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  Variant

  Variant, Book One

  T. C. Edge

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2019 T. C. Edge

  All right reserved.

  First edition: September 2019

  Cover Design by Laercio Messias

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Next Up - Initiate

  Also by T. C. Edge

  For my readers, without whom none of this would be possible.

  1

  The building ahead was nondescript, a simple place along a simple street. A passer-by wouldn't think much of it, wouldn't give it a second glance. They'd have no idea, really, of what lay within.

  No idea this place was harbouring a killer.

  My eyes glinted pale blue under the moonlight, searching the street, scanning for watching eyes. There weren't many people about, not here, not now. The fall of darkness tended to have the locals fleeing for their allotted units, or venturing to the livelier districts to seek entertainment if they dared.

  Standing beneath the shade of a broken street lamp, I turned my eyes to the building across the road. It was a standard housing block, dank and dull. The same could be said for much of the city, especially down here in Southbank.

  I took a pace forward, reaffirming my purpose. I'd been tracking the guy for some time now, and didn't want to let this opportunity slip. Yes, curfew was coming up fast, but it was rarely enforced around here. This man was a killer. He deserved to be put down.

  He deserved to die for what he was doing to my people.

  Hidden in an old raincoat, I slipped silently across the street, reaching the front of the building and pulling the door right open. I stepped into the interior hallway, blocking off the sound of music coming from a hacked speaker outside.

  New sounds flourished to my ears instead, filtering from beneath apartment doors. Blaring TV wall-screens. Domestic disputes. Other human noises of a more pleasured tone. Down in the basement level, violent techno-metal pulsed. Voices joined. It sounded like a party.

  Good, I thought. He won’t hear me coming…

  I moved to the stairs ahead, and stepped swiftly up towards the second floor, silent like a creeping cat. I reached the level and paced along the corridor, stopping at apartment unit 3-B.

  My eyes dropped to the handle; a frown fell over them at the sight. The handle was broken, the metal dented at the lock. A muted light glowed from inside, the door hanging half an inch ajar.

  I hesitated. It was odd. It looked like the door had been broken in.

  I pressed gently, pushing it open as it whined on creaking hinges. My left hand dropped to my hip, drawing my multi-function pistol. It was my most valued possession, and those multiple functions made it useful for a lot - immobilising, paralysing, electrifying bionic augmentations. The only setting I'd never used was the one designed to kill.

  I'd intended for tonight to be its initiation. My trusty pistol's first killing shot.

  My first kill.

  My feet made no sound as they touched the floor, the door opening straight into a filthy, cluttered kitchen. Dishes and ration boxes soiled the surfaces. A cabinet overflowed with trash. I'd heard this man had been killing for money. Clearly it hadn't paid off.

  I moved through, spectral, silent. Light bloomed through a half-open door ahead. It came in flashes, suddenly bright, suddenly dark. A TV must have been playing, its volume turned down low.

  I gently slipped out of my trench coat, bundling it in my hands and placing it on the floor. Beneath, my frame was hugged by a black bodysuit, the sort I'd wear when out on the prowl. It helped manipulate the light, making my form hard to distinguish, my best approximation of a cloaking suit. It wouldn't work against anyone with augmented sight, but against regular, human eyes it was pretty effective.

  I slipped along the wall, and turned my gaze into the room. It was a living room, standard issue like the rest of the unit. Small, windowless, a TV screen dominating an entire wall. The others were hung with generic pictures, each changing from one beautiful depiction of nature to another.

  A tumbling waterfall.

  A turquoise lake between snow-capped mountains.

  A pride of lions bounding in slow motion across the Serengeti.

  Images of a near-forgotten world, locked away beyond our walled island.

  I wonder, so long after the collapse, whether any such places still remain?

  My idle thoughts were banished, my eyes fixing to the form at the room's centre. My lips pulled into a grimace. There he was, slumped into a stained, moth-eaten armchair, his back to me, head tilted up at that over-bright, wall-mounted screen. The room was dark but for it's flashing lights; a particularly violent episode of Reaper Wars was playing.

  I scowled at the sight of it. Those were my people being gathered for the entertainment of the masses, my people being slaughtered.

  It was just the sort of show this creep would enjoy.

  My breath held in my lungs a moment, knuckles whitening as I clenched my fist. Silently, I drew up my multi-function pistol, lifting it to the back of the man's head. I scanned his form, blinking against the flashing light. On the screen, I could see two Reapers on the hunt, a frantic Variant in their sights. They were closing in like hounds on a hare. They'd rip him to shreds just as violently...

  "Are you going to use that thing, or what?"

  The voice came suddenly, croaking into the room. I returned my eyes to the back of the man's head, his bald patch catching the light. His hands were both on the armrests. One sat casual. The other clung to a bottle of something brown.

