The common room stunk of a sour atmosphere. Townsfolk and travellers kept to themselves, talking in hushed voices at scantily lit tables in the recesses of the spacious room. The four members of Alister’s Boys lounged at the largest table opposite the centre fireplace. Their leader, whom Andy had picked a fight with, motioned to two chairs opposite him. Clara accepted the invitation, dragging one chair slightly away from the table as she sat so that she would have room to leap into action if necessary.
Alister was tall and toned, statuesque with brass coloured skin which glowed with charisma. Sandy blonde hair fell to the shoulders of his denim jacket. He leaned back in his chair, a self-important sneer plastered on his lips. “Fancy this, a joyous reunion.” Their leader lifted his wine bottle in salute and chugged.
“After such a hasty departure,” Clara said. “You left us to deal with quite a lot of zombies, you know. A substantial horde.”
“Our information was incorrect,” Alister said, shifting his gaze to one of his companions–an old man wearing a hooded raincoat.
“Shitshow.” The hooded man held a cup of whisky in both hands, leaning over it, staring into the bronze liquid, transfixed. He was the eldest at the table, likely in his forties, although the stress and trials of the apocalypses aged survivors beyond their years. A scar severed his nostril and cut into his lip, Clara could tell where it had been sewn back onto his face where the hairs of his moustache wouldn’t grow. She remembered talking to him on the roadside weeks ago, before they had entered the carnivorous jungle at the beginning of their quest for Blue Eyes.
“By sunrise, we were outside the city limits.” Alister faltered, his eyes darted towards the ceiling. “Our tire needed changing. The Harmony woman who accompanied us–Stephanie–was bitten while the doors were open. Unfortunately, she died.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. Until now, she had forgotten about the Harmony member escorting Alister’s boys, and now she was dead, with no witnesses other than the Patricians. Clara wondered what secrets might have died with her.
“By the time we returned” Alister continued. “You and the other team had disappeared.”
“Sorry we couldn’t wait for you to catch up.” Clara removed her combat jacket in the warmth of the inn’s common room. Grime and blood stained black vest beneath. She fixed her hair in a ponytail beneath her cap and ordered food and drink from the serving boy. She had hoped to hop into the bathhouse while the water was still warm, but Andy’s antics had complicated things. Besides, if James was correct, then these were the gang who possessed an AMC in Milltown, a rarity, given how remote the settlement was.
“I’m guessing you didn’t recover the payload then?” Clara said, probing for information, keeping her voice even. If they knew what was inside the payload, and that she had injected the serum for herself, they might try taking her back to Blue Eyes by force, seeking payment for retribution.
“No,” another man said. He was short and bald, stocky, verging on the chubby side. Tattoos of daggers and flames rose up his thick neck, half concealed beneath a turquoise tracksuit. His accent was unlike Alister’s, closer to home for Clara. “Any clues where it went?”
“It wasn’t at the research centre,” Clara said. “Neither were the scientists. We found them on the road at a… what would you call it… An indoor playground centre?”
“Massive Fun,” Andy said, tottering back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling, glass of whiskey in his lap.
“Did you ever retrieve it?” Alister asked.
“No. It was stolen.”
“By whom?”
“Cultists dressed like goths. They took it back to a settlement called Hallow Hill. We tried to retrieve it there. The other team with us–The Hogs–didn’t make it that far. Zombies.”
The hooded man withdrew a map from his coat pocket, unfolding a section onto the table, pointing at a mountain range which stretched from the coast into the north. “Here?”
“That’s it.”
“Where exactly?”
“You’re close,” Clara said, cautious to avoid details, aware of the value of her information.
“Cultists?” the bald man asked. “We heard it was more than that, like demons and stuff. Avoided it.”
“Knockoff,” the hooded man hissed. “That information is ours.”
“Come on now,” Alister said merrily. “Let us not be hostile. Drink.”
“Aye,” Andy said, raising his glass, not taking his eyes off the ceiling.
The serving boy returned with Clara’s stew and cider, both of which were on the watery side with bits floating inside. A hard biscuit made up for the stew’s insubstantial contents.
“The payload’s still there,” Clara said, addressing the hooded figure–he seemed to have the most wits about him. “Presumably, anyway. They stole it, we fought to get it back.” She shrugged. “We lost it. There was a tracker, but it broke as well.”
