Under the Skin: The Creation of Jack, #3

By E.B. Dawson

After narrowly avoiding catastrophe on the world's first space colony, humanity struggles to redefine itself. Logan, Druce, and the crew try to remain neutral. But tensions are mounting, and when Logan gets separated from the others, they will have to decide where their loyalties lie. As Logan's longtime battle with her own identity comes to a head, she will find the fate of humanity lies in the balance. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.B. Dawson
• Release date: Jun 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386929208

E.B. Dawson

E.B. Dawson was born out of time. Raised in the remote regions of a developing nation, traveling to America was as good as traveling thirty years into the future. So, it’s really no wonder that she writes science fiction and fantasy. Her stories acknowledge darkness, but empower and encourage people to keep on fighting, no matter how difficult their circumstances may be. And as an avid philosopher, she infuses her work with Socratic questions. When not writing, she tries to make a difference in the world by showing love and compassion to those most broken.

Book preview

Prologue

Spring 2053

Somewhere in the Eastern Kingdom

---

A ll the way to the finish, soldiers! John urged his team on. But their attempts at full speed down the hill were met with a loss of footing and Bailey found herself sliding down the steep slope as much as running. The team crossed the line wet with sweat, dirty, and panting. Their time was called. They would have to wait to see where they stood in comparison to the other teams, but for the moment it was enough to know they were through.

There was no time for cleaning up, not that any of them were interested in doing so until they heard the results. They were led back to their holding room where they silently watched the screens. It was five to ten minutes before anything was posted. Bailey wondered dimly whether that was due to calculations or deliberate suspense. And then they were posted, one at a time, from fourth place on up to first: Sasha, Coal, June, and John.

There were no cries of exaltation, or even congratulatory handshakes, but the whole room seemed to be filled with exhales as the soldiers released their breath. The tension that had mounted was so great that it took several moments for it to subside. Then they were released for showers. But Bailey had noticed something else on the screen. To the right of the rankings stood another time, marked with these initials: LK. It stood just below June’s time, and Bailey knew it wasn’t an average.

What’s that? What’s LK? she asked almost before thinking. John, who was the last to leave the room behind her, looked down at the floor.

That’s the control group, he said quietly.

She didn’t have time to ask what he meant.

Coal got third, he said very deliberately. She flinched and looked away. Coal had gotten third. And John had gotten first, just two weeks after he had traded Bailey. Coal would be furious.

You’re part of our team now, Bailey. We won’t let him hurt you.

The subject was making her angry.

I don’t need protection, she muttered. She knew that she did.

He was quiet for a moment. The way I remember it he put you in the hospital three times in the past three months. Is there something I’m missing? Look at me.

She reluctantly met his gaze.

He’ll try to get revenge, and you can’t take him on your own. Don’t let your pride get you killed.

She nodded. He was right.

Hey, good job tonight. Six weeks in, I still barely remember the dreams.

She didn’t tell him what she was thinking: that he was lucky.

Bailey headed to the locker room with mixed feelings. She had made it through another day. And even though she couldn’t necessarily count on a full night’s sleep, there would be a short period of rest. The hot water felt good on her skin, washing away the mud and sweat. But her thoughts kept cycling in an unbroken loop, much like the water funneling down the drain at her feet. These weird mental games they were playing now—this was why she was here. They had pushed her beyond her natural athletic ability until she had reached a whole new level she never thought she’d be capable of. But she would never win in a battle of brute strength. She was a good fighter. But she wasn’t the best here. From the day that Hajjar had blackmailed her into his program she had wondered why. Now she was beginning to find the answer and it terrified her. What would happen if Hajjar kept awakening the dark corners of her mind? Where would it stop? Human minds weren’t supposed to behave this way.

