survive."

Connor winced and squeezed her hand.

"Now... How about dessert?"

"Is it Jell-O," replied Connor behind a grimace.

"You need to eat all of your food if you want to be a big boy..."

Connor groaned. It was good to have her by his side, even if she did crack bad mom jokes.

# Chapter 6

Talent exposed

His sleep was broken with nightmares of masked, violent men torturing him, interspersed with waking moments of dread and uncertainty. Denise had left him to get some rest, leaving him alone with the silent soldier guarding him. The soldier may have been relieved by another, but he was too delirious to tell or care. Somebody else came in and took photographs. Connor could vaguely remember telling them to politely 'fuck off'. The pain in his arm was driving him insane. The drugs the nurses administered him only took the edge off for a few minutes. Connor woke again, sweat beading on his forehead. His wound felt like knives were being scoured down the length of his arm.

"Fuck!" screamed Connor, startling the soldier.

He writhed on the bed, fighting back an urge to rip the offending limb off.

"Call the nurse!" he yelled.

The soldier dropped his wall gazing to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"I need some more drugs! This arm is killing me!" yelled Connor.

The soldier stepped forward to inspect him. He pressed the call button on the wall then stepped back to resume his position. Connor closed his eyes and tried to distract himself, counting to ten over and over. Someone in a bio-hazard suit entered after what felt like a lifetime of pain.

"What's wrong," asked a male voice.

"The pain is unbearable," sobbed Connor. "Can you give me something?"

The nurse checked on his medical chart. "You've already had more than your safe dosage of morphine for the next couple of hours."

"Is this normal?" cried out Connor. "Just give me something! Please!"

The nurse gazed at his arm, transfixed by the sight before looking Connor in the eye. "I'll need to talk to my supervisor. You wait here."

Connor rattled the handcuff. "I was going to go for a quick jog around the block, but, sure, I'll wait."

The nurse pursed his lips and left the room.

"God..." muttered Connor, kicking his legs on the bed.

He waited in agony for minutes with no sign of help. He checked on his wounded arm. It appeared as though the bone was growing, from both the bicep and the severed forearm, reaching toward the other in slow motion. He could feel each fibre and thread of the bone as it grew. He closed his eyes and focused his anger in an attempt to cut through the pain, seeking sanctuary within his mind. The discomfort was still there but buried beneath that feeling was something else. The glacial growth of bone and tissue, drip by drip. There had to be a way of out of this. He breathed deeply, praying this agony would be over soon. A thought came to him. What if the snail's pace of growth was sped up? Could he force it to work harder? He laughed at himself despite the pain. "Stupid idiot..."

A voice in his mind chided him back, the voice of reason and self-doubt. Your severed arm is literally growing back. How do you know what you can do?

"Maybe I can," Connor conceded to himself.

How would he do it? Could he force the slow drip to become a river? He concentrated on the stump, tentatively searching the active processes occurring under his skin. He flexed at what he could only describe as the movement of matter toward the wound. He applied a force to it, urging it move faster. He felt a swelling within his arm, bringing an increase in pain.

"Hurry the fuck up..." he said, breathing heavily. "Move goddamn it!"

"The nurse will come when they're ready," said the soldier defensively.

Connor ignored him, channelling his rage into controlling the healing of his arm. He pushed with his will, exerting a pressure on the bone. It grew by a fraction faster. Connor cried, partly in pain but also satisfied it was working. He started to shake and groan as he exerted more of himself into the process. The severed bones stretched out at a snail's pace. An ache developed throughout his body deep within his bones and muscles along with a feeling of whole-body fatigue. He gasped at the realization that by forcefully healing his arm he was actively taking material from other body parts, stripping them, cannibalising them by his own efforts. It scared him but he didn't dare stop.

"Come on!" he shouted to himself.

"They're coming as fast as they can," reprimanded the soldier.

"I'm fixing my fucking arm. Will you fuck off?" snapped Connor.

The soldier came closer, stopping at the plastic dome. "Holy shit. How are you doing that?"

"Shut up and let me do it," said Connor, his face beading with sweat. The severed humerus joined, melding together like hot plastic. Connor gasped and fell on his back, breathing heavily.

The soldier eyed him warily. "That is fucking scary, son."

"Still hurts," blurted Connor. He lay staring at the ceiling, recovering from the ordeal. Amazement and revulsion tumbled through his thoughts. Growing back an arm was terrifying. Controlling it however... It sparked another, darker thought. What was wrong with him? Was it a gift or a curse?

"I'm calling the nurse again," said the soldier.

Connor nodded in reply. He felt drained. He felt hungry. He looked at the multiple I.V bags hooked up to him. They had been drained empty.

I must be using every drop to heal myself, he thought. I'll need more if I'm going to heal faster.

The door burst open. The same male nurse appeared suited up. "What's going on?"

"He just re-grew the missing bit of bone in his arm," said the soldier. "Kid was screaming his head off doing it."

The nurse stood outside of the plastic wrap, looking at Connor. "Holy Mother of God..."

"I need some more blood," said Connor. "And food. I'm hungry again."

The nurse went over to investigate the infusion pump. He checked the bags and the digital face on the pump. "Why is it going down so fast?" He picked up the empty blood bag, checking the tube leaving it. Gasping, he turned on a wall lamp, holding the tube up to the light. "There is something in here!"

Connor sat up to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"There's something inside of the tube... it's red and furry." He said, turning it over in his hands. The nurse dropped it, suddenly horrified. "What are...?"

He stared at Connor. "Are you doing this?"

"I have no control, man," replied Connor. "It must be... subconscious or something."

The nurse looked at the soldier then back at Connor. "I'll get some more fluids."

"And food?" asked Connor with a note of hope in his voice.

"I'm not feeding you," he replied coldly.

Connor felt stunned. The guy was looking at him with a face full of revulsion. He slowly backed away from Connor to a safe distance then suddenly bolted for the door.

"What about my mom? Can she help me?" called Connor with a note of desperation in his voice.

The nurse didn't reply. He pushed at the door, retreating as fast as his shaking legs could take him.

Connor sighed and settled back on the bed. He couldn't blame the nurse for overacting. Hell, he'd probably vomit all over the floor and run away screaming if he saw this happening to someone else. He closed his eyes and shifted his focus back to healing. He could feel the process happening, much as you knew your fingers or toes were moving when your brain told them to. It was more of a reflex than conscious thought. He didn't understand which piece was which or what its purpose was. He hoped his body or subconscious could deal with the minutia. Now that he was focused on how his body was feeling, he could also sense the thing inside of the I.V line, sucking up the available fluids. It scared him that his body could make something so unnatural without him realising. He turned his mind back to the wound and the slow transference of matter. He resumed the pressure on a group of muscles, kicking the healing into overdrive. The hollow pain expanded in his chest and his breathing became laboured. Connor stopped his mental push. Was he out of fuel? Had he stripped too much from his healthy bones and organs? He closed his eyes, trying to distance himself from the agony.

Denise returned bearing a trolley laden with supplies and some pre-made sandwiches from the canteen. Dark rings surrounded her reddened eyes. "Connor sweetie, are you okay? I came as soon as they woke me. These suits take a while to get into."

Connor looked at the ceiling. "I don't know... It hurts so much. But..."

"But what?" she asked, entering the sealed plastic tent.

"I think I can control it," said Connor. "To a degree..."

Denise went quiet. After an uncomfortable silence she reached for his hand. "Are you sure?"

Connor looked at the healed bone, partially hidden behind the growing muscle and sinew.

"Yes."

Denise worked her mouth, her face making a range of emotions. "That is..."

"Scary? Disgusting?" said Connor, finishing her sentence.

"It's incredible," she replied with a forced smile. "What can I do to help, sweetie?"

"I need as much food, blood and fluid you can give me," said Connor. "I think I need raw material to do... this," he said, inclining his head toward his open wound.

Denise bent over, the helmet of her bio-suit an inch from his face. "A friend told me that the C.D.C is on route. It has to be bad to get them involved. Can you heal yourself before they arrive?"

Connor nodded his head. "I'll do my best."

"I have a bad feeling about this, Connor. Something tells me you need to get out of here," she whispered. "Virus or no, they will want to study you."

A lump of ice slid down Connor's throat to wrestle with his heart and stomach. He would be an interesting addition for a lab, wouldn't he? Scientists would have a field day testing him. He looked at his handcuffs, rattling them slightly. Denise nodded and stood up. She looked at the soldier pointedly before moving out of the sealed tent to hook up Connor's replacement I.V fluids.

"So... Soldier, tell me," she said as she worked. "Which outfit are you with?"

"National Guard, ma'am," said the soldier.

Denise nodded her head. "You're not wearing your insignia. I thought you might be S.W.A.T or something."

The soldier shrugged. "They didn't have any Tac-Bio suits printed up when they called us in. It's typical with the Guard... Not that there have been any Bio threats in Idaho since the war. These are fresh off the assembly line."

"I see," said Denise, marking her notes on Connor's chart. "How many of you are in the hospital?"

"Two platoons here in Boise General," replied the soldier. "We're just here to back the P.D up after that attack. They lost quite a few men," he said, shaking his head.

"Do you know what happened, like for real?" asked Denise. "They won't tell us anything."

The soldier seemed to be easing up, probably enjoying the chance to talk after hours of boredom. "That V.I.P they were after got flown out of here by a pri-sec team. Pro-Human vets, stealth gyro, gunship, the works... The amount of hardware flying up there... Holy shit."

Denise whistled.

"Yeah. You ever seen one of those Pros? Fucking huge," said the Soldier, spreading his arms apart.

Denise nodded her head in agreement, her lips pressed into a thin line. "They sure are..."

"Anyway... The cops find only two dead bodies. These fuckers are dressed in old Phantom X2 stealth suits, like the A.R.C wore in Europe. No one knows if they're resistance fighters on a mission or mercenaries wearing illegal military tech... Security cams show at least four come in through an open window in maintenance, so two are presumed to be on the run. The whole city is in turmoil, I hear. Cops are going door to door searching for anything they can find. They've got drones watching every inch of the city, looking for these bastards..."

Connor tried to ignore the conversation and concentrate on himself. He could almost taste the plasma and blood as his body absorbed it, thirsty and eager for replenishment. The pain in his arm was a constant reminder. He took a deep breath and started. He poured every erg of energy into the healing wound, encouraging the pre-established developments to go faster, to take on more of the raw materials he was absorbing. The sensation was unbearable. Severed nerves reconnected in his arm, firing back into life, raw and soaked in pain. Blood began to flow in newly constructed veins. Translucent skin crept from the tattered and burnt edges of each stump, covering the exposed mesh of muscle. Connor uttered a penetrating howl of agony, his eyes rolled back into his skull and his body arched. Both the soldier and Denise were taken off guard by the sudden and terrifying sound.

"Connor! Connor!" screamed his mother, aghast at both the sight and sound of her son.

As the fresh skin hardened, an acute sensation started. A tickle in his arm spread outwards, enveloping him in an inferno of feeling. The blood sang in his ears beating to a rhythm both comfortable and harried. The wave rose to a crescendo. Every biological process was made aware. Every fibre and muscle in his body screamed for attention.

Connor hit the bed, twitching as his mind overloaded.

The computer screen washed the dark room in its sickly glow, illuminating the cigarette smoke hanging from the ceiling like fog and the pile of dossiers scattered across his desk. Yelich gave a bored sigh and clicked on the next file. So many of these kids had similar abilities. Super strength. Flight. Energy manipulation of some sort. All interesting on their own, but not in the context of their numbers. They only needed one or two from each group to experiment with. The rest could go on ice until the cure for the mutated Programmed gene was found — if, in fact there was a single or even multiple genes at fault. They had spent years developing a method of adding genes to a human body, the idea of spending more time removing genes almost bored him. Yelich yawned. Another girl with abnormal strength. He closed the file and opened another. There were so many kids to capture. So many to test. The applications for both the military and domestic markets were exciting to say the least. He just had to find the cream of the crop before they were all put away. The reports on the kids whose abilities had been confirmed or even suspected was a very small percentage. Still, he had several hundred files comprised by both local and federal authorities to go through. He was looking for those diamonds in the rough, those with something extra or new to study. His eyes scanned the screen quickly. Another strong teen, but this one underwent some kind of transformation. A little different. Yelich dragged the file into a folder marked 'Potential'.

He took a drag on his cigarette and opened a new file. A boy flagged by a hospital in Boise, in recovery after being gunned down in a firefight with police. "What is this doing here?" Yelich asked aloud, angry that something so innocuous would be sent to him. Then things became more interesting as he read further into the doctor's notes. The kid had survived a mortal wound to the chest and a severed arm. Witnesses described seeing something akin to feeding tubes leaving the kid's wounded body to feed on the remains around him. Not only had the chest wound healed, but the arm had started to re-attach. The boy had been quarantined in the hospital awaiting further testing to determine the cause of his bizarre healing. The doctor overseeing the case had requested the C.D.C's help who in turn had shared it with Kemprex due to the joint operation they were undertaking to secure the Pro-offspring. Yelich stubbed out his cigarette. This was the one he was looking for. He would kick it up to Kurniec immediately. Whatever happened to the others, he would have to get his hands on this kid.

# Chapter 7

The men and women of Atlanta

Denise sat in the hospital hallway, puffing on an E-cig as she stared into the middle distance. Smoking was a habit she had picked up in Europe during her first tour. It was a stupid habit with no discernible benefit. It had helped her to meet Bill though, so it wasn't all bad. The E-cig was a poor facsimile of the real thing, but it did help to take the edge off and she did have quite an edge.

Connor was mercifully asleep after that... whatever that was. His screams echoed in her memories, joining the chorus of those who had died on the battlefields and medical stations she had worked on. She had seen her share of blood and guts. A lifetime as a nurse had not prepared her to see what Connor had gone through. It was different when they were your own — doubly so when their plight defied both logic and sanity. She couldn't kiss him and lie that it would be okay. Something was wrong with him — horribly wrong.

She took another drag, blowing berry scented vapour in the air. Denise knew enough about the government and their contractors to fear what they would do to him. He was every bio-engineers wet dream. A boy that could heal himself from mortal wounds... Who wouldn't want a piece of him? She needed to get him out of this hospital, before anyone got to him first.

"Mrs Hill?" asked a woman's voice.

Denise almost jumped out of her skin. A middle aged woman in a black pant-suit stood over her, briefcase in hand.

"Yes?" she replied. "Can I help you?"

"I am Doctor Edwards from the Centre for Disease Control and Prevention," said the woman flashing an identification badge. "I'm here to help ascertain the nature of your son's affliction."

Denise looked from the woman's badge to the two men standing behind her.

Fuck.

She stood up, placing the E-cig in her pocket. Her thoughts raced. Should she beg? Should she act tough? Should she play along? Denise closed her eyes. Words failed her.

"Are you okay, Mrs Hill?" asked Doctor Edwards.

Denise shook her head. "It's all a bit much," she said, voice straining.

Edwards placed her briefcase on the ground. "I understand."

The two women measured each other up. Denise tried to shrug the worry and anxiety off. Edwards gave her a half smile.

"We're here to help him, Mrs Hill. There is no need to worry."

Denise repressed the need to chuckle. "I do worry. What do you plan on doing with him?"

Edwards pointed to her aides. "Take him and the others to a secure and safe facility where we can monitor them. We must first ascertain whether his strange affliction is contagious."

"The others have shown no sign of anything," said Denise.

"They haven't been tested by our scientists," replied Edwards. "The incubation period is an unknown factor."

Denise nodded distractedly as she chewed on the fingernails of her hand. "What if he doesn't have a disease?"

Edwards sighed. "That is what we need to figure out..."

"I haven't shown any symptoms," said Denise. "Neither has anyone at his school or any of the people in this hospital he works with."

"And we will monitor as many as we can, starting with all of those who came into contact with him immediately after his unfortunate accident."

"He didn't show any symptoms prior to... that morning," said Denise. "Does that mean you need to take my other son and me as a precaution? How about everyone he has had contact with over the last week? The last month?"

"We will make that assessment after our initial tests, here in Boise General," replied Edwards. "Please, take a seat. I have some questions, if you don't mind."

Denise stood for a moment, staring at the ceiling. "Okay." She sat down on the end of the bench seat.

Edwards took a notepad and pen from her jacket pocket, thumbing through the pages until she found a fresh one. "Now Mrs Hill, according to our file you have two children. Connor and Avery, yes?"

Denise nodded her head, her hand toying with the E-cig in her pocket.

Edwards ticked something on her pad. "You've stated that there was no evidence of anything out of the ordinary prior to your son's accident. Do you recall any other incident, anything where you thought he may not be an ordinary teenage boy?"

Denise looked at Dr Edwards askance. "What kind of fucking question is that? He's been a normal, healthy boy. He's always been a little small perhaps, but nothing overtly weird, until now."

"No feats of incredible strength? Burn marks on his clothes, anything like that?"

"No! What the fuck are you on about?" said Denise, shaking her head.

Edwards nodded and scribbled in her pad. "Did you notice the restraints on your son?"

"Yes. He's handcuffed to the bed."

Edwards leaned forward slightly. "How about the broken strap they had holding his chest? One of your colleagues said he snapped it."

Denise's mouth gaped. "I... don't recall..."

"Do you believe he is strong enough to break a..." Edwards paused as she flipped through her pad. "Strong enough to break a strap with a working load of fifteen hundred pounds?"

Denise shook her head. "He's tiny. He could barely lift his school bag."

"And yet he did," Prompted Edwards.

"These are some very odd and direct questions, Dr Edwards. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Edwards sat back, tapping her pen against the paper pad. "Yes."

