Fractured Read online

  Fractured (Book 1)

  © 2013 Keith Robinson and Brian Clopper

  First Published: September 5, 2013

  Published by Apparatum Books

  Cover design by Keith Robinson and Brian Clopper

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Visit worldofapparatum.com

  Contents

  1. Kyle

  2. Logan

  3. Kyle

  4. Logan

  5. Kyle

  6. Logan

  7. Kyle

  8. Logan

  9. Kyle

  10. Logan

  11. Kyle

  12. Logan

  13. Kyle

  14. Logan

  15. Kyle

  16. Logan

  17. Kyle

  18. Logan

  19. Kyle

  20. Logan

  21. Kyle

  22. Logan

  23. Kyle

  24. Logan

  25. Kyle

  26. Logan

  27. Kyle

  28. Logan

  29. Crossover

  30. Kyle

  31. Logan

  32. Kyle

  33. Logan

  34. Kyle

  35. Logan

  36. Kyle

  37. Logan

  38. Kyle

  39. Logan

  40. Kyle

  41. Logan

  42. Endgame

  Epilogue

  The story continues...

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Kyle

  Kyle Jaxx leapt from his bed, rushed to the window, and peered out through the blinds. The morning sky was a hazy blue, and the sun glinted off the smooth, rounded glass walls of high-rise apartment towers standing across the block from his own. Looking down from the eighty-fourth floor, the silent maglev train far below eased its way into the city center. People crawled like ants on the streets, clustering on the corner where gleaming white transport pods disappeared into the ground. Police cruisers whined through the air. The mayor’s election campaign blimp turned slowly, its silver surface flashing as it caught the sun’s rays.

  It would be a perfectly normal morning except that today was Kyle’s fourteenth birthday. Today he was eligible to receive the implant in the back of his head.

  He dressed quickly and hurried along the hall to the kitchen for breakfast. His parents and younger brother were already seated around the table, and the stream screen on the wall played the morning news, though the volume was low.

  “Here he is,” his dad said gruffly. He was peering at his tablet, his finger poised over the screen. “I knew the birthday boy wouldn’t sleep in this morning.”

  “Happy birthday,” Kyle’s mom said over her shoulder as she took the muffins out of the oven. “Are you ready?”

  “For the implant?” Kyle said. “Are you kidding? I’ve been ready for years.”

  “Any last bets?” his dad asked. “I’ve still got you pegged as Librarian. You have that pasty-faced bookworm look about you.” He peered at Kyle, his nose wrinkling with distaste. “Then again, Librarians are usually presentable. When are you going to get that greasy hair cut, boy? It’s as long as a girl’s. And why do your shirts always look like you slept in them?” He sighed and shook his head, returning his attention to the tablet. “Perhaps a Lab Geek is a better fit. Scruffy bunch, the lot of ’em.”

  Kyle self-consciously pushed his hair out of his face. “It’s not greasy,” he mumbled. “Anyway, I’m gonna be a Robotics Engineer. Or better still, Cybernetics Engineer.”

  “So Lab Geek, then.”

  “Lab Geeks look through microscopes all day. I’m going to be working on artificial body parts—starting with Byron’s upgrade.”

  A brief silence fell as his mom placed the hot muffin pan on the table and took a seat. Kyle glanced toward his younger brother Byron, who sat perfectly still, looking on impassively, his small mechanical body having no desire to fidget the way ordinary eight-year-old boys might.

  “What do you say, Byron?” their dad asked. “Think Kyle’s going to end up in Cybernetics?”

  Byron’s smooth plastic head tilted slightly to one side, and his orbs flashed a soft, pale green. “I hope not,” he said in his synthesized voice. “I’ve only got my brain left. I don’t want that getting messed up as well.”

  Kyle and his parents laughed. Byron remained impassive, but the soft flickering of his eyes indicated that he was chuckling internally.

  “Implant today, then ten-day training,” Kyle said, counting off on his fingers, “and then graduation. After that, I’ll get started on your new parts. I know I can make them work. I got those two mods working okay, didn’t I?”

