PROLOGUE
Even at night, MegaCity one throbbed with humanity. There was no end to the string of seedy bars and clubs that lit the streets with their flashing signs. Or to the packed throngs of people spilling out of them.
The food truck glided through the darkened streets. To the Outsider behind the wheel it seemed as though he were driving through an endless cave, with flickering neon walls and life teeming half-hidden in the shadows. He slowed the food truck to a halt at an intersection.
A couple of street toughs loitered at the corner. One of them jabbed his companion in the side and pointed to the truck. They both swaggered over. The nearest thug peered through the window, getting his first look at the Outsider. His eyes went wide, and he recoiled, as though slapped in the face. He spun around and raced away, leaving his confused companion to follow.
The Outsider grinned. Ordinarily he wouldn't have caused such a reaction. But tonight was different. Tonight he was wearing a judge uniform. The Outsider was amused at the power it granted him. It was a power taken for granted by those who wore the uniform, and never forgotten by those who didn't. And despite the day to day violence of a judge's life, the Outsider knew that the foundation of that power wasn't force. It was an idea: the Law mattered. The Law was necessary for civilization, and civilization was how man was meant to live.
But there was something else the Outsider knew. That civilization teetered eternally on a knife's edge. All it takes is the right push, and the whole thing would come crashing down. His calling was to give that push.
Eventually the Outsider neared his destination. Traffic thinned as he entered the administrative district of this sector. He pulled over and exited the truck.
Before him rose a massive edifice. A building the size of an entire city block, stretching upward like a ponderous curtain of stone. He ascended the stairs. At the front doors a hidden scanner clocked his Judge's badge, and they swung open, inviting him in. He strode through them, ignoring the startled security guard. The lobby was nearly deserted at this hour. He marched straight to the elevator. The row of buttons showed ten levels. He hit the button for the top.
Stepping out from the elevator doors, the Outsider felt like he had entered an alien world. He emerged onto a suspended walkway. Below him was a vast tank stretching out under him like a shallow lake of pea green soup. Algae blooms covered the entire surface. A fogging system activated at intervals, feeding nutrients to the Algae. The fog and green water made the room feel like a primordial ocean.
He made his way along the catwalks, eventually finding a platform labeled 'Nutrient Monitoring Station'. It was a bank of pumps and valves, controlled by a computer system at the far end. Thick plastic tubes fed nutrient-rich fluid into the mixing equipment, and from there the fluid was dispersed into the fogging system.
At the computer was a night shift technician. He idly checked his control readouts, and then yawned. Boredom had set in, and he slouched in his chair as though the weight of his all-night shift were pressing down on his shoulders. He heard the footfalls on the metal walkway. He glanced up, and then quickly snapped to attention.
"What can I do for you, Judge?" His voice carried that faint tremor of nervousness that even law abiding citizens always had when addressing a judge. The Outsider didn't respond. He kept walking forward, onto the platform, and stopping just a few feet from the tech. The Outsider wasn't a large man, but with the uniform he was a towering presence. He stared coldly at the technician.
"Everything all right?" The tech's voice was plaintive. He fidgeted. The judge simply stood there, eerily still. The visor on the judge's helmet stared down at him, giving no clue, simply reflecting his own sweaty face back at him.
The Outsider watched the technician squirm. He kept silent, allowing the tension to mount. He needed the technician compliant. Eager to give answers. Finally, he spoke. "I have a few questions about your system here."
The tech's relief was palpable. He let out a breath he had been unconsciously holding. "Sure. Anything you need to know."
The Outsider cracked a smile.
Later, alone on the platform, the Outsider pulled what looked like a cigarette case from his pocked. He opened it, revealing a row of ten small syringes inside. He pulled out one the syringes, and held it up to the light. He imagined he could see the frenzy of activity suspended in the yellow solution.
Working carefully, he separated one of the plastic feed tubes and pushed the needle into its rubbery membrane. It pierced the tube. He pressed the plunger, injecting the contents of the syringe into the flowing tube.
Leaving the needle in place, he straightened. Nine syringes remained in his case. He snapped the case closed, and headed for the elevator. Once inside, he hit the button for the next floor down.
CHAPTER 1.
The sun rose over MegaCity One. It couldn't be seen, of course, behind the perpetual haze. It was just a bright spot rising beyond the blanket of smog. Already throngs of people crowed the sidewalks, sliding indifferently past each other.