"Will you tell me?" asked Denise, her anger rising.

"I see no harm," replied Edwards. "Have you been watching the news, Mrs Hill?"

Denise shrugged. "Not often. I work every hour under the sun and moon."

"So you haven't heard about the strange and outlandish tales of super-powered teens causing trouble across America?" asked Edwards with a strange smile on her lips and a tilt of the head.

Denise rubbed her chin. Was this woman serious? "I heard rumours. I thought it was just the independent media touting crazy conspiracy theories again."

"It is crazy, but they aren't conspiracies. There are kids that can literally fly and throw trucks at each other."

"And you think Connor may be one?" asked Denise as a feeling of dread wormed its way into her brain.

"Given his history and his current predicament, yes," replied Edwards.

"What history?"

"His father was a Pro-Human, was he not?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"All of our current evidence of 'super kids' points to the origins of their heritage. All of them had a Pro-Human parent," said Edwards, letting the information register with Denise.

Denise stared off into space. "What does this mean for my family?" she said.

Edwards moved a little closer. "I'm very sorry to say that we have been commissioned by the F.B.I and the Pentagon in a joint task force to find all children sired by Pro-Humans. They are to be contained until a cure can be found."

"So Connor doesn't have a disease?" asked Denise.

"No. But that doesn't mean that he can't hurt people with his... whatever he can do," replied Edwards.

"And Avery?"

"He will need to come with us too."

Denise had experienced some dreadful events in her lifetime, the lions share during the war. Stitching together soldiers blown apart by Mini-ex, treating plasma burns, watching officers die a lingering, painful death from poisoning, the constant shelling of Kiev... The thing that stuck in her mind the most, like some festering splinter, were the Pro-Humans. The initial Mark 1's were powerful, yes, but also prone to horrific side-effects. Sometimes the body would reject an organ or implant, creating a cascade of other failures. She had witnessed these warriors' decay on operating tables as their own bodies shut down or grow beyond their set limitations as defective genes spiralled out of control. The government had done these things to their own people, treating them as nothing more than lab rats. And it was happening again – to her family no less. She had to protect her boys.

"I see," said Denise standing. She took a long drag on the E-cig as she walked up and down the corridor. "I see..." She pulled her cell-phone from her pocket, and tapped on the screen.

"Your family will be safe, Mrs Hill. There is no need to worry," said Edwards. "We need to contain these children before they can harm themselves or anyone else."

"Uh huh," replied Denise absently as she slid her phone back into her pocket. "I need to get back to work..."

Edwards stood. "I need you to sign some forms first. They say you agree to our tests and release them into our custody..."

Denise started walking away. She had to get back to Connor and warn him.

"Mrs Hill? I need you to come back," said Edwards, rising to her feet.

Denise put her head down and walked as fast she dared.

"Hey, she's talking to you!" shouted Reeves, one of Edward's aides.

Edwards pointed at Denise. "Follow her and bring her back. We need these forms signed. Arrest her if you need to. You radio Karl. Tell him to pick up the other kid," she directed to the men accompanying her. Reeves followed Denise while Kippenberger pulled out a radio and walked a small distance away to contact the F.B.I agents waiting outside the Hill household.

Denise heard the agent call after her. She broke into a run down the stark white corridor, her shoes at risk of slipping on the polished floor. She dodged the few nurses and orderlies out on rounds this time of night. The agent followed, calling her name. Denise wept. The military had their hooks in her once again — pulling on the one thing she had left — her family. They would take her boys. That was a certainty. Would she see them again?

"Stop!" yelled the C.D.C agent.

She hoped Avery would obey her hasty text message and leave the apartment. It probably didn't make any sense to the boy.

Men coming for you. Run and hide.

She could only hope he bothered to check his phone. Denise ran as fast as she could in the direction of Connor's ward. They had moved all of the patients involved in the attack, including the doctors and nurses who came in direct contact with his blood to the children's ward, sealing it off with rudimentary quarantine procedures. She was meant to enter the area in a bio-hazard suit. She didn't have time to scrub and don the bulky outfit. Two national guardsmen in Tac-Bio armour stood at the entrance to the ward, assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

"Let me through," screamed Denise, motioning for the soldiers to stand aside.

One stepped back, seemingly surprised someone would yell at him. The other kept his ground and pointed his rifle at Denise. "This area is off limits to anyone without the correct safety gear, mam."

"Let me through!" screamed Denise despite having a gun pointing at her. 'I need to see my son!"

"Stop her!" yelled Reeves, catching up.

The guardsman caught Denise around her waist as she attempted to barge past, lifting her off her feet. She kicked and battered him with her fists. The guardsmen wrestled her away. She took a deep breath and shouted a loud as she could.

"Connor! Run!"

# Chapter 8

Convoy

He could feel everything.

Everything.

It was like going into a drug induced hallucination where one connected to the universe in naive pseudo harmony and understanding after a couple of tokes of Lace or perhaps a few E's — only worse. He could feel valves and sphincters and all kinds of muscles opening and closing, squeezing and relaxing. He felt a rush as blood oxygenated, only to cool and sour as it travelled through his arteries. He could almost taste the food and waste in his upper and lower colons. The giddy high of chemical breakdown and the creation of fuel — the entropy as cells degraded — he was connected to every part of his body in a way which left very little to the imagination. The overwhelming sensations threatened to shatter his already fragile mind. Connor didn't so much as sleep as lay paralysed under the sheer volume of information streaming through his brain. A small part of him fought, slavering and wild at the onslaught, knocking the data down and squashing it. He swam outward in mental strokes, a desperate attempt to leave his connection to the physical. Inch by inch he shut down, reverting to normal. At long last he rested, his mind and body both relaxing in true sleep.

He awoke to shouting and the sounds of frantic footfalls in the corridor outside. The posted soldier had aimed his rifle at the door until a brief radio conversation allayed his concern. Since then Connor had lain on the bed, mildly disgusted with the sensation of his finger nails and hair growing at glacial speed. The nurses had stopped coming. Perhaps they were afraid to see him. He would be, if the tables were reversed.

Connor lifted his healed arm, holding his hand above him as he twisted and flexed each muscle and joint. He was emotionally numb after the ordeal, too tired to feel anything of the wonder/revulsion rollercoaster he had ridden hours before. There was only one more thing to take care of.

He could feel the things in the I.V line. There were two — one in the plasma, the other in the blood. He couldn't see them from his position on the bed but he instinctively knew where they were and how far they stretched as you would know where your own hands were in the dark. He wanted them gone. They were a reminder of his abnormalities. Proof positive he was a freak. They were also surplus to requirement now that his arm was fully healed. If he could cut them off, he would.

He reached over and tugged at the bandages holding the I.V needle in place. With his finger nails he peeled the corner of the opaque plastic bandage up to expose the needle. He saw it. A lump had grown out of his skin, trailing a crimson coloured tendril which had pierced the I.V tubing. Did he dare pull it out? Rip it off?

He heard the soldier's radio squawk. He had almost forgotten the man was in the room with him.

"I understand. Send them in."

The soldier resettled into place, hands resting on the rifle hanging from his shoulder.

Connor pressed the bandage back down and pretended to sleep. He didn't feel like seeing anyone at the moment unless it was his mom. The door opened and someone shuffled in with the awkward, heavy footsteps of a bio suit. The zipper on the plastic dome opened. Connor kept his eyes closed.

"Mr Hill?"

He stayed still.

"Mr Hill?"

Perhaps they'd go away if he started snoring?

"He's awake. He was fidgeting about just before," said the soldier.

"Ah... Thank you, guardsman."

The newcomer walked around his bed to inspect his miraculously healed arm. "Remarkable," she whispered. "Did you see it happen?" she asked loudly.

"Not me," replied the soldier. "I've just rotated on."

"Hard to believe it myself... But here is the proof. Incredible. The photos were quite graphic."

Connor waited. His breathing shallow, his eye lids twitching as he pretended to sleep.

"Please look at me, Mr Hill."

He sighed and cracked an eye open. "What do you want?"

A middle aged woman smiled back at him from with the safety of her bio-hazard suit. "My name is Doctor Edwards. I am an agent of the Centre for Disease Control and Prevention. I'd like to talk to you, if I may."

The penny dropped. This was what his mother feared. Connor gave her a brief nod.

Edwards' smile broadened. "I understand you are concerned about what is happening to you. I am here to assure you that everything will be fine."

Connor frowned back at her. "Growing an arm is fine? Healing a chest wound is just dandy?"

Edwards chuckled and upped her forced smile. "It's nothing that our scientists won't be able to figure out. We'll have you back to normal in no time."

I think the lady doth protest too much...

"What will happen to me now?"

Edwards walked around the edge of bed, refusing to look Connor in the eye. "We need to transport you to a more secure facility."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes to determine what is wrong with you," replied Edwards.

Connor growled and threw his head back against the pillow. "When am I leaving? Will I see my mother before I go?"

Edwards made an odd noise, as though something uncomfortable stuck in her throat. "We must leave as soon as possible, I'm afraid. Your mother had to go home and attend to personal matters."

Connor propped himself up. "She left?"

Edwards busied herself by looking at his chart. Anywhere but at him. "Yes. She has left the building."

Connor sighed deeply and lay down. "Okay."

"You seem to have made a full recovery, Mr Hill. All of your vitals are showing normal," said Edwards, filling in the silence. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," replied Connor.

"Fine? That's all?" pressed Edwards.

"I feel like a freak. Does that make you happy?" shot Connor.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Hill. Your wounds feel better? No abnormalities?"

Connor thought it best to keep the mysterious tendrils a secret for now. He hoped he could keep the hesitation from his voice. "Everything is normal."

Edwards looked at him askance, waiting for more. Finally she spoke. "Do you mind if I draw some blood samples?"

"Do your worst," replied Connor.

Edwards produced a tray with needles, empty vials, a stretchy cord and assorted sterilising equipment. She wiped his right arm down with something cold. The cord slipped over his bicep. She tightened the strap. He felt the pressure build in his arm.

Of course she would take blood from that arm... thought Connor.

The needle pinched, eliciting a wince from Connor despite the levels of pain he had recently endured. He looked away as Edwards released the strap and drew several vials of blood. She gently removed the needle and wiped the wound with a piece of cotton wool. She peered closer, watching the small pinprick from the needle disappear in an instant, the skin healing.

"Hmmm..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Edwards placed the blood samples into a plastic bag, Connor's name hand written on its front.

"When can I get out of this handcuff?" asked Connor.

"Probably at the next facility."

"Why? I'm not a criminal," protested Connor.

"No. But that doesn't mean you aren't dangerous," replied Edwards. "Imagine if your condition was contagious?"

"And give everybody super healing powers?" scoffed Connor. "What a danger..."

Edwards made to say something then paused. "I am done here. The ambulance is preparing to move as we speak. I must see to my fellow agents."

Edwards left carrying the samples, giving the guardsman a friendly nod before departing.

Connor stared at the ceiling, fighting back a wave of depression. This was it. He'd be thrown into some lab and studied - a shitty end to this shitty nightmare. He had to get rid of the tendrils before they moved him. The less evidence they had the better. Maybe he could even fake being normal...

He laughed. The guard shuffled at the noise. Connor lost his smile. He reached his free hand over to the I.V line in his left forearm and gave it a cautious tug.

It was a mistake.

The pain was like fire through his nerves, shooting waves up and down his arm.

"What the fuck are you doing?" yelled the guard. "Stop that!"

Connor realised he was whimpering and let go of the line. "Sorry," he panted.

"Don't fuck around with that. You're not a doctor."

"Okay. Okay," said Connor, finding his breath.

Too painful to remove...

He wondered if he could control the tendrils.

Perhaps he could pull them in or absorb them somehow? What were the limits of his new- found ability after all? The disease or virus had opened a door for him. His understanding of the workings of his body were increasing. If he could force his arm to heal, why couldn't he force his other arm to remove the alien growths.

Connor drew inward, exploring and probing the two tendrils at the points where they left his arm, using his other arm as a comparison. He could feel that micro-fibre like tissue had been grown out of a part that tapped into an existing vein, supported by an array of specifically grown muscles to help push further into the I.V line. This tendril's sole purpose was to deliver as much fluid as it could find. Connor could feel it was very sensitive, almost an open nerve. Information streaked down the nerves like electricity, so encrypted or esoteric that he couldn't understand it. Connor conducted an experiment. With his right hand he pinched the I.V line while in his meditative state. watching the nerves operate. A burst of information travelled down the tendril, up to his brain and back, faster than he could determine. Pain lanced down his arm to the point where he was pinching the tendril. He kept squeezing, turning his attention to the section of his brain which was sending the pain signals. It was a primitive section of a complex machine, dealing in absolutes of black and white. 1XSIGNAL = PAIN / 0XSIGNAL = NO PAIN. He couldn't simply switch it off, but he could dial it back.

Next, Connor sought for a way to retract the tendril. He activated the tiny, specific muscles created to push the tendril further out, taking note on the sequence they operated in. He then contracted those muscles in reverse, prompting the tendril to crawl backwards. It filled his arm, just below the skin, swirling in on itself until nothing remained in the tubing. He peeled back the bandage. A small lump remained where the tendril had left, puckered like a sphincter. Pressing with his fingers he could make out the tendril below the surface of his skin, like some virulent strain of tapeworm on steroids. He replicated his results with the second tendril which came out near the needle in his left bicep. The lumps certainly didn't seem normal, but they would be hard to spot under casual inspection.

"Take that, fuckers."

Edwards and her C.D.C agents returned, dressed in bulky bio-hazard suits. Connor sat up as they swarmed around him.

"Unhook him. He doesn't need any more fluid," directed Edwards.

"Shall we sedate him?" asked a male agent.

Edwards gave Connor a curious look. "No," she replied after some time. "I don't believe it will be necessary with this one. It probably wouldn't work anyway."

"Lean forward," instructed the same agent. "You need to put this mask on."

Connor sat up. The agent slipped a surgical mask over his mouth and nose.

"Okay. Good to go, I think."

They detached the various lines and released the foot brake on his hospital bed. One agent took each end of the bed frame, wheeling the bed forward, turning it then pushing through the plastic lining and out the swinging door. The soldier followed behind Edwards. The overhead lights blinded him. Connor blinked his vision clear and looked about. The hospital was unusually quiet, except perhaps the E.R ward on any given day. The halls had been cleared of staff. The signs and posters showed he was in the children's ward. Edwards and her crew executed their business in solemn silence. It gave Connor a bad feeling, as if he was being carted off to prison or the morgue. They came to an elevator guarded by another soldier who held the doors open. The party wheeled inside. Edwards slapped the ground floor button. The party stood stiffly at attention as the elevator descended. Connor was beginning to wonder if their silence was due to fear or anxiety. The doors opened. An officer of the National Guard stood outside, hands on hips, the golden bar of his insignia gleaming on the matt black of his Tac-bio suit.

"Who is Dr Edwards?" he demanded.

"I am," replied Edwards.

"What is this bullshit I'm hearing? Taking a fully loaded LUV across the city to babysit a bunch of kids?" said the lieutenant, pointing down the hall toward the exit. "Huh?"

Edwards slipped around the bed and confronted the soldier. "I am taking just a handful of men..."

"Dr..." growled the lieutenant, cutting her off. "You can't take any of my men. We're already spread thin enough throughout the city. We've got who knows how many A.R.C rebels in the city. The P.D are headless. The Feds have us backing them up on god-knows-what. I need every man here."

"I have the authority," started Edwards, ice dripping from her words. "Don't you start with me."

"Whose authority?" barked the lieutenant.

"The fucking joint chiefs," snapped Edwards. "That's who."

The soldier looked at her long and hard, his face unreadable behind the imposing Tac mask. "Bullshit."

"Call your commander. My orders supersede anything you may have heard."

"Stay here," said the lieutenant as he stalked off a distance to radio his commanding officer in private.

Edwards watched his back, her brows knitted tight. "Come out of the fucking elevator," she said, waving the agents on.

"What kids is he talking about?" asked Connor as his bed was dragged into the hall.

Edwards ignored him.

"There is more than me?" asked Connor, raising his voice. "How many?"

Edwards stared at him, her emotions walled away behind an impassive mask.

"Tell me what's going on," urged Connor, his anxiety spiking to new levels of worry. An armed escort? Other kids? What weren't they telling him?

The lieutenant returned. Edwards moved to intercept him.

"It appears you are right," said the soldier, venom lacing his words. "So tell me exactly what you need."

Edwards glanced at Connor then led the officer further down the hall.

"What the fuck is going on?" asked Connor, his suspicion going into overdrive.

The C.D.C agents ignored him.

"Why do I need a military escort?"

An agent looked down at him. "It's just standard operating procedure. Relax kid."

Connor tried to read the agents face but he looked away quickly. The whole situation was becoming more and more suspect. This talk of other kids and the need for soldiers to follow them rubbed Connor the wrong way. Edwards signalled the others to move. Her C.D.C agents pushed the bed down the hall, past the lieutenant who stood with arms crossed, toward the exit. National Guard lounged about outside, their Tac-bio helmets removed while they puffed on E-cigs and discussed sport and girls, dark green crates of military supplies piled around them. Connor winced at the natural light. He breathed in the outside air, his nose picking up the scents of the Hospital exhaust vents, the damp city smells of Boise and the mixed aroma of flavoured E-cigs. A plain squad car, armoured truck, ambulance and black LUV sat in a column, engines revving. The top mounted machine gun on the LUV swivelled left to right as the gunner adjusted the remote controls. A gurney waited outside of the ambulance. They stopped his bed beside it.

