Out of Sight (Progenitor Book 1) Read online

  Out of Sight

  Progenitor Series Book 1

  Matthew S. Cox

  Out of Sight

  Book 1 of the Progenitor Series

  © 2018 Matthew S. Cox

  All Rights Reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

  Cover Art by Jackson Tjota (Tjota.deviantart.com)

  Interior art by Ricky Gunawan (http://goweliang.deviantart.com)

  Cover layout by Alexandria Thompson (www.gothic-fate.com)

  ISBN: 978-1-949174-04-5 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-949174-05-2 (print)

  Contents

  1. Too Old

  2. A Use for Urchins

  3. Five Glint for Dead

  4. Murder Pixie

  5. Homeless

  6. Desperate Fortune

  7. Hot Potato

  8. The Pit of Despair

  9. Moment of Opportunity

  10. Choices

  11. The White Room

  12. Omnicomputer

  13. Rabbit Hole

  14. Last Breath

  15. The Other Side

  16. Aurak

  17. A Cave of Wonders

  18. Monsters

  19. The Night Scratch

  20. An Ill Wind

  21. Cat Food

  22. Isolation

  23. Full Tribal

  24. Story Time

  25. Day Trip

  26. The Problem with Plants

  27. Sick Pixie

  28. Flower Child

  29. Waypoint

  30. The Journey

  31. Final Stand

  32. Not Without a Fight

  33. Family

  34. Someone’s Kid

  35. New Breaths

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Matthew S. Cox

  1

  Too Old

  Unimportant words fell from a passing drone, an endless rain of government drivel that meant nothing to people who didn’t matter, people like Sima Nuvari. The digitized voice rambled on about a shift in the wind bringing increased pollution, an update to curfew times, and resumed reminding everyone not to do any of the thousand or so things that would violate the law on their way to work.

  Clouds of mist belched from the noodle counter across the street, breaking against the river of Citizens hurrying back and forth along the narrow sidewalks. A wash of salty shrimp-scented air, thick with humidity and the reek of people, brushed at her face. No one hurrying by so much as looked at her, not even when she tried to catch their eye.

  The baleful whirr of fans drew near. Sleek, yet battered, the dagger-shaped drone, one of thousands, carried the ‘official’ truth to the ears of the masses. Red lights blinked from the tips of six tiny fins at the back end. The silver camera ball in the middle of its belly swept back and forth, constantly scanning.

  She tugged her hood down to shield her face from the ever-watchful flying eyes of the Earth Government Security Force. Her tunic had once been pale pink, but wearing it for years had left it brown in places and made holes in others. Hard plastic bits at the end of the sleeves still lit up showing their electronics connected to Dreamland, the global information network. She lacked the implants necessary to overlay graphics on her eyes, but had little envy for the suffocating amount of data that danced in most peoples’ vision. The holographic display floating over her arm let her consume Dreamland in bite-sized pieces manageable enough not to be overwhelming.

  Outcasts, civilization’s unwanted, inhabited a razor line between the society they rejected and an underworld ready to consume them. Some bucked the social order for ideological reasons while others had more personal motives for running away. Few Outcasts bothered to draw attention to themselves by combating injustice or challenging politicians. Even seeking to improve the lives of the poor caused problems better off avoided. Care too much, the EGSF would make you disappear. Care too little, suicide, starvation, drugs, or worse lurked behind every corner.

  Apathy and Rebellion strolled hand-in-hand with Death, and the second she made friends with either, he’d come calling.

  Once the drone glided far enough away that its camera wouldn’t spot her, Sima tugged her hood down and fluffed at her tunic in an effort to hide her breasts. Baggy, black pants concealed the true position of her legs and allowed her to squat ever so slightly to make herself seem shorter. A girl who looked closer to twelve had a lot better chances at scoring a handful of glint from someone with a scrap of conscience than a girl of sixteen. No matter the age she appeared to be, her olive skin didn’t help. The fair kids—especially blondes—always scored twice her haul without even trying. She understood no one asked to be born with a particular complexion, but couldn’t help but resent them for it. Society considered them ‘cuter’ than her, so she held that against them.

  Not that her enmity took any form harsher than dirty looks or sulking off to find another spot. Younger kids remained children, and she couldn’t hate them personally for being born a few years after her or with lighter skin. None of them asked to be who they were. But that didn’t mean she had to like the little ones, or even tolerate being anywhere near them.

  Sima tended to work alone whenever possible to avoid the younger kids soaking up all the charity of a given area. Citizens likely to part with handful of glint would always gravitate to the smallest kid with the widest eyes. Having little ones nearby always left her standing there holding out empty hands. Today alone, she’d already had to relocate to six different intersections due to infestations of children. She scowled at the three nearest alley openings.

  I swear, if another damn kid shows up, they’re going into an ORC… headfirst.