Muto stood pressed against the wall of a small shop, avoiding the current. In his hand he clutched a plastic cup, fished out of a dumpster, and used as a beggar's cup. He kept it held out, forcing bodies to brush past it. Hundreds passed by, and no one looked at him. In this there was nothing new for Muto. People had avoided looking at him his whole life. He made them uncomfortable. He was a mutant. He had lopsided eyes, and his facial features were disfigured, as though they had been mashed with a mallet. A burn scar covered half his scalp like a tough, shiny patch sewn haphazardly onto his head. He was dressed in rags that hung from his gaunt frame like clothes off a hanger.
A shopkeeper emerged from his store and noticed Muto. He grumbled with annoyance. "Hey pal. Give my door some space."
Muto didn't respond. His eyes remained downcast.
"You hear me?" the shopkeeper's voice raised in anger. "Go beg somewhere else. You're keeping my customers away"
Again, Muto remained unmoving. Had the shopkeeper been a different sort of man he might have thought it strange that Muto hadn't looked up when the door had opened. Or he might have noticed that the ear facing him was little more than a flap of skin. A more observant or compassionate man might have guessed that Muto was deaf. But the shopkeeper wasn't either of those things. He was a busy man, scraping by, and prone to fits of anger. "I said move!" Enraged at being ignored, the shopkeeper stormed over, dug his fists into Muto's shirt, and shoved him out onto the sidewalk. Taken totally by surprise, Muto's legs tangled and tripped, and he spilled onto the pavement.
He glanced up to see the shopkeeper saying something threatening, and then stomped back into his store. Muto picked himself up with the slow weariness of someone who has been shoved many times before. He retrieved his beggar cup and ambled away.
Before long a gang of small children had spotted him. They began to catcall and taunt him, not realizing that he couldn't hear them. They surrounded him and began chanting:
'The bombs come down,'
'Go underground,'
'Hide in the darkness
'and don't make a sound'
'Come up to play,'
'And what do you find?'
'The bombs left their
'mutated children behind.'
They orbited around him, pelting him with refuse, and he continued walking, ignoring them. He knew from experience that eventually the children would lose interest. It didn't occur to him to be angry, or affronted. For him this was simply how life was.
Anderson was out on the street that morning. Even though she had been suspended for six months, she still found it impossible to sleep in. Instinct drove her out onto the streets, though now she wore civilian clothes and kept her gun hidden under her leather jacket.
She was hungry, and made her way to a fruit stand. She picked up and examined pieces of mushy fruit. The vendor gave her an irritated look. "How many of those are you going to handle before you buy one?" he demanded.
"They're all overripe" Anderson remarked.
The vendor shrugged. "What of it?"
Anderson selected an apple that looked slightly better than its neighbors. "How much?"
"One credit"
Reaching into her pocket she happened to glance across the street. She saw a commotion. It looked like a group of school children dancing around in a circle. Then she saw the man they were tormenting. A mutant. He was walking patiently on, ignoring the children. As though he sensed her scrutiny, the mutant turned to her, and for a moment their eyes locked.
The vendor became impatient. "One credit! You want it or not?"
She turned her attention back to the vendor, digging a credit out and slapping it out into his beefy palm.
The children finally tired of their game, and drifted away, but more serious trouble was coming. Two thugs were headed his way. They were lean and haggard, like wolves during winter. Muto spotted them and tried to slink away into the crowd, but they cornered him against a wall.
"Hold on there" the tall one leered. He gripped Muto's arm. His friend, the bald one, snatched the beggar cup from Muto's hand.
"What do we have here" he taunted. His cruel grin turned sour when he saw the cup was empty. "Nothing" he said in disgust, and tossed the cup away.
"What's that on his hand?" the tall thug pointed. Muto saw baldie's face light up with interest. He tried to hide his hand, but the tall thug grabbed his wrist and pulled it forward.
"Check it out"
Laid across the back of Muto's hand and up along his fingers was an array of small sensors. It looked as though his hand were held together by small rivets.
"Never seen anything like before" the bald thug declared. "They gotta be worth something"
"Hand them over" tall thug demanded. Muto hesitated, and tall thug pulled out a jagged piece of glass with a taped handle from his pocket, and held it up menacingly.
Panicked, Muto tried to shove him away and run, but the tall thug caught his shirt and swung him back. He stabbed his glass 'knife' into Muto's belly. Muto felt searing pain as the knife sliced into him. The tall thug pulled the knife out, and Muto clutched at the wound, stemming the flow of blood. The two thugs ripped the sensors free from his hand. Then they were gone.