"Who's got the key for this thing?" asked a C.D.C man, pointing to Connors handcuffs.

Edwards fished a key from the giant pocket on the bio-suits belt. "Here you go."

He unlocked the cuff holding Connor to the hospital beds rail. "Jump on the gurney, kid,"

Connor swung his legs over the edge and stood up, wobbling initially as the feeling returned to his legs. It felt good to be off his back. He stretched.

"Come on, we haven't got all day..."

"Do you have to chain me to that?" asked Connor, indicating the waiting gurney.

"Yes."

Connor sighed and lay on the gurney. He was cuffed immediately to the side rail.

"Here we go... up," said an agent, pushing the gurney into the back of the ambulance.

The two male agents got into the back with Connor while two National Guardsmen hopped in the front.

"See you in Ohio," said Edwards as the doors closed.

# Chapter 9

Fugitive

The convoy crawled onto the road led by the squad car, muscling its way into the traffic. The squad car cleared a begrudging path with its flashing lights and siren. The C.D.C agents held on as the ambulance swayed from side to side, Connor was sure their knuckles were white beneath the heavy gloves. They battled through the dense downtown traffic at a crawl, earning a cavalcade of angry horns and insults. A gyro ride would have been much quicker but Connor doubted even the large air-ambulances could fit him, both the C.D.C agents and the soldiers inside.

Both agents stared ahead at the windshield, faces grave, tension plain in their body language. He was sure something was amiss. A military escort for a couple of sick kids? Were they that scared he would infect others? Were the others worse than him? The armoured car, in front of them, seemed to draw the attention of the soldiers and C.D.C agents. Perhaps they were scared of what was inside. The reluctance of Edwards and her men to answer his questions only raised more questions. They were treating him like a simple child, as some adults are wont to do around teenagers, forgetting that they too had spent years learning to manipulate, lie and cheat. Children have been doing it since the dawn of mankind. Do all adults think they hold a monopoly on bullshitting? He could read facial expressions and understand sub-text as well as anybody. Edwards was lying about where they were taking him and her promises of treatment seemed hollow. So what were their intentions?

The answers to his own questions didn't ally his fears. Soon he was debating whether he should run. The handcuff rested on his wrist, cold and heavy, reminding him that he had several hurdles to cross before he even dared.

He pulled against the cuff, testing. It caught against the base of his thumb. If he could dislocate it, the cuff could slide off, in theory. What else? He listed the problems mentally.

Armed soldiers up front.

A loaded LUV with more soldiers behind.

Whatever was in the armoured car.

The police leading this merry band to the airport.

He was royally fucked on the road to Ohio...

"Hey. What's in Ohio?" asked Connor, breaking the silence.

"The research centre where we are taking you for treatment," replied an agent without taking his eyes off the truck ahead of them.

"Aren't you guys based in Atlanta?"

"Normally, but this is a joint operation with a private research team."

"You're using a private company to find a cure?"

"They have the most knowledge about your... affliction," replied the man, shrugging his shoulders.

Fishy as fuck.

"How many others with my disease are there?"

"It's not a disease. It's a genetic abnormality caused..."

"Shut it," warned the other agent.

The agent looked at his colleague then down at Connor. "I can't tell you everything kid. This is all new to us. We were shanghaied into this mess along with several other federal branches with little warning. We're in the dark as much as you, so quit the questions, will you?"

Connor's mouth gaped open.

It's not a disease. They've been lying this entire time.

The agent shook his head, as much of an apology as he would dare offer and returned to watching the ambulance weave through traffic.

Connor's life began to flash before his eyes. His trust in the government was pretty low – especially when it came to the issue of medical research. His trust in corporate scientists was lower. Whatever was wrong with him would be used to turn a dollar, guaranteed. Whichever company had been hired had to be getting paid a substantial sum or offered large promises by the government. There was no other way it would work. Connor didn't know much, but dying on the run sounded better than dying in a lab.

At least it would be quicker.

Connor turned around. They were nearing Route 20 and the over-bridge. A shaky plan formed in his mind. He would doubtlessly be hurt, but hopefully he would survive.

Connor grabbed his left thumb with his right hand and started to pull. He dove inwards, searching for the part of his brain which dealt with pain, damping the signals to a gentle whisper instead of a violent shout. With a little mental help, his thumb slipped out of its socket. He pushed the loose digit over and wriggled his hand through the handcuff, teeth locked in a grimace. The metal caught and dug into his skin, but after several tense seconds it slipped free. With his right hand he gently lowered the cuff to the mattress so as not to make a sound. He glanced over his shoulders. The agents kept their vigil on the rear of the armoured car. He could see the ambulance was turning onto the bridge. He turned back and closed his eyes, feeling the ambulance tilt slightly as it went up the gentle incline.

He breathed in and out, eyes closed.

He flexed his hands, popping the dislocated thumb back in.

A couple more seconds.

Pain is not an issue. You can control pain... he reminded himself.

Okay.

Being run over might be an issue though...

He leapt from the bed before he could talk himself out of it. It was like ripping a band-aide off, except this band-aid came with more dire consequences than a few missing hairs. His hand reached the door handle as the C.D.C agents turned in surprise. The doors flew open with the rushing wind. Connor stood at the edge of the door, speeding pavement below him and the dark, tinted glass of the LUV ominously watching him. His hospital gown whipped in the wind, exposing his bare ass to the cold. Another thing he hadn't thought of.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?" yelled someone behind him.

The ambulance drove erratically as the surprised driver fought to regain his composure after the shock of the doors opening. An agent lunged at Connor but slipped as the ambulance corrected itself. He took one last breath and jumped, aiming to fall as far to the left as he could. It was a pathetic feat of athleticism, Connor barely avoiding hitting the swinging door. The following LUV swerved to avoid running him over.

Connor hit the road with a sickening crunch and rag-dolled head over heels, his jumbled vision catching a mixture of the sky, road, bridge railing, his flailing limbs and hearing the screeching tires of the convoy. Pain flared all over his body from a mix of scrapes, bruises and broken bones. He came to a bloody stop near the gutter. Cars and trucks jammed on their brakes as the convoy came to a complete stop. He heard the crunch of metal and the rain of shattered glass. Horns flared over the screams and shouts of the innocent commuters.

Connor willed himself to move, damping down the pain to the worst affected areas on his body. His legs and ribs felt like they had been mauled by a grizzly bear. Chemicals rushed through his veins in an effort to stem the tide. Adrenalin kicked him into overdrive while endorphins soothed his raw nerves.

"I'll have some more of that..." grunted Connor through mouthfuls of blood.

He forced his body to comply, giving him more of the invigorating cocktail. It spurred him to act.

Connor reached out and lifted himself to a crawling position. His bones grated unnaturally in his ears as he stumbled forward to the guard rail on hands and knees.

He heard shouting. The soldiers were getting out of the LUV. Bystanders were swarming around their stalled or broken vehicles. He moved as fast as he dared on his crippled limbs, a slow, ponderous scramble over the dirty tarmac.

Would they open fire to stop him? Would the twin-linked cannon rip him to shreds? Was he that dangerous?

He made it to the guard rail. With a groan he lifted himself up and over the barrier, smearing blood along the metal crenulations. He dropped to the sidewalk and rolled, his mind blocking the torture throughout his nervous system. A couple more motions and he was against the last railing.

"Stop where you are!"

Connor didn't look. He couldn't if he wanted to. Whole parts of him seemed to be seizing up.

"Halt!"

He could hear their footsteps over the random chaos of the traffic accident. They had to be a whole lot closer. If he faltered they would certainly catch him

And all this bullshit would be for nothing...

Connor heaved with as much might as he could muster.

The fall took his breath away, sucker-punching him in the gut as he accelerated through the air. The stone hard slap of the icy water finished him off.

Reeves and Kippenberger stood at the hand rail. Connor's limp body floated away, his white hospital gown a stark contrast in the dark green water. The National Guard were helping to free some people from the wreckage. Sirens blared from overhead, as emergency crews tried to land bright red gyros in the confined area.

"Is he dead?" asked Reeves.

Kippenberger took off his sealed bio helmet and sucked down fresh air. "Fucked, if I know."

"What do we do?"

"We've got to get these kids on the plane to Kurniec and his rats. Who knows what they'll do if they wake up prematurely. I'll radio Sarah and Ray and tell them what happened. Local P.D can fish him out. Ray can organise a drone to follow him."

Reeves removed his helmet. "What a shit show... Sarah won't be happy."

Kippenberger kicked a stone. It ricocheted off the barrier wall. "How were we to know he'd slip the cuffs and run? Nobody knows what these freaks are capable of."

"We should have sedated him."

"As Sarah said, it probably wouldn't have worked. The bastard survived a hole in the chest and regrew his arm. Plus he should have been in a coma with the amount of anaesthesia pumped into him."

"Okay. You're right," said Reeves, blowing air out of his mouth in a big sigh. "I'll round these weekend warriors up. You make the call."

He walked toward the mess of crashed cars, shouting for the soldier's attention.

Kippenberger spat over the rail. "Fuck..." He pulled a radio hand set from his belt. "Yeah, Dr Edwards? Come in?"

Connor lay on his bed, snug and warm under the heavy blankets his mother had wrapped him in. From the other room he could hear the screams and sirens of his brother playing a V.R game, likely some variant on an urban assault or one of those bootleg independent copies where you could actually play as a criminal. He would get up soon and play some more of his new Dungeon Crawler save. His cleric needed levelling up if he had a shot of competing in the next league. The scent of something unpleasant crept up his nose. Was that rotten fish? What was his mother cooking? He tried to roll over to escape the smell, but the heavy blankets pinned him. He struggled in vain with the bedding, his arms and legs aching from the strain. A prickling feeling of cold overwhelmed the warmth, sapping his strength further. Connor opened his mouth to scream but vile tasting liquid poured in, filling his mouth and lungs. What was happening?

The bridge.

Without warning his brain went in an emergency sequence and fired back up, bringing his body to life. Connor found himself face down in the cold water. His foggy thoughts struggled to comprehend what was happening. Soon panic set in. Thrashing, he righted himself and floated on his back, rasping and coughing in the chill autumn air. A sharp mix of pain and cold blanketed him. His arms and legs struggled to move from a combination of broken bones, deep bruising and frigid muscles.

"Oh fuck," spluttered Connor, as blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

He had survived jumping out of a truck and falling off a bridge. Somehow he didn't like his chances of floating to safety. He'd either freeze to death or drown. Perhaps both.

He closed his eyes and drifted. He honed his internal senses, building a report on his condition. He had shattered one ankle and broken the tibia on the opposite leg. Several finger bones had snapped clean in two. A web-work of fractures traced around one knee, several ribs and his wrists. He had a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. Connor knew he had to act fast. He nudged his body's healing process into gear. It answered sluggishly. Bones and soft tissue began knitting back together. He pushed as hard as he dared. It stripped him of his reserves and attacked healthy but non-vital organs. He could feel the transference of materials from one part of his body to another, the calculated and cruel taxation of his cells.

The last fragment of bone fused into place. Connor let out an immense sigh of relief and agony. He rested a moment to gather his thoughts before starting a slow swim to the shore. The river had dragged him toward Captain Hatcher Riverside Park, named after Boise's own home town hero of WW3. Quinn's pond was a popular area for the homeless to congregate during the day. He could only hope the police weren't waiting for him.

The cold river sapped what little strength remained in his limbs. Connor poured on the adrenaline, pushing himself to get through the water. Near his physical limit he made it to the river's edge, finding purchase on solid, but slimy rocks just below his neck line. Walking carefully, he staggered up and out of the water.

Men and women shrouded in heavy clothing watched him with interest. It wasn't everyday a half-naked boy in a hospital gown swam the Boise in autumn.

"You okay, boy?" shouted a man with facial scars and an eye patch.

The wet kid shook his head and slumped down on the rocks. His skin was as pale as ice and his cheeks were gaunt. The kid looked like he should be dead.

"We probably better help the poor thing," whispered his friend, a veteran of the war missing her right arm.

"Grab your blankets," said the man with the patch.

"What if he's crazy?" whispered another man, his breath rattling in his lungs like marbles. "He's wearing a gown. Could have escaped a ward..."

"We're all crazies, drug addicts and drunkards, Bill, you fucking hypocrite. Stop complaining and help me," said his friend.

Connor wasn't sure what was happening, but he felt the strong arms of strangers picking him up and wrapping him in a smelly blanket. Two men carried him between them, up and into the park.

"Thank you," he said through chattering teeth.

"You're welcome. Now let's get you warmed up, young man."

The beetle like shape of a police drone hovered above them, watching through an array of lenses. It followed.

# Chapter 10

Apologies

Edwards stood beside the matt grey 320 Atlas, an E-Cig held to her lips, one hand pressed sharply onto her hip. The taught lines of her body told Reeves she was upset. The thick plume of smoke was just icing on the cake. They were an hour late and cutting it close to their ward's sedatives wearing off. A line of stretchers were being loaded onto the airship as they arrived, gathered and tagged by other members in the C.D.C and F.B.I joint taskforce.

Reeves counted at least a dozen kids being loaded onto the herculean carrier plane. They had another six in the back of the armoured truck. It was just a fraction of the affected children in Idaho alone. How many more trips would he have to make? How many more distraught families? He shuddered at the recent memories. The Hill kid had come along fairly peacefully, compared to some of the others. His brother was missing, according to the shared reports, but he'd show up sooner or later. It was harder with the families that had been blindsided. The ones who thought they were normal had the hardest time coming to terms with the news. Reeves guessed that was why his department was involved. If the families thought it was a disease, it would be easier to get their compliance. Follow the Feds and get your cure! If there was a cure... If Kemprex didn't deliver some results, these kids would likely wind up in a mass grave in Buttfuck Ohio. Too dangerous to live. Too young to understand.

What was he doing here? Reeves ran a hand through his thinning hair. He didn't sign on to kill kids.

The National Guardsman pulled the ambulance to a stop. Edwards stormed over as soon as she caught sight of them, her eyes almost flashing with rage.

Reeves gave Kippenberger a wry smile. "Told you so."

"Let's face the music," said Kippenberger.

Reeves opened the rear swinging doors and jumped down. Kippenberger followed, his colleague groaning under his breath.

Dr Edwards rounded the ambulance, stopping in front of them, lips thin and hands on hips.

"How?" she growled.

"He slipped his handcuff," replied Reeves.

Edwards shook her head slowly, her eyes not leaving Reeves. "And you didn't stop him?"

Reeves bowed his head, unable to look his boss in the eye. "We were both preoccupied with the cargo in the truck. By the time we heard something he was jumping out the back."

Edwards threw her hands in the air and walked away. "Fuck you two!"

Kippenberger shuffled his feet but remained quiet.

"We're sorry, Sarah. We fucked up big time," said Reeves.

Edwards turned back to them, her face a deep crimson. "Shove your apology up your ass. Of all the patients, you had to lose him? I'm no Kurniec, but I can guarantee you, that kid is valuable! He may have been the key to this whole fucking mess! Did you read my notes? He healed himself from literal death! He should be here. But he's not because he's at the bottom of a fucking river!"

Kippenberger waited a second until Edwards had definitively finished her rant. "I contacted Ray. He organised the local P.D to deploy a drone to follow the kid. They're on it. Ray's been sending back updates. The kid is somewhere in Hatcher Park. Several squad cars and a gyro are in route, last I heard."

Edwards eased up a bit. She looked at the sky, thinking. "Okay then. We'll get him on the next run. Tell Ray to keep the kid sedated with whatever they've got this time. And no lethal force. We can't risk losing him. The others need to get to Kurniec's lab, pronto."

She turned and walked up the Atlas's loading ramp. The stretchers had been loaded on board during their conversation.

"Come on. Let's find this boy," said Kippenberger.

"And get out of these fucking suits," responded Reeves.

# Chapter 11

Run

He was trapped halfway between comatose and lucidity. The outside world was shut off. In this half state he could sense what his body was doing to heal him. The process was automated. Connor could only watch, or rather feel. The broken bones and scrapes had been relatively easy to heal compared to reattaching his arm. He was drained of resources, however, and whatever oversaw the healing program while he was unconscious also oversaw mining raw material from other parts of his body. With a sweep of his mind he could see that his skeleton, though healed, was weakened from the mining, his blood supply was barely high enough to function and his muscle mass had been depleted. Whatever fat he had before had long been burnt up. He needed food and he needed it now.

A timer seemed to go off at the thought of food. Connor cracked an eyelid. He was wrapped in a polar-blanket, the kind that kept you warm but didn't breathe. He could smell his fresh sweat and a dozen other unpleasant odours on the filthy wrapping. Three people stood around an open gallon drum, warming their hands on the low fire, dressed in bulky coats and cheap military surplus clothing. He recognised them as the people that had fished him from the water. It was dark, wherever they were. The fire was the only source of light. He looked around. The outline of concrete fabricated walls strewn with steel pipes and valves could be seen in the sketchy light. There were other fires scattered around the open space. Battered pop-tents, stacks of cardboard and laden super market trolleys filled the space. It smelled of wood smoke, decay and urine.

One of his rescuers noticed he was up and elbowed his friend, a silver haired man with an eye-patch. The one-eyed man approached Connor. He stopped a short distance away.

"You awake, boy?"

"Yes."

The man crouched down. "You feeling better?"

Connor nodded his head.

"That was something to watch. I don't recall anyone swimming the river in fall. You must have been in real trouble," said the man.

Connor grimaced. "I was."

The man grunted. "Cops have been looking for you. We had to move. Somewhere their drones can't fly. You're safe here, for now."

