The Sect

  Book 1, The Resistance Files

  Eliza Green

  Contents

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  Have you read the Breeder Files Series?

  OTHER BOOKS BY ELIZA GREEN

  Word from the Author

  About/ Connect online

  Copyright

  1

  Anya

  Anya covered her ears just as Jason’s nasal singing reached full-blown pitch. She’d never hated his guts so much.

  ‘I wish he was dead.’

  ‘Anya!’ her mother, Grace, chided. ‘What a terrible thing to say about your brother.’

  ‘He’s not my brother.’

  She’d disowned him after he’d stolen her favorite toy and taken it apart, so he could learn how to become a Neer. That’s what the Corp called Engineers. Anya had another name for him: an arrogant ass who should mind his own business and keep out of her room. Who would the next victim of his sick experiments be—her Synth friend?

  ‘I’m just glad Cynthia isn’t here to see his wanton destruction of her close cousin.’

  Her father, Evan, laughed. ‘Your toy dog has been sitting in a box for three years gathering dust. You stopped playing with it.’

  Evan’s mockery twisted her heart. Hard. ‘Just because I’m not playing with it now doesn’t mean I’m done with it. Remington belonged to me. Jason had no right to take him.’

  Her mother bent down to her level, in that way she used to when Anya was little. She smelled like the peppery freesias that filled the window boxes outside their apartment windows. But mixed with Jason’s oil and grease, the combination made her stomach swirl.

  ‘Look, Anya, you’re sixteen and not a kid anymore,’ said Grace. ‘Toys are for kids and Jason has a real shot at getting picked for Neer training next year. He needs to practice.’

  It was just like her mother to take Jason’s side.

  ‘Grace,’—that’s what she would refer to her as from now on—‘according to the Corp’s handbook, it’s illegal for someone to enter another person’s space without their permission. They could be tried and killed for their crime.’

  That’s what Cynthia had taught her. And she should know. She had the rule book stored in her memory banks.

  Her mother scowled and shook her arm. ‘Did your Synth friend teach you that?’ She turned to the other half of Anya’s parental control. ‘Evan, see what that Synth is teaching our child?’

  Her words squeezed Anya’s heart. ‘Her name is Cynthia! And she’s my best friend. Don’t you want me to have a friend?’

  Sometimes she wondered about her mother’s motives.

  Grace gazed at her with nauseating pity in her eyes. ‘Of course you should have friends. But you don’t hang out with anyone else except that Synth girl. Why can’t you pick a normal friend for a change—one that doesn’t teach you to be fearful of the Corp?’

  She didn’t fear the Corp. The rules were there to protect everyone in the areas that had been chosen as colonies, and within the cities that had been turned into Sects. United America had more European immigrants than natives. Protection was necessary to keep the Sect dwellers safe from the Exiled and the Synths safe from the less tolerant Sect dwellers living in the lower zones.

  Intolerant people like her mother.

  Anya took a deep breath to control the temper simmering close to her surface.

  Invoking a partial calm, she said, ‘Grace, Evan, I’ll thank you to let me choose my own friends. And in the future, if you permit that... that... idiot in there to take anything else of mine, I will have no choice but to choose a skill that guarantees you’ll never see me again.’

  Her parents’ eyes widened—good. But only for a second—bad. She’d used this threat too many times. There were five skills in the San Francisco Sect, but only the Tech role demanded true isolation. Having zero skills also guaranteed separation. To live in the Sects, people had to be of some value to the Corp.

  The Moles were the lowest skilled workers and lived in the outermost zone of the San Francisco Sect. It was the poorest area and closest to the exit. The people there fixed the utilities in the Sect and were always the hungriest. A lot of stealing went on there.

  The Neers designed and built the military bases. They were pretty well off and many Synths, upon reaching their second life cycle, occupied this group.

  The Sols, or Soldiers, worked for the military base that overlooked the San Fran Sect. They protected the Sect from the Exiled who lived outside the Sect’s high walls. But the recruits were quick to temper, mostly due to the emotion blockers they received and the muscle-enhancing injections that made them stronger.

  The Techs were highly respected and segregated from the population, mainly because of their ability to open anything in the city. The Corp didn’t trust them to live among the population, because of the risk they might be kidnapped and ransomed by the Moles or the Exiled.

  Lastly, the Earthers provided food for this Sect, and were the most pragmatic about the segregated life these five particular skills enforced upon the Corp’s people.

  Her parents were natural Earthers, and Jason’s penchant for electronics could pitch him into a job with the Neers, one up from the Earthers and better paid. But Anya had no skills, no interest in any of the predetermined job roles—and her parents knew it. She would probably be forced to learn hydroponics and work alongside them for the rest of her life. The thought of being an Earther like them made her sick.

  A fresh look of pity flashed across her parents’ faces. Anya tensed up. With a grunt, she stormed out of the tiny living room and upstairs to her box-sized bedroom. At least she had her own room. Thank you, puberty.

  She slammed the door. It shuddered in the frame. Damn, that felt good.

  A tingle of delight ran up her spine when Grace’s warning followed. ‘Don’t slam the door!’

