Razor King

By T.W. Moore

You’re being watched... Your every word... Your every move...

... The air that you can breathe smells rancid and leaves a copper taste in the back of your throat. A much-depleted ozone blisters your skin and forces you to work by night and sleep by day.

Welcome to your future – to the year 2080 – to a world turned upside down.

After a mini-nuclear war wreaks havoc on the planet, the newly-formed “World Council 7” (representing each of the seven continents) makes a fateful decision – to bring two super-powerful Atomic Quantum Computers online to scrutinize, monitor and record virtually every step mankind takes. Soon thereafter, with the help of nanotechnology and billions of hidden, miniaturized cameras, the QCs wrest control of the planet from the WC7. Using their own autocratic, demented, AI-enhanced minds, they implement their own oppressive rules.

Nighttime is what you fear most, though. That’s when RAZOR KING (a ruthless “slice’n’dice” enforcer) and his underground loyalists come out to orchestrate bloody “organ harvests”. Reselling the organs back on the black market at exorbitant prices helps finance their life and death struggle to take back control of the planet from the omniscious QCs.

But there is hope... and he goes by the name of CAPTAIN MATAGON.

The QCs authorize the highly-decorated CAPTAIN MATAGON to lead a specially-trained and brutal anti-terrorist unit (BATTLE BORN) to bring in Razor King, his band of underground butchers and the mysterious, genius underground leader himself -- DR. OZSO RUKUR -- either dead or alive. But Ozso has a secret agenda all his own and will stop at nothing to succeed – to be the first person to actually marry human DNA into digital DNA and merge himself physically into the QCs achieving ‘God-like’ singularity and take control of every soul on the planet.

Caught in the middle (and the desires) of Razor King and the captain is the beautiful, mysterious LITILLA -- a memory impaired microbiologist who is temporarily living at the captain's compound because she may hold the key to invaluable information that could either save mankind... or lead to its very extinction.

Haunting and fast-paced, “RAZOR KING” is a futuristic thriller that describes one man’s epic journey as he goes up against the evils of modern technology and describes in harrowing fashion how the best-laid plans of mice and men can sometimes go very, very awry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.W. Moore
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310996566

T.W. Moore

T.W. Moore is a former free-lance columnist for the Portland Press Herald, Maine’s largest newspaper, and author of "I Love Today – Musings From New England". He lives in Maine.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

ALASKA

The year 2080

The chilled north wind blew over the moraine with a ferocity that was almost beyond comprehension. In the far-off distance, thick clouds soured by airborne pollutants bullied a hypothermic air stream downward, creating mammoth optical illusions that resembled vast, floating iceberg islands.

Back on terra firma…there were no such illusions.

With the gradually warming climate, the largest icebergs—the last of the titans—had long been reduced to mini-slabs of dark blue wrinkled ice. They were a sad but colorful reminder of what once was good and solid, but were now beaten and sullied, waiting for their final liquid extinction. Despite having been demoted to their original lowly form, these once-mighty titans definitely had the last laugh, eventually swamping shorelines around the globe with over seven additional meters worth of badly diluted and unwelcomed salt water.

As the smooth, majestic cloud formations continued to dance their way back up toward the bleak Arctic horizon, an uneven, lumpy face formed along their underbelly—as if God himself was staring down in disapproval at the events happening below.

With the blustery wind howling, highly disciplined units of genetics were busy cutting away at the permafrost with sophisticated solar powered buzz saws. Near them a small team of lab researchers was busy combing the area with magnetic resonance readers, ground-penetrating radar devices, and crude hand-held devices shaped like guns that were capable of chemically detecting evidence of decades-old human decomposition. Despite the biting wind chill, the laborers made little attempt to insulate their rock-hard and heavily muscled bodies. Dressed simply in UPF-100 sun-protective waterproof jeans and sweat-absorbent tee shirts, they maneuvered their clunky ice-cutting tools as easily as if they were made of Styrofoam.

Now and then huge dust devils sprung up along the horizon, giving the collective group reason enough to pause and take a break. They gazed upon this contradictory sight of brown swirls of dust dancing merrily across expansive stretches of lonely blue and white melting ice sheets.

Scattered around the area were about fifty slush piles—a unified effort by the group to search for something that they had no idea how to find. Standing in ankle-deep ice water, the frenzied pace of each man displayed a sense of urgency that was paramount, as if their work bordered on life and death. When not begging for food, the hybrid, cadaver-seeking polar dogs did their jobs by sniffing in and around the piles, then peeing on them as if meticulously marking their work.