"Where are we?" asked Connor, thinking of how he could get home.

"Abandoned industrial space, south of Hatcher park," said the man. "We sleep here during the colder months. Far enough from the tenements that the gangs don't bother us, much."

"Ah," replied Connor, lost for words.

The older man leaned closer. "Why are you on the run, boy? Are you some escaped loony patient?"

Connor bit his lip. "Nothing like that."

"Then tell me."

"You won't believe me."

"That's for me to decide."

Connor didn't see the harm in telling him. "The government wants to take me away and study me."

The homeless man stroked his chin, his fingers making an audible scrape along his long, silver stubble. "Why?"

"I have... I mean there's..." stuttered Connor.

"Spit it out, boy, and don't lie to me. I was in charge of dozens of snot-faced grunts. I can smell a lie when I hear one," warned the man.

"I can do things," said Connor. "Different things."

"How different?"

"I was hurt. I should have died."

The man nodded his head slowly, yet his face betrayed his cynical thoughts. "So, you ran."

"It was all so shady. The hospital had the C.D.C come in. They were talking about all of these other people like me, and some facility in Ohio. I just knew if they got me there I'd never get out again."

"I know all about those C.D.C rats, boy. Believe me. Changed a lot during the war. Became the government arm of Kemprex. A.R.C trialled a whole bunch of chemical and bacterial weapons. The Centre got given the power to oversee the infected. Whole wards would just disappear, never to be seen again. Then there were those faulty Pros. Ugly stuff watching a man fall apart," spat the vet. "The Centre was doing that bastard, Kurniec's bidding, way back during the war. They're just cogs in the Illuminati machine."

"The Illuminati?" asked Connor, trying to hide his scepticism.

"Yes," hissed the man, inching uncomfortably close. "Secret society above the law. They control everything!"

"Okay..." said Connor.

This guy is batshit crazy.

"I hope you're not tormenting the poor boy, Allan," called a woman's voice.

Allan's eye had gained a strange lustre during his talk of the C.D.C and the Illuminati. He spun to look at his friends then back to Connor. "We can talk more, later. Come and meet my unit."

"Your... unit?"

What have I got myself into?

Allan had walked over to the gallon drum. A cheerful woman and another man stood around it. Allan beckoned him over. Connor stood, a struggle with his weakened body. The blanket seemed to weigh a tonne. He picked his way carefully in the dark, wary of glass cutting his feet.

"Oh, you poor thing. When was your last meal? You look famished!" exclaimed the woman, clutching her only arm around her.

"This here is Lisa, and that quiet one is Bill," said Allan, pointing to his friends.

"Hmm," muttered Bill, looking at the fire.

"My name is Connor," he said, taking a position by the drum.

"Lisa here was a pilot during the war," said Allan. "Flew bombers over Africa and Eastern Europe."

Connor thrust his hand out automatically, switching hands when he realised Lisa was missing her right arm. A pilot that survived the war was said to be lucky. A modern-day chimney sweep – shake their hand and some of their luck may rub off on you. Lisa gave him an exaggerated sigh and shook his hand.

"Bill here was infantry, like me," said Allan. "We served together on the front. Found each other on the street after it had wrapped up. Been together ever since. Can't get rid of the fucker if I tried."

"Eh, what's that?" asked Bill, his attention returning to the conversation.

"Nothing that concerns you," said Allan.

Connor put a hand out to shake Bill's. Allan shook his head. "He's not here right now..." he whispered.

Connor mouthed an 'O' and held his hands over the fire.

"Boy was saying he's on the run from the Illuminati," said Allan.

"Did he now?" replied Lisa, giving Connor a wink.

"C.D.C goons are after him," hissed Allan. "Kurniec's private police! Everyone knows he owns half of the politicians in the Capital. Just like Hershlag owns the other half!"

"Calm down, Al, you're scaring the boy," giggled Lisa.

"It's true! We're all pawns!" shouted Allan, spittle flying.

Lisa made a calming motion with her hand. "Yes, Al. We hear you. But can we talk to Connor first about his troubles? The boy looks like the wind could knock him over."

Connor realised he was swaying from the effort of standing. He humped the blanket higher onto his shoulders.

"Is there anything we can do to help, sweetie?" asked Lisa.

"You've done more than enough," said Connor.

"Where is your family?"

"Downtown Boise.... I hope..." said Connor, his thoughts going to his mother and brother. Would they have been arrested? Were the cops watching his house?

Lisa nodded her head. "Will they take you in?"

"In a heartbeat," said Connor.

"Do you have any spare clothes?" she said, turning to Allan.

Allan spat in the fire. "What am I? A fucking clothing shop? I'm wearing everything that I own."

Lisa jerked a thumb to her silent friend. "What about Bill?"

"The kid's as thin as a pencil. Bill's pants would cover him twice over..." laughed Allan.

"Then give me something to work with. He can't go around bare assed. He'll freeze to death," said Lisa, her tone of voice still cheerful.

"Kid's so skinny he probably doesn't have an ass..." said Allan, slapping Connor on the back.

"I'm right here," muttered Connor.

Allan stretched and shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's okay. I'll pull some strings. I'm owed a few favours. What size feet, kid?"

"Umm... nines."

"I've never heard of 'Umm-nines'. Must be some Asian brand. I'll be back," said Allan walking away.

Bill watched Allan go. Without a word he followed, shuffling along in the darkness, his lungs wheezing like an accordion.

"Is he alright?" asked Connor.

"Which one?" chuckled Lisa.

"Is Bill upset with me or something?" asked Connor peering over his shoulder.

Lisa shrugged. "Maybe a little. You do have his blanket."

"Oh."

"He's just a little shaken. Seeing you flop out of the water cold and bleeding stirred something inside of him. Bill has never been good at articulating himself. He shuts down at the slightest sign of trouble," said Lisa, her eyes piercing the fire as she turned her hand over the rising heat. She shifted to look at Connor. "How are you, by the way? Do we need to get you a doctor?"

Connor felt a bitter smile develop. It stopped just short of full laughter. "No, thank you. My wounds have healed."

"I can have a look, if you like? I had to do basic med as part of my training."

"Trust me. I'm fine. I'm hungry is all. Mighty hungry."

"You look like you haven't eaten in weeks. Didn't they feed you in the ward?" giggled Lisa at her own joke.

"They fed me," said Connor, looking over his shoulder. He saw other groups of similar people standing about fires, silent in their own thoughts or talking without expression. Many of them wore army surplus as well.

"Are they all vets?"

"Many, yes," sighed Lisa.

"Why?"

"'Why'?" she shot back with a hint of anger.

Connor looked her in the eye. "Yes 'why'. You guys are heroes. You fought back the Khalist armies that threatened to take over the world. You saved generations of people from an insane regime. You should be living in palaces, not the street. Seeing this makes me depressed. It makes me angry."

Lisa's friendly smile switched off. "I'm sorry we make you feel bad inside. We'll clean up better next time," she said, the warmth in her voice dissipated. "Just give us a week's notice next time."

"It's not you..." started Connor.

Lisa pointed at Connor, the gesture like waving a sidearm. "Did you ever consider that some of us want to be here?"

Connor shook his head.

"There was nothing for us after the war. No support. No training. No thank you. I lost everything I loved. My fiancé. My family," said Lisa, beating her chest. Tears leaked from her eyes. "I couldn't go back to a civilian life. I tried. I failed. I couldn't pretend the war didn't happen. I couldn't be told what to do by some shit brained civ. At least here I have my friends. My brothers and sisters in arms. Out here we are together. Bonded in blood and the tar of the streets. We watch each other's backs like we did in the skies above Europe, the trenches of Africa or the jungles of South-East Asia. It may not be pretty. But it's all we have."

Connor looked away. The fire crackled, filling in the silence. "I'm sorry..."

Lisa breathed in, her tear-filled eyes looking to memories hidden beyond the darkness of the night. "Don't speak, please. Not yet."

"Hey ho," said Allan, returning from his quest, his arms laden with clothing. Bill followed behind, ruddy face down and feet shuffling through the detritus.

"Look what I hauled," said Allan, dumping the clothes on the ground. He picked up a heavy jacket and examined it in the light. "I might keep some of this for myself... It's so nice."

"It won't fit your fat ass," chortled Lisa.

Allan ran a hand down his body. "It's all muscle, baby."

"Whatever..." sighed Lisa.

"You are half right. It won't fit me. It will keep this little grunt warm, however," said Allan, thrusting the jacket at Connor. "Here. Take it."

"Thank you," said Connor, taking the jacket in his hands. He shook the blanket off and started to dress in front of the others.

"There is some under wear. Can't say I'd wear 'em though," said Allan.

Connor noticed the grungy looking boxers and gave then a miss. He slid on some khaki pants — covering his modesty with the hospital gown, a paint splattered t-shirt, mismatched woollen socks and the heavy jacket. The jacket and pants seemed to be army issue gear, warm yet scratchy on the skin. Kneeling, he slid on some lace-up tennis shoes. The stitching was coming apart in multiple places but they would be serviceable so long as he didn't overtax them.

Connor retrieved the fallen blanket and approached Bill, holding it at arm's length. "Here's your blanket, Bill."

Bill's eyes flickered from the fire to the offered blanket. A hand snaked out and snatched it back, his chest wheezing with the slightest physical effort.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, giving Connor a fright. Allan swung around, looking up. Following the man's gaze, Connor saw a catwalk high up, obscured in the darkness except where it criss-crossed over an open fire. A dark figure stood in front of a row of windows. They made a motion with their hand high above their head, visible in the darkness thanks to the partial light of the window.

"Shit! The feds are coming," snarled Allan.

"What do we do?" hissed Lisa, hand clutching her curly hair. "I don't want to go to prison."

"We won't go to prison. We haven't done anything wrong," replied Allan.

"We could be accessories!" hissed the pilot.

Connor looked around the dark room, feeling trapped. "I need to get out of here! You need to help me!"

Allan shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, kid. We've already helped you a bunch..."

Connor reached for Allan's shoulder, but the veteran shrugged him off. "They are going to experiment on me! They'll strap me to some table and cut me open! You can't let that happen! Please!?"

Allan looked at his feet, his brows furrowed as he thought. Lisa gave Connor a withering look, then turned to confront Allan. "We don't owe him anything, Al. We don't need to get in trouble because of him."

Bill started to cough and hack. He doubled up, spitting large mouthfuls of fluid onto the floor.

Connor pointed at Bill. "Look, I can help your friend. I can heal him. Clear up whatever is wrong with him."

"Bullshit," spat Allan. "He's just got a little asthma. Happens when he gets too excited."

Connor shook his head. "That isn't just asthma. He's got some kind of infection. I can heal him. Just get me away from the cops."

"Get a grip! The cops probably want him for something else. The kid's probably lied about everything. Healing people my ass..." replied Lisa, throwing her hand in the air and storming around the fire drum in a tight circle.

"I am not lying," said Connor, cutting in.

"I call bullshit. He's an escaped mental patient," replied Lisa.

Allan's jaw worked in overdrive, his eye settled on the crackling fire. Suddenly, he looked at Connor. "Are you lying, Connor?"

"No."

"Prove it."

Connor looked at the others. Bill was too busy hacking up his lungs. "Fine."

He pulled back the jacket sleeve, exposing his forearm. Concentrating, he worked the miniature muscles which extended the tendril. It came out of the puckered lump of skin, red and slimy.

"What the hell!?" exclaimed Lisa, backing away.

Connor held his arm closer to the firelight. "Told you something was wrong."

"What the hell is that? What are you?" said Lisa at a safer distance.

"I was shot in the chest and arm several days ago. I should have died. I survived, thanks to my... talent. When I woke up, I had these... things. Do you believe me now?" said Connor, twisting the tendril in the light. It was difficult to control, something he'd have to remedy if they were to be of any use other than frightening homeless vets.

"Okay. Okay. Just put it away," said Lisa, wincing.

"If the police get their hands on me, they'll turn me over to the C.D.C, who'll put me in some private laboratory," said Connor, retracting the tendril back inside his forearm. "I don't want to be a lab rat."

"I'll help," said Allan, his voice firm. "We get you out of here, then you fix Bill."

"Al..." started Lisa.

Allan cut her off. "Bill needs help, Lisa."

"Is there a way out of here?" asked Connor.

"Yes," replied Allan. "It will take us into the tenements, which may pose its own problems at this time of night."

Connor looked back to the catwalk. He could see the blue and red glow of flashing lights through the window. "Lead the way."

Allan gave him a sly look. "I give the orders around here."

He turned to his friends. "Are you with me?"

Lisa sighed and threw her arm in the air. "I don't like this at all, Al. Who knows how many laws we could be breaking or how many federal agencies will nail us?"

Bill grumbled something and stood behind Allan, blanket clutched in his hands. His skin looked pale in the firelight.

"Move out."

# Chapter 12

In hostile territory.

Allan led them through the factory floor to a metal door which had been jammed open with scraps of rusted metal. They slipped through its narrow opening in single file. Beyond the door was a hallway, pitch black but for the soft light coming through barred windows too high to scale. Security doors lined the hall, their plaques illegible in the night. Allan's figure stopped at an open door, his silhouette barely recognisable in the dark.

"Down here. Mind your step."

Metal stairs led down to what seemed to be a service tunnel below the facility. Connor held one hand to the outer wall as he descended one cautious step at a time. Pipes, ladder racks and electrical conduit lined the low ceiling. The floor was several inches deep with water and smelled like a swamp. Moonlight filtered down through open grates, reflecting off the dark waters. The noise of sirens, hovering gyros and shouts echoed through the tight tunnel. Allan motioned the others to slow down and stay silent. The group sloshed through the waters as quietly as they could. The tunnel ran in a straight line below ground to the adjacent factory building. The sounds of the police became distant, overtaken by Bill's relentless wheezing. Connors eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Ahead he could make out a dark shape partially obscuring the tunnel. As they drew closer it became apparent it was a door wedged open.

"We go up," said Allan.

They followed the veteran up another set of metal stairs to what had been an electrical switch room. Anything that had value had long been stripped from the room, including as much cable and copper pipe as the pickers could reach.

Allan walked to the exit and glanced up and down the outer hall. He turned back to the others. "Once outside we will be in the open. It's a bit of a slog to the tenements, so stay low and stick to the walls. Any drones in the area will spot us on thermal, so we have to be quick."

Bill gave a deep sigh.

"Now's the time to pull the pin, buddy..." said Allan. "Just say the word and we'll stop."

"I can do it," said Bill, punctuating the sentence with a hacking cough. "Lungs are on fire..."

Lisa giggled nervously. "I should have stayed behind when I had the chance."

"Still can," replied Allan a touch angrily. "You ready, boy?" he said to Connor.

Connor stamped his sodden feet on the ground, trying to remove as much water from his shoes as possible without taking them off. "Yes. But please tell me there is somewhere to get food after this. I don't have much in the tank."

"You don't ask for much, do you?" said Lisa. "Clothes... food... safe passage... anything else we can do?"

Connor felt a pang of guilt. He was asking a lot of these people, these strangers. He felt bad that he was holding a cure for Bill's cough over their heads. What if he couldn't deliver? "No, thank you."

"Alright. Follow me," said Allan.

They left the squat concrete building at a brisk jog, entering a vacant parking area once used for utility vehicles. High concrete buildings and chain link fences surrounded them. Allan took them on a tour of broken gates and holes, expertly leading them out of the maze of industrial compounds. Bill and Lisa lagged behind, forcing the others to stop or slow down.

"You've done this before," said Connor, during one break.

Allan grinned at him over his shoulder. "We've been this way a few times, yes."

"Do the others know of this? Would they tell the cops?"

Allan shook his head. "Many of them know it. They'd never snitch though. We rely on this route to get in and out of the tenements without being seen. Some of us do side jobs for one or more street gangs as a way of making money. It would hurt a lot of people to tell the cops of our secret back door."

Connor raised an eyebrow. "You work for the gangs?"

"Yeah," said Allan, drawing the word out. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Well..." said Connor, unsure of his own position.

Allan gripped his jacket with a meaty fist. "It's a war, boy. A street war. We've been invaded by our own allies! They've filled our city with hoodlums and thugs!" The veteran let Connor go, puffing out his chest and standing straight, as if he was delivering a rousing speech to the troops. "You have to remember that we are all patriots! I and others like me throw our support to the local, homegrown crews. It's a guerrilla campaign. Full of back stabbing and double crossing. It's the only way we can make a difference. The police are losing. We help, in our own way. So what if we make a little money along the way?"

Connor nodded his head. "Okay. I'm just curious is all, nothing against what you do."

Allan grunted and turned away.

"So what kind of stuff do you do?" asked Connor trying to keep the conversation alive.

"We gather information, mostly," sighed Allan. "We give the right stuff to the right people at the right time. Sometimes we give the wrong information. We're invisible most of the time. You'll be surprised what people will say in your presence when they don't give a flying fuck about you."

He turned back to Connor. "Some run errands or hide weapons. Mundane shit. They don't trust us with drugs, obviously. It probably won't make a difference in the end. But I feel like I'm doing something for my country again. If I can slowly whittle away the power of these gangsters, get things back the way they were... I'll die a happy man."

"I understand," said Connor.

"No, you don't," replied Allan matter-of-factly.

Lisa and Bill stumbled up to their position. Bill's lungs sounded like they were leaking from several large holes.

"How much farther? I don't think Billy can run any longer," said Lisa, clutching her friend around his waist. They both seemed to be sagging into each other, propping the other up by some fluke.

"Boy, you and me will help this fat bastard," said Allan. "Let's keep going. We can rest soon."

