The Adventures of Barton Miller, Jr. -Middle Grade Fiction

THE ADVENTURES OF BARTON MILLER, JR.

By Adi Teodoru

I’m just sitting down to breakfast, when the alarm goes off and my limited supply of air begins to leak out. My name is Barton Miller, Jr. and today is my thirteenth birthday.

               

Two hours earlier…

                I wake up at eight o’clock like I do every morning since I can remember. I like routine, it makes me feel safe.

                “Morning, sir,” the disembodied voice welcomes me, as it always does. I run my hand through the mop of shaggy black hair which is sticking out at odd angles from my head, and try to remember the last time I cared enough to comb it.

                “What’s on the agenda today, STAG?” I ask, only mildly interested. Nothing new ever happens to me.

                “Daily checklist,” STAG begins in his nasal, robotic voice. “O-eight hundred hours, wake up routine and exercise. O-nine hundred hours, full body cleansing. Nine thirty, medication and marrow injections in the MedSec. Ten AM, breakfast. Ten-thirty-“

                “What’s for breakfast?” Anything but trail mix, I silently pray.

                “Fruit and nut trail mix bars,” STAG answers, ruining all my hopes. I’m so sick of the taste of nuts and berries I would eat tree bark if it was available. Unfortunately, all that is available is what my dad stockpiled in the food stores all those years ago and it was designed to last. Taste wasn’t really a part of the consideration. “Shall I continue the schedule, Barton?”

                I sometimes find it strange when STAG calls me by my first name. I have to remind myself over and over that STAG is only a computer program, designed to keep me fed, watered and give me some form of company. Though STAG’s not what you would call a real friend, I’m afraid I can’t remember any other voice but his. Not even my mother’s.

                “Status report?” I continue, too depressed to listen to more inane activities planned for the day, and refusing to give into thoughts about a family I can’t remember having.

                “Sector?” STAG responds, as I make my way to the command center at the back of the main room.

                “Food supply.” The two widescreens come to life, displaying a thousand different numbers, most of which are unimportant to me at the moment. I wait for STAG to bring up the proper statistics, while I think about how to make fruit and nuts taste like a steak. I can’t even recall the last time I smelled meat. That went first.

                “Nutrition back-stock at thirty three percent,” STAG says, and I feel a strange chill in my bones. Just a third of my original stock left. That’s a daunting number.  

                It had only been eight years since my dad, Barton Miller, Sr.- or as I called him, Pops-had stocked the food and water supplies to keep me going. Even being a brilliant engineer, it had taken him a year to build and program STAG, to prep the supply bunker and fill it. It would be the final year of his life.

                Now here I was, eight years later, and I’d gone through two thirds of Pops’ hard work. The first few years, STAG had managed my portions, oxygen rations and battery usage. When I turned eight, he started giving me more and more responsibility, the way I assume a parent should. I wouldn’t know.

                “Life support systems?” I ask. It’s part of my daily routine to check the life support, because it’s by far the most important. My condition requires that the oxygen and nitrogen in the air be kept at a specific level and any fluctuations could mean a tear in the line. If that should happen, the entire system would collapse leaving me exposed to bacteria and infection.

                “Life support systems normal, sir.” STAG responds, though I feel like he’s hesitating. Can robots hesitate?

                “What’s up?” I ask, feeling a warm prickle on the back of my neck.

                “The systems register normal, sir, but there is a discrepancy in the seal sensor. It seems to be malfunctioning.”

                “Are we leaking air?”

                “No, levels are steady. But with the sensor damaged, there is no way to be certain it will remain that way.”

                “Can it be repaired?” I watch the lights flicker across the screen as STAG thinks about it.

                “I’ll send the RoboTech right now, sir.  It should take no longer than two hours.”

                I feel the panic recede like a wave and try to calm myself. We’ve had a few of these scares over the years, moments when minor malfunctions could mean the end of my way of life. STAG had handled them marvelously every time, however the danger still existed. Without the safety of my enclosure, my compromised immune system wouldn’t be able to deal with the bacteria and viruses outside. This is why I’ve spent all of my thirteen years in this plastic room. 

                I let the RoboTech do its work and go through my morning routine without much enthusiasm. I wish I had someone to complain to, really, someone I could shout at when I’m frustrated or who could witness my tantrums and actually feel something. Unfortunately, STAG always responds to my temper outbreaks by knocking me out with sleeping gas. One minute I’m yelling at the top of my lungs and the next-thump.  My least favorite of the “parenting modules” in his mainframe, but it works, I guess.