Bailey ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Her mother used to call it a bird’s nest. She had spent hours detangling it and excavating such treasures as chewing gum, twigs, lollipops, and tree sap. Bailey shut off the water, wondering if it was really such a good idea to be thinking about her mother just now. Even if Hajjar never intended to go through with his threats against her family, it would have broken their hearts when she went missing. Better alive and heartbroken than dead. Alive meant there was always a chance she could see them again. Maybe not tomorrow, or even next year. But some day. One by one she would cut the ties that were binding her. The thought of seeing her family again seemed to be the only thing that kept her sane these days. She clung to it like a lifeline as she tugged on her clothes and inevitably thought about returning to the barracks.

The sound of shuffling feet put her immediately on alert. She spun around. Coal stood about ten feet away from her, flanked by two of his goons. His eyes were black with bitterness, edged with puffy red from lack of sleep. A bad combination. Bailey had learned there was no way to talk her way out of these confrontations. She bolted left. One of Coal’s goons intercepted her, slamming her into the metal lockers. But she managed to get her arm up first. She wrapped it around his neck and put him in a headlock, intending to leverage his body against the other two. But something hard connected with the back of her skull first. Her vision flickered, her grip loosened, and she stumbled. Powerful arms immediately locked around her head, cutting off her air supply. She choked, instinctively trying to reposition her body. But he knew what she was doing, and kept her off balance. Something hard connected with her stomach, stinging the soft flesh and shooting fiery pain deep into the tissues. Her senses cleared enough to make sense of the situation: Coal was beating her with a stick.

He hit her again, taking great pleasure in her grunt of pain. His goon behind her would relax his grip every once in a while, just so she could get enough air to remain conscious, but as soon as she began to get her feet under her he would tighten up again and then another blow would come. Coal wasn’t using his full strength. After a few gratuitous blows to her lower torso, he swung directly at her rib cage. She would have gasped if she had been able to breathe, but she bit her tongue instead and blood slipped out the side of her mouth. He was toying with her. Then the real blows came. The stick hit with a significant increase in force and she felt certain her ribs cracked. And she still couldn’t get enough oxygen. Despite her recent commitment to get back to her family no matter the cost, in that moment Bailey sincerely longed for Coal to put her out of her misery.

Someone came around the corner unexpectedly. Coal and his other goon turned to look at her. June hesitated for a moment, sizing up the scene with a quick glance. She walked to her locker calmly, returning a hairbrush and a couple other items. Coal watched her every movement with predatory eyes. Bailey struggled against the man holding her captive, exacerbating the shooting pain that was already assaulting her right side. Her tongue was swollen and her mouth tasted like iron. Blood was still trickling out of the right corner of her mouth from when she had bitten her tongue and her head was beginning to pound. The fury she had felt at the beginning of the attack had long since been tempered with helplessness and humiliation. What she felt now was desperation.

June turned to leave. Then she paused at the corner and for one moment, hope fluttered inside Bailey’s chest.

Try not to get blood on the floor, June said. This is my locker room, too. She left without looking back.

Coal toyed with her for a couple more minutes, making it clear who had the power. Then he delivered another two crushing blows to the left side of her ribcage. The goon holding her tossed her on the ground and the three men walked out, slamming the door behind them.

Bailey lay broken on the cold, locker room floor, choking back hot tears. But a new thought entered her mind. He was afraid of her. Because he saw what Hajjar saw: for all his physical strength, she had the potential to become more powerful than him. She couldn’t count on anyone to protect her, not even Sutton. A small voice whispered the truth to her: if she wanted to survive this nightmare to see her family again, she couldn’t hold back anymore. She had to become what Hajjar wanted, if only for a little while. But what if there was no coming back? Was it more courageous to be the girl her parents knew? Or to face the darkest parts of herself and survive?

1

Shuttle Life

January 2058

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Logan stirred on her cot. That was the sound of her alarm. But it didn’t prove she was awake. Everything was black. Day in. Day out. Awake. Asleep. Her fingers found their way to her face in the dark. Step one: make sure your eyes are actually open.