A few meters below the surface, Van Err, a tall, blond Aussie, worked inside a frozen pit. Beads of sweat poured down his face as he stepped on something buried just beneath the surface that gave off a delicate rattling sound. In near delirium the polar dogs, alerted, immediately bounded toward the pit and surrounded the perimeter. Sniffing and snarling, they were about to jump down and join Van Err, but he managed to keep them at bay with one wave of his mighty hand. His co-workers stopped what they were doing and scurried over to join the circle of quivering animals, who were now emitting an almost synchronized chorus of high-pitched whines.

This commotion brought forth a curious glance from inside a nearby tent, equipped with ballistic tent panels that could easily provide over twenty-four hours’ worth of thermal heating with a simple touch of its fabric. Dressed in layers of woolly sheepskin, a somewhat frail-looking, scientist-type individual jogged over from the tent to the wall of beefcake that now encircled the recently dug chasm.

Standing now on top of a layer of skeletons, Van Err looked up and gave a goofy grin, along with a thumbs up sign, as he helped the expert down into the watery grave.

Good job… the expert said, hesitating, smiling at the Aussie through a full-face, solar-heated ski mask.

Van Err, the man reminded him.

Yes, of course, Van Err… What part of Australia you from?

Outback.

The expert nodded. Any ozone left there?

Van Err shook his head no. Gone, mate.

To ensure ownership of this exciting find, the huge man stood his ground, nervously stomping both of his feet with excitement, his massive body weight snapping the old bones underneath his feet like twigs.

The expert quickly grabbed his hand and gently tried to lead him away—or at least off—the pile of bones. Thank you, Van Err. Good job. Ozso will be pleased.

Will he hear of my name? The big genetic insisted on knowing the answer before he walked away.

Yes…of course. He will hear of your name.

Satisfied with the response, Van Err lumbered out of the hole on his hands and knees. Just then two heavily bundled men, dressed in ragtag winter clothes, emerged from another tent that was not too far from the expert’s tent.

Elated with his find, but more importantly, happy to be leaving this place soon, Van Err pulled a secretly confiscated femur bone from under his open-sleeve vest. He tossed it over two hundred yards away for his personally assigned polar dog, Elki.

Go get it, boy.

Although nearly as big as a regular-sized polar bear, the muted, red-brindled animal had long, skinny, muscular legs that resembled, and were as fast as, those of a greyhound. The dog galloped toward the bone with its long, meat-eating incisors chomping at the bit to retrieve what once was a human leg. Its amused owner clapped and cheered him on from a distance until suddenly Elki disappeared from sight.

Elki? Van Err’s sharp eyes scanned the whiteness. There was nothing but snow, ice, dust, and an endless dark-gray, cloudy sky conglomerating along the bent horizon.

Elki! He shouted, momentarily diverting the attention of his fellow workers, who were huddled together around the bone hole. The workers turned in unison and noticed for the first time two men standing several feet behind them, holding old-fashioned automatic machine guns.

Almost immediately gunshots and shrieks rang out. One of the men mowed down Van Err’s co-workers—most of them conveniently flopped down into the massive, makeshift gravesite. The other shooter turned his full attention to Van Err and started firing his own weapon.

The man’s startling blue eyes widened in fear while the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the side of a ballistic tent panel. Thankfully, the tent stood between Van Err and his would-be murderer.

The man took off running, zigzagging in the opposite direction of the camp…as fast as his genetic legs could propel him.

CHAPTER ONE

One hundred, going once, the burly, olive-skinned auctioneer rasped with slight urgency, one hundred, going twice...sold! One human kidney to the old man with yellow spots.

The wheelchair-bound man wiped the sweat off his brow, swatted at a few bothersome bumblebees, and then dug into the pocket of his ragged and tattered jeans.

Yes, sir, the auctioneer continued with renewed vigor, apparently relieved the session was over. That's one cheap kidney.

The old man scratched a few yellow spots on his forearm and wheeled himself up to the podium. Any guarantees?

Oh, sure, the auctioneer sneered. Guaranteed for as long as you live. He then stabbed a finger toward a table set up near one of the old library’s exits. All organs can be picked up over there. Move along.