  She shifted her gaze to a waist-high red-and-silver bin a short distance to her left by an alley. A person could put anything in one of the Omni Recycling Corporation bins, and it would eventually be carted off for processing. Everything from food waste to trash to old appliances, even a hot-cell from a gee-vee (radiation and all). As far as she knew, no one had yet tried stuffing street urchins in the bin for recycling. Or maybe they had, and the little buggers weren’t cooperative enough to stay there until pickup.

  A pale-skinned man in a dark blue-grey suit, two rows of white buttons down his chest, caught her eye. He walked with the crowd of pedestrians, but had the far-off look of someone with their attention fixated on Dreamland. No doubt, a dazzling display of photons bombarded his retinas from corneal implants. He didn’t appear wealthy enough to have the deep-brain model that bypassed the eyes entirely.

  Sima stepped away from the grime-stained wall she’d been leaning on, enough that he’d walk right into her.

  Unlike most people, the man stopped short before plowing her over and muttered, “Sorry.”

  Hope bloomed. That he hadn’t called her some horrible name meant good odds.

  “Please, sir,” said Sima, trying to sound younger. “Can you maybe spare a kid some chips so I could eat?”

  Irritation shone clear in his eyes, but his cheeks radiated guilt. “Uhh…” He fidgeted and looked around as if searching for an escape route, but gave in with a heavy sigh and fished in his tunic. “Yeah, sure, kid. Just don’t pick my pocket, okay?”

  She bit her lip, widening her eyes. “I’d never. I’m not a thief, sir. I’d rather not eat for two days than get caught stealing. Only thing I’m more scared of than the Blanks, is the EGSF.”

  At the mention of Blanks, the man shivered and withdrew a cluster of shimmery, chromatic plastic chips from his side pocket, each a half-inch in diame
ter. “Here, kid.”

  “Thank you!” She cupped her hands together and bounced with happiness as he dropped the money into her grip.

  He nodded once, then rushed off with the crowd, which parted as a lumbering gee-vee forced its way down the street. She hurriedly stuffed her haul into the front pocket of her tunic and flattened herself against the wall as the six-wheeled passenger vehicle rolled by. Another advantage of the narrower streets: fewer drivers tried to navigate them. The woman inside it slept peacefully. Sima knew better than to attempt begging from anyone driving around. Most either slept or busied themselves in Dreamland, leaving the navigation to computers.

  And the computers didn’t have any sense of compassion. Ahmed, a boy a few years her junior, had his foot flattened by a tire soon after Sima hit the street for the first time at twelve. Fortunately, gee-vees couldn’t go fast enough to do real damage in the back streets, and no one bothered begging at major roads.

  She pressed herself against the wall, a mismatched assortment of ill-fitting metal panels coated in a thick layer of grease and road dust. Silver streaks marked the sky overhead wherever aircars cruised. Long before she’d been born, anyone with money migrated to the skies. The market for wheeled cars dried up almost a century before she drew her first breath. Ground vehicles, or gee-vees as people called them, no longer came in an assortment of brands, only sizes. As far as she knew, the government made them, selling to the upper end of poor people. Of course, some things—like cargo trucks—remained on the ground. Heavy loads cost too much to lift.

  Upon spotting a tall, thick-bodied woman with large gold earrings and uncommonly dark skin, Sima stepped away from the wall. “Excuse me, miss. Could—”

  The woman shoulder-bumped her with enough force to knock her on her rear end.

  Sima, plenty used to that, caught herself in a fairly graceful landing, and sighed.

  “Watch where you’re—” The woman’s shout stopped at a bewildered stare. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “No one does,” said Sima in a despondent tone, before picking herself up to stand. “It’s all right. Can you maybe spare a little glint?” She knew better than to use that term with the well-to-do looking man, since it sounded too ‘street.’ But this woman’s outfit said lower-middle-class. She might find the Outcast term for money endearing.

  “Well, if I thought you’d actually use it to eat, I might.” The woman shook her head. “You look clean enough, but I think you’re maybe going to get high.”

  “I don’t do drugs,” said Sima.

  “Mmm hmm.” The woman folded her arms. “And I’m Empress Maharani.”

  A few nearby Citizens turned at the mention of the planetary ruler.

  Sima bit her lip, staring at a potential score inches from walking away. Out of desperation, she gestured at the noodle counter across the street. “It would be so very kind of you to buy me a bowl instead of giving me money. Watch me eat it if you like.”

  The woman glanced back and forth between her and the vendor, a fortyish man wearing a red fez and yellow tunic. “All right. You do kinda look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

  “It’s only been three days.” Sima somewhat remembered downing the contents of a nutri-pack either last night or the night before last, but adding a day for extra sympathy couldn’t hurt.

  “Come on.” With a sigh, the woman walked with her over to the counter, eyed the holographic menu floating above the vendor, and pointed. “Let me get a number six for the kid here, and a number four to go.”

  “Right away,” said the vendor, tapping his fingers in midair as if pushing invisible buttons, no doubt using a Dreamland interface only he could see.

  A small device on the counter chirped and projected a hologram of a green mesh around a hand shape. The woman reached into it and a small, red dot glowed under her skin near the base of her thumb in time with a chirp from the machine.

