Chapter 1: Illusions in Relief
Now, all you've been allowed
Is taken away – they will not let you be so proud
And you have the fear growing inside
Protest follows far and wide – they'll see how long
It will take 'till you fall – from so much denied
"Adam." Buddy's anxious round face came into view, grayed hair disheveled, features belying the forced patient tone of his voice. He was breathing a little heavily, as if he had run from the house down to where Adam and a few of the other workers were putting up the new fence.
Adam raised his eyebrows questioningly, glancing away momentarily from the task at hand.
"When you finish up with that bit there, I need you to do a run into town," Buddy continued hurriedly, wiping away a line of perspiration from his forehead. But something in his demeanor said that sweat had less to do with the present warm temperatures than other more pressing concerns. "Just a few supplies we need. Thought I'd get them myself today—but looks like my girl decided to go into labor a couple a days early."
Another one of the men, Eddie Williams, came up behind Buddy and clapped him once on the shoulder, a loud, dramatic gesture. A wide grin split his face. "So how's the anxious poppa-to-be?" he inquired. "You planning to videotape the event, hand out cigars when this is all done?"
Adam smiled slightly, observing the good-natured glare Buddy shot the other man. "Am I paying you to do work, or shoot off your mouth with smart-ass comments?"
"You're just payin' him for the work… the smart-ass comments come free of charge." That was Joe Littleton, his slow, easy drawl drifting over from where he was putting together the gate that they would later be attaching to the finished product of the fence. He was a little more serious that Eddie, and quieter, but still nowhere near as serious or quiet as Adam, who always placed top in both categories.
"Ha, ha," Eddie replied, unfazed. "But it's my light-hearted banter that makes this whole coming to work thing so worthwhile. Admit it, you guys would be completely lost without it."
Joe snorted, but said nothing. Buddy turned back to Adam, who nodded reassuringly, "Sure Buddy, I'll take care of it. You just go take care of your girl."
Buddy's 'girl' was Emerald, a pregnant mare and his pride and joy. He indulged the horse so much, treating her like another member of his family that his wife, Mary, affectionately referred to her as "the other woman" in her husband's life.
The big man nodded once and gave him a distracted smile as he handed him a slip of paper. "Thanks Adam. I knew I could count on you." Then he spared a mock frown at Eddie—who ducked his head and bent over his work, whistling loudly as he swung his hammer in exaggerated movements—before hurrying away to be at Emerald's side.
Just seconds after his large frame disappeared from sight a new voice spoke up from not far away. "And there you have it, Buddy's little golden boy to the rescue."
Adam said nothing, but couldn't help the slight hardening of his jaw. "Pete, lay off," he heard Joe intone in a quiet voice, and it seemed he wasn't in the mood for Pete Heppner's petty bitching either.
Pete was neither a particularly bright nor receptive man, and he managed to fail to pick up on the other man's warning tone. "What I don't get it is," he began, working slowly as he spoke, his gaze trained constantly on Adam, who kept his own solely focused on the fence, "why he gets the plush job of driving to town to shop while the rest of us stay out here in the scorching sun, picking up his slack."
"Because Buddy asked him to, that's why," Joe replied testily. "And we're not picking up anyone else's slack"—he looked at Pete pointedly—"except maybe yours."
"Besides," Eddie broke in lightly, trying to diffuse the situation with humor—not likely to be successful, but no one could fault him for the attempt. "That ain't such a plush job. Damn truck doesn't even have any air conditioning!"
"Right," Pete said, ignoring Eddie and replying to Joe's answer, "but what does he do that makes Buddy always pick him for these jobs?"
Adam grit his teeth, not pleased with being referred to in the third person when he was clearly within hearing distance. Finishing with the task, he stood up from his crouch, brushing his hands on dusty jeans as he did so. He knew what Pete was trying to do, and he wasn't going to rise to the bait. Even though a part of him, a deep buried part, was telling him he shouldn't be taking this from anyone, let alone a fool like Pete.
All it'd take is one blow, one strategically placed blow—and not even a whole lot of effort—and Pete Heppner won't be filling anyone's ears with anything, ever again.
Adam blinked, brushing away the invasive thought. He wasn't surprised; it wasn't the first time he'd had such an urge. But he'd never acted on them, and as far as he was concerned, that was all that mattered. Even though he never knew where they came from. Even though he couldn't explain why they felt so much more right than backing down and walking away.
But he left, not once showing a reaction to the words, ignoring the angry gleam in the other man's eyes as he failed, once again, to get the desired response. Because this wasn't about doing what he wanted—it was about keeping a low profile. Keep a low profile and don't compromise your position.