Lisa slid out of Bill's heavy embrace. Allan grabbed his friend before he could topple over.

"Under each arm," he instructed.

Working as a team, they hoisted Bill between them. Connor struggled with the larger man's height and weight. They set off, marching in a line with the former pilot in the lead. The industrial park opened out into a rundown semi-commercial street, the buildings boarded up and wrapped with graffiti. People wandered down the street in small groups. Ahead the towers of the tenements stood, outlined with bright neon signs and LED lighting. Music and laughter came from some of the buildings or alleyways.

Connor started to panic. He didn't know the gang's territories. They could be running headlong into more dangerous waters. He was about to voice his concern when he heard a whirring noise. Glancing up, he saw a drone hovering overhead.

"Oh shit!"

"Don't look at it, you idiot!" said Allan.

The drone panned around them, trying to get a better view. Connor kept his head down.

"Good one..."

The drone continued to follow them down the street. The tenements were only a block away.

"Do you think it saw you? asked Allan.

"Yes," answered Connor.

"Mmm," grunted Allan.

"You guys should run. I'll only get you into trouble," said Connor. "You've done more than enough to help me."

"He's right," wheezed Bill.

"Oh, shut up, both of you!" snapped Allan. "You cure Billy first. I didn't get you out of there for nothing!"

"You should have left him in the freezing water, Al," spat Lisa. "Walking around the tens at night is a guaranteed knife in the back."

"Fuck off, Lisa," growled Allan. "I'll do what I want. I can fight my own battles."

The pilot turned to face him, her skin flushed scarlet. "Then why the hell did you get me involved?"

"You followed me," snapped Allan. "Go back to the squat or shut up and help me get Billy fixed."

"I don't want to cause you guys any grief," said Connor. "I appreciate the help you've given me."

"Quit it," said Allan. "We're almost there. Cops will think twice before following."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah... They lost a couple of gyros a while back. Now they only go in with a full armoured convoy, if they absolutely must," smiled Allan.

"I didn't know about that," said Connor.

"Yeah. They wouldn't advertise the fact they're losing in the news," said Allan. "The gangs protect their turf from any hostile outsider. It's a war after all!" he shouted at Lisa's back.

The pilot flipped him off. Allan grinned.

"Sirens..." coughed Bill.

Connor cocked his head. The vet was right. Police sirens wailed a distance away.

"I vote we run," said Connor.

"Agreed," replied Allan.

Bill wheezed a long sigh while Lisa paused to look at the heavens. The party upped its speed a fraction, dodging the growing numbers of people on the street. Here the buildings were open for business. Second hand clothing and electronics stores sold outdated styles and models. Cafes and ethnic restaurants entertained a few loyal customers. Connor caught the smells of spices, coffee and sizzling meats, making his mouth water and his stomach pang with hunger. Busy signs in garish colours competed with their neighbours for attention. Sexually charged young models sold everything from toothpaste to luxury holidays in the South America's. Spray painted graffiti and bills of sale competed for available space on any surface within reach.

The relative safety of the tenements was close. Connor looked behind him. A lone squad car sped down the road toward them. The roar of a gyro grew. Lights stabbed down from the sky, tracing a wonky path along the sidewalk. The flashing neon of a police gyro descended in front of them. The searchlight focused on a group of kids hanging out beside an alleyway. The kids stood up and gave a series of gang signs or middle fingers back to the pilot. The searchlight slid off the kids, skidding along the sidewalk to highlight Connor and his rescuers.

"Stop where you are. You are wanted for questioning," boomed the loudspeaker.

Connor and the others kept moving, hands held before their eyes to block the harsh light.

The gyro hovered closer, sending grit and trash flying. "Freeze right where you are!"

The street kids were roused by the police presence. Two approached the fleeing group, swaggering like they owned the place. They wore a combination of white and red colours and a solitary lion patch on their breast. Plates of ballistic armour had been sewn into their bulky jackets and thin Kevlar patches protected their chest, arms and thighs. Connor didn't know much, but these two looked like gangers.

"Oi. One Eye! What's going on?" shouted a rough looking teen with a thick English accent.

"My nephew's in trouble with the pigs," said Allan. "Will get a long stint unless we go to ground."

The teen crossed his arms and looked Connor up and down. "What'd he do?"

"He iced that Frenchie the other day," lied Allan, picking a rival gang member's death he knew about. "Cut him ear to ear, didn't you boy?"

The English teen looked to Connor, his scared face sceptical.

"Fucker tried to rip me off," said Connor, mustering as much bravado as he could.

"You patched, boyo?" asked the teen.

Connor shook his head.

"You better not be..." he said, letting the threat hang. "Follow me, One Eye. You can hide in our gaff till the pigs go back to their hovel."

"Appreciate it," said Allan.

"You'll owe us a favour, right?"

"A couple of favours," agreed Allan.

"Righto," said the teen. He strutted back to his group, giving two sharp whistle blows. The teens formed a wall of spiked leather and burly muscle around the mouth of the alley. Connor didn't doubt for a second they were armed. The squad car came to a screeching stop behind them, the cops hesitating at the sight of so many gang members. The gyro hovered and whined above, impotent in the face of the gang resistance. The English teen strode into the alley, his boys parting around him. Allan, Bill and Connor followed with Lisa in the rear, her arm clutched around her waist. The sounds of a mounting riot chased them.

# Chapter 13

A new method.

The English boy was a junior enforcer in the local English gang named the Lions after their mutual love of their homelands football mascot. He went by the nick name 'Cleaver'. Connor assumed he had been beaten with the blunt end of one at a young age repeatedly, as his face was an ugly collection of scars and welts. The Lions patrolled a small wedge of land protruding from this commercial area into the residential towers. Cleaver took them to a safe-house deep inside the network of alleyways. It was little more than a basement tucked beneath the loading bay of a restaurant. Cleaver flicked on a loosely mounted light switch, powering up old LED tube lights which gave off worn artificial light. Posters of English footballers and Union Jacks lined the walls, lending colour to the drab concrete walls and floor. It had a set of bunk beds, a small kitchenette with folding chairs, a separate bathroom and an ancient computer desk. Everything was old, yet serviceable and clean. Even the kitchen bench was spotless, a miracle if this room was indeed usually habituated with young boys.

"You'll be safe here until the morning," explained the youth. "Pigs won't stray off the beaten path unless they have backup. If they do bring the heat, we'll warn yah. Best to stick to the alleys when you bounce. Computer works. Just don't do anything stupid with it, alright?"

"Thanks, Cleaver," said Allan, shaking his hand.

"Yeah... Whatever, guv. Just don't forget who you owe those favours to. You ever tell anyone about this place or come uninvited..." Cleaver made a throat slitting gesture. "Nick anything and I'll have your guts for garters..." he said, pointing at Connor.

"Understood," said Allan, smiling through his teeth.

Cleaver and his buddy left after giving Connor another withering look, slamming the heavy door closed on their way out.

Connor helped Bill lay down on the bottom bunk bed. Sweat beaded the heavyset man's forehead and his breathing was laboured. Dark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, their colour in stark contrast to his pale green-tinged skin.

"How long has he been like this?" asked Connor.

"Since the beginning of Fall," replied Lisa, taking a seat by the kitchenette. "He caught something going around. Never left."

Bill rolled onto his side, brushing Connor away. "Rest."

Connor stood up and backed away. "Cool."

Allan stood by Lisa, his arms crossed. "You going to heal him or what?"

Connor's thoughts were focused on food. He could feel himself shaking from the strain of low blood sugar and an itch had appeared in his mind. He had to fill his craving. He had to eat.

"Let him rest for a minute. I need my strength to do my work."

He approached the kitchenette and started going through the cupboards, pulling out anything which looked edible.

"What are you doing?" asked Lisa, her once friendly demeanour evaporated.

"Hungry," replied Connor. "Need food."

"So... you're just going to help yourself?" she asked with a hint of scorn.

Allan took a seat beside Lisa, slumping into the chair with a groan. "Cleaver can add it to my tab. Just don't eat them out of house and home, boy."

Connor had assembled a collection of instant noodles and canned soup. He was looking for something with more substance. He needed protein. He needed fat, bone and gristle to replace what he had lost. He opened the bar fridge. In its small freezer compartment he found a pack of frozen sausages. "This will do..."

He ripped open the packet of sausages, dropping them in a saucepan with some water to simmer gently until defrosted. He didn't care how it tasted. He just needed sustenance.

"Do you trust those Limey brats?" asked Lisa.

Allan shrugged. "They're just street kids. They're more interested in protecting their family's turf. They don't deal anything hardcore or resort to murder at every given chance. Compared to others, like those baby Yakuza or The Reyes, they're tame. I'd say they just want to watch football and get into fistfights. Normal teenage stuff..."

"But would they sell us out to the cops?" urged Lisa.

"I don't see why they would," sighed Allan.

Lisa rubbed at her face. "I don't like this. We should just leave the kid. We're only going to get into more trouble with the law."

Connor froze in his process of opening another tinned can. He glanced over his shoulder at Lisa who gave him a withering stare back.

"Did you do anything wrong, boy?" asked Allan.

Connor turned back to his cooking. "No. I just ran away. They want to study me in some facility on the other side of the country."

"It's called aiding and abetting, Al. They could have a warrant for his arrest!" snapped Lisa.

Allan stretched. "So, we spend some time in prison. Probably best coming into winter..."

"I am not going to fucking prison for something I didn't want to do!" hissed Lisa, stabbing a finger at herself.

"Its cool, guys," said Connor. "I'll leave you after I've had a rest. It'll be for the best."

Allan nodded, his body language tired and defeated. "Yep. For the best. After you've helped Bill..."

Lisa snorted and turned away.

Connor set the miasma of mixed soup flavours to simmer and the boiled sausages to fry gently in a pan. He went over to the ancient computer and booted it up.

"What are you doing now?" asked Lisa.

Connor rolled his eyes. "I'm contacting my friends. They might be able to help me."

Lisa gave an exasperated moan.

"Leave him be," whispered Allan.

Connor logged on as a guest and fired up the browser after waiting an age of literal seconds. How did they get anything done with a computer this old? It was so frustrating having to wait for programs to open or websites to buffer.

Connor went to a third-party site and sent messages to both Henk and Joshua. If the C.D.C or police had his phone they'd see he'd messaged someone. He'd have to be circumspect.

I need your help. Find me at the last place we met in the morning. Don't tell anyone.

There... cryptic as fuck.

He left the screen open, hoping either one would reply.

"You guys hungry?" he asked, stirring the food.

"I can't eat," said Lisa, her voice still cut with anger.

"I'm paying for it, so I might as well enjoy it," said Allan.

Connor turned off the stove top. "Serve yourself then."

He helped himself to a large bowl of the soup and several of the sausages. Allan gave the soup a miss after a hesitant sniff, stabbing a lone sausage on the end of a fork to nibble on as he thought.

Lisa stood up. "I'm going to sleep," she announced as she walked to the bunk.

Allan grunted and Connor ate in reply.

"What will you do?" asked Allan in a low voice.

Connor shovelled another mouthful of sausage into his maw. "I'm not sure," he said over the hot food. "Find my friends. They could probably take me in for a while until the heat goes down. Get hold of my mom. Make sure she's okay..."

"And the Feds?" asked Allan. "You know they'll never give up. You'll always be on some list. You'll be hiding forever. Do you think you can live like that? Like this?" he added gesturing to the room. "It's not a glamorous life. It is a free life. It is not a fun life."

Connor didn't know. How could he answer that? He hadn't had a chance to think on it.

"I don't know," he replied, speaking each word slowly as the thoughts came to him. "I could risk turning myself in. Maybe they'll figure out what's wrong with me and send me home. Maybe they won't and I'll die on an operating table. It's a gamble. All I know is that I don't trust their story. There are others. Other what? Patients? Victims?"

Allan shrugged and took a bite of his sausage. "A time will come soon when you will need to make that decision. Otherwise someone may make it for you."

Connor nodded over a mouthful of insipid mixed soup. "I hear you. But until I know why they are taking people out East, I'm staying here."

Allan finished his food and dozed off to sleep on the chair. Connor finished every last morsel of food he had cooked, cramming it into his stomach through sheer force of will. Loaded to the gills, he closed his eyes and meditated, turning his mind inward to the machinations of his own body. The masticated food sat in a lump, slowly being digested. Connor tested several different methods of speeding it up. He wanted to absorb as much of the food as quickly as he could, turning it back into muscle and bone mass. He watched, or rather felt how his intestines operated. These little things (he could only describe them as hungry) broke down the food inside the intestine to useful chemicals. His blood absorbed the chemicals and transmitted them throughout his body. Connor poked at the place where the hungry things came from, prompting it to release more, while also increasing the surface area of the loading space where the blood absorbed the chemicals by building a web-way of extra veins. Nutrients began to flow. He waited, watching for how they were delivered. Satisfied with his understanding, he directed the healing process, repairing his frail skeleton, replenishing his taxed organs and building up muscle.

A pain in his bowel warned him. In his rush, he had expended all of the food, leaving his stomach empty once more. He returned everything to its normal speed and crawled out of his meditative state wincing at the hollow in his belly.

Connor flexed his arms and legs. He squeezed his biceps with his hands. He felt stronger. He felt good. If only he could eat some more.

Perhaps he could grow taller - develop rock hard abs and pecs...

Maybe he could change the way he looked...

He raised a hand to his face.

He could be handsome. Pretty. He could look like any girl's fantasy...

That raised a moral quandary.

Perhaps he was asking the wrong question. Should he?

"If it keeps me out of a lab..."

Bill gave a long wheezing sigh, breaking Connor from his train of thought, his lungs rattling like a spray-can before going deathly quiet.

"You okay, Bill?" asked Connor.

Nothing from the vet.

Connor crept closer. "Bill?"

Zip.

Connor laid a hand on Bill's shoulder and gently shook. "Bill..."

The vet didn't respond. Connor placed a hand by his mouth, searching for signs of life. He could feel the faintest warmth against the back of his hand. Did that mean he was dead or just dying?

"Oh fuck..." exclaimed Connor.

He placed a hand on Bill's sweaty neck.

No pulse that he could find.

"Oh shit."

Connor heaved and rolled the large man onto his back. Lacing his fingers together he pumped on Bills left chest, starting CPR. After ten or so pumps he stopped to check if Bill was breathing. Still no sign. Connor continued to compress Bill's chest, throwing as much weight behind each push as he could. After another set of uncounted pumps he paused and checked his breathing. Bill's mouth stunk like something small had died in there. No matter what, he wasn't prepared to wrap his own lips around that.

"What the fuck are you doing?" growled Allan, his chair sliding loudly against the concrete floor as he stood.

"He's not breathing," blurted Connor.

Allan was at his friend's side in a blur of motion, pushing Connor out of the way.

"Billy? Billy?" shouted Allan, his voice breaking.

He ran his hands over his friend's face, trembling with nervousness and concern. "Bill?"

Allan turned to Connor. "You have to do something."

Connor stepped back. "Like what? I'm not a doctor."

Allan beat Connor's chest with his large fists. "Did you lie to me? You said you could heal him!"

It seemed like his promises would be proven to be empty. Connor didn't know what to do. "I did..."

"You said you healed yourself. Heal him!" growled Allan, grabbing Connor by the shirt and throwing him towards Bill.

"How? I don't know if it works like that," said Connor. He stood over Bill, his hands hovering over the dying man's body.

"Just try something. Anything," pleaded Allan. "He can't go like this... The old bastard survived way worse in the trenches." He clutched Connors arm, squeezing it tightly. "Please?"

Connor sighed, his mind going over his options. He could try a blood transfusion. Perhaps that would heal Bill. But would it be enough? Would he have to programme it to fix him? What else?

He looked at hands. A thought entered his mind.

The tendrils.

What if he connected himself to the other man and took control of his body. Could he?

"I've got an idea."

"Yes?" asked Allan, his voice tight.

"Give me some room," replied Connor.

Lisa had climbed down from the top bunk and stood watching from a safe distance away. "I don't like this, Al..."

Connor removed the heavy jacket and held his right arm above Bill. He closed his eyes and focused. The tendril in his arm was essentially just a long sponge with nerves running down it. Perhaps he could connect himself to the other man's nervous system and take control. It was worth a shot. Bill was dying.

He pushed the tendril out. It hung limply from his arm, wiggling slightly as it descended slowly toward Bill's neck. Connor felt the tendril touch Bill's clammy skin, pooling in a spiral as it continued to flow from his arm. Without spending time to develop a means of controlling the tendril, he was going nowhere.

"I need a knife."

"What are you going to do?" asked Lisa, her voice dripping with suspicion.

"I'm going to make a small incision in his skin so I connect with him," replied Connor.

Lisa shook her head. "No way."

Allan stepped over to the kitchenette, pulling out drawers and cupboard doors in his search for a suitable tool. He found a serrated steak knife. "Will this do?"

"I guess..." replied Connor.

Allan walked back, knife held before him. Lisa stepped in his path, one hand up to stop her friend.

"Don't do this Al. We don't know this kid. He could only make things worse."

Allan pushed her out of the way. "Worse than death? Come on..."

"You don't know that!" hissed the pilot.

Connor took the offered knife and placed its tip on Bill's neck near where his waiting tendril lay. "I'll do my best. Here goes nothing." He pushed the tip of the knife in, making a small cut. Blood welled in an instant. Connor dropped the knife and picked up the tip of the tendril with his free hand, guiding it to the wound. The crimson line inched its way inside. Connor closed his eyes once more.