“Sod’s law,” Knockoff said, scratching the dagger tattoo on his neck.
“Yeah,” Clara said. “Don’t think Blue Eyes will be very happy with us. You lot included.” Clara scanned them for a reaction, but they seemed unphased; even the most drunk and loose of their group–Knockoff–burped carelessly and swigged his pint as though he’d just heard news about the weather.
“Shame,” Alister said.
“That was a couple nights ago,” Clara continued. “So pardon me if I’m feeling a little unsociable right now. I need a bath and an eighteen hour nap.” Finishing the meagre stew, Clara rose from the table and took her jacket underarm. If she left now, the baths would still be lukewarm. But there was one last thing to attend to. “We need to access your AMC, but I’d appreciate it if we talked terms tomorrow. I’m shattered.”
“Leaving so soon. What’s the rush?” The bronze skinned man held up his hand, and Clara faltered. She was surprised to feel something tugging at her chest, keeping her at the table. What was that sensation? Fear? No, the way that Alister presented himself with a self-imposed grandeur didn’t impress her, it only came across as phoney. Clara touched her stomach. More likely, the sensation was just indigestion.
“Take a seat,” Alister continued. “Your partner is Augmented? Is he mute?”
Clara looked at Andy, but he wasn’t paying any attention. “He’s Augmented,” she said, lingering beside her chair, hesitant to reveal the truth about her own powers. It hardly felt real to her, and what if they asked her to prove it? Ever since the battle on the rooftop, she had been unable to summon her abilities on command, other than to manipulate a flashlight. It was hardly impressive. Could she really call herself Augmented before she underwent initial calibration at an Augmentation Master Console and received her archetype, delineations and unique abilities? Had the serum even worked, or had it been bunk? It was created by Linton–part of a new wave. Perhaps it hadn’t set in properly, perhaps she’d administered it wrong?
The words clung to her lips like a butterfly, as though uttering them outloud would scare away the fantasy. “We both are.”
Alister narrowed his eyes, setting his wine bottle on the table. Slowly, his lids opened, bright amber eyes gazing at her for the first time. Clara wasn’t one to turn down a stare, but the softness in his expression made her uncomfortable. “I apologise,” he said. “I did not know.”
“No worries,” Clara said, taken aback by his sudden intensity. “I wasn’t aware it made much difference.”
“To me, the world.” He rose from his chair and ushered to her seat. “As you know, my name is Alister. I am of the New Patricians, not a vagabond mercenary, as I may have led you to believe. My companions are Knockoff, Tim and Curly. We work for a higher cause. We are part of a movement that is going to transform the wasteland. Madame, sit and stay a little longer, s'il te plaît. I am certain you will want to hear what I have to say.”
Clara raised her eyebrows exaggeratedly, then reluctantly sat down. “So you’re saviours of the world? The next big thing?”
Alister’s smile was puzzled. “There’s a hierarchy. There always has been, except, it has revisions. The environment transforms, a new apex predator is born. That’s me, you, and you.” Pointing at each of them, Alister held his finger out, waiting for a response.
Clara got the impression she was supposed to act impressed. “Okay, sure.”
“It’s nature,” Knockoff said. “Always has been.”
“Always will be,” Tim added in the shadows of his raincoat hood.
“The weak serve the mighty,” Alister continued. “The strong fight, prosper, and they make the world safer for everyone.”
“Hmm. Okay. So you’re a militia?”
Alister shook his head. “The New Patricians are a nation beyond borders. To join, the only border which you must overcome is the one in your mind.” Alister tapped his head and again paused for her reaction.
“Okay. So you’re a cult?”
Alister smiled, sharing a glance with Knockoff. His bulldog-like accomplice didn’t look too impressed with her comment. “We’re not a cult,” he grumbled.
“And we’re not a religion,” Alister chimed. “We are a nation of people who follow certain laws. It seems to me, many people of the wasteland have forgotten the days of law, order, patronage, hierarchy. Sapiens scavenge in the dirt, they lock their doors at night afraid of the dark. This town, before we arrived, was lawless, defenceless. People live like medieval peasants. When all the scavenged fuel dries up and all the ammunition is gone, what will they do? Re-invent metallurgy? Pickup the sword and shield to fight mutant and monster?”