He wasn't sure what that meant, but an image flashed abruptly in his mind—like a streak of lightning, providing sudden illumination—a dark night, some sort of deserted yard, and pleading eyes.
Don't go.
And like lightning, it was gone almost immediately.
But suddenly he knew he'd done this before—walked away from something he wanted for the sake of keeping a low profile.
It was a week and a half later, a week and a half of relative normalcy, when he was coming down the stairs that he caught the tail end of the conversation taking place within the kitchen. He couldn't blame them—Buddy and Mary—for not noting his presence. For someone, though not exceptionally large, but neither particularly small, he had an incredibly light step. People rarely heard him coming, and seemed to only realize his arrival if he'd deliberately done something to tip them off.
Like so many things in his life, he couldn't explain why a hired hand working on a ranch for the past three and a half years would be required to move with such stealth that he could achieve it without the slightest effort. Chalk it up to the mysteries of amnesia and the secrets that lay therein.
"Mary, I just don't think it's safe for him here anymore," Buddy's hushed voice insisted.
Mary was equally quiet as she replied, though Adam had no trouble hearing either of them, "And you think it'd be safer for him anywhere else? You know as much about this as I do—it wasn't safe for him there, back then, why would it be any different now? Especially with all that's going on these days… Buddy, we can't send him back there."
He didn't know why he stayed there, listening in, except maybe because instinct told him the conversation was about him.
There was a scraping noise, the sound of a chair moving across the floor, then a slight creak of wood as Buddy sat down. "I'm not sending him anywhere. I'm just saying he has a right to know, to make the decision on his own. If we don't give him that option, how long do you think it'll be before he makes the connection himself? Or worse, someone else makes it for him." There was a momentary pause. "Mary, when he first came here, things were different. But now… it's him I'm afraid for, not us."
He heard Mary give a defeated sigh. "I know, I know. It's just that—he's such a sweet boy. I can't believe all those things they're saying… they're not true. Not about our Adam, the things they're saying just can't be true."
What things, and who was saying them?
The conversation in the kitchen had ended and he waited a half-minute, letting the tension in the room die down before walking in. A smile and a good morning, a no thank-you to breakfast, a cup of coffee—black—would do just fine. He said nothing to indicate he had heard anything on his way down. He let them pretend that everything was just fine, let them keep up the pretense of normalcy. But he knew nothing was normal, or fine.
He pushed the thoughts aside and set about his usual routine. It wasn't until later that night, when he was reminded through other means, that he thought again upon the content of that conversation.
The bar wasn't all that noisy, but too noisy for his tastes. He sipped his beer slowly, not that he particularly enjoyed the taste, nor did it have any effect on him, no matter how much he drank.
He was only here because the others had all but dragged him along, Eddie and Joe and some of the other guys who worked up at the ranch. It wasn't that he was averse to company, or the presence of others, it was just that he hated to be in places like this. He always felt too exposed—vulnerable. In a room full of strangers, who knew what each was doing there, who was the enemy.
They're all the enemy. They're not like you.
Of course they were. There was nothing about him that set him apart, aside from the amnesia, and that didn't make him different.
Liar, the voice whispered. You're so different you don't even know where to begin.
Maybe with the hearing, as demonstrated earlier. Or maybe with the strength, or the stamina. Or what about how he could sit here and drink beer after beer, never feeling the slightest bit intoxicated, and still possess reflexes far superior to those of anyone around him?
And he wasn't different?
He shook his head, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice his visitor until a voice spoke up, "Hey, well if it ain't golden boy himself."
Adam tensed, his mug frozen halfway between his mouth and the counter of the bar he was sitting at. "Pete," he said without looking at the other man, "why don't you go find yourself another source of entertainment tonight?"
"Aw, c'mon Adam," his voice was slurred from the few too many drinks he'd had already, "I just wanna have a friendly little conversation here."
His mug rested softly on the wooden surface, deceptive gentleness in the movement. Now he did turn to face him, his words spoken quietly, but slow so the other man would be sure to comprehend them, "You're drunk and there's no such thing as a 'friendly conversation' between the two of us. So back off, because I'm really not in the mood for any of your shit tonight."
A little alcohol can do wonders for a man's bravado, and great damage to his intelligence. "Oh really?" he grinned widely. "I'd like to see you do something about that. I'd like to see the pretty boy show me just how big, bad, and tough he can be. Or," he continued, glancing around the bar in an exaggerated show of searching the crowds, "were you just planning to call one of your brave defenders to your rescue?"