She dreamt in color—a mix of memories and wild imagination. But too often those dreams ended in a black fake-out, the way she used to dream about getting dressed for the day before she’d even woken up. Then she really would wake up. But the blackness would stay the same. It would have been much more convenient if her dreams and reality were separated by a clear distinction of black and color. So far no such convenience had been granted.

Her eyes were open, alright. And that mix of sharp and foggy senses sure seemed to indicate she was awake. The alarm sounded with a little more urgency: Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. And her hand began to grope in the dark. Step two: attempt to turn off the alarm. Her hand came up empty, muscle memory clearly failing her. Where had she put it? Tempo and pitch increased in urgency: Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. And her hand began searching desperately. Her pinky made contact with the device, sending it crashing to the floor. And the occupants of the three adjacent cabins sighed in resignation—all too familiar with the routine.

Seconds later a short blonde with thick muscles emerged from her bunk and descended the ladder to the cabin floor with jerky, impatient movements. The cabins were stacked like cupboards and nestled snuggly in the center of the shuttle, just behind the cockpit, galley, and infirmary, and in front of an ample cargo bay and small common area. It was old, patched together, and riddled with seams and scars, much like its crew.

Jesse Stevens jumped off the last rung of the ladder and hustled to the cockpit with a stern face. It was a comfortable cockpit, with four black, leather seats, worn down until they were more comfortable than anything fresh out of the factory. Out the four great windows, a smattering of stars blazed silently in the unfathomable depths of space.

A man with a long face, dusty hair, and blue eyes turned from where he sat in the pilot’s seat. Thomas Gregson raised his eyebrows. Geez, Stevens. It’s a bit early for a stampede. Go back to sleep. You’re not on duty for another two hours.

I’m not just going to lie in bed. I’m awake. I’m up. I might as well begin morning diagnostics. She flopped into the copilot’s seat.

Did Jack wake you up, again? Gregson asked.

Jesse’s lips twitched. She’s blind. She’s adjusting. I get it. But why can’t she just put that stupid alarm clock in the same place every night?

Gregson smiled, Jack has a hard time with routine.

She can handle routine. She ran a tight ship at International Security. I should know.

That was training, he answered, This is her life.

Yeah, well she isn’t the only one living her life on this shuttle. Jesse fastened a headset over her stumpy ponytail.

She’s adjusting.

I’ve heard that before—about as many times as I’ve heard that alarm clock hit the floor.

Gregson smiled tolerantly, Will you run a diagnostic on our energy outputs last night? I saw two unexpected spikes.

A tall, lanky figure with an unusual bionic arm leaned in the cockpit door.

Good morning Crafton! Greg said brightly.

Well, it’s morning anyway, Crafton said moodily.

What’s the matter, you woke up on the wrong side of the bed?

Nah, it’s that gentle wake-up call I love so much, courtesy of Jack Cameron, extraordinaire.

Stevens gave Gregson a pointed look.

Give her a break, guys, a deep voice spoke from behind, making them start guiltily. Druce Finamore appeared with sleep in his eyes, one hand fastening a watch to his wrist. It’s only been six weeks. None of us would be here if it wasn’t for her. The least we can do is put up with a little less sleep. Greg, you make the coffee, yet?

Gregson started, Fin, I’m this close to solving the mystery of the ghost in the engine—

Craf can make it, Stevens interjected unemotionally.

Oh no. Bionic-man’s not getting near that coffee machine. If that thing breaks I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.

Yeah, just give me a second, Fin, Gregson said.

Druce leaned forward and dropped his voice, Ueb’ll be up any minute, and he’s going to go straight for the coffee.

Since when are you afraid of Dr. Ueberroth losing his temper? Stevens asked. I don’t think he has one.

Not his temper, Stevens. His coffee. Have you tasted it?

I don’t drink coffee.

Well, you know how Ueb’s so level-headed about his work? When he brews coffee, he turns into a moody Michelangelo. And it tastes like motor oil. Thomas P. Gregson, if I have to drink motor oil today, I’ll put you on night shift for a month.

Gregson got the hint, scrambled to his feet and out the door, Alright, alright. I’ll get you your pacifier.