Slowly, the room was filling up with patrons again. Disdain lavered Alister’s face as he beheld the townsfolk and travellers gathered in the common room. “There was no plan before the New Patricians made one. And the future through our eyes looks bright, not bleak.”
“Think about it this way,” Knockoff said. “If you throw a load of logs on a tiny fire, it’s gonna smother it and go out, but a little ember will stay there. Once that ember builds up again, you’ve got all those logs on the fire, ready to go up in flames. And then, once that’s done, the fire’s bigger than ever. Alister here’s them logs. Us boys are the ember, helping him go up.”
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Alister cleared his throat. “Knockoff, that analogy would work were I not being characterised as a log.”
Curly–the youngest member of their group–laughed, leaning into the candlelight, cleaning his nails with a knife in open defiance of the inn’s no-weapons policy. He wore a denim jacket similar to Alister’s, except his was covered in patches and emblems, some of which Clara recognised from the Trojan’s paint job. “A log,” he repeated, smirking.
Knockoff grimaced. “Yeah, alright. Just trying to explain it in a more simple way.”
“Right, so you want to take over?” Clara said.
“Not exactly.”
“Then be exact.”
Alister gulped from the wine bottle and wiped his lips. His tone was tinged with notes of sourness when he spoke. “I prefer poetry because it suits the gravitas of the subject. However, if you would I rather I be blunt, then so be it. We, Augmented humans, are the next rung in human evolution, a step above the sapien. Homo augmentus. Our DNA is altered permanently. When two Augmented individuals bear a child, do you know what happens?”
“What happens?”
“That child possesses abilities too. There is no guidance from an artificial intelligence assistant. That must still be injected and calibrated. However, the offspring are Augmented. Quicker, more powerful, and more intelligent than their antiquated peers… the sapien. A new species.”
Clara opened her mouth to speak, but words escaped her as her thoughts raced ahead. She glanced aside, receding into her mind, considering the implications.
“A superior species,” Alister continued before her thoughts could catch up. “One built for the sole purpose of running the world, plucking humans from the brink of extinction and bringing them into a new age.”
“The rapture,” Tim said. “Chosen angels.”
“And you are one of them.” Candlelight swam inside Alister’s golden-brown eyes. “Both of you.”
Andy rocked forward in his chair, rejoining the table. “So what you’re saying is I’m the chosen one?”
Clara held her breath. It was rare that Andy got involved in conversation like this on ethics or philosophy. The fact that he was paying attention at all was significant in itself.
“Chosen one of many,” Alister responded.
Andy wrinkled his nose. “Not interested.”
“Whether you’re interested or not, it has been decided. Some say that the gods declare their saints. I believe it is more like… you say… the luck of the draw.” Alister laughed to himself, louder than was necessary. “The serum I injected was not intended for me. No, I took it by force. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but judging by your ages, neither of you were in service of military during the cataclysm?”
Clara shook her head. “I was ten.”
“Then your Augmentation was not ordained by the powers of the old world, but rather, the way of the new. Might proves right.”
Clara shrugged. “It was a career move.”
“Oh, but you downplay your transformation,” Alister continued, spreading his arms wide. “You are at the pinnacle of a changing world. You don’t know, do you, just how beautiful you are.”
Andy snorted. “Cheers mate.”
Alister smiled at the comment, but something sinister flickered across his face. “You are welcome, sir.”
“So, you’re big shots,” Clara said. “Why haven’t I heard of you?”
“We’re pilgrims,” Alister said. “The vanguard of our great nation.”
Clara made a point of looking around the common room. Seated were a mix of folk with dirty skin and calloused eyes. Farmers with their backs slouched and mothers with shoulders shrunk. One man with a blanket for a beard chuckled to himself beside the fireplace, fiddling with a beaded necklace, staring into the flames. There were three men at the opposite side of the room who looked better fed than the rest, a militia or mercenaries. Fighting paid the best because it meant the shortest lifespan.
“Is this room a part of your nation?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Alister said. “In fact, we never intended to remain here so long.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked.
“We got stranded,” Knockoff said.