                My morning exercise routine has changed over the years. When I was five, I was always running around, so there was no need to set aside time for physical fitness. A few years after my parents’ death, I went through what STAG calls “my dark times”, and I became languid and lazy. My robotic caretaker decided it was time to add physical activity to my routine, before I lost all use of my muscles except the fingers I used on my game controller. At first, I whined and threw tantrums like any child, which mostly ended with my being knocked out every day. After a while, I realized I was tired of spending half my time asleep, so I decided to follow STAG’s advice.

                A few weeks into a specially designed physical training program, mirrored after the former Navy Seal boot camp exercises, I realized I actually liked it. With STAG’s help, I designed my own PT which included kickboxing, karate, jiu jitsu and tai-chi. I had reached the equivalent of a brown-belt by the time I was ten, so we advanced to weapons training. I always wondered what I would do with these skills, but no answer had ever come.   

                Today I’m working with the staff in the Rec-Room, a large circular offshoot of my main living quarters. I favor the staff over any of my other training, I have a natural talent for it. The robotic targets STAG had designed come equipped with extension arms which counter my attacks and give me a more realistic combat situation. It’s my favorite part of the day.

                I go a little over my allotted time today, and STAG rushes me. For a week I’ve been working on perfecting a strike technique where I feint to the left and, balancing on the staff, throw myself into an upward spin to strike the enemy from the right. I still haven’t been able to get off the ground with enough momentum to complete the three-sixty spin. Today, I’m sure I’ll get it right.

                I don’t. Frustrated with my failure and STAG’s constant badgering, I break my training staff in two. Great! Now the RoboTech will have to find and process a new one. Add that to the list of tasks they have to complete on their next run outside the perimeter. The RoboTech devices are like sophisticated remote cars that STAG controls whenever we need something from the outside world. I’m often jealous of them. It seems like they’re the only ones with any freedom around here.

                “We’re behind schedule, Barton,” STAG prods, sounding almost human.

                “Who cares?” I spit back, feeling the familiar surge of anger rising from the pit of my stomach. I’d been getting testier and testier over the last year. STAG had been monitoring my emotional spikes and recording the data, but none of that felt like he was listening to me.

                “I do, sir,” STAG answers back. I hate how he never gets ruffled. No matter what happens, he’s still even and I wish Pops had programmed a personality in. If I had to talk to only one “person” for the rest of my life, I wish they would at least be interesting.

                “Any chance the water will be warm today?” I ask, dumping my clothes on the ground as I move through the enclosure to the sanitary section.

                “The temperature outside has increased by three units. Today’s tank temp reads eighty degrees.”

                Well that’s better than I’d hoped for. I relieve myself in the toilet which immediately begins to filter and recycle the water once I flush. The shower has a motion sensor and temperature regulator with a default setting. Of course our heating coils had malfunctioned a few years ago, and we haven’t been able to get the right parts to fix them. So, my showers depend on whether or not the sun’s out. In Albuquerque, New Mexico, thankfully that’s often.

                Once I’m done with my shower I wait for the full-body dryer to complete its function and I throw on whatever clothes STAG has prepared for me. Today it’s a red, checkered button-up with acid stained jeans. I haven’t bothered with shoes in years. I brush my teeth quickly and head to the MedSec.

                MedSec is the place I like least out of my entire enclosure, because it reminds me of a horror movie. It’s a small room in the back, filled with terrifying instruments I have no interest in understanding. I’d learned when I was an infant that this is the room where pain happens and it’s the place I feel the weakest. The needles and probes glimmer like a villain’s smile at me when I walk in. I know, logically, that this is for my own good. The shots, the transfusions, the tests, are all an attempt at curing the disease keeping me trapped in this place. The disease that saved my life.

                The virus struck when I was four years old. It spread across the world like wildfire, killing everyone in its path. In six months, more than half the population of Earth was dead, my mother along with them. After he watched her die, Pops went to work. Due to my condition, Severe Combined Immunodeficiency, or SCID, Pops knew I’d be safe in my sterile, air-tight environment. He wanted to make sure I had every chance of survival after he was gone. He was a brilliant man, or so STAG tells me, and he knew the chances of his survival were non-existent, nor could he hide in my enclosure with me without risk to my health. So, he worked day and night to build an everlasting battery which would run the entire system and created STAG to take his place when he was gone. I was five when he finally went.

                I try to shut out the images of that time. This room, above all else, brings back those ugly memories; that’s probably why I hate it so much. I strap myself down to the examination chair and the robotic arms begin to move on their own. I try to concentrate on my staff training while they work, anything to ignore the pain. Even though I’ve received these shots every day of my life since I was diagnosed, the pain is still as bad as that first time.

