Halfskin (15 page)

"Better than I look."

Cali nodded. She knew what he meant. "Good, good."

[We don't have much time,]
she thought to him.

He heard it. His new breeds picked up her thoughts like a radio wave, transmitted them like spoken words. Still, he was surprised. His eyes bulged, slightly. It took a moment to comprehend, to understand, what the hell just happened.

She waited, patiently. Let him calm down, form his own thoughts.

Cali sat down, gave him space. He smacked his lips, called for water. Cali handed him the cup and stuck the straw between his lips. He only took a drag off it. His head was too exhausted to stay up and drink more.

He was going to need all his strength.

"Where's Avery?" The words scratched his throat.

Cali wiped her cheeks, pointed to the other side of the bed. Nix turned his head slowly. He lifted his hand for her to take. Avery's hand looked so small in his.

"Does it hurt?" the little girl asked.

"You look so pretty."

Avery bowed her head, smiling and giggling. Her bashfulness evaporated in seconds and she jumped up to show Uncle Nix her new shoes, demonstrating them with some swift dance moves.

"I missed you," Nix said.

"Then don't sleep so much," Avery sang.

He watched her dance some more and tell the story about the flowers she found in the lobby and used them to decorate his bed, that he would've loved them but her mom made her clean them up.

Nix listened, patiently. A good uncle.

[You’re 49.9%]
she thought.

He turned back to her. He worked his lips, closed his eyes and focused.

[I know.]

While Avery began telling another story – this one about a prince that went to save his sister from a red dragon – Cali sent her escape plans.

He closed his eyes, nodding.

28

Doctor Erickson had been the Chief Physician of Bionanotechnology at Northwestern Memorial Hospital since the wing had been dedicated to the science of biomite healing.

That was seven years ago.

At the time of its dedication, he was excited about the future of humanity. He’d seen too many things go wrong. As a doctor, good came with bad. But medicine was so much more complicated than it was in the old days. Now there were lawsuits and unrealistic expectations and insurance… it was not the reasons he chose medicine as his profession. He wanted to help people, wanted to give them a second chance. But they needed to help themselves.

Too often, that was not the case.

When bionanotechnology was introduced, he was skeptical.
Machines that imitate human cells? That’s science fiction, not reality.

But all that changed.

All that changed when he witnessed the simplicity that occurred at the microscopic level, that these miniscule artificial cells were programmed like stem cells to transform into anything inside the human body. He’d witnessed miracles.

He was not a religious man, but there was no other word for it.

Miracles.

But humans have a way of corrupting everything meant to be good and proper. In the few short years that Dr. Erickson oversaw the development and implementation of biomites to save faulty organs, to restore sight, repair damaged bodies, he became embroiled in the politics that went along with it.

He opened his office door and was reminded, bluntly, of such corruption.

“Why are you in here?” Dr. Erickson said.

Marcus Anderson stood in front of a large saltwater fish tank. He bent over, smudged the glass with his finger, pointing at the anemone.

“Amazing how a clownfish survives, Dr. Erickson. It hides in the poisonous tentacles, resistant to the sting itself.”

“Evolution is amazing.”

Marcus turned. “And God’s grace.”

Dr. Erickson dropped his clipboard on his cluttered desk and sat down. The office was dimly lit, chiefly from the tank’s light. He kept his office that way, intentionally. It was a place of respite, a secret room from the hectic matters only a few short steps outside of it. It was remarkable how it could be disrupted by a diminutive man such as the one still fouling the tank’s glass.

“Can I help you, Mr. Anderson?”

The small man straightened up as best he could—the bump between his shoulders vaguely noticeable—and came over to the desk. He didn’t bother sitting. He fished a Jolly Rancher from a dish and unwrapped it.

“I came to inform you, Dr. Erickson, that I will be overseeing a biomites shutdown this afternoon.”

“I hardly see how that involves me.”

“It will be conducted on this wing, in a room at the end of the hall.”

“That is against hospital policy.”

“You’ll have to make an exception. The subject is incapable of transport. Unless you can reduce his biomite population, it will be conducted on these premises.”

Marcus sucked on the green block of candy, rattling it over his teeth from one cheek to the other.

“We cannot oblige, Mr. Anderson. There is a Hippocratic Oath that we take seriously here at Northwestern Memorial, and I intend to uphold it. I will file an appeal to suspend Nixon Richards’ shutdown until he is able to walk out on his own.”

“And die somewhere else?”

Dr. Erickson rapped his fingers on the desktop. “I don’t approve of shutdowns anywhere, Mr. Anderson.”

“And neither do I.”

Dr. Erickson’s expression was blank.

“Doctor, the fact is, you have no choice in the matter. There is nowhere to request a stay of shutdown, no one to hear your plea. The Halfskin Laws are executed whether you and I approve of it or not. When any person reaches 50% biomites, he or she is shutdown. I am sorry for that, I am. But the world has been warned, they make their choices. They have to take responsibility for their actions. If they don’t like the consequences, they shouldn’t seed themselves.”

“What about those that need them to survive? Accident victims, genetic disorders, you name it. Life happens to them and they receive biomites to survive only to be told there’s a law that forbids it?”

Marcus leaned over the trash can and spit the candy out. It banged the bottom.

“We have to have order, Doctor.”

“You should reconsider your policy.”

Marcus stretched his chin, straightened his tie. “Perhaps you should consider your own policies.”