  Sima sat on one of the stools, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. The man behind the counter tossed ingredients together and set a covered bowl in front of the woman. A moment later, he placed an uncovered bowl of seaweed ramen in front of Sima.

  “Thank you,” said Sima to the vendor before looking at the woman. “And thank you so much!”

  Her benefactor waited until she started to eat, still suspicious. However, the genuine hunger causing her to attack the too-hot-to-touch ramen convinced her. With a half-hearted, “You should get off the street while you still can,” the woman wandered off with her take-out.

  “This is really good, Amin,” said Sima.

  The vendor sighed at her. Though he always found an excuse not to give away free food to Outcasts, whenever she had the spare glint to buy a bowl, he’d throw in an extra hunk of meat or two. She had no idea what kind of meat he used, but chances were high that it came from soy protein, not anything that ever walked around. Still, it tasted awesome compared to sucking the vaguely nutty-flavored sludge out of a nutri-pack.

  Without the pressure of someone watching her to ensure she ate, she slowed down enough to taste the food and not scald her mouth. She had every intention of finishing it, but preferred to do so without pain. That woman buying her dinner meant the glint she’d scored from the other guy would last a little longer.

  She huddled over her food, hating having to sit with her back to the people walking by. After being chased away from multiple corners, ever farther away from where she slept, she’d gone into a somewhat nicer part of the city. At least here, she ran less chance of being attacked by the Blanks, E6ers, Pluggers, Zap-fiends, Scathers or any of the other numerous street gangs or opportunists. Begging alone did come with risks, after all. In a group, even with little ones, they had much less chance of some skeever targeting them. Even Scathers knew a pack of ten-year-olds with knives could be dangerous. But in a group, especially being the oldest, she also stood almost no chance of scoring glint. Most Outcasts her age or older gave up begging for crime, prostitution, or scavenging a demolition zone for stuff worth selling. All three of those options terrified her.

  Damn kids.

  “’Sup Girl,” chimed Callie. “Look who got lucky.”

  Sima leaned down over her bowl to protect it, eyeing the young woman sashaying over. The older girl swooped past her, tracing fingers across Sima’s back, and plopped herself down in the next stool. The girl’s pale skin had given her a noticeable advantage back when she begged, though she had to be nineteen or twenty by now, too old to really coast on charity anymore. It’d been a couple weeks since Sima had seen her, so the neon blue dye job in her over-styled hair came as a shock. Skin-tight black leggings bore numerous strategic slices to show off skin, and the girl’s top amounted to little more than a shredded rag over her breasts. Black fingerless gloves with metal knuckles completed her outfit. One even had dried blood on the studs.

  “Not talkative, honey?” asked Callie. “Oh well.”

  She plunked a pair of Universal Monetary Unit chips down on the counter, the chromatic plastic discs gleaming in the light. “Hey Amin. Lemme get a shrimp bowl, huh?”

  “No Dreamdot?” asked Amin, taking the chips.

  Cassie shook her head. “Are you kidding? That’s how they own people. I ain’t gettin’ one of those damn things stuck in my butt.”

  “They go in the hand,” muttered Sima, between bites.

  Amin laughed while putting together the shrimp bowl.

  “So she does talk.” Cassie spun on her stool to face Sima. “How goes?”

  “Okay.”

  “Not lookin’ too okay. You’re even skinnier.”

  Sima smirked at her. “I’m alive.”

  “Alive and okay aren’t the same.” Cassie waved her hand dismissively. “Won’t be long before you give up and join the Blanks or something.”

  “Screw that,” muttered Sima, shivering. Those cultists gave her the creeps. “No way am I goin’ near those freaks. I like my parts right where they are.”

  Cassie
laughed. “You believe those stories?”

  “Why not?” Sima shrugged.

  Word on the street claimed the Blanks sometimes dragged an Outcast no one would miss into an alley and stole their vital organs. Some wealthy Citizens supposedly paid big money for transplants. Of course, the Blanks creeped her out enough even without those rumors. New members painted their faces white, full members wore shiny white masks, all the same expressionless, androgynous person. They eschewed material wealth as well as individuality, and had had declared war on commercialism. Other rumors claimed they did something to their own people, making them emotionless, mindless servants to some sort of hive mind. Some people even went so far as to claim once a Blank wore the white mask, their brain had been mostly replaced with electronics. If given a choice between death or having her sense of self taken away, she’d jump in front of a gee-vee.

  “You shouldn’t believe it because they’re stories. Probably the EGSF trying to freak people out.” Cassie looked over as Amin put her food in front of her. “Thanks.”

  Sima kept eating, faster since the soup had cooled enough to taste.

  “Not havin’ much luck, huh?” asked Cassie.

  “Doing all right.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Cassie play-punched her in the shoulder. “You should try heading over to Block 92. There’s a nest of little ones there. Poor little buggers are afraid to go begging. They’d probably work with an older kid for protection.”