A few brave souls, wrapped tightly in anti-radiation mesh fabric, darted outside into the angry midday sun with their precious organ preserver boxes hidden awkwardly beneath their shirts. Not too far outside the city of Phoenix, fat bluish-white smoke plumes billowed up from four massive nuclear reactors. Beyond that, phantom rain, with its watery fingers, labored to no avail, attempting to massage the mighty sand dunes and crag rock that nestled itself along the perimeter. Scattered skeletons of once-mighty Saguaros lay like fallen soldiers, rotting in the suffocating blanket of heat.

Some organ buyers were here on their own account, desperately trying to mend various health problems, but most of the participants were members of an outlaw organ courier service. These buyers consisted primarily of thieves, gangsters, and ex-cons that were not known for their honesty or their on-time deliveries. Hired as agents for the average working Joe (who wouldn’t dare risk the harsh penalties for being caught in one of these illegal organ auction houses), the couriers were just about the last people one could rely on if he or she absolutely, positively needed an organ overnight.

And most of them did.

With their superior lung power obviating the need for air gills, oxygen-rich pills or even breath filters, two military-trained genetics, Gecko and Twofa, pushed their way outside. They openly carried ancient, first-issue, police-grade cyber guns under their belts. Veteran members of The Underground, they proceeded to scan the scarred and sad landscape of the slums of downtown Phoenix, searching for any signs of life or unusual daylight movement.

Due to budget cuts millions of hidden cameras had long since been turned off. The one named Gecko, who had reptilian eyes, one black arm, and one white one, casually drew three wavy lines, one stacked above another, on the soot-covered voussoir above the stone arched doorway.

Is that smart? Twofa asked. You really want Battle Born to know that we were here today?

Gecko gave him a sick grin. Captain Matagon doesn’t scare me none. I’d break his arm off and beat him with it.

Twofa grunted.

The wary genetics let another ten minutes pass before they were finally able to relax their guard enough to actually sit down and take a break in the shade of the imposing building, made of slick marble and rough-hewed limestone blocks. Further down, the streets were lined with rows of long defunct silver-colored, industrial-sized artificial trees resembling towering football goal posts – man-made monstrosities capable of filtering over 90,000 metric tons of smog per tree, per year, but eventually shut down because of the high disposal costs. A victim of poor planning, industrialization and unchecked population, the long-abandoned, Hellenistic-style Bill Clinton Library definitely sat on the wrong side of town in an over-crowded slum with non-existent services. One of the most populated cities left in the country, the area was a virtual ticking time bomb surrounded by moldering hulks of broken-down buildings, empty industrial warehouses, and layer upon rotting layer of decaying, government-subsidized, low income, modular housing heaped high into the sky -- providing shelter for an ethnic melting pot of humans, genetics, highwaymen and all those who were either out of work, criminally insane, or on the lam and looking for a scam.

With global warming releasing over 450 billon metric tons of carbon once trapped in the world’s peat bogs, the city seemed to be permanently smothered within a layer of thick smog. Along with no air conditioning, severe droughts and prevalent near year-round tropical climate, the area was strife with a host of maladies such as renal tubular acidosis (RTA), rickets and too many to count infectious diseases such as malaria, yellow fever, Hantavirus, meningitis, and influenza. Blocking out the sun as best as they could, most of the suffering crowds slept through the daytime, only to have to rise up at dark like a bunch of malcontent vampires to struggle though another graveyard shift night – if they were lucky enough to even have a job.

Back on the other side of town – one of exclusivity and wealth -- where a workable police force actually still existed, most people lived like kings in comparison -- but nonetheless rarely ventured outside of their domains in the daylight. For the privileged few who didn’t have to actually go out into the world and make a living, they were more than content to stay put within the relative comfort and safety of their gleaming ivory towers made of steel, titanium and solar-shielded one-way glass. Although forced to pay a premium to have even the barest of necessities delivered to their front door, an entire sub-culture of shut-ins sprung up, with people co-habituating for twenty to thirty years in the same apartment building and not even know who their next door neighbor was. With everyone wearing the face of a stranger, distrust was rampant, as was paranoia -- and where there was paranoia… there was violence.

Once considered a minor, unforeseen residual effect of the devastated environment eventually turned into a major problem when ordinary, law-abiding citizens suddenly started killing each other for simply looking at each other the wrong way.

