Chapter 23: Problem Child

The tiniest of sounds emanated from Oly’s nose. Wrapped in a blanket, the two-month-old slept in the crook of John’s arm while his free hand dragged down along the terminal screen. The vid screen across from the couch scrolled with this touch. It showed a grid of children’s mobiles available from Hadfield’s supply center.

“Oh, I bet she’s going to like that one.” Su-Bin sat in the far seat with no one in the seat between them.

“This one?” John clicked. The mobile had simple cartoon people with enormous eyes and wide grins.

“I had a thought.” Alfred stood behind the couch. His plastic face wrinkled with every movement of his mouth. “The characters are facing outward to be more attractive to adult consumers, but to the child, those characters will seem like they are ignoring her.”

The robot didn’t have any thoughts to speak of. More like its creators had loaded it up with social programming to make the psychological data dispensation more lifelike.

“I never thought of it like that.” Su-Bin tapped a finger against her chin. “We should think of what it would look like from underneath.”

“Don’t you have something to do?” John spoke to the robot, still focused on the screen.

“I have a break in my schedule.” He spoke the cheerful words. For all of its psychological data, the robot didn’t know when to take a hint.

Frantzisca emerged from the side room, her face flushed. She took her seat between John and Su-Bin.

Paul came out the same door, cut across the space in front of the vid screen, and rushed out the doorway on the other side.

“You all good?” John dropped his eyebrows.

Frantzisca opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself. She shifted to face Su-Bin. “Could you give us some privacy?”

Su-Bin’s face dropped. She dragged her raven hair out of her face with a finger. “We’re all in this family together, you know?”

“Please.”

Su-Bin pursed her lips together and—without another word—stood and left. She left a chill in her wake.

Alfred still looked over the two from behind the couch, oblivious.

John narrowed his eyes. “That means you too.”

“Of course.” Alfred followed Su-Bin out the door.

“What did he want?” Oly shifted in John’s arm, so he checked to see if she still slept. The muscles under her closed eyes flexed into the slightest frown.

“To re-initiate me into the world of lovers.” A new blush spread across Frantzisca’s cheeks.

“He said that?”

Frantzisca reached over and pulled back Oly’s blanket around her face. “His words.”

John shook his head. “And what did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t ready, and that’s when he said we,” she drew an invisible line between her and John, “were too exclusive with each other.”

John’s hands balled into fists. His arms trembled. Oly belted out a cry.

Frantzisca reached out for the girl. “You’ve woken—”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

***

The shock of the lights every morning had become routine. The sudden brilliance still punched Dozer—the nickname had supplanted his name—in the face, but he expected that punch. He prepared for it, built a mental wall around himself. When the shock smacked him, it landed with less force each time. His heart still raced, but it had become routine, boring even.

Thick droplets of rain bombed the windows of the gymnasium, obliterating themselves and forming constant polluted streams. That dead fish chemical cocktail stink filled the space. Nothing from the sunlight emitters above made it to the ground. Had Dozer woken a few hours later, he would have assumed he had gotten up in the middle of the night.

The recruits already made their rows. They knew the drill. Dozer stayed in the center, not the first row nor the last. Less chance to get called out that way. Coldcase and Model stuck close.

The second-class called, “Attention!”

The first-class strode in with another recruit behind. The guy almost matched the DI in height, and he had a thick chest and arms, a roughhead if Dozer ever saw one. Coarse, curly, black body hair covered everywhere from his knuckles, up into his olive t-shirt, and out the top of the collar. It ended where he shaved his neck. As the guy got closer, a pale gap appeared on his scalp in his short hair, a scar about a thumb’s length long. Dozer shut one eye: PVT. Spyros ‘Animal’ Spyros (ROH) - 2.

The DI and the Animal guy stood before them. “At ease. Welcome to hand-to-hand combat training.” He gestured to the recruit. “This is my bodyguard, Private Animal. If any of you ever defeat him one-on-one, you will have the privilege of replacing him. Until then, if he tells you to do something, consider it an order from me.”

Animal must have been from one of the other companies. The guy made an impression.

“Before you learn to attack others, learn to defend yourself.” The DI put one foot back and raised his arms. “Always keep your arms up and tight to your sides. Use them to deflect incoming attacks.” He lifted his bent arm to the side of his head. “Everyone, get into battle stance with your left foot forward.”

The DI demoed a basic head block and had the recruits copy him a few times. He squared off with Animal. “Alright. Give me a left hook to my head.”

The punch landed with a thud against the meat of the DI’s arm. “That’s it. You delicate flowers will do the same. The faster you learn to defend yourself from someone with the intent to harm, the better you will be. Private Animal, if you will.”

Animal marched up to the first recruit in the corner and readied himself. The recruit flinched. The goon hit with full force, and the recruit smacked himself with his limp arm. He stumbled under the weight of the fist.

“What the fuck was that?” The DI roared. The S-shaped vein in his neck throbbed, half covered by the beard. It happened to all the Sowrivers when they got pissed. “You make another piss-poor show like that, and I’ll deliver you to the enemy myself. Again!”

The recruit had only a moment to sulk. His shoulders drooped before Animal let loose again. His knuckles cracked against the bone of the recruit’s arm, but the recruit stayed upright. He massaged the bruised flesh.

Animal moved on to the next in the row. That recruit took the hit better, but not by much. He moved on down the row and laid into each recruit harder each time. The harder the goon hit, the more his sneer grew. By the time he got to the end of the first row, he showed teeth. With everyone in the first row in pain, Animal started on Dozer’s.

“Ah, crap.” Dozer let the words seethe out. Cold battery acid splashed his bowels, and his sphincter clamped shut.

The goon ground through the row, each left hook more unrestrained than the last. That grin of his made him look like a child pulling the legs off of cockroaches. He stood in front of Model, reeled back, and plowed into his arm full force. Model stumbled to the side. Despite his slight frame, he could take a hit.

Satisfied with his small amount of torture, Animal set his eyes on Dozer. The muscles in his back stitched up tight to prepare for the onslaught. Animal, his eyes alight, swung before Dozer had the chance to think. Dozer’s flesh took over. His body, separate from his mind, leaned back. Animal hit nothing but air.

“If I had known you were going to have a dance recital,” the DI bellowed in that frog voice of his, “I would put on my fancy dress! But we’re learning hand-to-hand fucking combat. Take the damn punch.”

That malicious grin spread. Animal squinted, stepped back, and brought back his arm. Dozer tucked his arm against the side of his head. The goon plunged his knuckles deep in the meat of Dozer’s arm.

The blow pushed him off-center. Dozer flexed his calves to stay upright. He refused to move his feet, to stumble, to show the thug’s punch affected him at all. He spread his toes and pushed himself back into balance, a minor victory. Animal sent a quick snort through his nose. Whether Dozer shifted his feet, it didn’t matter. Animal would have found it amusing either way.

Coldcase sucked in a breath, held it, and braced for the strike. He got even worse than Dozer. By all rights, Animal should have gotten tired. He kept throwing the same punch over and over. Instead, the pain he dealt gave him more energy to dish out more pain.

The three massaged their respective arms. Dozer waited for the goon to get out of earshot. “Guy’s an asshole, right?”

“Primitive,” Coldcase said under his breath.

“Fuck that guy,” Model watch the thug out of the corner of his eye, “and not the friendly way.”