Exile

PROLOGUE   A scream. Pain. I am the one screaming. Please, no... I’m dying, I have to stop defending myself, it will be better that way... The distinct touch of metal arms, the stabbing of needles, finally the pain subsides, I fall into some kind of a black abyss. I protest with the last remnants of my consciousness, but stop halfway. Don’t listen to me, I want to live, live.... How long did it last? An hour, a day or two seconds? I don’t know. The world was returning to me slowly, unreal, with blurred colors and shapes, wavy and silent. I wake up and fall asleep. I don’t feel any pain. I’m lying on a metal table, surrounding me are the smells of medications, melted plastic and hot metal. Above me, on the ceiling, I see an enormous mirror. I observed my naked body with amazement. From the outside you can see so little... maybe it’s because I’ve never actually looked this good. I have the impression that they’ve improved my waist, the shape of my breasts, neck, and I don’t think I’ve ever had such luxuriant hair. Did someone decide to remodel me like that on a whim? But who? Where are the doctors? I want to ask them, find something out, but I can't get any sound out of my mouth, my lips are like someone's, not mine. I’m falling asleep. When the consciousness returns again, there are fuzzy figures dressed in white around me. I want to ask them a question, but instead I feel the pressure of a needleless syringe on my arm and the world is blending away again. Same thing again. I wake up and fall asleep. I can barely feel anything. Finally, the world comes back, stabilizes in expressive shapes, colors take on depth and sharpness. Where am I? I’m lying on an oblique table, the mirror which occupies half of the opposite wall is showing me a figure dressed in a clumsy overall, similar to those worn by porters. That’s me. “Congratulations, Miss Kaphool,” I heard the mechanical voice of the coordinator, “your body responded positively to the connection. The damaged and lost parts have been successfully replaced by cybernetic implants. Their efficiency is guaranteed by the Corporation and no additional tests are required. Thank you for using the EPIPHANICS services. Now the matter was partly explained. EPIPHANICS is a service company specializing not in typical plastic surgery, but in the reconstruction of the victims of the most serious accidents. For the sake of the patient’s psychological comfort, they are kept in a pharmacological coma from the beginning of the procedure until the end. They are only fully awakened once they are able to leave the clinic and they are then serviced by remotely controlled robots – all so that the one cruelly mutilated doesn’t have to look in the eyes of those who saw them in their worst condition and had to repair their body. However, this was an unbelievably expensive center – so what am I doing here? Slowly, uncertainly, I got off the table. The surviving nerves were receiving a new type of touch, somehow different from the old one. I’ll have to get used to it, because from now on everything will be different. Although... what actually happened? I can’t remember. I don’t even know how I got here, I couldn’t have done it on my own... I remember dying, my body was massacred, but how, by whom? “Coordinator, who brought me here?” I ask loudly. “Restricted information.” “Why?” “Restricted information.” Somebody cares about me. Cares so much that they brought me here and began the expensive procedure. Could it have been one of the ones who did me in? Eh, unlikely, that’s not why they tried to kill me. Then who? I don’t recall anybody, anyone to whom I could be so dear. And then shreds of memories began flowing in. I already know that something happened... but the only thing I know is that it was something horrifying. I’m walking like in a trance. My movements gained fluidity and lightness. I feel as if I will never be tired again, that I’ve lost this ability. The implants must be incredible and worth more than I could earn throughout my whole life. Suddenly, I became terrified that the one who paid for the repair of my body could now ask for compensation and would be entitled to it. Who could it be? What will they demand? I feel cornered, hounded... But nobody was waiting for me outside. The surroundings were empty and quiet, the dusk was falling. There was a single vehicle parked in the driveway, a small, slim Suzuki car – one of those extremely expensive models from the short series, metallic black, with silver accents. A folded sheet of silvery paper was stuck behind the windscreen wiper. My name was written on it in capital letters, it could be seen from afar. I walk over, take the piece of paper and unfold it. The paper has clean, printed text: “The car is yours. The key is in the ignition, the documents and further instructions in the compartment under the steering wheel.” There was no signature. Someone, who also paid for my implants, left for me this beautiful vehicle and now wants something in return. I hesitate. Something tells me that I’d be able to simply run away and forget about it all, but on the other hand it would be unfair and I always acted honestly. I’ve always paid my debts, and although this was not something that I’ve voluntarily gotten involved with, I still felt obliged. Without enthusiasm, I open the door and enter the freshly smelling interior. In the compartment under the steering wheel I find the car’s documents, issued in my name, a credit card and booking at the most expensive of hotels – Miraton, owned by Tenyson Corporation – with “Paid” stamped onto it. An apartment on the twenty-fifth floor. I was never even able to afford an evening at Miraton, let alone accommodation, and the reservation is for an indefinite period. It isn’t just strange, it’s alarming. I don’t get it. The more I think about it, the less I understand. Who could care about me this