Muto sagged backward against the wall. His legs felt rubbery, and he slid to the ground. His abdomen felt like an animal was burrowing inside. Pedestrians flowed around him like water around a rock. Even now they did not acknowledge his existence. Muto closed his eyes, and sat there, resting. In pain. He contemplated not getting up.
He wasn't sure how long it was before he felt a shadow loom over him. He opened his eyes and lifted up his face. Above him was an angel. She was beautiful, surrounded by dawn's light, and looked exactly like the angels that the sisters had described to him when he was a child. He could only stare.
Anderson stood over the mutant, getting her first good look at him. He seemed dazed, and simply stared up at her. Nearby were the mutant's two assailants. They lay on the pavement, having been knocked unconscious by Anderson, who had seen the mugging from across the street.
Anderson realized that her pistol was still out in her hand. She slipped it back into her holster under her jacket, fumbling a little. The gun felt slightly wrong in her had. She missed her Lawgiver.
"You okay?" she asked. He didn't respond. He must be in shock, she thought. She opened her hand, and held it out toward him. In her palm was a pile of the small sensors that had been taken from him. "I believe these are yours."
His eyes moved from her face to the sensors, and she saw them flood with relief. She held the small pile closer, and he slowly grabbed them, one at a time, and a pressed them against the back of his hand. Anderson was curious. She was unfamiliar with this tech, and she couldn't fathom their purpose. Each sensor adhered to his skin as he put it carefully back in place, and soon he was restored.
He began to move his sensor hand in a series of intricate gestures. Anderson was puzzled for a brief moment, but then a tiny speaker patch attached to his shirt hissed with static and a synthetic voice said, "Thank you".
Anderson now realized what the sensors were for. They were very old tech. These days almost all deaf/mute handicaps were fixed with low-cost implants. Anderson studied him. As near as she could tell, he was young. Late teen, early twenties at most. He obviously lived on the streets. He had probably been abandoned at an early age, like most mutants. She wondered where he had gotten the sensor apparatus and been taught to use it. Examining his ragged, asymmetrical features, she could only imagine the difficulties he had faced.
Muto saw her studying his face, and he turned his head aside, ashamed. He forced himself up onto his feet. He nodded to Anderson, and began shuffling away.
"Wait a minute," Anderson said. Then realized her mistake, and touched him on his shoulder. He turned back to her. "You're hurt."
She gently pried his hands from his stab wound. It was small, but needed attention. "Do you have anywhere to go?"
Muto didn't respond. He didn't have to. She knew the answer. She contemplated for a moment.
"Come with me".
Muto hesitated. "It's okay," she reassured him. "Come with me."
Anderson and Muto made their way down the grimy hallway of her apartment building. They had to occasionally step over the prone bodies of junkies who were slumped against the walls, or lay on the ground in pools of various types of fluids. One man with rotted teeth made a lethargic grab at her leg, and she kicked his hand away.
At the end of the hall they reached her door. "This one is me," she said, and again realized that he couldn't hear her. She would have to make sure to turn to him and enunciate clearly if she wanted to communicate anything. So far she hadn't needed to. He had followed her without question, like an obedient puppy.
She dug in her pocket for her key.
Muto spotted movement from the mail slot in the door to their right. He saw with alarm a shotgun barrel poke out, and angle up toward them. Anderson laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"It's just me, Charley," she called down toward the mail slot. The barrel swiveled toward Muto, and a child's voice answered from behind the door.
"Everything all right, Miss Anderson?"
"Yeah Charley. He's with me". The barrel retracted.
"Any visitors today?" Anderson asked.
"A couple of druggies tried to break your door in earlier. Nothing I couldn't handle," Charley declared.
Anderson leaned down and slipped several bills through the slot.
Behind the door, Charley eagerly gathered the bills. He skipped across the apartment, past his mother, who sat catatonic in the living room, and reached into a hole in the wall. His small arm barely stretched long enough to recover the can hidden inside. He pulled it out, and stuffed the cash inside.
Anderson led Muto into her apartment. It was slum housing. The paint was peeling, the floor was stained to the point where its original color was pure guesswork, and the walls sagged with age. Anderson kept it reasonably clean, and sparsely furnished. She guided Muto to the couch.