“And what policies would that be? That I want health and well-being for the people that come here?”

“You’re turning people into machines.”

“We’re using technology. Prescription glasses, hearing aids, medicines… no difference.”

Marcus nodded. “Does your computer have a right to life, Doctor?”

“My computer?”

Marcus nodded at the monitor. “Shouldn’t you consider its feelings before you unplug it one of these days for an upgrade?”

“A computer was never human, Mr. Anderson. It has always been a machine.”

“The past doesn’t define who we are. It is only now. We were not meant to live forever, Doctor. There are limits to our survival. Perhaps death should not be held in contempt. Without it, where would we be?”

Dr. Erickson leaned back, sighing. His hope in the human race continued to wither. Especially when speaking to a man like this. A man with power.

“We’ll be conducting a shutdown this afternoon, Doctor. We prefer to keep it quiet. You may attend, if you like.”

Marcus filled a paper cup with water, the water jug chugging with air. He crushed the cup, dropped it into the trash.

“Neither of us can stop it,” he said. “Whether we want to or not.”

Dr. Erickson decided the man’s smile indicated he not only didn’t want to stop it, he looked forward to it.

He felt no less deflated when Marcus left the office. Just more hopeless.

M0THER

Comic Book Hero

Rodney Chandler was a superhero geek.

His dad boasted the world’s greatest collection of comic books, all cataloged and sealed in mold-proof sleeves and stored in the basement. He would let Rodney look at the covers, but not take them out. God, no.

But when the old man was away, Rodney slipped into the musty downstairs and flipped through the paperbacks organized alphabetically and by edition. Superman, Green Lantern, Thor, Hulk, X-Men... he never knew where to start, the colors so vivid.

He’d read them by flashlight, afraid to turn on the light in case someone passed the house. The old-smell of the pages tingled his sinuses. And the thrill of getting over on his old man twisted his guts. Made him smile.

He watched all the movies, collected the posters. Bought his own vintage comic books and hid them from his old man’s grubby mitts. When he was old enough to get seeded with brain biomites, he experienced submersion films: virtual trips into the world of superheroes. He became the Man of Steel, flew around the world, stopped speeding bullets and saved the distressed. After awhile, he played the villain. Sometimes he even won.

But even that got stale.

Eventually, the submersion film ended and he woke up, plain old Rodney. Nothing special, nothing good.

Just another street rat.

But there were people that could help, people that had money and access to biomites that others didn’t. And didn’t cost Rodney a dime. All they asked in return were favors. That was it.

It’ll be painful, they said. It’ll hurt like a bitch until the biomites acclimate, change your body. You understand?

Rodney half-listened. He was in, no matter what. He was tired of being Rodney. He’d give anything to matter.

But they weren’t joking. Rodney sweated out a recovery that lasted months in some dirty basement room. He hardly remembered it, just the pain and the screaming.

After that, the power.

They gave him a phone, told him they’d call, that he better answer when they did. Months went by before his first call. In fact, he’d forgotten about it. He was way into the new powers. I mean, he was a superhero, for Christ’s sake. He considered moonlighting his powers for the good of the city, but the people told him absolutely not, under no circumstances was he allowed to exercise them.

Just wait.

He listened, sort of. He went back to his apartment and practiced. They couldn’t expect him to be any good if he didn’t. He set up scenarios and pretended to be the good guy. Always the good guy. By the time he’d gotten his first call, he’d saved a 1000 imaginary victims.

But now he was standing on West 23
rd
Street outside a tall building. New York was especially cold that winter but Rodney didn’t feel it. He pulled the hood over his eyes not because he was cold. He leaned against the building and watched the traffic with head bowed. Maybe someone would tell him to move on but he wasn’t begging.

He was waiting.

He flexed his fingers inside the front pocket of his jacket, keeping them limber. There was a metal ball beneath his tongue, filling his mouth with a metallic tang. He switched it from cheek to cheek, watching traffic.

Watching traffic.

When the black limo rolled around the corner, he almost swallowed it. His throat seized, hidden fingers clenched. Fear froze him against the wall. He shifted his weight and dipped his head as the limo stopped at the curb. Car doors opened.

Rodney slid the phone out and swiped his thumb over the glass. A picture illuminated the screen, a photo of a man with grey hair. The photo the people sent him. They needed a favor. And he was their man.

He kept the phone out, watched the fatneck security guard stand next to the back door while another fatneck opened it. He felt them watching him. He was far enough away to be harmless, unless he had a gun. And if that happened, they’d move. So they watched him while the silver-haired man stepped out of the limo. He was speaking on a phone, eyebrows knitted in anger, lips pulled back over white veneers.

Rodney rolled the weighty ball onto his tongue and curled the edges around it like a fleshy barrel. His chest expanded, slowly. Expanded, fully. No one would notice.

No one would expect it.

He’d practiced it so many times, so many ways. Always getting the bad guy, always the ones that deserved it. Somehow, Rodney knew this guy was bad.

He unleashed a powerful burst of wind, firing the metal ball through his biomite-reinforced tongue. There was a sound of a cork as it passed his lips.

The wet sound of it popping the silver-hair’s right eye, sinking into gray matter.

His head snapped.

The fatnecks looked around.

People stepped off the sidewalk, some began to gather. Others called 911. Rodney pushed off the wall and hustled away from the scene. He felt like he was falling, a thrill spun in his groin like he’d pulled a vintage comic from its plastic and inhaled the musty flavor.