Phoenix became infamous for face rage -- a city where something even as innocent as frowning at someone could be misconstrued as giving someone the "evil eye", giving rise to wildly popular Cuddle Dens -- darkened, abandoned buildings where much needed human contact could be made with perfect strangers… and no one need look you in the eyes or even know your name.

CHAPTER TWO

Inside the library, the old man sat impatiently in his wheelchair while staring doggedly at a stack of OPBs, wondering which organ preserver box was his. The hermetically sealed OPBs sucked up as much artificial light as possible, transforming light energy into electrically charged static goo that provided a similar facsimile to that of the actual insides of a living human being. Holding on to a gold coin, the old man fought the sudden urge to puke as a horrid stench wafted up through the square black chambers. Something was obviously well past its best used by date.

An eighteen-year-old, middle-aged genetic sitting behind the table picked at his coarse beard, then snapped, That'll be an extra twenty-five for the preserver box and another fifteen for tax purposes.

Funny, the old man muttered sarcastically, I didn't know this was a government-sponsored program.

The genetic, obviously some type of bodyguard, smiled and then folded his heavily muscled arms. You looking for trouble? He leaned forward. Because if you are…you’ve come to the right place.

Unfazed, the old man wagged a finger. Keep the box, hotshot.

He handed the suspicious genetic a note with one word scrawled on it.

Transplant.

The name is Okul, the genetic replied, peering down at the note and squinting from the bad lighting. Giving up on reading it, he handed the note back to the old man. What’s this?

The old man grunted and pinched the bodyguard’s bulging triceps. You genetics are all alike. All brawn and no brains.

Already old at the tender age of twenty-five, the original auctioneer sensed trouble. He walked up and snatched the piece of paper from his hand. Pay up or leave, he snapped.

The old man stood his ground. Like I’m trying to tell numbnuts here…I don't need the preserver box. He opened a flap in his worn-out, raggedy jacket and pointed to an artificial kidney strapped to his side with a frayed red, white, and blue bungee cord. I want the real deal.

The auctioneer looked at him with disgust. "I can read."

The old man frowned. If you say so. Then he mumbled to himself, …and I can walk on water. He turned back toward the bodyguard. Perhaps, Okul, you should spend less time in the gym and more time… his eyes danced with delight as they roved over the roomful of dusty hardcovers and yellowed paperback books, in a library.

The bodyguard shoved the table aside roughly and stood up. A towering two meters tall, he glared down at the old man in the wheelchair, making him look even more puny and frail. Maybe you should watch your wise old mouth. Besides, Okul looked around as if first noticing his surroundings, Isn’t this a library?

The old man grinned. Look at you, now…getting smarter by the minute. I’m so proud of you.

Thinking he may have pushed his luck a little too far, the old man averted his eyes. He looked down to the litter-strewn floor and held his breath. These genetics could be quick-tempered. The old man was grateful the auctioneer was standing between them because he at least seemed to have an even keel about him. But just in case, the old man pulled out a crumpled bill of antique paper money that had the picture of Benjamin Franklin and laid it on the table. He stroked his long, stringy gray-white hair "Here…you'll notice...American currency. Not that cheap Bit coins."

The world had long agreed upon one electronic currency, making old American paper even more valuable.

The bodyguard snatched it up and turned it over in his hands. Where’d you get this?

Did I ask you where you got the kidney? the old man shot back.

Wait here, Clyde, Okul ordered and disappeared down a long, dark corridor, taking the offered payment with him.

This better not be fake or you won’t need a kidney.

The old man scratched a mole on his arm. It’s the real deal. Not like that worthless WCG crap.

Amazed at the old man’s brass balls, the auctioneer slowly shook his head. Just how old are you, anyway?

A lot older than you’re ever gonna be.

The auctioneer snorted, eyeing the inflamed mole on the old man’s arm. Why bother? You’ll be dead within a year anyway…with or without that kidney.

A dull glint crossed the old timer’s eyes. Because I don’t know what’s on the other side.

The auctioneer seemed to soften a bit. Know what you mean, there, friend. Don’t mind Okul. These auctions make him nervous. He’s just afraid of being deported back to the mines. He’d truly rather die first. Never had a chance at a good education.

In an instant the old man was back to his cantankerous ways. Yeah, you know what they say…a mind is a terrible thing to waste…on a genetic.

The auctioneer’s smile turned into a glare. Just because you’re smart, doesn’t mean you ain’t stupid. Got that?