  “They were EasyInstall mods,” Byron said. He raised his right hand and flexed the digits. “Adding a short-range laser isn’t the same thing as fixing on new legs and arms.”

  As if to prove the simplicity of his mod, a short red beam of light suddenly projected from a fingertip as though he were extending an inch-long claw. It was nothing more than a cheap utility tool, able to slice through thin plastic and wood but requiring a two-minute recharge after just ten seconds of use. The other EasyInstall mod, an electronic lock decoder, was more subtle. Technically speaking, they were supposed to have a license for that one.

  “Mmm,” Kyle said in answer. He turned and gazed longingly at a pile of components tucked into a corner of the lobby under the coat rack, a collection of limbs and parts bought dirt-cheap from Uncle Jeremiah over in East Morley. Byron was overdue for an upgrade. While his mind had naturally advanced in the four years since his accident, his small body had slowly degenerated.

  Three of the family reached for the muffins. Byron watched, his head making micro-movements from time to time. When Kyle was halfway through his first muffin, his dad gently put his own down and pushed his tablet aside. “Seriously, son, I don’t want you to be another fixer-upper like me. I’m hoping for Military.”

  “Speaking of fixing things, Josef,” Kyle’s mom said firmly, “will you please sort out the air purifier before I choke to death.”

  He sighed, pushed back his chair, and wandered over to a flat grey panel almost as large as the nearby window. “It was working fine last night,” he muttered.

  “No, it wasn’t. It’s been on and off for days.”

  Kyle’s dad opened the panel and peered inside. There wasn’t much to see, just a series of thick pipes that fed the house, a filter system, and a small box of electronics tucked away in the corner. He placed his hand over the box and frowned. The muffins lay forgotten while he mentally diagnosed the problem, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Eventually he clicked his tongue and returned to the table.

  “You can’t fix it, Dad?” Kyle asked.

  “No. Diagnostics indicates a faulty logic board. I’ll pick one up later this morning.” He grabbed his half-finished muffin, but before biting into it, he jabbed a finger at Kyle. “And that’s what you need to remember, son. Every piece of tech in the city, every tiny device with an electronic brain, is receptive to human manipulation. But only a few can pull it off. That’s what implants are for. Implants boost the signal. They help connect your brain to microchips. You can diagnose problems, control entire systems, override malfunctions.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  His dad barreled on. “What you can’t do is replace broken parts like logic boards. Not with your mind, anyway. If a physical part is broken, if the hardware itself is faulty, even Grade-A Diagnostic Technicians like me aren’t worth anything.”

  “I know, Dad, but—”

  “And
that’s why you need to quit dreaming about that pile of nuts and bolts in the lobby.” He patted Byron affectionately on his smooth, cold shoulder while he spoke. “Sorry, Byron. We’ll get you some new parts one of these days.” He returned his attention to Kyle, his expression hardening. “Even if you get into Robotics, you can’t just make parts work unless they’re in good order.”

  “But the parts are in good order.”

  “What, because Uncle Jeremiah said they were?” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like all the other trash he sells at remarkably knock-down prices.” He gave up on his muffin and glared at Kyle. “Son, everyone wants to be in Robotics. But it’s a low-paying job, and you’ll likely end up doing more paperwork than hands-on testing or diagnostics. Those robot shows you keep watching on the stream screen are about a handful of guys who got really lucky and have the dream job of designing and deploying advanced machines. Not many end up in a job like that. So get your head out of the smog, son. Instead of aiming too high and falling short of your dreams, aim for something tangible—a job you can apply all your skills to in some form. Think Military.”

  “Dad,” Kyle said, shaking his head, “I’m not cut out for—”

  “City troops are paid well. You can help deal with some of the nonsense on the streets.” He turned toward the stream screen and barked, “Sound up!”