He was blind, relying on the limited sensations he received from the thin tendril. He reached out, searching for something to connect to. At last, after groping around he found something. He latched on and attempted to establish a connection. A new awareness blossomed. He could sense Bill's degrading nervous system. Connor delved deeper, yearning to feel more. His consciousness spread throughout Bill's body, merging until they were one and the same. With this strange inner/outer sight Connor could feel the compounding complications allaying the veteran. He started with the most important features, the heart and lungs, coaxing life back into the organs. Next he searched for the symptoms. There was something in Bill, corrupting his cells. There was also a lifetimes worth of plaque in the arteries. He started a dual offensive, cleaning and eradicating the plaque and fat from the essential organs and arteries while also developing a cure for the virus. He had no idea what he was up against – the flu, a cold, pneumonia, syphilis. All he could do was speed up Bill's natural immune system, hoping it would eventually find something that worked.

Connor's sense of time was broken, replaced with a binary switch of nerve pulses and the pumping of blood. Had he been hooked up for minutes or hours? After many failures, Bill's white blood cells found a cure. Connor withdrew himself from Bill's body, leaving him in a stable and healthier condition.

He opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep gumming his eyelids. His feet were sore, and his legs trembled.

"What time is it?"

Allan shifted in his chair. "Dunno. Almost the morning. You've been doing your thing for a couple of hours."

Connor nodded and perched himself on the edge of Bill's bed. He looked over at the resting veteran. Bill was breathing with ease and colour had returned to his face. His belly was also slimmer, and his cheeks weren't so pronounced. He had burnt off Bill's excess fat while healing him. "I did it."

"I know."

"Where's Lisa," asked Connor, searching the room.

"Gone," replied Allan. "She couldn't stand watching you. It gave her the creeps, if you know what I mean."

Connor bowed his head. "I creep myself out. You think I'm happy I'm like this?"

Allan shrugged. "You don't, no." He leaned closer. "Happiness aside, you have a gift, son. A genuine miracle sent from above. You can help people. People like us on the street — people who've put their physical and mental wellbeing on the line for their country. You can help us all." Allan stood up. "But you can help more by going to that facility."

Connor, who had been nodding his head, jolted upright at Allan's last words. "You think I should hand myself over to the C.D.C?"

"Yes."

"I'll never go," replied Connor. "I'm no lab rat."

"I understand," said Allan. "But for all the people you could help, one at a time, town by town, think of the millions you could save in one grand gesture."

"No way," said Connor getting up. He threw on his jacket. "No way."

"I don't blame you, kid. Just my opinion is all," sighed Allan.

"I'll be going," said Connor, as he walked to the door. "I appreciate all of your help but I think it is best if I left."

"Sure thing. You take care of yourself, alright?"

Connor swung the door open, his boiling emotions eager to put distance between himself and the veteran.

# Chapter 14

Death follows

The city didn't sleep. Gyro's flew in pre-set lanes, the whir of their turbines ever present in the cityscape. Government and private operated drones hovered like bees above the rooftops, thick as flies in the darkness, adding a higher pitch to the constant buzzing as they waged a surveillance and counter-surveillance battle. It was a constant war of attrition, but those that didn't play missed out. Dead drones dropped from the sky, smashed, blown or shot to pieces. Giant LED billboards alternated between advertising the latest luxury item to broadcasting public notices while red lit timers counted down the hours and minutes left on the curfew. In the narrow streets lurked the predators and thugs, moving product up and down the criminal ladder. Rivals were chased off. Murders were made. The sane and cautious stayed indoors. Those that lived on the streets hid until daylight.

Connor edged his way down the back alley, hood up and alert. He had a long walk to Fort Boise Park. He knew he should have stayed indoors until the curfew was over but he was too angry to turn the other cheek. If they didn't want him around, he'd go. He could only hope that either Henk or Joshua got his message. The alley opened onto a street lit with bowing lamp-posts delivering tepid yellow light. Warning signs flashed in doorways – CLOSED – ARMED SECURITY DRONE. The air stunk of piss, vomit and wet tarmac. Delivery trucks and early commuters headed in to the city. Connor looked up and down the sidewalk, searching for lurking hoodlums dressed in bright gang colours. Nobody stood out. He risked a glance skyward. None of the drones seemed to be tailing him in particular. He walked onward, shoulders hunched and eyes forward, a deep scowl on his face. A carload of teens slowed to inspect him but his dirty hand-me-down clothes must have given away his current financial status. One of the passengers yelled a homophobic slur at him as the sleek black car accelerated away. Connor forced down his desire to flip them off, instead focusing his anger on staying alert.

This part of the city was foreign territory for him. He navigated by the illuminated landmarks of high rises to the south and the sky-bridge in the north. A surviving air-carrier sat atop the bridge, a dark smear on the skyline in daylight, a void of flashing light by night. Graffiti was sparse in this area, just the odd Lion stencilled on a wall. He crossed a street and things changed. The five pointed crown of the Reyes dominated every surface like a warning. Other signs had been sprayed over or highlighted with a target. This area seemed like it was highly contested. The buildings were taller and stood closer together, blocking the sky. Wires and washing lines hung between the buildings, linking them in familial and yet sinister ways as the occupants built their own networks of communication. Gyros couldn't fly in these streets but skilled drone pilots could, if they dared. Connor saw flashing lights ahead and froze by instinct. An ambulance and several cop cars blocked the road. Body bags lay in a pool of blood and flechette casings beside a torn-up car. The police and medics worked fast to gather the bodies and evidence, likely spurred on by the knowledge of who controlled this territory and who had been shot. Connor spied bystanders watching from the windows and stoops. A group of people wailed in grief. Others watched in silent anger. He crossed the road, keeping his head down.

"Hey! Kid!" yelled a cop patrolling the crime scene.

Connor paused and half turned to the officer.

"Go home! Curfews on!" said the cop, pointing to the nearest building as if Connor belonged there.

Connor gave the thumbs up and jogged to the next block.

The crown of the Reyes gave way to the dice of IG 6, which merged into innocuous graffiti handles and street art the closer he got to Fort Boise. He expected the police to descend on him at any second for breaking curfew. The number of sirens he heard throughout the city suggested they were having a busy night. The dense city blocks opened up as he approached the park. The park itself was inky black, the lights in the lamp-posts off to discourage kids from visiting after dark. Connor made his way to the small stand of trees near its centre where he had last seen Henk and Joshua. He found the fallen log in the clearing. He sat down with his back to the log and wrapped the jacket around as much of his body as he could cover. He waited, watching the shadows until sleep overcame him.

Dawn came, dispelling the darkness in increments until the sky was a murky grey. Connor woke to bird song and the rumble of traffic. His body shook from the jarred awakening as his mind struggled to recall where he was. After several seconds of collecting his thoughts he remembered he was in the park, waiting for his friends to come. He mumbled his outrage and attempted to fall back asleep. There were too many distractions, however, so Connor shakily stood and stretched the kinks from his back and legs. A hollow pit had grown in his stomach once more. Connor walked out of the stand of trees and found a water spigot to drink from, filling himself to the brim to try and mask the hunger pains. With little else to do he alternated between walking in circles around the clearing or sitting on the log.

The grey tinged morning sky lightened into a wane, watery blue. He waited, hoping, praying that someone would come. In his mind he went over his options. Did he dare contact his mother? Should he leave Boise? Was he doing the right thing? Could he survive a life on the run?

A figure entered the clearing. Connor snapped out of his thoughts.

"Henk?"

"Yes," replied his friend. "Are you okay, Connor? We heard you were hurt. The whole school has been talking about you." Henk stopped a short distance away and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Connor almost burst into tears. It was good to see someone he knew. "Its not good, bro. I'm in all kinds of trouble."

Henk's eyes narrowed. "Really? What happened? We heard you were dying in Boise General."

Connor grimaced. What could he tell him? "There is something different about me. Something the doctors at the C.D.C want to examine..." he said, pausing. He saw more people approaching, their outlines little more than blurs against the trees and shrubs.

"Okay..." replied Henk. "What is so different about you?"

Connor watched the blurry people spread out, surrounding him. "Henk. Were you followed?"

"Um, no," replied the Dutch boy.

"Did you tell anyone you were meeting me?" hissed Connor, as a feeling of foreboding overcame him.

"Just you," said Henk. "But I never got a reply back. Why?"

"I think you've been followed," whispered Connor, his eyes darting to the tree line.

"What?" said Henk, turning to look. As he did, his head snapped sideways in a spray of pink mist. His body crumpling to the dirt.

Connor stumbled backwards, heart hammering in his chest. He heard a noise behind him and something bit into his back. Pain flooded his body as several thousand volts coursed through him. He dropped to the ground like a ragdoll, his limbs flailing uncontrollably. The pain stopped, but he was unable to move. Footsteps crunched through the fallen leaves. A set of boots stopped in front of his swimming vision. They knelt and stabbed a needle into his neck. Connor felt the drug enter his bloodstream. It spread though him, cold and painless.

"Bring the ship down. We have the kid."

Mustering what facilities he had left, he looked up. The skull like visage of a Phantom stared back, its digital camouflage almost blending into the grey-blue sky.

The drug took hold and he saw no more.

Rough hands held him, coated in poly-carb weave, their fingers digging into the soft flesh under his arms. They dragged him through a dark room. He could hear their footsteps on concrete. His skin felt cold and damp. A bitter taste cloyed his mouth.

"He's waking up."

"Give him another shot."

"He'll overdose."

"Not according to the report. Hit him again."

The sting and surge of the needle. He blacked out.

He was strapped to a chair. Mouth dry. Vision swimming. Sweat dripped from his nose. He could detect the traces of the drug through his skin. His body wanted it gone. He turned his head. He was alone in a shipping container. They had stripped him of his jacket and shoes. His exposed skin prickled with goose-bumps. A battery powered flashlight lay on the floor, pointing at the wall. His thoughts came to him long distance, distorted and almost foreign. How long had he been there? Where had they taken him? Where was Henk?

"Henk..."

The memory rose from the murky, drug addled depths. His friends head whipping away, bright crimson blood bursting from the entry and exit wounds, his limp body falling onto the damp autumn leaves and mud. Henk was dead, his reward for daring to help.

Connor bit his lip. Tears fell, hot against his cold, clammy skin. "God..." he entreated the room.

Henk had died trying to help him. Connor felt sick. It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't escaped from the C.D.C agents. Now he was captured by some arseholes in Phantom suits. Were they A.R.C rebels or criminals posing as Khalists? It was no real concern. Someone would pay for the death of his friend. Would he pay for putting him in harm's way?

Connor felt a veil lift in his mind. No matter what, they wouldn't get what they wanted from him. He would do his best to exact his own brand of justice. Now he only had to figure out how.

# Chapter 15

Growing claws

He needed a weapon. Something that could take on a soldier in a military grade suit of poly-carb. The tendrils hidden in his arm were his first choice, but they would need adapting and upgrading. He started by adding a mesh of muscle and sinew to them, protecting the sensitive nerve ends and adding to the system that extended and retracted the tendrils. At each tip he fashioned a blade of sharpened bone and a sheath for the nerves to extend, should he need to connect with another nervous system. If his trial with Bill had proven anything, it was that he could in fact heal others, he only had to get better, faster. The growing process was slow, however, and he was draining himself of materials. The sound of clanging metal roused him from his internal meditations.

One of the Phantoms came in to check on him. Surprisingly they had removed their ghastly helmet. The face that looked at him was Caucasian, no different than anybody you saw on the street. He had been expecting some hardened killer, a mercenary or thug, their face a mesh of scars from a dozen battlefields. Or perhaps the tattooed cheeks of a Khalist warrior, eyes wide with religious zeal. He carried a small medical case. An auto-pistol was strapped to his waist along with an array of ammunition and a long knife.

"You're awake?" said the man, surprised.

Connor didn't respond. He watched, his anger written across his face.

The Phantom shook his head. "I'm going to need a shit load more tranquilizers..." he said to himself as he prepared another hypodermic needle.

"It won't work," said Connor. "I'm developing an immunity to them."

The man looked at him over the needle. "Then I'll give you something else."

"I'll get used to that too..." shrugged Connor.

"Whatever makes you feel better," sighed the man as he injected another vial into Connor's neck. "It won't help where we are going."

Connor closed his eyes as the liquid entered, trying his best to hold it in place. "Where are you taking me?"

"Some rival of Kurniec's" said the man as he inspected Connor's eyes. "'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' or whatever. If Kurniec wants you, we want you."

"What does Kurniec want with me?" asked Connor through gritted teeth as he fought to contain the drug.

"He wants the Pro-Human children," replied the man, hands on hips as he watched Connor. "He's interested in some kids more than others. You in particular."

"Why?" panted Connor, fishing for information.

"I don't know. This should have kicked in by now..." he mused to himself. "Should be drooling..."

Connor gasped, the drug was leaching past his defences. "Where are you taking me?"

"I ain't telling you shit," said the Phantom, his voice edged with boredom. "You'll find out soon enough. Or maybe you won't. I'm just killing time..." he added, watching Connor's eye lids droop.

Connor slumped forward, face slack and eyes closed.

"Told you,' muttered the Phantom as he stood up.

Connor hadn't been knocked out. He had delved inward to find a way to stop the drug. Collecting all he could, he forced it to the nearest extremity. A small slit opened upon the palm of Connor's hand. Bloody liquid dripped out and pooled on the floor.

"What the hell?" exclaimed the Phantom.

Connor coughed and sat upright. He flashed a smile at the other man.

"Fucking freak," growled the man. "You'll die in a lab. I guarantee it. So keep smiling if it makes you feel better. You won't be smiling for long."

Connor's mouth twitched. He closed his eyes, focusing on the weapons he was growing within. He poured in as much as he dared, giving the two tendrils their final touches.

The Phantom turned and stomped out of the room, his poly-carb boots booming on the thin metal floor of the shipping container. "Sit where you are, asshole," he called over his shoulder.

Connor flexed the tendrils. They coiled beneath the skin of his arm, stretching it taut. He wound them back, preparing them to strike. He would have one, possibly two chances to attack. He didn't like his chances of taking on a pack of trained killers. His healing ability was a trump card, so long as he wasn't shot in the head. He was still feeling his way through this new gift, but he was ninety percent positive he wouldn't survive a bullet to the brain.

He heard footsteps. The same Phantom from before entered with a female in tow, her face severe. She was of Asian origin. Her hair had been shaved off to reveal a Khalist tattoo above each ear. The man had a needle ready. He approached Connor as the woman stood in the corner watching, one hand hovering near her handgun.

"You're a lucky boy. This shit is guaranteed to send you to the moon. I'm a little jealous," said the Phantom, checking the needle for air pockets.

Connor breathed deeply. It was now or never.

The man leant forward, sinking the needle into Connors bicep. Connor lashed out with the tendril in his forearm. It pierced the man's neck, just below the jaw line. He elicited a groan and coughed, spraying blood over Connor's face.

Connor extended a nerve, searching for a connection to the Phantom. The soldier raised a hand to the bleeding wound before collapsing on top of Connor.

The Khalist drew her weapon and pointed it at Connor. "What's going on?"

From her angle she couldn't see the bloody tendril affixed to her teammate, just his body slumped over Connor.

The nerve found its target and formed a connection. His consciousness expanded, his senses doubled. He was one mind shared across two bodies. He stood, wearing the other man, controlling him like a puppet.

"Troy? Are you okay?" asked the woman.

Connor turned the man to face his comrade.

"What the fuck!" she swore as she saw the tendril jutting from her friend's neck. Blood dripped down the Phantom suit, throwing the digital camouflage off as it couldn't blend with the surroundings.

The puppet went for his sidearm, his movements slow and awkward. The Khalist opened fire first. Her bullets thumped into the poly-carb armour, pushing the man backward. Connor ignored the pain shared down the link and used the puppet to pull the gun from its holster. A bullet tore into the man's head, blowing it open. The Khalist stopped firing, assuming it was over as the corpse teetered on its feet. Pain and an overwhelming array of sensations assaulted Connor through the link. He clamped down on the connection, focusing only on signals from below the neck. Connor lost sight through the other man's eyes but could still control him. Through the puppet he raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger, sending a volley of automatic fire at the Khalist Phantom. Bullets punched through the thin metal of the container in an arc as he swept the gun before him blindly. The Phantom flew backward, clipped by a round to the chest, her dark blood spraying against the wall.

The pistol's hammer clicked, its magazine empty. The puppet dropped the gun. Connor forced the puppet to turn. The grisly head wound confronted him. He gagged, sickened by the sight mere inches away. Breathing deeply, he directed the puppet to pull the combat knife from its belt. By a combination of touch and mirrored commands he managed to control the dead Phantom and cut through the rope tying him to the chair. Connor released the bond with the dead man and retracted his tendril. The Phantom crumpled to the floor, the remnants of his face frozen in a rictus of surprise.

Connor stood and edged away from the body, his skin crawling at what he had done. He was responsible for two deaths. Three if he included Henk. Part of him wanted to vomit. Another wanted to run. There were more arseholes dressed as A.R.C in the area. If he was to survive he'd need to overcome them too. He removed the hyper-dermic needle that was still hanging from his arm, tossing it against the wall. He bent over and picked up the discarded auto-pistol from the floor and a spare magazine from the dead man's belt. The bullets had yellow heads — mini-ex. After several attempts he managed to reload the pistol, his knowledge of first-person shooters and V.R gaming coming in handy for once in his life.

The radios on the dead Phantoms squawked once. Connor jumped at the sound, almost dropping the gun. The sounds of footsteps and grating metal crept into the container. The remaining A.R.C were closing in. He was surrounded, trapped in a windowless box. Connor started to shake. Memories of Boise General assaulted him. The cold metal pressed to his head. The smell of blood and cordite. The overwhelming sense of fear. He should have died that day.