Adam turned his head away, telling himself the man was drunk and anything he shot he took, since he was sober, would be unfair and cheap. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder. "I'm talkin' to ya boy! 'Least have the balls to look at me."
Adam threw Pete's hand off, putting enough force into the movement to throw the other man back. The alcohol had already taken its toll on his equilibrium, and it was enough to cause him to lose his balance, and send him falling flat on his ass onto the floor.
The room silenced suddenly, all eyes turning toward the pair. That quelled his sudden anger somewhat, and feeling their gazes upon him, Adam stood from his stool, not bothering to finish his beer. It looked like it was time to leave. Joe, Eddie and others would understand him ducking out early today.
But Pete, apparently, didn't. Adam had his back turned as he pulled on his coat, when he was grabbed from behind, by the collar. "Where do you—" He faltered when Adam turned, eyes like pieces of flint and anger causing the tight coiling of every muscle in his body.
Adam took a step forward, reveling in the sudden fear in the other man's eyes, and fully intent on pushing aside every bit of caution and restraint within himself But he never got a chance to act, as Joe stepped between the two men. "Pete," he said in a tone brooking no argument, "It's time for you to leave."
To both of theirs surprise, Pete didn't put up any resistance, merely lifted his hands in a surrendering gesture, and backed off slowly. His eyes were wide, almost primal in the obvious display of fear, and any previous anger had suddenly dissipated, leaving him much more sober than seconds earlier. Somehow, though, that didn't make Adam feel any better.
"Look guys, I don't want any trouble," he said, though his actions just moments ago said the exact opposite. "I'm leavin'." And true to his word, he gathered his own coat, eyes never leaving the pair, and hurried out the door.
Following his departure, business quickly resumed as normal within the small establishment. Conversations picked up where they'd left off, the television's volume went up, and billiard balls began clinking once more.
Joe turned toward his friend apologetically. "Hey, if you wanna go, I understand. Sorry we dragged you along just to have you to have to face this shit."
Adam shook his head, giving a slight—though not particularly happy—smile. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault Pete's a complete jackass." Then he shrugged and gave the room a cursory glance. "But yeah, I think I will go home now. It's late enough—I'll probably just get some extra sleep." The other man nodded understandingly, and with a parting clap on his shoulder, let him go.
Adam turned to leave, but as he passed the bar's sole television, he found himself slowing at the words of the newscaster.
"… the second week of the siege, with no move made yet by either side. Experts estimate the number of these transgenics to be in the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, some visibly identifiable, while others are more difficult to detect. It's the so-called X-series that are of particular concern to officials and citizens alike. These individuals appear as you or I, perfectly able to blend within the regular population. The only thing that sets them apart in appearance is the barcode tattoo found at the base of their necks…"
"Damn freaks," he heard someone mutter.
"Authorities warn that there is reason to doubt that all of these transgenics, who escaped with the destruction of the facility several months ago, run by a secret government-funded organization by the name of Manticore, are currently residing within Terminal City…"
"I say we just nuke the place, kill 'em all," someone piped up.
"Ah, the government can't just kill them all. Some bleeding heart would probably take it up with the Human Rights Council."
"Don't matter," he other person returned. "They're not human, they were created in labs. So, technically, they can't be protected by the Human Rights Council… and they don't have a council for freaks, so tough shit."
"Hey Bubba, that's pretty deep thinking for you. You read that in a newspaper somewhere?" A bit of laughter followed, while 'Bubba' attempted to defend his intelligence.
Adam didn't wait around to hear any more.
911 Transcript taken from call received May 14, 2021, 10:32 p.m.:
OPERATOR: 9-1-1, may I help you?
CALLER: Yeah, I saw one of 'em… Shit, I know one of 'em! I can't believe it… I always knew there was somethin' different about that kid, somethin' wrong—
OPERATOR: Sir, please calm down… What did you see?
CALLER: One of those mutant freaks from on T.V.! A transgenic. I saw his barcode… I knew it! I just knew it!
OPERATOR: Where did you see this transgenic?
CALLER: At the bar, but I saw him leave after that… I didn't say nothing, because I didn't know what he'd do. You should've seen the look in his eyes… he woulda killed me if he had the chance.
OPERATOR: Where is he now?
CALLER: I don't know… I lost track of 'em. But I know where he's probably headed—to the ranch.
OPERATOR: The ranch?
CALLER: Yeah, Buddy Garrett's ranch—that's where I work… where we work… Damn, I still don't believe it! All this time, there was one right there next to me.
OPERATOR: Sir, you're saying you know the identity of this transgenic?
CALLER: Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'! His name's Adam, Adam Thompson.