  "Hands up," I said, holding my pistol firm. I had it on 'stun'. I wanted him to talk first. "Toss the bottle."

  He laughed weakly, a spluttery sound. "You're too late," he croaked. Only his left hand moved, shaking as it drew the bottle to his lips. He grunted as he tipped it back and took a swig. His hand caught the light.

  Blood.

  His fingers were smeared with it.

  I narrowed my eyes further. "Been killing again tonight?" I growled.

  A huff spilled from his lips. His left hand dropped back down to the armrest, still clinging to the liquor. "I'm no killer, girl. You've got the wrong man." He coughed, blood spitting from his mouth. "That's what I told the other guy. He didn't seem to care."

  "What other guy?" I frowned. "Toss the bottle."

  His croaking laughter came again. "You sound young. You wanna get yourself a voice modulator if you're gonna try to intimidate people."

  He took another swig. The bottle remained fixed to his bloody fingers, his breathing laboured as his eyes turned back up to the screen.

  "Get off on that, do you?" I g
rowled. "Watching innocent people murdered for sport?"

  "Innocent?" He spat out the word disdainfully. "Variants are far from innocent."

  "And that's why you kill them?"

  "I told you...I don't kill."

  I held my pistol at his head, hesitating before moving carefully forward. Slowly, I sidestepped my way around him, watching him closely the entire time. His front came into view, and I saw the dark crimson stained across his midsection, his lap pooling with blood. He'd been stabbed or shot in the gut, it was hard to tell which. The stink in the room suggested he'd lost control of certain bodily functions.

  "Who was it?" I asked him, still holding my pistol at his head. "Tell me who did this."

  His chin fell a little lower, head shaking. His eyes worked up towards me, raising. "You are young," he said. "Wouldn't imagine a girl like you to be a bounty hunter."

  "I'm not. I don't do this for money."

  "Why, then?" he asked. His eyes turned up to the screen, its bright light illuminating his face. It was pale, the colour fading from his grim facade, his skin wrinkled and stained by factory work. He didn't look much like a killer to me.

  He began to nod as he looked at the screen. The Variant had been cornered now, and had nowhere to go. His advanced speed wasn't near enough to combat the Reapers and their bionic upgrades.

  "You're one of them, aren't you?" he went on, turning his eyes back to me. He could see it. My face said it all. "You're a Variant. This is about...revenge."

  My lips pulled up, exposing my teeth.

  "Yeah, that's it." His own bloodied smirk appeared. "I can smell it on you now. You try to hide it, but you'll get caught eventually." His sneer grew more pronounced. "Variant."

  He spat at me suddenly, blood spraying in my direction, but I saw it in time, sidestepping as red dots splattered against the wall. A scowl exploded on my face as I rushed immediately at him, my speed unnatural, my fingers gripping tight at his throat. I squeezed, hard, as his eyes bulged in fear. "Tell me who did this," I growled again. "Tell me. Now!"

  His bulging eyes stared up at me, his throat closed tight in my grip. I let him struggle for air for a moment before pulling back. He gasped several breaths. "I don't...know. I...I never killed anyone. I just sold information..."

  I took his throat again. "You're a snitch," I said, squeezing tight. It was just as bad to me. "You snitch on Variants, people just trying to live their lives." I squeezed a little tighter. "Who do you tell? Who's been doing the killings?”

  He tried to speak, spluttering for air. I loosened my grip but held my fingers in place. "Who do you think?" he gasped. "There are plenty like me out there. I'm just...doing my duty....I gather information for them."

  "Duty?" My pistol whipped across his face, smashing teeth. His head bobbled a moment, hanging loose. I gripped his blood drenched chin, and pulled his eyes up. They were fading now. Whoever did this had let him die slow. It was clear enough I wasn't going to find out who that was. At least, not from him.

  Outside, I could hear the sound of wailing beginning to fill the streets. It came each night at about the same time, a mostly futile exercise around here. Sometimes the custodians would drive through, enforcing curfew. Mostly, they didn't bother, at least not out here.

  But then, you'd never quite know when they'd choose to enforce the rules. It might be once a week, or once a month. Sometimes, they'd roll through in numbers, several days in a row. It was about keeping us on our toes, taking us by surprise. And down here in this part of Southbank, they hadn't come by in weeks.

  "Time to go, girl," breathed the man, weakly looking up at me with dark, bloodshot eyes. "You gonna finish me off yourself first?" He steadied his gaze on me. "No, you're like me, aren't you? You're not a killer. I've seen enough of those to know..."

  "I'm nothing like you," I spat.

  He managed a final smile, disdainful and twisted, chips of yellow teeth dribbling from his bloodied lips. "No, you're right. You're inhuman, like the rest of your kind. Shame I won't live to see you all wiped out..."