Oh, that makes sense, the old man shot back sarcastically.

Minutes later the bodyguard returned with a medium-height black man wearing a long white smock that extended below his knees.

The formerly eager patient now looked disappointed. You’re the Doctor?

No, I'm a nurse. Now shut up and follow me.

CHAPTER THREE

The bodyguard gave a rare laugh, making everyone feel awkward as they walked down a series of long, lemon-colored, musty hallways crammed full of old hospital equipment and long rows of sagging shelves stacked with old books.

Reaching the end of one hallway, they entered a relatively bright, white room that smelled of fresh paint and a mixture of antiseptic and mildew. Several bumblebees buzzed about the place. A portable surgical unit was parked near a wobbly picnic-style table, which doubled as a makeshift operating table. Fifty-gallon barrels full of milky-white synthetic blood were lined up against the far wall, below shelves of thick medical books.

"Hmmm, Operating for Dummies," the old man mumbled as he stared at the books. I think I’m beginning to feel better already. See ya!

Okul, with a no-nonsense look on his face, blocked his exit and slammed the door shut behind him.

Watch out, Doc, The auctioneer warned. "This guy’s a bona fide wise guy."

I can see that, Soleri. The doctor turned his attention back to the patient. Do not let our rather primitive surroundings worry you, sir. I can assure you that we are all trained professionals here. He stuck out his hand. My name is Dr. Yele.

The old man stared down at the offered hand as if it had rabies. Suppose next you’re going to tell me that you’ve been trained by the great Ozso himself.

The doctor smiled proudly. You’re an amusing one. But, yes, as a matter of fact…I have. He smiled and bowed. At your service, sir.

The old man chuckled as the smile quickly retreated from Dr. Yele’s face.

Oh, come on. We all know the great Ozso is just a myth. Most people say this whole underground thing is just something the government made up to keep our minds off the real problems in the world.

And what would they be? Dr. Yele asked. I’m sure you have a list.

Since you asked…how ‘bout the right to be able to go outside in the daytime without turning to roast barbecue? Or the right to breathe some decent air without coughing up a lung? Or how ‘bout when you do have a little problem, say like skin cancer or kidney failure, the right to affordable healthcare where you don’t have to go sneaking around in some stinking old library to get a new organ, which more than likely was cut out of some poor unsuspecting schmo right outside this very building last night? He took a breath. Then to be forced to have it transplanted by another schmo in a white smock who claims to have been taught all of his surgical skills by a person that probably doesn’t even exist!

Dr. Yele exhaled an exasperated breath. Finished?

Oh, believe me. I’m just getting warmed up, Dr. SeeMe—or whatever your real name is.

Okul frowned. Can’t we just kill him? We have to get out of here…Battle Born will have a unit swarming all over this place by dusk.

Enough! The doctor shouted, clearly agitated. He stared down at his patient. Get your ass up on this table.

The old man in the wheelchair swatted at a bumblebee that flew in mini-circles around his head. Then he banged a fist into one of his lifeless legs. Ah, hello, Doc? You expect me to fly up there?

The doctor performed a quick examination of the irregularly shaped moles on the old man’s arms, neck, and face. Due to a massive breakdown in the ozone layer and overexposure to UVB radiation, skin cancer had overtaken heart disease years ago as the world’s number one killer.

Come on, Doc. I thought we were friends. Don’t punk out on me now.

The doctor just shook his head. It’s your money.

What’s with all these bumblebees, anyway? The old man absentmindedly ran a finger over a sticky brown substance dripping down the wall. I thought they were extinct.

He tasted the substance and grunted. Well, I’ll be…real honey.

The doctor gave a slight nod to the bodyguard, who picked up the old man with one hand and tossed him down onto the table. All set, now?

Regaining his composure, the old man replied, Why, thank you, Okul. Such a gentleman.

The genetic gave him a cold stare, not having the brain capacity to know if he’d just been insulted or not. Keep messing with me, Jack, and I’ll cut your old, dried-up liver out and feed it to the pack of rat-dogs outside.

Yeah, right. You’d put it right back in this here organ preserver box and try to pawn it off to some other schmuck.

Enough, I said! Dr. Yele barked. What happened to your legs?

These old things? I guess I just got tired of using them…. Kill the interview, Doc. I need a kidney transplant, not a shrink.