  A news reporter’s voice blared, “. . . demonstrators outside the Repurposing Factory all week, and they’re not going away. Mayor Baynor was quoted as saying, ‘They have every right to their opinion,’ yet a strong troop presence . . .”

  “See? People are always moaning about something,” Kyle’s dad said, his voice raised. “I wonder how the mayor puts up with it. Sound down!”

  He turned back to Kyle. “Or if you really want to be in Robotics, Kyle, consider Traffic Droid Maintenance. The city will always need traffic droids, and those rust buckets are always breaking down. You could be on call-out, setting ’em right and keeping the traffic flowing. City employment means amazing benefits, and even the lowest maintenance worker reports directly to General Mortimer.”

  Mention of Mayor Baynor’s right-hand man reminded Kyle of something. “Hey, General Mortimer has a cybernetic arm. Maybe I could work directly for him and keep it in good running order.” He looked at his mom and smiled. “Or maybe sabotage it so he strangles himself.”

  “Well, that would certainly be a relief,” she murmured.

  “Don’t disrespect the man, Kyle. Nor you, Loreena.”

  “No,” Kyle said, “or we’ll end up standing against a wall being shot to death. Or worse, being repurposed.”

  His dad thumped the table. The muffin pan and three plates jumped, and Kyle almost choked on his mouthful. “That’s enough!” his dad said, suddenly angry. “Both of you. Walls have ears.” He gently tapped the dimmed screen of his tablet, and it lit up at his touch. “I’ve been reading about it on the datahub. That kind of talk is dangerous. It gets around. Next thing you know, neither of us have jobs and the landlord is throwing us out on the streets—and you know how I feel about those who can’t contribute to society. Deadbeats should be repurposed.”

  “Or exiled,” Kyle said quietly. “By law, deadbeats have the option to—”

  “Bah!” his dad interrupted. “Enough talk. Eat.” He glared at the clock on the wall. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. Your appointment is at nine sharp, and we’re not going to be late.”

  ****

  Kyle wanted to take the pod, but as usual his father said it was a waste of good money and only a benefit to those who couldn’t be bothered to plan ahead and leave in good time for their destination. “The maglev is perfectly adequate,” he grumbled as they boarded and found seats. “A quarter of the price, and the station is right below our apartment. Besides, the minimum requirement to make Pod Controller is only 60%, which means passengers need to cross their fingers and pray to the three moons they get where they want to go. And anyway, by the time you factor in the time it takes to get to the nearest pod depot . . .”

  He droned on, but Kyle tuned him out. He’d heard the same speech a million times before. The maglev train was slow, stopping dozens of times en route to a destination that was just eight or nine blocks away. If you wanted to get to the far side of the city, pods were more expensive but so much faster—literally half a minute compared to about an hour.

  By fifteen minutes to nine, Kyle and his father had arrived at the local Implant Clinic, checked in, and were sitting in the waiting room. Despite his father’s laced fingers and relaxed posture, Kyle fidgeted and tapped his foot, forever twisting around to peer at the clock.

  Eventually, his dad grabbed his arm and snapped, “Will you sit still!”

  “I can’t,” Kyle moaned.

  The receptionist continued to stare at her screen, flashing through pages of text on the datahub as she filed her nails. Sifting through endless patient records was not what Kyle considered an ideal job. This woman probably sat unmoving all day long, checking the error log, analyzing implant data transmitted daily from every eligible citizen, trying to keep her hands busy while her mind did all the work.

  A silent stream screen on the wall behind her showed the latest headlines and live pictures of a wreck on one of the city flyovers. Three casualties, several others injured. The dead were being transported to the Repurposing Factory.

  At three minutes past nine, Kyle’s dad began to grumble about punctuality. He remained outwardly calm, though, even when a door swung open and a white-coated technician stepped through, looking at a clipboard. “Kyle Jaxx?”

  “That’s me,” Kyle cried, jumping up.

  “Restraint, son,” his dad whispered, reaching out again to grip his arm. “Show some self-respect and—”

  “This way, please,” the technician said, gesturing for Kyle and his father to follow.