  Too late.

  Their golden child, Jason, was the only one worth their time and effort. His Neer wages would shift the family out of their average-income existence. He could do no wrong.

  Anya threw herself onto the bed with a huff, and buried her head deep under her pillow. She had to find a way out of her predetermined life with the Earthers. Their level-headedness drove her mad. Always with an answer for everything. Nothing ever bothered them. Everyone deserved a chance—except Synths, according to her mother. Their nauseating empathy for all people—emphasis on people—made her skin crawl.

  She flung the pillow to the floor and flipped onto her back. With another huff, Anya lifted her hand, holding it up against a background of primrose yellow—the color of her wall. She called the only person that she could bear to talk to these days.

  ‘Call Cynthia,’ she said.

  A holographic screen the size of her hand was displayed before her, enabled by the chip buried beneath her skin.

  The connection rang and rang, then it connected. Anya breathed out a sigh of relief when a familiar face appeared. The blonde-haired sixteen-year-old on her screen was the best friend Anya could hope for.

  ‘You look like you’ve been told you’re grounded,’ Cynthia said with a frown.

  ‘Feels like it. This place is like a damn prison.’

  Cynthia tilted her head slightly. ‘What can I do to cheer you up?’

  Any distraction would do. ‘Tell me about your day.’

  Cynthia looked off to the side, then looked back. ‘Well, let’s see. It’s Saturday morning, so I got up and got dressed. Then I had breakfast, went for a jog, came back and had a shower. Then I got a call from you.’

  Anya smiled at her attempt. Seeing her friend on screen wasn’t enough. This tiny house was making her skin feel tight.

  ‘Wanna meet for a chat?’

  Cynthia hesitated. ‘I thought you were grounded.’

  ‘No, you thought I looked grounded. I’m just in a rotten mood.’

  ‘Lemme guess... Jason.’

  ‘Who else? He’s getting worse.’ Anya rolled her eyes. ‘Our usual spot?’

  Cynthia smiled and nodded. ‘See you in twenty.’

  2

  Anya

  Anya arrived at Golden Gate Fields, a former horse racing destination hugging the edge of the Bay, now an open visitors’ park.

  She climbed the steps to the elevated viewing area offering a perfect view of Pier 45, Fisherman’s Wharf and Alcatraz Island. Anya pressed her chip to the viewing scope to activate it. She looked down the scope at Pier 45, seeing the usual waterside activity from the Sols. The military base set into the San Bruno Mountain often used the tech-free Alcatraz for Sol training purposes. A rail bridge connected the mainland to the island. She had rarely seen the one-track bridge not in use.

  She sat down on the bench near the scope and breathed in the fresh air. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of the sea wind on her face.

  The sound of chatting forced her eyes open. Groups of people walk ed the path below the viewing platform. Some she recognized as Synths. Not many could tell the difference between the organic, humanlike machines and actual humans, but Anya could. Sometimes their fingers danced on occasion, like they were conducting at a concert. Cynthia had explained it was a twitch, something that happened when the brain stem lost connection to the body for a split second. Nothing to worry about, she’d added. So Anya didn’t.

  She spotted her friend before she arrived. Cynthia’s long, blonde, braided hair reached the middle of her back. It bobbed as she ran. She was wearing the standard training gear for school. Anya hated her slate-gray uniform, but Cynthia loved how comfortable it felt against her skin.

  Her friend loved to run, and this would be her second one today. It wasn’t a Synth thing but a Cynthia thing. Cynthia had narrowed down her second-life-cycle skill choices to either Sol or Earther. Apparently, running would give her an early head start on the requirement to be fit for either profession. Although, Anya was sure the latter was just a sympathy pick by Cynthia, to prove to Anya that Earthers mattered as a career choice.

  Cynthia jogged up the steps and crumpled next to Anya on the bench. Her breaths came short and fast. Synths had lungs like regular people. Except theirs were part organic, part machine. The machine part talked to the machine brain, which was more network and connections than gray matter.

  Anya envied her friend. She had the whole world at her feet. She could do anything, be anything.

  She set her shoulders back and hid her jealousy behind a false confidence.

  A huffing and puffing Cynthia nudged her with her elbow. ‘Hey, weirdo.’

  Anya managed a smile. ‘Hey.’

  She watched the train run along the track between Pier 45 and the island. In the Bay, automated, floating containers pulled into numbered docks, and others, similarly marked with the Corp brand, floated out. Trade with the other Sects.

  ‘Lots of activity today,’ said Cynthia. ‘I hear they’ve got new recruits for the Sols, but they haven’t received their emotion blockers or muscle injections yet. They’re taking them out to the island for the next part.’

  The muscle-enhancing injections designed to make the Sols stronger turned them berserk for a while. It was safer to have them off the mainland while treatments were being administered for everyone’s safety, including the Sols’.

  ‘Do you think you might become a Sol?’ asked Anya.

  She looked at her friend. She had the physique for it. Plus she loved to exercise.

  Cynthia gazed at the water. ‘Not sure yet. I still have a while before my first life cycle completes.’