So why don’t you brew the coffee? Stevens turned to Druce with a smirk.

I save my executive functions for more pressing matters.

He tried once, Crafton snickered. It didn’t turn out so well.

A man’s gotta admit when he’s defeated. Druce felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned to see Logan. Hey, you’re up.

Have we heard from Trench? Logan asked.

Yeah, she’ll be there to meet us. They’re expecting us at ten o’clock.

That means Trench will expect us at 9:45.

We’re gonna get there at 9:40. We’ve got the details taken care of, Jack. Let’s get some breakfast.

From what the Minister said, these hits have been well-orchestrated. There are only three crime lords in that city with the resources and the guts to pull these jobs, and I know how they operate, Logan continued.

Which is why you’re coming with us to meet the Minister, Druce replied, But then you’re going to keep Veronica company, while we look into the matter.

She crossed her arms and he stepped out into the aisle and slipped the cockpit door closed.

Jack, you can’t come with us.

I don’t like the thought of you going without me.

We’ve talked about how your role needs to change, he said softly.

She chewed on her lip, I don’t have my eyes, but my other senses make up for it.

And in most areas you can still outperform everyone on this ship. But all it takes is one misstep, you know that. And I’m not going to lose you like that.

She hesitated, Greg and I have been working with Wolf. His sensors pick up everything in his environment—more than any human. And I’m getting better at communicating with him.

Druce nodded, Better is good. But that still leaves a lot of holes, and we both know it only takes one.

She sighed.

Let’s get breakfast, he repeated.

Who made the coffee? She asked.

Gregson.

Thank heaven for small mercies.

Jack. Druce. I got up early to make everyone coffee, but I guess I’m late to the show, Erik Ueberroth greeted them with a friendly smile.

That’s alright, Ueb, Druce clapped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, Greg gets restless on early morning shift. He likes to keep occupied.

Well, I’ll take that shift next week, Erik Ueberroth offered. I don’t mind early mornings.

Jack ducked into the galley, leaving Druce to handle the situation alone.

We need you awake during active hours, doc. In case of emergency.

Active hours? That’s becoming a relative term, Fin. Crime doesn’t sleep, and neither do we if we’re Space Rangers.

That doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized, Druce muttered. He had never fully adjusted to living in space, not even after a year on the station.

Yeah, I’m not used to it either, Erik Ueberroth seemed to read his friend’s thoughts. But I guess Jack’s not the only one who’s had to adjust to new circumstances.

Do you know sometimes I still wake up thinking things’ll go back to the way they were? Druce asked quietly. But they both knew things would not go back to the way they were. The first colony in space, the station, had been irrevocably split into four segments after one genetically enhanced man had tried to take over. Now all of humanity was divided, and the small crew of the shuttle was trying to find their way, like the rest of the world.

At least we got a paying job, today, right? Ueberroth asked optimistically.

Yeah, we got a job. Thought to tell the truth, I’m not entirely sure what to expect from this one. But I think if everyone plays their roles, we might come out the other end better off.

I heard that! Logan’s voice drifted out of the galley.

You were meant to, Druce replied evenly.

Ueberroth chuckled, I guess we better get something to eat before it’s game time.

2

Bounty

An hour later, Druce’s voice carried through the shuttle over the PSA. Alright, listen up! We’re entering atmosphere. It should be better than last time—Stevens sweet talked our inertial dampeners. But I’d brace myself just the same.

A second later, Gregson exited the cockpit with a pale face.

Greg! Crafton called out to him from where he sat on his bunk—his cabin door slid open. Do you think you could take a look at my arm? Something’s wrong with the specs, again.

Yeah, sure, Gregson replied quickly, immediately focusing all his attention on his friend. You struggling with the grip, again?

Crafton eyed him thoughtfully, Whatever you did after I broke that mug, I think we went a little too far. I couldn’t even grip a sugar packet today.