“An act of god,” Tim added, twisting a gold ring around his finger.
“Perhaps.” Alister lit a cigarette and took a drag, passing the pack around his gang. “We have been occupied civilising the sapes, spreading the word of the supremacy, preparing these people for what is to come. It is a grace of charity which we offer out of mercy.”
“How gracious of you,” Clara said sarcastically.
“That’s right,” Alister said, seemingly not registering her tone.
“We offer the sapes protection from the apocalypses, and they pay us for our troubles, much like the governments of old, except our rule is founded on power, not politics.”
“It doesn’t seem so dangerous around here,” Clara said.
“Ah, and you have us to thank.” Alister raised an eyebrow, smug with his own reporte.
Clara thought back to what James had told her about the locals of Milltown, how they had banded together during the cataclysm to protect their land, and had prospered since. It didn’t quite match with Alister’s account of things. They might not be perfect or pious, but then who was in the wasteland? Clara and Andy needed access to an AMC, and an employer who could pay them right. Compromises would have to be made. “Let’s wrap this up. How much for access to your AMC?”
“Time to recalibrate?” Alister said. “Do you adore it?”
“It’s grand,” Clara said bluntly.
“Ahh, but running the console is not cheap,” Alister said.
“Yeah, I imagine,” Clara said. “But I’m the chosen one, aren’t I? Do I get a discount?”
“Forgive me for saying this, Clara, but until you join the New Patricians, all you’ve chosen is yourself, not the future for mankind. You’re just a loose cannon, looking for its target.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “Actually, what I am is a mercenary. There’s nothing loose about it.”
“We will disagree. Were you a member of our nation, we would freely allow you to use our Augmentation Master Console for calibration, at our expense. However, we simply cannot extend this generosity to strangers. I am sorry.”
“What’s the price then?” Clara asked.
“We will accept trade. Salvage, electronics, batteries, ammunition especially. Why don’t you start by telling me what you have.”
Clara’s eyes wandered the ceiling as she took a mental stock of their supplies. “A little small arms ammunition. A .45 pistol… I could tell you where our jeep broke down. It’s not too far from here, about a day’s drive. There was a fair bit of salvage inside, too much for us to carry on our bike.”
“Broke down?”
“After the fight,” Clara said. “Trust me, the cultists came out worse for wear.”
Alister wrinkled his nose. “I would send a team to your coordinates, but there’s no guarantee of what you left behind. That’s a lot of trouble for a little trade.”
“We can work for it then,” Clara said. “Got any jobs?”
Curly grinned into his pint, but Alister glared at him. The teenager ate his smile.
“There is indeed something keeping us here in Milltown,” Alister said. “A salvage operation in an abandoned factory nearby.”
Clara nodded. “Easy peasy.” She set her plate aside and rose from the table. “Let’s chat details in the morning.”
“Of course, I am grateful for the time you have given us. We’re on the east side of town. Our flag is flying high, you cannot miss it. Three white spears–the sanctified needles of the serum. First, you may recalibrate for free. This is my gift to you. But your companion… He may recalibrate once the job is done.”
“If you want the best results for the job, you’ll let us both recalibrate now.”
“Then what incentive would you have to work?”
Clara tried to think of some sort of collateral she could offer them, but they would need everything they carried for the mission. Frankly, they were broke. “Okay,” she said. “But we’ll need ammunition for the mission.”
“You don’t know what the mission is yet,” Alister said.
“Well if four strong men like you can’t do it yourselves, I’m guessing it involves a lot of shooting.”
Alister smiled. “I’ll see what I can spare.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
Alister dragged on his cigarette, yet his eyes were unwaveringly on Clara, glowing with a soft confidence. “Oh, the pleasure has been mine, princess.”
Clara ushered Andy up to their room then ran downstairs into the bathhouse. Rinsing the black dye which she had applied to disguise herself as a goth out of her hair, she soaked in the lukewarm tub trying to settle her thoughts. That night, despite her exhaustion, Clara lay awake in bed. The luxury of the inn’s walls only made her feel isolated, trapped. Compared to camping outdoors, anyone could be on the other side of the walls, or behind their door, plotting, loading a gun, preparing to break in. She would never hear them, never see them coming.