Suddenly a sinewy, athletic man with choppy, straight black hair and large, rounded shoulders burst inside the room. He was wearing a self-ventilated titanium vest over a taut, muscle-bound frame and a pair of lizard-skin pants.

The old man knew very well what the protective titanium outer shell cleverly concealed—several pneumatically operated, razor-sharp blades that could be made available for use at the touch of a button.

This man was definitely human. He had intense, blazing-green eyes and chiseled handsome features that contrasted sharply with the more cookie-cutter, hand-crafted genetics.

The old man held his breath out of both fear and excitement. He couldn't believe his luck.

The man standing before him was Razor King—chief muscle of the Underground.

CHAPTER FOUR

Staring in awe at the ruthless murderer clad in black leather, the old man tried his best to remain calm. I didn’t know that I’d be operated on by a celebrity today.

Deadly proficient with blades, Razor King often bragged about having the ability to cut out the heart from an unsuspecting victim and hold it up before their very eyes—before their body even hit the pavement. Forced to do most of his work under the cloak of darkness, Razor King supposedly had been trained to excise organs blindfolded. Word on the street was that the mysterious Ozso himself—mastermind and leader of the Underground—had personally passed on years of medical training to Razor King, whose bloodthirsty ways had become legendary.

The most wanted man on the continent locked eyes with the old man sitting on the operating table.

Your eyes…

Yeah?

They look way younger than your face.

Dr. Yele stared suspiciously at the old man for a moment. Then he quietly pulled out from inside his smock a tiny ball filled with yellow liquid. I knew there was something wrong about you…

In a quick, controlled fashion, Razor King depressed a series of pneumatic bubbles located within his armor, which immediately raised specially bonded blades and knives from within the wire-mesh vest. With the demise of the NRA and strict gun laws in effect, members of the Underground were forced to think creatively when it came to their weaponry, and Razor King was no exception.

The doctor approached slowly from behind Razor King. A sinister smile spread across his face.

Underneath the old man’s disguise, Captain Matagon—leader of INFINTOR’S elite anti-Underground task force, Battle Born—thought to himself, Oh, shit. Not good.

After depressing the panic button on his concealed com-watch, the captain removed an ancient, 330-millimeter-long, brass-handled Bowie knife that he had strapped to the back of his right calf muscle. He flung it toward the approaching warrior.

Lightning fast, Razor King easily deflected the Bowie with his forearm and accidentally redirected it into the doctor’s Adam’s apple. The doctor immediately began to choke on his own blood.

As Okul fumbled clumsily for his weapon, Razor King shouted, Shoot him!

Momentarily stepping into the line of fire, Razor King thrusted a razor-sharp, blade-encrusted forearm toward Captain Matagon’s face.

The captain ducked down slightly as Soleri, the auctioneer, stood there in a frozen, stupefied state. Okul finally managed to fire off a round in his direction.

Unsure if Okul’s cyber gun possessed the capacity to kill or just stun, Matagon barely dodged the particle blast by rolling backwards off the table. Years ago, after the ten-year National Rifle Association War, every registered citizen had the option of receiving one stun-capable cyber gun for home protection purposes only. By government order, only the police and military were allowed to carry lethal weapons of any kind. They also had the ability to switch from kill to stun on a moment’s notice. The penalty for a citizen being caught with a military- or police-grade weapon was severe. Knowing that he wasn’t dealing with everyday ordinary citizens here, Captain Matagon stayed clear of the particle blast.

Landing on spry legs, he managed to snag a cyber gun of his own that he’d taped to the bottom of his wheelchair. Suddenly another particle blast ripped through the operating table, reducing it to a small pile of rubble.

Definitely not a stun gun.

The captain rolled to his right and fired a round at the surprised bodyguard, but he missed. The guard pointed his weapon directly at Matagon’s head and pulled the trigger. Thankfully the ancient weapon misfired, and the end of it simply caught on fire.

Razor King mumbled something under his breath, and then glided smoothly across the room to kick Matagon’s weapon from his hand in one swift movement. Okul gave up on firing his own defective weapon, dropped it, and scurried across the room to grab the captain’s weapon.

Bleeding badly from the neck and on his last breath, Dr. Yele managed to toss the toxic gel ball at the auctioneer before dropping to his knees and falling face-first on the floor. Matagon covered his eyes as the concentrated glycine goo bounced twice, broke open, and splashed onto the auctioneer’s leg. It almost appeared as if the good doctor had purposely flung the toxic ball toward Soleri. The captain decided right then and there that he was definitely a person of interest and should be captured alive if possible.