Connor looked at his arm.

He didn't die. He survived.

He took a deep breath.

Cowering in the corner wasn't going to solve anything. He looked around the room for anything else that could help. His eyes came back to the female phantom. An idea formed.

He emerged from the container a moment later. He walked behind the dead phantom, his gun pressed to her temple. He controlled her through a link, the tendril buried into the base of her skull. He walked slowly, his concentration divided between two sets of legs. They were in a warehouse, surrounded by stacks of containers and shelving. The muffled sounds of revving trucks and forklifts washed into the warehouse from beyond the metal walls. Connor looked around him, searching for camouflaged Phantoms. A shadow emerged from the shelving and walked toward him. Connor pointed his pistol at the figure, desperately trying to keep the weapon steady. The shadow shed the Vantablack, gaining natural colour. They stood, arms folded casually, chin tilted back. The glassy visor of its skeletal helmet seemed to glower at him.

"Hold up," warned the Phantom. "Don't point that thing at me."

Connor pressed the gun to the woman's head instead. "Let me go or I'll blow her brains out."

The Phantom cocked its head slightly. "Are you okay, Xi?"

Connor forced the puppet to nod and blink. He was probably not giving the most realistic performance.

"What have you done with her?" asked the Phantom.

"I drugged her," lied Connor.

"And Troy?"

"Dead."

The Phantom nodded. "Give me Xi back and I promise we won't hurt you."

"Let me go I and I promise I won't kill you all," replied Connor.

"That isn't going to happen," chuckled the Phantom. "We have you surrounded."

Connor hunched closer to Xi. "I have survived worse. I was at Boise General."

The Phantom peered closer. "Of course. The kid that almost pissed his pants. You get around, don't you?"

Connor felt a wave of anger course through him. "What does the A.R.C want with me?"

The Phantom laughed. "I love the American's way of thinking! They are from Asia and Russia and they've formed a Co-operation! An overly simplistic way of describing the birth of a movement without giving thought to the reason."

"So, you prefer to be known as a Khalist? Either way you dress it, you lost," sneered Connor.

"Yes, we are loyal Khalists. But, no, little boy, we have not lost. You cannot kill an idea. A way of life. A culture. A religion. We may have lost the first battle, but we shall return. Stronger than ever. We are here, in your heartland, opening the minds of your people."

Connor wanted to paint the walls with the Phantom's brains. Shaking, he eased the tension out of his trigger finger lest he make a fatal mistake. "So why me? Am I to be indoctrinated into the cult?"

The Phantom started to pace, forcing Connor to turn while holding Xi to face him. "Our informants within Kemprex told us that Kurniec himself had flagged you of importance. Naturally, we agreed to take you and deliver you to his great rival, weakening the snake and his secret agenda."

"Kurniec's agenda?" asked Connor.

"America has fallen to corruption," said the Phantom. "Poisoned by the very corporations which have made it wealthy and powerful. The true imperialist leaders plot against each other. Kurniec represents a powerful arm of one of those factions. Kemprex wants you for further study. His competitors want to remove his edge in bio-engineering. So, either you come in alive or you die here. I'm close to advocating the latter unless you give up now."

Connor aimed at the Phantom. Where were the other mercenaries? He dared a quick look behind. Shadows surrounded him. Any could hide a camouflaged Phantom. He heard a noise from above. Looking up, he caught the sight of an indistinct figure flying toward him. A boot connected with his face, shattering his nose and throwing him backward. He landed on his back with Xi on top of him. A Phantom stood over him with a sword poised to strike. Connor still held the pistol. Before he could move, the blade lashed out cutting cleanly through his wrist. The pistol dropped to the floor, his hand still gripping it.

"Mono filament blade, bitch," laughed the Phantom as blood sprayed across their suit.

Connor tamped down the surge of pain and panic, shutting off the signals he was receiving from his hand while staunching the flow of blood. It was risky to concentrate on healing during the middle of a fight, but rapid blood loss would end him regardless.

The Phantom grabbed Xi and tried to pull her up.

"Come on. Let's get you on your feet."

Xi didn't move. She stared back at her comrade blankly, her hands still holding Connors arm.

"What is wrong with you?" asked the Phantom.

Connor snapped out of his daze. He released his hold on the dead woman and retracted the tendril buried into her neck as the Phantom bent forward. Xi rolled to the side.

"What the fuck?"

Connor wrapped the tendril around the Phantom's forearm. The mercenary struggled backwards. He raised the sword overhead, ready to stab down. Connor lashed out with the other tendril, gripping the Phantom's sword arm and yanking it to the side. The Phantom struggled and swore as Connor sawed the tendrils side to side, keeping the man's hands away from him. He stretched his right arm out to the severed hand. He dug deep, forcing his healing process into overdrive. Small fibres shot out of his arm and buried into the bloody stump of his hand. The fibres meshed and pulled. His hand reconnected with his wrist, the raw wound sealing over. Connor raised the pistol, his hand numb and slow. He pointed the muzzle at the Phantom's chin.

The Phantom stopped struggling, his fate sealed. "Come on..."

Connor pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the helmet, blowing a hole out of the back of his head with a loud bang as the mini-ex tip exploded. The body fell backwards. Connor started to withdraw his tendrils. Erratic gunfire started, tearing up the floor. Connor rolled toward the dead Khalist and hid behind her armoured body. He returned fire toward the flashes of his enemy's gun, forcing them back into cover. He pushed himself to his feet and ran to the nearest container, trying to put something solid between himself and the Phantoms. Gunfire followed him. A bullet hit him in his lower back, knocking him over. He rolled awkwardly and came to his feet once more, moving on a combination of adrenaline and endorphins. He ran for cover, his mind striving to heal the ragged wound. The Phantom's pursued. Bullets flew around him, ricocheting off the floor or steel shipping containers. He heard footsteps above him. He aimed as the dark body of a Phantom appeared. He squeezed the trigger, firing off a salvo of explosive bullets. The Phantom disappeared in a bloody mist. Another bullet hit him in the leg from behind, nearly tearing it in half. Connor crumpled to the ground, stopping the blood flow as soon as his racing mind could gather its wits. The shadows moved around him. Connor raised his gun and fired, the light alloy weapon weighing a ton in his hands. The mini-ex boomed, destroying a set of shelves holding machine parts, the steel crashing to the floor.

He inspected his left leg. The bullet had shattered his tibia and torn out a great deal of muscle. He masked the pain and stood, hobbling gingerly on his good leg. He scanned the area for enemies. The dark warehouse was filled with shadows. Skulking Phantoms seemed to lurk behind every ledge and corner. His vision was blurring from the blood loss. How many were left? What were they waiting for? Could he kill them in his current state? He inched forward, leaning against the nearest container to take the weight off his left leg. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late, he turned to face a charging Phantom, sword held aloft in both hands. The blade buried itself into his chest, just below his heart and into the metal lining of the container. He struggled momentarily as the Phantom pressed the sharp sword deeper, their skeletal mask inches away. The fight went out of Connor as everything went dark. He dropped the gun and retreated inwards.

The remaining three Phantoms gathered around the kid. Trench's sword pinned him to the wall like some bizarre specimen ready for cataloguing, slack and bleeding. Trench let go of the weapon and stood back. He removed his helmet and spat in the boy's face.

"Fucking imperialist bastard!"

The boy didn't flinch.

"Is he dead?" asked Dylan.

"He fucking will be..." snarled Trench.

Dylan and Jen looked at each other, their defeated postures speaking for them. One child had killed over half of their numbers. A shocking outcome for what should have been a simple kidnapping. With so few left they were looking at the end of their cell. Perhaps they would be folded into another. Perhaps they would been killed as punishment.

"What do we do?" asked Jen.

"We deliver the body as planned. Maybe they can find some use for it," sighed Dylan.

Jen shook her head. "I don't care about the job. I mean us. What do we do?"

"We carry on as normal," said Trench, his voice edged with venom. "We do as we are told for the Glory of Khali and the end of America's imperialist agenda."

"We will be punished..." urged Jen.

"Then we deserve it," cut in Trench. "There is no excuse for failure. Khali does not allow it."

"Spare us the dogma," sighed Dylan.

"I never wanted this job... Helping Hershlag of all people just to hurt Kurniec? Where did we go wrong?" asked Jen.

Dylan sighed aloud once more. "Our glorious leaders are trying to start a war between the two companies. We are not helping either..."

"Then we should kill them!" hissed Jen. "I'm not stupid! I just don't want to pussyfoot around when we can cut the head off the snake directly."

"Exactly," said Trench, nodding his head. "But only with the blessing of our Lady."

Dylan shook his head. "We need tinder to spark the fires of war. This boy is just one splinter of the wedge we will drive between them..."

"We have two strikes. That botched job at the hospital..."

"We're wasting time..."

Connor listened with half an ear, giving most of his mind to stripping resources from non-essential bones and organs to repair the damage to his chest and leg. He felt light headed and weak, too weak to fight. He would have to fight to survive, however. Death or internment in a lab awaited him should the Khalists win. The death cult was in Boise! The police or the F.B.I would need to know. If they were in Idaho they could be everywhere.

He grafted the last hasty repairs to his leg. It was nowhere near whole, but it would have to do. The Phantoms were arguing, pointing fingers and shoving each other. It was time.

He gripped the sword's handle with both hands and pulled, freeing the sharp blade from the steel wall and his chest like some bizarre Arthurian parody. He healed himself as he pulled, conserving as much precious blood as he could. The sword finally slipped free. He grunted as blood sprayed across the floor before he could seal the wound. The Phantoms turned at the sound, drawing their sidearms. Connor leapt at them, roaring a wordless battle cry. He slashed at the middle one, his face surprised as the mono-filament blade cut cleanly through his neck, almost severing it in half. Blood jetted from the wound as the other two Phantoms stumbled backwards to get away from the reach of Connor's sword. He swung at the larger of the two, swinging the weapon like a baseball bat. The Phantom raised their firearm and shot at Connor, their aim slightly off as they tried to dodge away from the sword. Connor hacked at their forearm on the reverse swing, scoring a shallow wound through the poly-carb. He followed it up with an overhead cut to the Phantom's shoulder, burying the sword deep into the bone. The Phantom dropped his gun, his arm all but severed. He fell backward, dragging the sword from Connor's hands. Connor turned to face the last Phantom. She stood a few paces away, her outstretched arm shaking. Connor lashed out with his forearm tendril, aiming for her gun hand. She fired once, hitting him in the stomach, before his tendril latched onto her arm. Connor stumbled backwards a step, but kept his footing, his pumping adrenaline and overtaxed healing system keeping him on his feet. He jerked his arm to the side, keeping the gun away from himself. The Phantom fired several more shots, hitting the container behind Connor. Connor closed the distance to grapple with the Phantom, taking hits to the head from her free hand. He took the blows, his rage focused solely on extinguishing her life. As his hands found her throat, he lashed out with the tendril in his upper arm, wrapping it around her neck as well. He squeezed, pouring in the anger and fear he felt, taking it all out on the Khalist. The Phantom struggled, making static filled choking noises through the speaker on her helmet. She twisted her gun arm, bringing it up into Connor's chest. She clutched the trigger emptying the last of her magazine into Connor's stomach, blowing walnut sized holes out of his back. He held on, even as the light drained from his vision.

"It will take more than that to kill me..." he wheezed, showering blood onto the woman's visor.

They fell to the floor with Connor on top. He kept the pressure on her neck, choking her until his body shut down and he blacked out completely.

# Chapter 16

Pay your dues.

His mind switched on, booting him from a visionless dream of pain. Something had roused him from his slumber. Connor opened his blood encrusted eyes. He was lying on top of a dead Phantom, the skeletal helmet cold against his skin. The suit felt hollow, as if she had escaped and left it there for him to lay on. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. A new feeling of horror overcame him. Dozens of thin tendrils extended from his body to the Phantom, slipping between the seams of the armour for the soft inner lining. In his comatose state he had cannibalised her body for material. His skin crawled, the feeling of revulsion and shame were overbearing. He was a monster. A freak of nature. Perhaps he should have let the Phantoms kill him. None of this would have happened if he had stayed with the C.D.C agents. This whole mess was his fault.

With a growl he yanked at the thin tubes, pulling them from his body and arms. The modified tendrils he retracted, the growths too thick to merely rip off. He stood and surveyed the carnage. The limp bodies of the Phantoms lay amongst bullet casings and patches of congealed blood. Natural light filtered in through plastic skylights. He had no idea how much time had passed since the desperate fight. Had he been knocked out for mere hours or days? His body felt amazing, a scary thought given how he had healed himself. His borrowed clothes clung tightly to him. Had he grown?

Connor heard voices and footsteps echoing within the confines of the warehouse. His heart began to hammer in his chest at the thought of another beating. Had the Khalists returned? Were they here to finish the job? He cast about for a weapon. Connor's eyes were drawn to the sword lodged in the Phantom's shoulder. He went for it, spurning the empty, blood soaked auto-pistols scattered on the ground. Placing two hands on the sword's handle and a foot against the chest of the Phantom, he gathered his strength.

"One. Two. Three," he whispered to himself.

Before he could pull, the Phantom shuddered awake with a wet cough. Connor let out a startled cry and yanked as hard as he could, wrenching the sword from the armoured body. The Phantom screamed in pain and clutched at the wound on his shoulder. Connor heard shouting from elsewhere in the warehouse. It was time to be gone. He turned and started to run, hopping over the tangle of limbs, pools of blood and bullet casings.

"I'll find you!" screamed the Phantom, pointing a blood-soaked finger at Connor. "I promise. I'll find you and cut your head off! I'll kill your entire family! I'll find you!"

Connor ignored the man. He was as good as dead anyway. All he cared about was escaping and finding his family. He ran past containers riddled with bullet holes and random machine parts amongst spilled shelving. The warehouse was enormous, and the stacked containers made it into a maze. Connor looked at the high, domed ceiling to try and get a bearing of where he was. He caught sight of a metal beam running down the centre with smaller arched beams connected to it. He turned down a pathway between some containers and followed one of the smaller beams, hoping it would take him to an outside wall where he could find an exit.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw figures clad in dark clothing running in the opposite direction to him – likely following the screams of the injured Phantom. It was too dark to see who they were. Worst case scenario they were more A.R.C, coming to retrieve their fallen comrades. The middle scenario was the police or Feds, coming to take him away to the private research facility. At best they were a private security team hired by the owners of the warehouse.

If anyone found him, they were not likely to let him go without a fight. Connor wasn't sure if he had it in him. He couldn't murder men and women who were only doing their jobs, no matter how desperate he might be. Killing the Khalists, however, had been a necessary evil. In another time and place he would be lauded a hero. The full ramifications of taking a life hadn't hit him yet, but given time, it was sure to wreck his conscience.

He made it to an exterior wall of the warehouse. Connor crouched for a moment and watched, looking up and down the space between the wall and the assorted junk, searching for an exit. A green sign glowed dimly in the distance, a fire exit. He crept toward it, eyes and ears alert for danger. He could hear muffled voices from far behind him. They had found the gory mess he had made of the Phantoms. Somebody swore and began retching. The door was just ahead. Connor stood under the green LED lit sign, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching his borrowed sword. He breathed deeply, psyching himself up. He coiled the tendrils in his arm, preparing them to strike.

"Alright," He whispered before pushing on the door handle.

The heavy fire door swung open and the bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. He stood for a moment, blinking rapidly as his vision corrected before realising, he was. exposed to a slew of parked police cars, fire appliances and ambulances, their flashing lights painting the scene in distorted bursts of blue and red and orange. Connor's stomach dropped at the sight. He stood there in the doorway, sword in hand, illuminated by the day light, his clothes torn and blood stained – as he counted the waiting emergency service workers. His feet felt as though they were glued in place. Should he run? Go back inside the warehouse?

A policewoman leaning against a nearby squad car saw him first. Connor and the woman locked eyes over the short distance. Her eyes travelled down to his blood-soaked clothes, over to his sword then back to his face. It took a second or more for her brain to register what she was seeing.

"Hey!" she shouted for the attention of her fellow officers. "Hey!"

Several dozen people turned in their direction. The police officer was approaching him, one hand going for her sidearm. What was he going to do? Hand himself over to the police? Or would they just give him to the C.D.C? The fact that so many factions were resorting to desperate means to get a hold of him made Connor wary. Whatever research they planned to conduct on him would not be pleasant. Connor made his mind up. Escape or die trying. He kicked his body's natural defence mechanisms into overdrive, releasing a potent dose of adrenaline. His blood sang and the fibres of his muscles tensed, ready for action. He shook slightly as the chemical swept through him. He made some mental checks on his body. It had fully repaired itself while he was unconscious, stock piling reserves of extra fat and muscle. He felt stronger than ever before.

The officer drew her weapon and took aim at Connor. "Drop the weapon!"

The other police officers had done likewise, taking positions behind their vehicles. Connor shook his head at the officer. "I'm not the bad guy."

"Drop the weapon, kid!' snarled the woman. "Don't do anything dumb!"

"I'm not a bad guy..." he said to himself. He shuffled his feet into position.

"Don't..." warned the policewoman.

Connor leaped through the air before she could finish her sentence, his extra muscle performing at near Pro-Human levels of strength. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion as the adrenaline hit its teeth-clenching crescendo. The policewoman's face changed from anger to fear as he rocketed toward her. Connor struck her in the chest with a fist. He felt her ribs snap as she careened backwards into a squad car. Connor's feet hit the ground and he sprang forward again, straight into the middle of the waiting police. The cops dove for cover. None of them were willing to fire their weapons while Connor was amongst them. He used the confusion and the cover provided by the emergency service staff to bound past their cordon and into an alley between two warehouses in several leaps of god-like athleticism.