                The bodiless arms lift my shirt from my back and I feel the cold spray of disinfectant on my spine. I breathe evenly like I’ve been taught to do, and try to focus on my tai-chi lessons. Those are the most helpful in dealing with pain and stress, and they’ve taught me how to keep calm. The pain is blinding when the needle digs into my vertebrae, sending ripples down my back and making me want to curl in around myself.      

                I remain motionless. I know that if I shift even a fraction of an inch, it’s likely that the machine will sever my nerves and leave me paralyzed. I dread that more than anything else in the world. Everything already seems so stifling and oppressive; I can’t imagine being stuck in a chair for the rest of my life. I don’t move.

                The machines are well programmed and they finish much quicker than a human would. Soon the excruciating pain is only a dull ache and I feel the needle retract. I release a loud sigh when I’m given the all clear and once again my thoughts turn to the upcoming breakfast.

                “Well done today, Barton,” STAG encourages me, in his pre-programmed way.

                “Any chance I can get a brownie as a reward?” I try.

                “All sugar based products have been consumed, sir,” is the only answer I receive.

                “Let’s get it over with, then. What’s the deal with the RoboTech?”

                “They’ve isolated the sensor and are currently working on replacing it. Another fifteen minutes and it should be up and running.”

                I drop into the chair at my computer and type my log-in password. I sometimes think how ridiculous it is to even have a password, when there’s no one left to break into your computer anyway. It’s like locking your door when you live on top of Mount Everest.

Other than STAG, my computer has been the one thing keeping me sane over the last eight years. In the beginning, I had the “dark times”, moments when I wanted everything to just end, especially the loneliness. Not normal thoughts for a six year old, according to STAG, so he taught me how to use the computer. It opened up my tiny little world into one of infinite possibility. Though there’s no one to create new pages or update anymore, the archives still exist. The entire history of the universe is right at my fingertips in the form of e-books, articles, dissertations, forums, blogs, and a million other mediums I can explore. I can’t imagine who found “food blogs” interesting back in the day, but now, they’re my favorite. I’ll spend hours reading the posts and longer going through people’s comments, Sometimes, I’ll even post my own. I always check back to see if somehow, someone has answered me, but it never happens. Still, it feels like I’m actually having a conversation with a person, something I can never remember doing for real. 

                “I’ll eat here,” I mumble to STAG, who I imagine nods to himself. There is a moment of silence before he speaks.

                “I could make you some chocolate milk, if you’d like.”   

                I feel something squeeze painfully in the center of my chest. That’s exactly what my mother used to say. I don’t remember much about her, but I remember that she made the most amazing desserts. She had a knack in the kitchen, STAG’s told me, a real iron chef. Every time I have to swallow down another mouthful of sludge that tastes like cardboard, I miss her even more.

                “How are you going to do that?” I ask STAG. “All sugar based products have been consumed.”

                “I have powdered milk stock and chocolate cereal. The combination should produce the desired results.” He pauses. “Would you like some chocolate milk, Barton?”

                I feel strangely hollow, empty, like I don’t, nor will I ever, want anything again. I feel an anger rising from the void, and I wonder if this will be one of those days when I end up unconscious.

                I’m trying to calm myself using every technique I know, when the alarm blares to life behind me. 

               

* * *

               

Prologue of Autobiography

                I was born in a world of chaos, very different from the one I live in today. So different, in fact, that it’s almost inconceivable for two such places to share the same atmosphere. As such, after a great deal of introspection in my formative years, I find myself fractured in two separate entities which are constantly vying for control inside my mind. One half was nurtured in an environment of freedom, opportunity, plied and molded with the arrogance and blind naivety of prosperity. This half is hopeful, a believer, and she still trusts that in this world dreams can come true. The other half was hammered and twisted into shape by the chaos.

                The setting of a story is comprised of two parts: place and time. The place will take this entire novel to illustrate and even then you may not fully comprehend it. I lived it and I still don’t. The time?

                I came into this world a silent, gaunt figure, on January fifteenth, nineteen eighty-five, four years before the collapse of the Soviet Union and the fall of Communism.  I was not a gurgling, squalling baby, with pudgy cheeks and bright eyes locked on the future. Though I was born on time, I only weighed five and a half pounds and had a sallow, yellow tint to my skin. I was not the first baby born underweight and with dark circles that year, nor would I be the last. After my first few breaths, I was rushed from the birthing room before my mother had a chance to see me, and I joined the other incubated children who had little hope.

                Many women in that place would suffer the same fear as my mother, unable to hold or even see their newborns because of our medical conditions. And of course the greater fear of how to feed their children if they did survive. Most likely, nine months before, when my parents shared the news of their pregnancy, the most popular statement had been a heartfelt: “Oh I’m sorry. Did you want it?” There was little joy in bringing a new life into such a place.