much? I’m all alone in the world, I have no influential friends or acquaintances, the last boyfriend who I was seeing left me a year ago and, what’s more, he was poor and not interested in me that much. Even if he became rich, he wouldn’t spend it on me. Chris? He left for that university of his and so far has written me merely twice. Mabel? Sandra? There’s no way. I take a look in the mirror. My face is still my face, but it seems much more regular, and this hair... different, denser, alien, and redder. The ones I remember were of more brown color. I think they transplanted these for me too, I think they had to? Did someone scalp me? I fall into the springy seat and try desperately to remember anything specific. *** “Get up, Chris! You’ll be late for work!” Every day is the same. I was already prepared to leave and make breakfast, while he’s still asleep. I’ve managed to get used to it, I’ve had enough time for that. We began living together after reaching adult age, when we were forced to leave the house. We were both orphans, but the social family allowed us to grow up in decent conditions. Of the six selected siblings, I was closest with Chris, so we decided to rent a shared flat to save on the costs of rent. He was a little younger than me, and maybe that’s why he treated me like I really was his older sister and caretaker in one. One aspect of this was the sad fact that almost every day I had to wake him up like a child who doesn’t want to go to school. “Okay, okay,” he murmured finally without opening his eyes, “I’m getting up.” I pulled the blanket off him and gave him a long slap to his bare bottom. This immediately sobered him up. “Come on, Leeta!” He jumped out of bed, covering himself with a small pillow, and fled to the bathroom. I went back to the table and started eating, waiting for Chris to finish his morning ablutions. He finally left, buttoning up his shirt and went straight to his portion of cereal. “So, are you going for the interview today?” he asked after a moment. “Of course,” I said, “it’s a great opportunity for me. How many people of our category do you know who were offered work at the Medical Academy?” “Uh,” he muttered, swallowing quickly. “Something feels off about it to me. What does a plant technician have to do there?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea,” I confessed, “that’s what I’m going to find out. I doubt that it’s a joke, it would be extremely stupid. What about you? You said that the test went well.” “I don’t even know anymore. I think it did, but I don’t want it to just go well. It has to be excellent. If I get first place, I will be able to study at my chosen department for the whole year. And if I make it to top three, they’ll allow me to continue my studies!” I suppressed my sigh. This is the whole problem with Chris – he’s always been a dreamer, always wandering in the clouds without paying to the reality in which he lived. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked with caution, “I don’t want you to be disappointed. B3 isn’t a civilian category for which they created the universities. He placed his cheek to his hand and looked at me in the only way he could: as if he didn’t see me at all, only his own, beautiful vision. During that time he looked like an inspired artist, and with his long blond hair and blue eyes, he resembled the image of a prince from a children’s book. I always wondered, why he wasn’t adopted by some rich family. He was such a beautiful kid, and in time grew up to be an extremely handsome man. Ones like him were usually able to find new parents without difficulty... unlike an uninteresting, hiding in the corners girl, who the babysitters at the orphanage referred to as ‘The Bat’ amongst each other. And yet there were no volunteers and we ended up with the same family. I selfishly thought that it was a good thing. We were close to each other like real siblings and trusted each other indefinitely. Nonetheless, I wasn’t so blinded with my love to my foster brother that I’d miss the obvious facts. The synaptic density, which was measured just after birth, combined with the classification of both of our parents placed us in the social category of B3, and so without any exciting opportunities. Our IQ at birth was forecasted to be between 105 and 110 points. And although I didn’t feel the need to see my measurable intelligence, Chris did and received 125 points on his first attempt. That’s why he was admitted to the national tests, which were a bit like a lottery with the reward being a one-year reference to a high-class academy. “Did you know that everyone used to be able to study, as long as they passed the exams?” Chris asked. I mixed my tea automatically. My cereal has completely cooled down and softened, and yet I still haven’t touched them. I had no appetite. “Now they can, too!” I murmured. “I mean, there aren’t any rules that prohibit it.” “Yes only that from childhood they’re always instructing us to not jump above the bar.” “Chris! You know that it makes sense. There are so many beautiful and interesting professions we can take on without exposing ourselves to bitter disappointments and obstacles that we cannot overcome. Do you really dislike your job that much?” “I like it. I like it a lot. But I would like to try something completely different. It’s not my fault that they classified me as B3, even though I deserve more.” I waved my hand and added some sweetener to my tea. “Do what you want. Just don’t come crying when something goes wrong, not as you planned.” “I definitely won’t. Maybe it will go wrong. Either way, I would never forgive myself if I missed this opportunity.” I looked at him with pity, but gave up my persuasions. Chris was indeed extremely intelligent for our classification. I cheered him on with all my heart, but I hardly believed in any success. Although, on the other hand, why was that, exactly?