  When Cynthia turned seventeen, she would enter her second life cycle. Her development would be paused for five years while she completed her training. At that point, she would be developed further, physically or mentally, depending on which trade she showed the highest aptitude for.

  Anya hugged herself as she turned back to the rail connection. The train had reached the island and small flecks resembling humans were disembarking.

  ‘I don’t know if I could be a Sol,’ she said. ‘They seem so... cold.’

  It wasn’t just Synths who became ice kings and queens after treatment. Humans did too.

  ‘Yeah, I believe it’s due to the emotion blockers they receive. They mess with the brain’s chemistry.’ Cynthia touched Anya’s hand. ‘But that wouldn’t happen to me. I wouldn’t need injections or blockers. I would just receive an upgrade.’

  ‘To change your personality parameters.’

  ‘Only minor tweaks. I would still be me. They can’t erase that.’

  Anya squeezed her hand and smiled. Maybe this was why she didn’t have human friends. If one of them became a Sol and turned into a colder version of themselves, would she want them as a friend anymore? At least with Cynthia, there would be no need for crazy changes to her personality.

  She hoped.

  ‘So, what did Jason do now?’ Cynthia asked, reclaiming her hand and setting both on her lap.

  The fight seemed petty now that Anya was away from the claustrophobic box they called home. It was so small she could have swung a cat in it—if pets were permitted in the Sect.

  ‘He took something that didn’t belong to him.’

  ‘Seems like that’s all he does these days.’

  That wasn’t true. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘But he’s always in your stuff, right?’

  No, he wasn’t. ‘This is the first time he’s taken anything.’

  Cynthia nodded. ‘But it was valuable, no?’

  ‘Not really.’ Anya sighed. ‘I hadn’t played with the toy for a few years.’

  The edge of Cynthia’s mouth turned up. ‘So, Jason took something that you didn’t play with anymore so he could do what... destroy it?’

  ‘No, he has the potential to be a Neer.’ She shrugged. ‘He needed something to practice on, I guess.’

  ‘An engineer? Wow.’ Cynthia widened her eyes. ‘That’s a step up from an Earther. More pay for a start.’

  Anya smiled and shook her head. She knew what Cynthia was doing. ‘Okay, I get it. What he did wasn’t all that bad and I’m blowing it out of proportion.’

  Her friend snorted. ‘I’d say.’

  ‘Have you ever considered being a Psych?’

  ‘Not a recognized job in this Sect, so no.’

  Psychologists existed in other Sects, but not in this one. The Corp didn’t regard their skill set as useful enough to be included in the main five. Psychs with a secondary skill like Utility or Gardening had been assigned to those main areas. Any without a useful skill had been banished to the outside as an Exile. It was what Anya risked if she didn’t pick a skill.

  She changed the subject. ‘So, how’s your training coming along?’

  Cynthia’s mouth turned down. ‘Okay, I suppose. I’m following the training schedule to see if I have what it takes to be a Sol, but it feels like I’m getting nowhere. I have limited information on what the real test will be like.’

  ‘Maybe your next software upgrade will give you more information.’

  ‘I’d prefer a hardware update.’

  Synths received monthly software upgrades to fix bugs and improve information flow to the machine parts of the brain and body, as well as to add new knowledge. Hardware updates were different, in that they made a Synth stronger or more resilient, or more empathetic, or more tech minded. But that wouldn’t come until after Cynthia completed her first life cycle.

  Anya looked over at Pier 45. There was new activity. She stepped up to the scope once more and zoomed in on the location. A large vehicle had pulled up with the word CorpTech emblazoned on the side. Several male and female teenagers got out, dressed in gray tracksuits similar to the one Cynthia wore. They looked nervous, excited.

  A man in uniform said something to them and they lined up, like the pre-soldiers they were. He shouted something she couldn’t hear. They nodded, eyes forward, eager anticipation lodged in them. Then he must have ordered them to move, because they filed onto the monorail that would take them from the pier to the island.

  Anya wished she had an interest in something. But one thing was clear: She didn’t want to be a Sol. The simple fact that she’d snuck out of the house without telling anyone only proved she didn’t take direction well. And she’d need that in spades to become a soldier.

  Cynthia on the other hand was calm, and could handle any situation.

  The parks were designated as communal spaces, meaning they were open to all skill types. The time before lunch was always a busy one. It marked the end of the morning shift for the Moles, who had been up since dawn fixing the Sect’s broken sinks and communal drains. It was a dirty job with long hours, but someone had to do it. The Synths might have been the natural choice at one point, but the Corp regarded them as too valuable a commodity to descend below the city streets or live in the poorest zone.

  A man dressed in greasy overalls walked past. He did a double take at Cynthia lounging on the bench, taking in the sun, and stopped. When he walked up the steps, Anya tensed and sat back down. Her heart pounded thickly. He was a Mole, the least tolerable of the skilled workers.

  The Mole eyed Cynthia. ‘You’re one of them. A Synth, aren’t you?’

  Cynthia sat up straight, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights. ‘I—I’m just with my friend.’

 

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