He sprinted within the tight confines of the alley, springing over stacks of rubbish and assorted junk. His legs pumped like steam driven pistons. Connor smiled despite his situation. It was an incredible feeling, the strength he commanded. He wondered if this was how all Pro-Humans felt. Sounds of pursuit followed him. Connor emerged from the alley and struck out towards the nearest cover, a truck compound. A high chain-link fence blocked his path. Connor leapt mid-sprint, flying over the ten-foot-high fence with inches to spare. He zigged and zagged around trucks and trailers, trying to lose anybody following him. He made his way to an office block, people shouting at him as he ran through the compound. They kept their distance as his bloody clothes and ninja sword screamed psychopath. Connor turned his head for a moment. Two police cars had made it to the chain fence and a gyro hovered into view from behind the warehouses.

"Shit."

A gyro was almost impossible to escape. Connor doubted he could outrun one, even with his newfound superhuman strength. If he made it downtown, perhaps he could lose them amidst the tight confines of the skyscrapers. A big 'if.' They could mow him down with a burst of their machine guns should they feel the need. Another gyro could appear at any moment, too. He ran regardless. Connor refused to give up now.

Dodging past a truck driver who stood in his path, he sprinted down the side of the office building. A high brick wall topped with razor wire hemmed in this part of the compound. The bars holding the wire jutted toward the other side, giving him limited space to jump over without cutting himself to ribbons. Connor skidded to a stop at the base of the wall and jumped, his fingers outstretched as far as he could. He missed the top lip by several feet. He looked over his shoulder as he gathered his strength for the next attempt.

The gyro flew in his direction, a door gunner leaning from the rear cabin pointing straight at him. Connor looked back at the wall, his teeth bared in a desperate grimace. He stretched out his arm, pointing it at a metal bar which supported the razor wire. He released the tendril in his forearm. It looped over the metal bar and coiled around it several times. Connor threw the stolen sword over the fence and started to climb, gripping the tendril like a rope. The thin tendril quivered painfully under his weight. It felt as though it would shear in two or tear itself from his forearm. Connor shoved the pain aside and added as much extra material as he could while climbing, stripping the layer of fat around his belly first. The strain was too much, however, and a tear started to form near the where the tendril caught against the metal bar. Connor launched himself at the lip of the brick wall with an outstretched hand. His fingers found purchase. He paused for a moment to retract the frayed tendril back inside of his arm before hauling himself up, hands gripping the spaces on the metal bar while leaning away from the sharp razor wire. He teetered at the top, looking down at the other side.

An empty expanse of train yards spread out in front of him, barren except for stacks of forgotten rail overgrown with weeds and several decayed bogies scattered alongside the rail corridor. He could feel the gyro sighting him with its weapon systems. There was nowhere to hide. In the distance spread the sister fence to the one he now stood on. Connor cursed himself and jumped. He hit the ground with a jarring thud, driving the wind from his lungs. He sat stunned for a second, sucking in air. His fingers brushed against the monofilament blade of the sword, scoring a shallow cut across them before he knew what was happening. He closed his fist as the blood began to flow, holding it tightly until he could knit the skin closed again with a little focused healing.

He stood up, careful to grip the wickedly sharp sword by its handle. The roar of the gyro's turbines filled the air. Scared of going into the open, Connor broke into a run along the edge of the wall, hoping to gain some distance between him and the gunship. Broken glass and loose stones crunched under his driving feet as he pushed himself forward, taxing his stolen muscles to their limits. The gyro screamed overhead, throwing a storm of dust and grit outward. It circled around until its deadly nose pointed at him. Connor felt a cry of despair worm its way out of him. He kept running, eyes scanning the area for an exit.

"Stop where you are," boomed the loud speakers on the gyro.

Connor ran, hoping, praying that some miraculous hole would appear in the ground to swallow him up. The police were having none of that. One of its cannons opened a brief volley of fire in front of him. A warning shot. Tears leaked from Connor's eyes. This was it. He slowed to a stop, arms held high, the sword still clutched in his hand. Over the whine of the gyro's turbines and surging blood pumping through his stricken heart he heard another, sharper noise. A large carrier jet descended behind the gyro, its rotating jet engines scorching the dry ground. It floated behind its smaller cousin ominously. Connor waited. He couldn't see through the glare on their windshields, but a showdown was underway. Finally, the gyro ascended slowly into a support position. The carrier jet turned about to Connor, until its open rear door came into view.

A teenager dressed in an expensive suit clung to one of the rear struts of the loading ramp, the wind ruffling his thin hair. He looked at Connor with strong, brooding intensity. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his pale skin shone with perspiration. People dressed in agency tactical-wear stood far behind the teenager, hands clutching weapons or medical equipment. The teenager stepped off the still hovering jet into thin air. Instead of falling, he floated, his clothes and remaining hair rising to stand on end. He smiled cockily at Connor, like the whole situation was all a game to him.

Connor lowered his arms into a defensive position. Floating or not – he would kick the smirk off this kid's face if he tried to lay a hand on him.

The teenager giggled and rolled his dark eyes. "Really, Connor? You think I'm scared of a sword?" as he said as he floated closer.

"I'll shove this up you ass, blade first, if you try and touch me," warned Connor.

The teenager shook his head. "I don't think so... I could it shove up yours though, if that's what you're into. You'd survive that, wouldn't you?"

"I've killed more dangerous people than you, sick little fuck!" spat Connor, feeling his anger rising. "Come and face me! I'll cut anyone who tries to cage me!"

The teenager shook his head condescendingly. His voice entered Connor's mind, blocking out the noise of the screeching jets. You've become quite the psychopath, haven't you? But your boasts are all hollow. I could rupture your brain with the smallest of thoughts. I could crush you under a weight so vast, you'd explode like a grape. There is nothing you can do to hurt me.

The teenager raised a hand. Connor felt a darkness overcome him, draining the spark of life from his frightened mind. He started to fall but something soft gripped him and raised him into the air.

"Let's take you home. Uncle will be so pleased," said the teen. He turned and levitated back to the waiting jet, Connor's unconscious body in tow.

End of Issue 1.

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Below is the first chapter of issue 2 to wet your whistle until its release.

Catch you online.

Sam.

# Chapter 1 of Issue 2

New Job

Three pri-sec agents watched Kamala from the comfort of their air-conditioned, bulletproof booth as she sat, waiting on one of the two available chairs in the tiny, utilitarian foyer. Other companies went out of their way to make visitors seem welcome, perhaps even astonished at the architectural design of their building and the not so subtle flex of the money spent to build it. Maybe Kurniec didn't care what others thought about his buildings or even his hospitality. A water cooler to quench a parched throat would have been nice, though. She gripped the plastic folder containing her induction documents with white-knuckled excitement. This day was the culmination of more than a decade's study in the field of bio-engineering. She was here, in the belly of Kemprex itself, waiting on her new boss to lift the veil and show her into the secretive research facility that had transformed the world in five short years. She herself had several Kemprex patents fitted – an optic unit, a civilian grade memory bank and the highly controversial neuro-chem detection and delivery system. As a bio-engineer herself, it was a no-brainer. For all of the moral and ethical quandaries raised by the efficient system, not many people could look you in the eye and say they wanted to feel pain. It was also something of a toy for her. Some people obsessed over football or expensive watches or cars. She adored bio-engineered implants.

The security door swung open, scattering her thoughts. A man in his thirties strutted through, dancing to an unknown song playing on his sub-dermal implants. He stopped in front of Kamala, his eyes going distant for a moment as he turned off the mental soundtrack.

"Kamala?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling assuredly.

"Yes," she said, getting to her feet.

"I'm Dan. Dan McCarthy," he said, shaking her hand. "I'll be showing you around this morning."

"I'm Kamala..." she replied nervously.

Dan gave her an odd smile in reply. "I know... Anyway... Let's take you through and into the labs," he said heading back toward the door. He held an extendable security card up to a scanner. The lock made an audible click. "We'll go the long way, so I can show you around."

Kamala tucked the induction papers under her elbow and followed through the door that Dan held open. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the security agents watching her through the glass, their stony faces turning in unison to follow her like some creepy version of a carnival game. Dan walked past a wide stainless-steel elevator shaft. Kamala read its metal face plate, showing that there were four levels.

"Not the last security door, I'm afraid. There's a pass waiting for you at your desk, along with a stack of NDA's to sign. You understand, right?"

Kamala nodded to her guide, her attention drawn to the open offices surrounding her. It was surprisingly well ventilated and open for an underground complex. Soft LED light illuminated individual desks to each worker's taste. The walls and cubicles were a mix of concrete, wood and glass. Geodesic designs were etched into the wall panels and carpet. Kamala recognised some chemical compounds in their shapes.

"This is HR and accounting. You probably won't spend much time in here unless you sexually harass the wrong person or make a joke in poor taste..." said Dan laughing at himself. "Legal is down that hall. Some other departments are down that one. None of this will probably matter to you. The real meat and potatoes are down a level."

He led her to a set of tiled stairs which wound down. The next level opened out to a common area for the laboratory staff and researchers to have their lunch breaks and informal meetings. A dozen or so people in lab coats sat around plain white tables or foam couches drinking coffee. "Rest rooms down there. Kitchen is over there," pointed Dan as he guided her through the room.

Kamala was distracted by two security guards patrolling the hallway ahead. Both were armoured in black polycarbonate military suits and wore an array of weapons on their utility belts. "Is that common?" she asked, pointing at the two men.

Dan looked where she was pointing. He turned back to her, his friendly smile slipping to something more like a grimace. "A precaution, yes."

"What for? Is there an epidemic of stationary going missing?" laughed Kamala.

Dan shook his head, his smile erased. "If only. Look... how much do you know about this facility?"

Kamala looked at him sideways. The conversation was taking an abrupt turn. "I don't know what you mean."

Dan ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. How do you think we've developed the lion's share of our patents so far? The gene therapy, the cures for every disease imaginable... the bio-engineered whatsits Kemprex has flooded the market with. Who do you think is responsible for all of that?"

Kamala shrugged. "Kurniec? Doctor Yelich? Those two are the brains behind the company aren't they?"

Dan bounced his head, halfway between a yes and a no. "They take all the credit, yes. But who grows them? Who develops them first?"

"You? Us?" asked Kamala, gesturing with her hands.

Dan sighed. "Sign those NDAs and we can talk."

He led Kamala to her office, a boxy thing with little room for her desk, computer and chair. True to Dan's word there was an access card on a lanyard and a stack of papers for her to sign.

"Do I need my lawyer to look at these?" she asked.

"If you need to," shrugged Dan. "Or you can sign them and I can show you what's behind the curtain."

Kamala hesitated. She didn't trust any company as far she could throw them, especially one as powerful and influential as Kemprex. On the other hand, this was her dream job. She was eager to get stuck in and make her own discoveries.

"I'll sign," she said.

"I knew you would," said Dan, smiling again. "I've put highlights on all the places..."

They were in the elevator, descending to the next level, which was much further down than she anticipated. Dan had shown her to the level two labs where she would spend most of her time researching. Once she had proven herself she'd be allowed into the 'Adults Room', as Dan put it, to do more hands on work and perhaps develop her own patents. They were going there now for a sneak-peak.

"Why so deep?" she asked to pass the time.

Dan looked at her from opposite the elevator. "You remember the Programmed Children debacle from five years back?"

Kamala nodded her head. "Who could forget? The world went crazy over those first couple of months. Then it all just kinda became normal. Sanctioned heroes and everything. It was lucky there were so few."

"Yeah... Crazy times, alright," said Dan, his eyes tracing the ceiling of the elevator as he recalled the past. "Kurniec must have skin like steel to get through that intact. Or friends in very high places. Anyway... There were more than a handful of kids who were affected. Try every kid sired by a Mark 1 or 2 Pro. A lot of those kids wound up here, in chemically induced comas, while we tried to figure out a way of putting the crazy back into the bottle. We're close to finding an answer, but every kid is different. Some have gone home. Others have stayed."

Kamala felt a stirring of revulsion in her stomach. "You mean there are more? And you've just got them... locked away?"

Dan looked at her, his eyes steel hard. "Those kids were a hazard to each and every person on this planet. They didn't know what they were capable of. How dangerous their actions could be... the consequences. We're doing our best to fix our mistakes. We keep them in comas to maintain everyone's safety, theirs included."

Kamala could see Dan was becoming more defensive as he spoke. She thought it best to disarm the conversation and reserve her judgment until she knew more. "Okay, okay... But what do the Pro kids have to do with your research?"

Dan ran his hand through his hair again. "We found a kid, the 'Golden Goose' of discoveries, who can manipulate his body on a cellular level. He's the one responsible for all of this," he said, gesturing around the elevator. "All of our developments have come from him. Grown by him at our direction."

"One kid?" she asked. "One kid is responsible for Kemprex's success?"

"Yep. If you can dream it. He can make it," said Dan.

"And is he in a coma?" she asked jokingly.

Dan's face contorted in a grimace. "Kind of."

The elevator slowed to a gentle thud as it stopped. The doors opened. Kamala peered out.

"Come and see him. Them..." said Dan, leading the way past a duo of guards holding sub-machine guns.

Kamala thought she had misheard the last statement as Dan led them into a corridor of sterile laboratories divided by thick glass. "Them?"

"Yes. Them," he said pointing.

She peered through the glass into the first room. A metal bed sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by banks of monitoring equipment. On the bed lay a boy in his mid-teens, seemingly asleep. An alien growth clung to his naked chest. A man dressed in a hazmat suit walked around the sleeping boy, ticking boxes on a tablet in his hands. Dan and Kamala moved on to the next lab where she saw a similar sight. The same boy on a bed, his chest clamped open to expose his organs. Several people in hazmat suits crowded around him, their sealed hands dripping with blood.

"How?" whispered Kamala, her thoughts a mixture of wonder and disgust.

"We cloned him," replied Dan. "That way we could increase our research time by a hundred fold."

She pressed a hand against the glass to steady herself. "That's... fucked up."

Dan stood in front of her. "This kid has progressed the human race by a factor of a million. We had the cure for AID's in a matter of days. The cure for cancer? A week. Everything we do with this kid is bulletproof. Safe for general consumption. He has the answer to everything."

Kamala looked away. "But can he feel anything? Is he awake? Did he consent to this shit?"

Dan shrugged. "I don't want to know. But think of the lives he's saved. Think of all the people who have benefited directly from him. That's how I like to think of things."

Kamala shuddered. Her dream of working for Kemprex was souring by the minute - the gloss of their achievements tarnished by the knowledge that it was built on the suffering of someone - multiple versions of someone. Could she honestly work here, knowing how they operated? Dan was right. He had lifted the curtain and she didn't like what she saw.

"This is wrong. So wrong," said Kamala, shaking her head as she caught glimpses of strange organs being removed from the boy's open chest cavity.

Dan nodded his head slowly. "I understand. There is one more person you need to meet first. He will change your mind."

"I fucking doubt it," whispered Kamala.

"He'll be around here somewhere," replied Dan, turning his back on her. "Say his name and he'll just appear. It's like magic. Isn't that right Billy?"

A sickly looking youth came around a corridor just as his name left Dan's lips. He looked tired and hung-over, walking with an almost exaggerated slouch. Sweat beaded his balding forehead and heavy, ringed eyes rode above his gaunt cheeks. His eyes locked onto Kamala, boring into her with the intensity of a junkie on a methamphetamine kick. "Fresh meat, Dan?" he asked without preamble.

"Kamala Shan. New engineer," said Dan, introducing her. "She's having doubts about the work we do here."

Billy shrugged his shoulders, the gesture almost asking who isn't. "Tell her some more. I'll be doing my thing."

The youth pressed ahead walking, swaying down the corridor of laboratories.

Dan motioned for Kamala to follow. Kamala sighed but begrudgingly followed her guide. She would get the hell out of here as soon as this tour was over.

"They're all connected," explained Dan as he walked in the direction that Billy had taken. "The Clones, that is. Earlier on we found that it taxed young Billy too much if each clone had brain activity. Also the primogenitor or whatever you'd call him was way more efficient if he was in control. Something to do with mental maturity. I can't remember. Billy is the expert on that."

Kamala found herself nodding her head. "Wow..."

"Yeah," agreed Dan. "We've also got to cycle the really invasive stuff, otherwise it can overload the prime. Too much stimulation isn't good for him. Starts thrashing about. Some of the clones may even start screaming."

Kamala frowned. She couldn't remember why, but she was angry. What Dan was saying had her hooked, however, and she wanted to know more. "That's fascinating. Where is this prime? Can I see him?"

"Down a level, amongst the top-shelf military stuff. Shit you don't get to see until you've proven yourself," said Dan, slapping her on the back.

Kamala grinned back at him. "Oh, I will."

"That's the spirit," said Dan, giving the thumbs up to Billy.

Kamala blinked. She had forgotten something - something important. She looked at Dan then over to Billy who was further ahead. "What does that kid do?" she whispered.

Dan leaned close to her. "He's a telepath. See, drugs don't work on the Golden Goose. They wear off or he becomes immune. That's where Billy comes in. He is the second most important person in this facility bar the Goose himself. He keeps all those clones immobile with his brain juju."

Kamala listened with wide-eyed attention. "That is so cool," she breathed.

"Isn't it," agreed Dan. "Now let's introduce you to the team you'll be working with..."