Raucous drunken songs and laughter shook the floorboards. Clara bolted upright as men shouted downstairs, half expecting they were under attack. Andy snored loudly in the bed opposite, oblivious to the world.
Settling back under the covers, Clara repeated what Alister had said in her head. She was unsure how she felt yet about it. A child had been born with Augmented powers. A new species. The future of mankind, supposedly. Was it true?
Clara had come across a lot of fanatics in the wasteland, possessed with wild ideas about the cataclysm, what had caused the multitude of apocalypses, where humanity was heading?
There was a theological explanation: the cataclysm was divine intervention or abandonment, punishment for humanity's decadent ways; that zombies and demons were all hellspawn, and the insanity which gripped the world was the work of the devil himself.
Then there was a more scientific explanation: that a wave of freak astronomical radiation had swept the planet, directly causing some apocalypses such as asteroidal impact and nuclear zones, mutations and extreme weather, but neither theory could explain everything.
The most lunatic explanation Clara had ever heard was ironically the most consistent: a disciple of the Visionaries had once spilled the beans at a bar while drunkenly chatting her up. He had explained the Visionaries believed the cataclysm had occurred when a shift in reality had caused fiction to merge with reality. The implausible manifested, fueled by a malicious energy; people’s worst nightmares and their most oppressive fears had burst to life and taken over the world. Any more than that, he hadn’t been taught, or had managed to keep a secret, despite how much Clara laughed and probed for more.
All of those theories had combined in Clara’s mind over the years to form her definitive answer: a god-like super alien psychic subconscious storm-being, with a penchant for science fiction movies.
However, for all the theories of the past, few people possessed a vision for the future. For the first time in her life, Clara considered what the future would look like for the human race, not just for her and Andy. What would the future hold for the people of Milltown? For the civilians of Quadra? What would life be like for the average person in the next ten, twenty, thirty years? Fuel supplies were dwindling and would disappear, as would ammunition, unless someone figured out a way to manufacture it.
Could she and Andy stockpile enough wealth to ever retire? First of all, they needed a base of operations to store their equipment and start rebuilding their lives. Clara closed her eyes, envisioning their little room which Blue Eyes had given them inside Quadra. They had stayed there just five months, working their way up the social ladder, firstly doing jobs for merchants before catching Old Blue Eyes’ attention. But now, their room would have been cleared out, their possessions repossessed or destroyed. There was nothing to go back to.
Clara’s leg vibrated. She shook it, trying to release the impulse, then rubbed the muscle in her hip. Suddenly, a surge of energy shot down her arm. She winced. The twitches had become so strong, they were painful now, but she didn’t know how to stop them. A tugging sensation had been bothering her all day; she had assumed it was due to her dirty clothes chafing her skin, perhaps a rash, but now that she was bathed and undressed, she realised that the feeling persisted. It felt as though her skin was being stretched tighter over her flesh. There was a dull ache in her abdomen, and a sensation of growing pains in her feet; she flexed her toes, just as she had done as a child, as though stretching with the growing pains would aid her body’s transformation, and ease her discomfort. It seemed to work, even if it was just because she convinced herself it did.
Clara combed her hair absentmindedly. A blue light strayed in the air before her face, but dissipated before she could locate the source. Had she done that? Focussing on the electrical sensation in her nerves, Clara tried to force her shoulder to twitch again. It felt like trying to will her ear lobes to move, like her grandad used to impress her with.
Suddenly, a surge shot down her arm. Clara struck a finger out and focussed the energy into the tip. It felt like someone was pinching her fingertip with pliers. Then it began to glow, soft and blue. Clara moved her finger before her face, watching the light trail and dissipate. Her mouth was agape. She could barely believe what was happening. She played with lights, summoning more energetic surges, focussing on the sensations in her body. Doing so put her in a state of meditation, and brought her a reflection of peace. They may have failed to complete their mission with Old Blue Eyes, but at least she had this. The serum inside her bloodstream altering her genetics, transforming her body into a weapon, may have been manufactured by Linton and his team of scientists, but no one could refute that it was hers now. She wasn’t proud of being a thief, but neither would she beat herself up over the fact. It had been necessary for their survival, and once she calibrated her powers tomorrow, she and Andy would rebuild their lives.
The future was bright.