"Sit down." She said, making sure he could see her lips. He complied, lowering himself awkwardly. She motioned for him to stay, and then crossed the room to a squat safe that sat on the floor. She cleared some clutter away from its door, and then opened it. Inside was her judge's uniform, neatly folded. She reached past it and pulled out her field medkit.
She brought the medkit back to the couch. Muto watched every move she made with wide eyes.
"Just relax. Lie back," she instructed. She reached into her kit and pulled out a pair of medical scissors. With sure hands, she quickly cut the shirt away around his wound. Muto looked on the verge of protesting, but remained compliant. With this shirt gone Anderson could now see his exposed torso, with clearly defined ribs jutting from his emaciated body. She turned quickly away, before he could see her expression of pity. She was sure he would misinterpret it. She dug into her medkit, taking a moment to steady herself, and then focused on the task at hand.
Muto remained still as she cleaned the wound. Before she put the bandage in place she gently applied a clear gel, and for Muto the pain receded to a dull ache.
When she finished, she went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water. She mixed a packet of nutrient powder into the glass and then handed it to him. "Drink this."
He gulped it down. She took the glass when he was finished and set it down. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't fathom. He came to some decision. Moving painfully, he reached down and took off one of his raggedy shoes. He reached inside and pulled out a single coin. He held it out to her.
Anderson was caught off guard. She shook her head. "No. You keep it," she insisted. She took his hand, and closed his fingers back around the coin. Muto looked confused.
"What's your name?" Anderson asked.
Muto weaved his fingers, and once again the synthetic voice spoke. "Muto."
"Is that your real name?"
"It's what they called me."
"Your parents?" She tried to image parents who would name their child such a thing.
"No," he answered. "The children called me that. When I was young."
"And your mother?" she asked.
Muto shrugged.
Anderson decided to try a different tack. "How long have you lived on the streets?"
Muto shrugged again, and Anderson chose to drop it. It was clear that he had been on his own since childhood. Who know how long it had been since he had had a roof over his head. "Why don't you lie down and rest. You need to heal." Muto hesitated, but she held his eyes until he nodded assent. "Good," she gave him a smile. She picked up the empty glass she'd set down earlier and headed toward the kitchen.
She only made it a few steps before a sudden explosive pain filled her head. The glass slipped from her nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor. Oh no, she thought. She knew she was due, and she willed it to stop. But she knew that resisting it was useless. The light around her intensified white hot, and a searing pain throbbing just behind her eyeballs. The sounds of the apartment distorted. She stumbled toward the wall, barely able to keep her feet.
Muto watched her with wide, terrified eyes. He had no idea what was going on. She lurched and fell against the wall. She pounded her fist against the wall with rapidly fading strength.
"Charley!" she cried. "Charley!" She pounded weakly a few more times and then collapsed.
A moment later Charley burst through the door. Her body was jerking uncontrollably, Her head banging against the floor. Charley rushed to the couch, grabbed a pillow, and slipped in under her head. Muto stood behind him.
"What is happening? Should we hold her down?" Muto's synthetic voice asked. Charley shook his head.
"No. Just let her ride it out." He said. He turned to look at Muto, and couldn't help but stare at his deformed and monstrous head. But the thrashing from Anderson brought his attention back to her. He hurried to the kitchen and ran water over a cloth. He returned and laid the wet cloth tenderly on her forehead.
Slowly the seizure subsided. A stillness settled over the apartment. Charley carefully checked her arms and legs for broken bones. She seemed fine. "Help me get her on the couch," he said, grabbing one of her arms. Muto didn't respond. "Hey!" he jabbed Muto's shoulder, startling him. "Let's get her on the couch."
Charley took her arms and tried to drag her, but Muto gently pushed him aside. He leaned down and lifted Anderson himself. He laid her on the couch, and then stepped back. Charley sat down beside her unconscious body and took her hand in his.
"Is she going to be okay?" Muto asked. Charley looked at Muto, taking in his odd method of communication.
"Yeah, I think so," he answered.
"What happened?"
Charley shrugged. "She has these seizures sometimes." He noted Muto's stricken expression. "It's okay to be scared," he assured Muto. "I was scared the first time I saw it."
Muto looked down at her, posed so peacefully now. His heart was still pounding in his chest. It had happened so suddenly. "Is she sick?" he asked. "Is that what causes them?"
Charley shook his head. "I don't think she's sick. But look at this…" he leaned toward her and brushed some of her hair aside. They both peered at the circular, dime-sized scar on her forehead.