  The semi-circular room they were led into was exactly as depicted on infostreams—pure gleaming white with a single aluminum chair in the center and several small machines hanging on stiff rods from the ceiling. An array of screens adorned the curving walls. Three technicians sat at control panels on one side, while another two waited by the chair.

  Being seated in The Chair, as it was referred to in awed tones by citizens, was the single most exciting, anticipated, and revered moment in every child’s life. It marked the end of useless childhood and the beginning of purposeful adulthood. When Kyle rose from The Chair, his new implant would allow him to access technology with the will of his mind. It would allow him to connect.

  “Please be seated,” the technician said. “Dr. Pollard will be right in. Your father may wait in the viewing room.”

  Kyle was barely aware of his dad being ushered away into a small adjoining room with a glass wall that looked very much like one of the giant monitor screens. He was focused instead on the moment he’d been waiting for—being seated in The Chair.

  It wasn’t as comfortable as he’d expected. The padding was a little tough and dug into him. But when the technician lowered the backrest to a horizontal position, the whole thing seemed to alter to fit his contours. Clamps slid into place around his ankles and thighs, then his wrists and chest, and finally around his forehead. Each clamp was padded, and they tightened carefully with a gentle hiss until Kyle was unable to move at all. He stared up at the machines, wondering where the implant was actually stored, where it would emerge from, wanting to know every detail of the procedure but knowing that he wouldn’t see any of it.

  A technician pressed something on a keyboard, and the horizontal chair started to tilt to Kyle’s right. He could barely suppress a grin as he turned like a wild boar on a spit—and for a moment he wondered where that particular image had come from. Seconds later he hung upside down, facing the floor, the weight of his body straining against the clamps. It was a strange feeling, being supported like this, but not unpleasant.

  A small panel in the seat behind his head lifted away. He felt a draft on the back of his exposed
neck. At that same moment, another man entered the room. Kyle could see his shiny black shoes and black pants, and the white coat that flapped casually as he walked.

  “Ah, Dr. Pollard’s here, Kyle,” the technician said. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Kyle said, trembling with excitement.

  Chapter 2

  Logan

  Logan eyed the path and frowned. It was too obvious, the grasses thoroughly trampled and his partial footprints splayed across the muddy patches. This would be the last time he entered the Broken Lands by this route. Not that anyone followed him out this far from the Fixer Enclave. They were all too afraid of the ruins.

  Of course, this might be the last time he entered the wastelands at all.

  He stepped carefully onto the muddy path, not wishing to sink his boots farther than necessary in the yielding terrain. In another minute, the confines of the forest would fade away, and he would be out in the open, crossing the wide expanse of bone-dry land that marked the outskirts of the Broken Lands.

  As his feet began kicking up dust, he thought of what others his age were doing. All who had turned fourteen in the last two months in his village were also entering the ruins, but far south of his one-man expedition. Today would be the first and only day they would set foot in the ruins. It was Tethering Day. It was to have been his Tethering Day, too, but he knew better than to lump himself in with the others.

  Logan glanced back to see if anyone was hiding in the thin brush at the forest’s edge. He gripped his spear tighter, knowing there were physical threats out here in the wastelands.

  In Apparata, reaching fourteen years of age was a milestone. Each enclave youth achieved citizenship and with it the obligation to become tethered. One could only do so out in the Broken Lands where the spirits roamed free. To be tethered to a spirit was a noble act and a requirement of becoming an adult. It was unthinkable to pass through life without being paired with a spirit—a prospect Logan faced.

  He was entering the truly broken area of the wastelands. Remnants of archaic buildings stood in ramshackle piles, their design and purpose long forgotten if ever known at all. No one remembered what had happened in the Broken Lands or even who had lived there. Some said their ancestors, while others claimed another race of beings entirely. How else to explain the twisted forms of the spirits that were bound to the ruins until their tethering? One only entered to become tethered to a spirit and then never set foot in the Broken Lands again.