                The place was Bucharest, Romania, the capitol of a third world country, the last hold out against the force of Soviet influence we have come to know as the Iron Curtain. Communism still reigned supreme, and the cult of personality was a way of life for us. The situation outside my little birthing room was an uncertain and dangerous thing, ripe for violence. It would take four more years for the cauldron to boil and burst, and when it did, the fate of a nation was altered and my life would never be the same.  

                Yet, I knew none of this as my tiny body was prodded with needles and tubes, and neither did the thin, blond woman who awaited my return. She had been a gymnast in her younger days, lithe, tall and graceful even years later. The chaos had stolen a spark from her wild eyes and robbed the thrill of hope from her heart, though her beauty could never be completely erased. The nurses would have described her as giving, mostly because she had money to bribe them with, and more than a little scary. Sometimes, she resembled a feral animal, pacing the shared room like a caged beast. There was a constant restlessness about her, as though some inner fire would not give her peace. She was a doer, in a world standing still.

                If I could comprehend such things, I would have missed my mother in that first month. She and my father had paid a good deal of under the table money to keep her in the hospital that long. It was a bitter, record-breaking winter, and most days there was no heat or water in the city. Children and elderly died by the dozens, victims of the cruel cold and substandard conditions. They were expendable, only the workforce mattered.    

                This is only a small glimpse into the chaos. The horrors that I will enumerate here will sometimes seem ludicrous to you, impossible that anyone could accept them, much less live them for twenty-five years. Yet this is not a story about those horrors, of defeat, a story about the side of me ruled by chaos. This is a story about survival, about thriving and rising above the odds. This is a story about how that other half was born. A story about a hero.      

CHANGERS-Prologue

 

CHANGERS

VOLUME I: CHANGERS

By Adi Teodoru

PROLOGUE

            Charlie Lee's hands were sweating. Something must be really wrong, the voice inside his mind whispered. He agreed, what else would warrant an armed escort at one in the morning?

It was one thing to have an emergency in the hotel's plumbing, or an oven exploding in the kitchen, but there were three of them and they had guns, dammit. And they're walking really fast, the other half of him whispered. The guards had woken him in the middle of this night of all nights, and taken him with armed guard out to the service elevator.

Something's really wrong.    

"Hello? Charlie?" Sam was practically tripping over himself to keep up with the group, and was rattling off about pipe angles and drainage systems, but Charlie just couldn't focus.

"This isn't strange to you?" Charlie whispered, unsure of the escort's intentions. "They wake us up the night before the Centennial, and take us down to the basement with a guard?" If the guards had been instructed to keep them silent, they showed no sign of it. "The basement, Sam."

 Sam looked a little pale, but that could have been the lack of rest. Neither of them had slept properly in weeks, overburdened with preparations for the celebration ahead. Considering the recent flood of sabotage, this midnight meeting was even more disconcerting. Charlie tried hard to remember the advice his mentor had been stuffing down his throat since he was a small child. Keep it together, keep it all together.

"I thought Lamb sent for us," Sam said.

"Ephraim Lamb is dead." The voice stopped them both in their tracks and Charlie felt a shudder all over. No! His mind refused to believe it, but Camden King the Head of Security, who was at that moment walking down the hallway towards them, was not a person known to jest.

"That's impossible!" Sam looked thunderstruck.

"I just spoke to him only two hours ago," Charlie tried, hoping against hope.

"And half an hour ago," Camden retorted, "someone threw him off the top of the waterfall."

"Clean up crew?" Charlie said automatically and immediately felt shocked at is own callousness. His mentor, the person who had been like a parent to him for over a decade, was dead and he was worrying about who would see the mess.

"Already in place," Camden nodded, nonplussed by Charlie's coldness. "It seems like you're going to receive a promotion.”

Charlie's head snapped up.

"What?" Sam's mouth had dropped. "But-but he's a-a..." he trailed off looking with pity at Charlie.

"I know what he is, but a member of the Council made the decision."

"How does the High Council even know who I am?" Charlie asked, feeling like everything was shifting under him.

"They know everything they need to know. You and Lamb worked side by side on this thing for over a year. You're the only one who knows what needs to be done, Charlie. The High Council is well aware of the sabotage that's been happening for months now. They want it to stop, and they think you're the best person to do that right now. After the Centennial, there will be another discussion about your continued presence here."

"Camden," Sam's voice dropped with gravity. "Let's not kid ourselves, he's a Gender." The offensive word made Charlie recoil. "Not to me, and maybe not to you, but to everyone arriving at this hotel tomorrow, he's a walking infection. Best
case scenario is no one even talks to him, worst case, someone calls the Guard to have him taken to a Quarantine Zone, or worse The Camps prison. How the hell is he supposed to run a hotel?"

