Specialist (Forager Impersonator - A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Specialist

  Forager Impersonator, Book Two

  16th November ‘16

  Copyright © 2016 Peter R Stone

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental

  Books in Peter R Stone’s Forager Series

  Forager Trilogy

  Forager

  Infiltrator

  Expatriate

  Impersonator Trilogy

  Impersonator

  Specialist

  Revolutionary – due out 2017

  Note – although the Impersonator Trilogy starts three years before the events in the Forager Trilogy, it is not a prequel. It will catch up to, carry on, and draw to a conclusion the Forager Trilogy storyline.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Other Books by Peter R Stone

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Forager Online

  Chapter One

  Mr. Cho was the only male present in the Genetics Laboratory gymnasium. Twelve girls about my age surrounded him on the rubber exercise mat that covered the floor, all wearing white taekwondo uniforms. Mr. Cho wore a similar outfit, and had eight white stripes on his black belt. From what my brother told me about the martial arts, that meant he was ranked very high, and had been studying the art most of his life.

  “Get changed and meet us in the interview room,” he said to Bhagya Singhe, a slim Indian girl. She was the last of the girls to have “welcomed” me to their exclusive world.

  The girl nodded and hurried from the gym. The other eleven girls continued to stare at me as though I was something dragged in from the gutter. Considering I spent the past two-plus years in prison, that analogy wasn’t far off the mark.

  Studying Mr. Cho as he watched me in return, I had to fight the urge to step away from his imposing presence. He was pushing six-feet, had a square jaw and thick black hair, and appeared to be of Korean descent, like the chancellor and councillors of Newhome. I wondered how highly placed he was in the hierarchy of the town’s leadership.

  “Follow me,” he said before striding purposefully from the room. The way he spoke gave me the impression he was not someone to be trifled with.

  I rushed after him, almost tripping on my ankle-length prison dress in my haste to keep up. He took me through two long white-walled corridors and finally to a nondescript, windowless room with a table and three metal chairs.

  “Sit.” He indicated a chair.

  Gathering my beige dress into my hands, I sat as gracefully as I could manage. He sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He didn’t speak, just studied me carefully with an invasive stare. I met his gaze without blinking, refusing to be cowed.

  After a lifetime living in fear of the Genetics Laboratory, I could scarcely believe I still ended up here. And all because of Ryan Hill, the only person I trusted with the secret that I was the product of genetic engineering. I hadn’t always known that my advanced hearing and ability to use flash sonar, or echolocation, were due to my biological enhancements. I used to think they were mutations caused by nuclear radiation.

  My emotions fluctuated wildly at the thought of tall, handsome Ryan, often brooding over past injustices. He was the first to see through my disguise when I masqueraded as my brother in a desperate attempt to earn enough money to put food on the table for my family. He later confessed that he had feelings for me, going so far as to ask his father if he would allow our union. A union I refused to consider because of the rather significant baggage I would bring with me.

  It became a moot point, though, when the magistrate handed me a life sentence for my part in instigating a breakout that saw two-dozen foragers and their families escape Newhome.

  Refusing to give up on his hope that we could one day be together, Ryan saw an opportunity to get me out of prison when he met Specialist Madison Taylor, a biologically engineered echolocator like me. After she told him that a dozen other such girls lived in the Genetics Laboratory, serving the Chancellor as spies, he told her I was an echolocator too.

  From his perspective, it got me out of my life sentence, and perhaps as importantly, into the Genetics Laboratory so I could spy on the geneticists and find out exactly what they were doing. They worked feverishly, day in, day out – on what, no one knew. I always assumed they were developing new strains of vegetables and fowl, but Ryan assured me that could not be the case.

  And so, here I was, in the last place on earth I wanted to be, risking my life to find out what the geneticists were really up to.

  There was a gentle knock at the door.

  “Come,” Mr. Cho barked.

  The door opened and Bhagya Singhe slipped in, now wearing a Custodian camo uniform, though with an ankle length skirt in place of trousers. Without even glancing in my direction, she sat stiffly beside the man.

  “As you have gathered, my name is Cho,” he said. “You may address me as Sir, Teacher, or Seon Saeng Nim.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “‘Teacher’ in Korean,” he said. “As you have no doubt deduced, I am in charge of the Specialists Program.”

  He was Korean, just as I thought. A flash of insight hit me. “Are you one of the councillors, Sir?”

  “Just so.”

  My eyes widened slightly in fear. I was with one of the handful of men responsible for maintaining Newhome’s oppressive society created by the Founders a century ago. That meant I was in more danger than I had ever been in before. This man could order my execution on a whim.