The human hand is tricky to replicate. Picking up a mug without smashing it? Not too hard to modify for. But the paper test is one of the hardest.

The shuttle began to sway.

Yeah, well I never thought twice about it until I got this robotic arm.

Most people don’t until they develop carpal tunnel or some other muscular disorder. The things we take for granted… Gregson was scanning Crafton’s right arm with an electronic device, paying close attention to the readings. The shuttle shook violently, directly affecting Gregson’s respiration rate.

So what’s your magic wand say? Crafton asked persistently.

Greg blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Readings are good, Craf. I’m reluctant to modify anything. Your nervous system needs time to adapt. If we keep adjusting settings, we may do more harm than good.

So what, strength exercises?

Strength’s not the issue, Gregson swallowed hard as the shuttle settled into a steady rhythm of turbulence. It’s precision. Dexterity. That under developed brain of yours needs to adopt the new limb.

Crafton sighed.

Have you been doing those exercises Marilyn showed you? Greg asked.

Sometimes.

Liar.

Greg, yesterday I replaced a flex cylinder in the engine with my bare hand. Didn’t feel a thing.

I thought I told Stevens to stop using you as a shortcut.

I like seeing what I can do, Crafton protested. There was no harm done.

Yeah, no harm until you get distracted and touch it with your other hand.

I’m not stupid, Greg. It was trippy holding that thing. My brain was screaming at me to put it down. But I didn’t feel a thing.

It was Greg’s turn to sigh.

Hey, you’re the one always talking about retraining my brain. My brain’s gonna learn the difference between my hands and what they can take. It’ll become second nature to me.

Do the exercises, Craf. I don’t care if they do make you feel like you’re back doing Mrs. Smith’s choreography in elementary choir.

You know that was a hypothetical analogy, right? I never actually took elementary choir.

Sure.

---

By now they had made it through the atmosphere and were leveling out at a comfortable twenty-thousand feet. Pratchett sat in the pilot’s seat, his eyes surveying his instruments like he was reading the morning newspaper. Druce kept him company in the co-pilot’s seat. Two bright green lights appeared on one of the screens and a proximity alert sounded.

We’ve got company. They’re coming up on our flank, and by their velocity, I’d say they’ve gotta be fighters.

Pratchett frowned, Try and make contact.

Unknown fighters, this is Shuttle JSTB1929. We have been granted permission to land in the Italian Domestic Zone. We don’t mind a little company, but we weren’t expecting you.

A voice replied over the airwaves, but nothing was discernible.

Is that Arabic?

That’s Arabic. They could be Algerian military.

Jack! Druce hollered back over his shoulder.

The message in Arabic repeated.

Logan entered the cockpit, accompanied by Wolf. She listened for a moment. They’re saying we’ve entered their airspace illegally and unless we surrender immediately, they’ll be forced to attack.

We came through the strait to avoid this kind of trouble, Pratchett’s voice did not waiver. Druce held out a headset for Logan and she reached for it automatically, as if she could see it, making quick replies in Arabic.

A shot was fired, passing just under the belly of the Shuttle with enough force to shake the entire craft.

Jack! What are they saying?

They haven’t responded to me.

Tell me what to do, Fin, Pratchett said.

Druce hit a red button and a warning light began blinking all throughout the craft with a clear message: Emergency evacuation.

They’re not going to get this shuttle and they’re not going to get us, Druce muttered.

But another voice came on the air—speaking desperately in Italian.

Druce, wait, Logan pleaded, The Italians are trying to intervene for us.

We’ve got a short window to jump. You know that.

There’s another fighter dead ahead, Pratchett said. It’s Italian.

Algeria’s responding, Logan said. They won’t fire on us and risk war. Turn off the Evac or we’ll have to go back and pick up some hitchhikers.

The Italian fighter escorted them the rest of the way in and they landed without a hitch.

Close call, huh? Stevens asked as Druce exited the cockpit.

Nah. We were just trying to lighten the load, he replied smoothly. Then his eyes caught sight of the