"That's your problem. I follow orders, and the orders are to give you the keys." Camden pulled out the ornate, jade pin and attached it to Charlie's black silk robe.

"Congrats," Sam whispered, with a frightened look on his face. Charlie ran his hands across the exquisite pin and felt a sharp prick. A tiny bubble of blood burst from the punctured skin and he placed it in his mouth to stop the flow, tasting iron and sweat.

"Your Security level has been raised significantly," Camden continued, though Charlie was only half listening. "I'll come tomorrow by your office and brief you."

 "My office?" Charlie gulped

"Yes, the Head Concierge's office."

"But that's Lamb's office," Sam added with a blank look.

"Lamb is dead," Camden repeated, sounding irate, "Now, Charlie, you have a call from The Council."

Charlie felt like he was in a daze. The weight of the responsibility that had been placed on him was overwhelming. How was he supposed to pull this off when most of the people that were coming were expecting, counting on, dealing with Ephraim Lamb? Lamb had been the kind of person who would put even the
most restless at ease and Charlie had learned a great deal from him over the years. What Charlie had not yet mastered, was Ephraim's innate calm. He was shaking all over.

Camden led them through his office and into a lift which only took moments to arrive at its destination, somewhere in the bowels of the hotel. The trio traveled down the long hallway to a small room, where on the table was an old rotary phone. Charlie had never seen one in person, and he wasn't sure what it would be doing in such a Modern place as the Oasis.

"We'll let you do your thing," Camden nodded at the phone and closed the door, leaving Charlie alone and confused. He sat at the table and picked up the phone with a shaky hand. There was a short tone followed by a click.

"State your name and rank please," a robotic voice said.

Charlie took a breath and plunged. "Charlie Lee, Gender Class M, newly appointed Head Concierge of The Oasis Hotel and Casino Resort."

"Please hold while I transfer you. This call may be monitored and recorded." There was a moment of awkward music, and then the line began again to ring. Someone picked up the other end and breathed loudly into the mouth piece.

"Hello? Are you there?" The girl on the other end sounded irate.

"This is Charlie," he answered, feeling bile burn the back of his tongue.

"Yes, I have a recorded message from The High Council. It's one minute and forty-eight seconds long, then the line will shut off. Don't ask any questions because you won't get any answers and you might miss something important. The recording will now begin, thank you for Choosing TA&A Secure Colony Communications Service, where your message is our priority." The line once again went dead, and finally the message began.

"Lee," the male voice sounded efficient, professional and cold. "I refer to you by your formal name not because I have some great favor for your kind, but simply because I wish us to start on equal footing and understand each other profoundly. Much like you, I have recently been assigned to take over this office, and the first of many items on my list seem particularly related to The Centennial Event that will be taking place at your fine establishment this week. Now, preconceptions
of your Affliction aside, I have a great deal of respect for your new position and the amount of work involved in planning, and smoothly executing such a large scale event. The success of such an event could mean a great deal of recognition, even for someone like you, and I would be a powerful ally in that
department. Unfortunately, this is where things become difficult, you see. Because of the strains that my job entails, I absolutely cannot afford to have even the slightest misstep this week. Unfortunately, calling in the City Guards to do a murder investigation, counts as bad press. I have given you Ephraim Lamb's position on one condition. You will use your considerable skills and high-standing in the Afflicted community to discover Lamb's murderer, and once you have, it will be your task to dispose of them, very quietly. You are forbidden from sharing this endeavor with anyone, and I hope you understand how important your adherence to this one rule is. I hope your mother is in splendid health, and I look forward to news of your success."

The line fell dead in a moment, but it no longer mattered, because Charlie's throat had already seized up. He was no fool, he knew what even the mention of his mother meant. Hope her health is splendid indeed, he thought.

Charlie felt sick. The one person whom he could ask for help was dead, and now Charlie had inherited Ephraim's responsibilities. Not only that, but he was supposed to conduct a secret investigation into the brutal murder, and Charlie had no idea where to even start. And if he did find the killer, would he have it in him to... He couldn't even finish the thought. The enormity of the task dwarfed him, and now his mother's life was on the line as well. The room suddenly felt small and suffocating. He needed the night air, a moment to escape from the weight that had been thrown on him.

Charlie lurched from his chair and bolted out the door. He didn't give Camden or Sam a chance to ask what happened, but walked right past them. The three armed men made no move to stop him. Charlie stepped in the cool elevator, his heart pounding, and pressed the top button.