  “The purpose of this interview,” he began, “is to determine if you require deprogramming from the influence of your parent's questionable ethics and exposure to the numerous malcontents and criminals you've met in your...colourful past.”

  I was about to protest his opinion about my parents, but then realised that although my mother was an extremely vocal supporter of the Founders’ teachers, my father was not. From the privacy of our home, he had bucked the system whenever and wherever possible.

  “Before we begin,” he said, “Let me explain why Miss Singhe is here. She has a unique ability that allows her to determine with one hundred percent accuracy whether someone is lying or telling the truth.”

  I looked at Bhagya in alarm as unsettling tendrils of fear curled in the depths of my stomach. If she could tell when I was lying, Mr. Cho migh
t unearth the real reason I was here. How would he react if he discovered that Ryan and I were part of a resistance movement? A movement that sent me here to infiltrate the laboratory to find out what the geneticists were doing.

  “Do you revere the Chancellor?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I answered, but then jolted as though struck because as soon as I began to speak, Bhagya sang out with short musical notes pitched in the ultrasonic range.

  “Miss Singhe?” Mr. Cho asked.

  “She’s lying, Sir.”

  “Is she now?” He leaned closer. “How do you really view the Chancellor, young lady?”

  I sighed. It looked like I would have to forgo my original plan of concealing the way I really felt and go with the truth. “My feelings towards the Chancellor aside, Sir, can I just say that if you want me to spy on corrupt Custodians and dishonest managers and public servants, no problem. I’ll give it my all. But if you want me to ferret out and report on innocent civilians who have issues with the Founders’ teachings and our culture, you may as well send me back to prison. I won’t do it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because their complaints are justified and I’ll never be able to look in the mirror again if I report innocent civilians who, like me, are dissatisfied with living in this repressive society.”

  “It’s important that you remain true to yourself?”

  “Yes, Sir, it is.”

  “More important than keeping the town safe from internal and external threats that could lead to its destruction?”

  “Yes, I mean, no...” I paused, confused by his question.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “There has to be a better way to keep the people safe, Sir, than removing their freedoms and forcing them to adhere to the Founders’ teachings with barrel of a Custodian gun.”

  “Have you forgotten the road our ancestors walked? They were free to act as they chose and were tolerant towards all forms of sexual orientation – heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual. They accepted of all forms of religion. They practised equality in all areas for men and women. Nations warred incessantly and radicalised terrorists spread chaos across the globe.”

  “I have not forgotten, Sir. But our society is not the answer to those problems.”

  “She’s is not convinced of that, Sir,” Bhagya said.

  I glanced at her, irritated, expecting to see disapproval mirrored in her eyes. But there was nothing, no hint of emotion. She may as well have been looking straight through me.

  “Care to revise your statement, Chelsea?”

  “There are towns out in the countryside like Ballarat, Sir – towns that are flourishing. They don’t adhere to the Founders’ teachings.”

  “Who told you they were flourishing?”

  “Foragers from Ballarat, Sir.”

  “I see. Tell me, if you were to travel a hundred years back in time to the days before the nuclear apocalypse, do you think the people of Ballarat would have said their town was flourishing?”

  “Yes, I expect they would have.”

  “And what of the people in the rest of the world? Would not most of them answered in the same way?”

  “Many, perhaps, but not all. Some nations were in a very sad state of affairs, from what I’ve heard.”

  “My point, Chelsea, is that the masses who considered their nations to be flourishing were wrong, weren’t they? They cultivated cultures and a worldwide environment that created the war that practically destroyed the world. In fact, as far as we know, Australia could be the only continent to have any survivors. That the inhabitants of Ballarat consider their town to be flourishing today is therefore irrelevant. Given enough time, their descendants will eventually make the same mistakes their ancestors did.”

  “I know Australia was hit by multiple nuclear warheads, but surely our ancestors were not involved in the war, Sir. We didn’t have any nuclear weapons from what I’ve been told,” I protested.

  “Australia despatched jet fighters to the Middle East to combat the rise of the Islamic Caliphate, as well as warships and troops to the Sea of Japan to combat the rising threat posed by the United Democratic Republic of Korea and their Chinese allies, who were expanding into the South China Sea, their rightful territory.”

  I looked at him in surprise, wondering if he told the truth.

  “He tells the truth,” Bhagya said, as though able to read my mind.

  “You are an uneducated and naive young girl with virtually no knowledge of the past. And yet you hold your personal beliefs above the teachings of the Founders, men of learning who possess firsthand knowledge of exactly where our ancestors went wrong,” Mr. Cho said.

  I bristled at that. There was far more to this than my personal beliefs. I may be young and uneducated, but I had spent my life watching the injustices of the Custodians. Beating those they arrested, arresting anyone who spoke against the ruling establishment, carting away children with biological defects to be euthanized. I also listening to my mother as she spouted the offensive nonsense taught by the Founders.