The genetic screamed as the liquid immediately began to eat away at his flesh. Another hand-sharpened blade from Razor King’s arsenal whizzed by Matagon’s right ear, as he jumped toward the wounded genetic.

I guess this makes you expendable, huh, big guy? Matagon said to Soleri, as he dragged the auctioneer away from the flesh-eating liquid. He knew that if it had been an ordinary man lying there, the guy would be dead already.

But this man, or thing, was a genetic—a highly sophisticated and artificially perfected human created by a group of genetic researchers in China, Great Britain, and the United States decades ago. Unlike the usual cloning process (eventually deemed illegal after decades of debate), a woman’s egg was removed, and the genetic material was removed from the egg and replaced with genetic material from skin cells. Next it was fused together by sending a tiny shock of electricity through it, and then it divided like a normally fertilized egg. Once the egg divided a few times inside a test tube, it was then implanted into a surrogate mother who gave birth normally. But genetics were an entirely different ballgame.

Synthetic microorganisms (from the smallest known genome of any truly living organism, a bacterium bug known as Mycoplasma genitalium) were originally assembled to possibly reveal the roots of hundreds of diseases, to produce biofuels for cleaning up toxic waste, and to pull excess carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere. However amazing strides in gene-sequencing technology, bioinformatics, and population genomics enabled researchers to leapfrog right into the next step of creating artificial life. After available RNA samples were mixed with a potent DNA cocktail, a synthetic chromosome was then inserted into a single cell and booted-up, or fertilized, inside a large test tube. Eventually it would be hatched in one of the sophisticated birthing centers that were closely monitored by the two virtual leaders of the world—MYKRONS and his peer, INFINTOR, who also had his own army of specially trained security forces (both genetic and human) at its disposal.

Extracting only the best DNA from superior human beings, these olive-skinned genetics were born not only with near-perfect physiques, high endurance, and unyielding strength, but also were highly resistant to viruses and infections. Their elevated levels of melanocytes protected their skin from the potentially life-threatening UVA and UVB rays that unmercifully beat down on the planet every single day.

From birth genetics possessed a high tolerance for abnormal temperatures, along with far superior lung and oxygen-filtering capabilities. They required only a minute amount of water and food on a daily basis to survive. Unfortunately, they also suffered from hypoplasia of the brain, making them ripe for a lifetime of slavery and hard labor—at least according to the two exulted world leaders, MYKRONS and INFINTOR.

These two super-powerful, atomic quantum computer systems, through the use and abuse of ever-expanding surveillance laws, nanotechnology, and the miniaturization of trillions of hidden and embedded micro-surveillance cameras, had managed to gain complete control of the planet.

Originally genetics were considered the perfect alternative to freedom-loving humans who, through rapid advancements in science, were now living well past the century mark. But genetics suffered from another major flaw besides dimwittedness—premature aging. With an average lifespan lasting only 25 to 30 years, they were primarily put to use in mass-production mining camps until they started defecting in large numbers to the Underground to join forces with the mysterious Dr. Ozso Rukur - a mad genius, geneticist/brain surgeon, now turned renegade leader of The Underground. Dr. Rukur’s own grandfather had originally spearheaded the International Hap Map consortium and 1,000 Genome Project.

With a workable weapon now secured in his hand, Okul smiled back at the captain before firing a sure hit.

No, Razor King said. But it was too late.

The instant Okul pulled the trigger, Matagon’s smart cyber gun exploded like a hand grenade, sending books flying off the shelves behind him as well as instantly removing the genetic’s arm and head. Several barrels of synthetic blood cracked open, and the white liquid splashed down to the floor. Okul’s lacerated body tilted at an odd angle, slumping over like a wooden puppet whose strings had just been snipped.

The flash-flood knocked Captain Matagon off his feet just as Razor King disappeared through a back-door exit. Matagon jumped up, extracted the Bowie from the doctor’s throat, and burst into the hot daylight, cursing himself for not shooting Razor King the minute he’d laid eyes on him.

The shock of suddenly being in the same room with one of the most-wanted and ruthless Underground leaders of the world was almost too much to believe. And now he’d let him get away!