  My anger boiled, my gun lifting. I pressed the barrel to his head, and set my finger to the trigger. My hand shook as I stared down at him, a lifetime of suppressed rage erupting inside me.

  But before I could pull the trigger - before I could even decide whether I would - I heard the wailing growing louder outside. It wasn't the curfew alarms, calling from the public speakers. No, this was different.

  Custodians, I thought.

  I drew back, as the snitch's eyes flickered and fell shut. A breath issued weakly from his lungs. It would be his last, I knew. He was already dead.

  I took a final, sneering look at the man, and stepped quickly from the room, drawing my trench coat back upon my frame. The night had given me more questions than answers, but right now I had to get home. Staying here wouldn't be wise. If they chose to search the place...

  It wasn't an option.

  I fled down to the front door and listened. The custodians were rolling past in their armoured vehicles, calling out on speakers of their own.

  "Return to your homes. Anyone caught outside will be arrested. This is not a drill. Return to your homes..."

  I waited for the voice to fade, before opening the door and checking the street. All across the district, the curfew alarms were wailing. It was a din we all knew well. When you heard it, you ran home, praying you wouldn’t get caught.

  And so that's what I did.

  I ran.

  2

  One week later...

  "Paige, would you come here a moment?"

  I looked up from my workstation to find my supervisor, Mr Beecham, staring at me. His head held its usual reprimanding tilt, thin nose slightly up, beady eyes looking down through his glasses. I knew immediately that I'd done something wrong.

  I stood from the conveyor line, getting a look from Becca as I stepped away. She was my only real friend here, and lived nearby to me. We'd been found at school to have a 'good eye for detail', something that landed us here in the food packing warehouse, filling ration boxes day in, day out, for the generous wage of ten daily credits.

  It wasn't much to live on, really. Our housing units weren't free - those cost us six credits a day - and these ration boxes we packed? Well, they were two credits a day for a basic one, three for a 'premium' one with a piece of ageing fruit, sachet of stale soup, and square of bland chocolate, and four a day for the 'deluxe' version, which included something resembling actual meat.

  With a knowing raise of the eyes in Becca's direction, I stepped swiftly over towards Mr Beecham, who maintained that chastising pose. He wasn't an overly unpleasant man, really, just misguided. I suppose he thought the expression was one of authority, one to 'keep the workers in line'. I'd been working here for over a year now, and only ever saw it as mildly comical, the expression of a feeble man trying to exert himself. He really wasn't very assertive.

  "Yes, Mr Beecham?" I said, speaking over the dull chatter and sounds of the machinery. "You wanted to see me?"

  His head tilted just a little bit higher. Then his eyes shaped to a small table off to the side of the conveyor line where we packed the boxes. There were two boxes there, separated from the others.

  "Mine?" I asked.

  Mr Beecham nodded. "Two, within the space of two hours. That isn't good enough and you know it." He put on his 'disappointed' voice. "You must pack the boxes correctly, Paige. You know I have to punish you for this."

  My eyes moved to the boxes. "What did I get wrong this time?" I sighed.

  "No fruit in a premium box, and you added two squares of chocolate to a basic." He shook his head, as though unable to fathom the magnitude of the mistake. "You were doing so well here when you first started. Now, you're making all sorts of errors." He stiffened up, standing a little taller. "I'm going to have to dock your wages. A credit per box, as usual. I'm sorry, Paige, but it's standard protocol."

  I nodded, keeping my head low in contrition. There was no use putting up
a fight. The odd lost credit here and there wasn't a problem. Losing my job completely, however, would be. And I can't have been far from the door.

  "Is there trouble at home, Paige? That's another two mistakes on top of the dozen you made last week. You know this can't go on forever."

  "I know, Mr Beecham. It won't, I promise. It's just...well, I've been having trouble sleeping lately, that's all. They've been doing repairs on the Skytube track right above my building. They work late and start early. It's been causing havoc with my sleep."

  He nodded understandingly. "I see. Well, perhaps noise cancellers will help? Do you have a pair?"

  I did, but didn't use them often. They were caps that moulded perfectly around the ears when placed there, blocking off all sound. Personally, I preferred to sleep with my ears unblocked. It was safer for me that way.

  "I don't," I said, lying. "They're quite expensive. I can't afford them yet." I looked forlornly at the two boxes on the table. "I've been saving up, but..." I shrugged. "Well, I guess it's my fault."

  My supervisor's gaze followed. He pursed his lips, his eyes sympathetic behind those clunky, thick-lensed glasses. "How much are you short?"

  "Oh, not much. I might be able to get some by the end of the week. You know, so long as I stop screwing up."

  His beady eyes darted left and right furtively, like anyone really cared. "Well, tell you what, how about we forget about these boxes on this occasion, OK? No one needs to know but us." He winked awkwardly, as though a tiny bug had gotten caught in his eye.