  “Chelsea, are you willing to forsake your opinions and conclusions drawn from your limited experiences and whole heartedly embrace the Founders’ wisdom and teachings?” he asked. He watched me closely.

  “I can see your point that just because people think their society is flourishing, it doesn’t mean it isn’t already planting the seeds of its own destruction, but...”

  He held up his hand, and I fell silent. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? I’m not surprised, though. You have responded exactly as anticipated. Considering you are the one who instigated the breakout, I did not think I would be able to get through to you so easily.”

  “What does that mean, Sir?”

  “It means you need to be deprogrammed.” He stood and strode for the door. “This way, Chelsea.”

  A feeling of dread erupted in my stomach and spread slowly up my spine. What exactly had Ryan gotten me into?

  Chapter Two

  “I would go with him if I were you,” Bhagya said. I looked at her dead, lifeless eyes, surprised to hear her speak of her own volition.

  Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, I followed Mr. Cho from the room. He led me down the corridor and opened a door near the end.

  “Inside.”

  Noticing the determined set of his square jaw and hard eyes, I stepped quickly into the room. It was small, round room with a plain concrete floor and unadorned white walls. There were no windows, just a centrally located light panel giving off harsh white light. The only furniture in the room was a metal washbasin and a one-piece metal toilet, identical to those found in the prison factories.

  Mr. Cho stepped back and closed the door, leaving me standing, alone, in the most nondescript place I’d ever seen. It was even blander than the room in the Homeless Shelter I shared with my family after we were evicted from our apartment.

  “What I am supposed to do now?” I asked no one in particular, wondering if this was a temporary holding cell while they prepared for my deprogramming.

  I sat on the floor and leaned back against the door. And waited. Time flew by – an hour, perhaps longer – but no one came. I let my mind run back over the events of the past two years, of when I masqueraded as my brother and foraged out in the ruins. Of my terrifying encounter with a massive Skel warrior, and of the endless troubles caused by my father falling further in debt to a vicious illegal gambling syndicate.

  I didn’t know how much time passed, as there was no way to keep track of it. My backside was numb from sitting on the concrete floor for so long. I got up, stretched, and rubbed some life back into my aching limbs. Then seeing nothing better to do, got down and began to exercise, doing the body-weight exercises my brother taught me. I alternated between sets of push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and lunges. The lunges were a bit of a challenge, though, because I kept tripping on the hem of my dress. I had always exercised in my pajamas at home.

  When I was too tired to con
tinue, I drank my fill of water from the basin, reflecting that the water tasted like it had been stagnating in the pipe forever. After that, I paced around the room until I was too hungry and tired to continue. I sat again, but thanks to the concrete, it wasn’t long before I had to shift to a new position. I tried kneeling, but that became painful as well.

  When I figured hours had passed and my patience was at an end, I banged on the door and called out. I did this several times, but there was no response. In the end, I went back to sitting against the wall.

  I jolted in surprise when a panel at the base of the door snapped open. Someone pushed through a plastic tray with a bowl of soup, sandwiches, and cup of water.

  “Hey!” I shouted as I scrambled to my knees and scooted towards the door. Unfortunately, my legs had gone to sleep from sitting too long and I tripped and banged my head on the door.

  The panel snapped shut, leaving me alone with the tray. And a sore head.

  I slapped the door again. “Excuse me, how much longer do I have to be here?”

  There was no reply, of course, so I surveyed the food. Two salad sandwiches, pumpkin soup, and water. Wasn’t much, but no doubt much healthier than the muck we ate in prison. Muck I often didn’t eat thanks to a prisoner with a chip on her shoulder seasoning it with dirt, saw dust, spit, or worse.

  Wracked by strong hunger pangs, I sat on the floor and consumed the meal, wondering if it was lunchtime. However, if that was the case, it meant I’d been in here for only three to four hours, which I found hard to believe. It felt like I’d been here for a whole day.

  Having nothing else to do, I did more body-weight exercises until fatigue sent me back to sitting against the wall. After that, I waited until I was doubled over with hunger pangs. Remembering what happened last time, I banged on the door, hoping for the same result.

  However, no food appeared.

  Angry, I filled my stomach with water from the basin to trick it into thinking I wasn’t hungry. Achieving some success, I lay on my side on the concrete, using my arm as a pillow. Too tired to keep my eyes open, I waited to fall asleep. However, sleep wouldn’t come. I just lay there with my mind empty, yet still unable to sleep. And thanks to the concrete, it wasn’t long before my hip, knee and shoulder ached so much that I had to roll over. When that became too painful, I tried my back, and finally, my stomach.