Knowing there would be hell to pay with INFINTOR (in charge of the military and overall security of the planet), Matagon popped a piece of oxygenate gum into his mouth. He emerged from the building into a debris-filled alleyway, which luckily offered slanted slabs of shade. Immediately feeling the sting of the bright rays, he cursed the ravaged atmosphere and tried his best to remain within the safety of the angled shadows that fell all around him.

He saw Razor King disappear down a long, garbage-strewn alleyway off to the right. The captain also caught sight of several other members of the underground scurrying about like the giant lab rats they truly were.

His facemask already warm to the touch, the captain removed it and let his own gray-streaked black hair fall down below his ears as he cursed the daylight again. At this moment, with the brutal sun at its warmest, this was the last place he wanted to be. But he also realized the illegal auctions were held at this time of day because the police were extremely reluctant to venture outside, especially on this side of town.

With the considerable ozone depletion over the years, day, in a sense, had become night.

Not wanting to risk a slow and painful death from skin cancer, most people (at least the sane ones) opted to stay indoors until the sun went down. Unfortunately, Captain Matagon didn’t always have the luxury of choice. He had to go wherever the bad guys went, and that meant any time of day or night.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cutting the corner, the captain ran right into Soleri, who was trying to limp his way to freedom. He was angry that the good doctor had chosen him, of all the people in the room, to toss his little flesh-eater ball at, and he looked at the captain with blood in his eyes.

He decided to take his fury out on the hapless captain who, at the moment, seemed to be concentrating more on staying out of the sun than arresting a wounded auctioneer with a bruised ego.

Soleri greeted the captain by promptly grabbing him by the shoulders and tossing him through the air like a well-thrown football. Spiraling to the top of a burned-out and gutted magnapod, the captain struggled for breath in the hot, stifling alleyway that reeked so badly, it burned his nose hairs. Breathing heavily now, he rolled across what was left of the hood of the vehicle and dropped down onto the piles of garbage and hot, crumbling asphalt.

Despite his sour leg, the genetic sprung up onto the hood and stood above the captain, glaring down at him.

Captain Matagon. Soleri’s deep voice resonated with surprise. Lucky me. I didn’t think I’d be killing a member of the royalty today.

Thankful to simply be within the big man’s shadow at the moment, Matagon asked, Do I know you?

Suffering from hypoxia and acting on instincts alone, Matagon rolled under the burned-out shell, dodging Soleri’s crushing foot by a few millimeters.

Landing on his bad leg, the Underground rebel howled in pain. Pretty quick. For a lousy human.

The genetic clutched his bad leg and limped over to the side of the vehicle.

Don’t mean to appear ungrateful, Captain. You saved my life back there, but…

Soleri picked up the abandoned vehicle and flung it more than fifteen meters through the air. It crashed down onto the back of a fast-food joint that didn’t open until dusk, toppling the badly leaning and dilapidated wall to the ground.

His escape route blocked, Matagon concentrated all hope on the police sirens blaring in the distance. Help was on the way, but in his mind, it was not nearly close enough.

Fading in and out of consciousness, Matagon felt his body being tossed through the air again. This time he landed on top of an aluminum pallet of recently delivered psyllium biscuits lying next to the destroyed magnapod.

The sirens were getting closer. Soleri limped quickly over to the captain.

Matagon felt like his brain was on fire—as if a thousand angry wasps were buzzing around inside his head. The air quality always seemed terrible down here in the slums, and now his skin felt hot and clammy. His only hope now was for his backup to arrive on time, but judging from the distance of the sirens, hope seemed at least a block or two away.

Then he remembered his Bowie.

His right hand palmed the brass handle of the knife—a weapon that had been in his family for generations. Although never able to truly authenticate the piece, the captain liked to think that it was the real deal and belonged to a long-dead relative.

Soleri stared down at him. Think you’re on some kind of crusade or something, Captain? Gonna rid good old mother earth of all no-good scum—defecting genetics? Well, let me tell you something, Captain…my slave days are long over with.

Why do you look so familiar to me?

Soleri bent down over him, his looming shadow again providing a brief respite from the sun. He smacked the captain lightly across his face. Shame, really…expected more of a fight from you. You being a living legend and all…

Matagon watched in sheer terror as the genetic picked up the old, rusty magnapod and held the half-metric ton vehicle teetering over the captain’s head. He was getting ready to smash the life out