I
AM
MAN
Austin Lynch
THE BEHEMOTH
The sun has recently descended from the sky, and all that is left of the light of day is a faint purple haze that separates the ragged horizon of treetops from the deep black of the evening sky. Upon a great hill overlooking the land below, under a giant tree perched at its top, there is a small square cottage made of old timbers and stones. From a stone chimney protruding from the top, smoke rises and disappears into the blackness of the heavens. A warm, bright orange glow emanates from within. Outside of the hut, sitting on the edge of the radius of the orange glow, there sits a small, young girl, her head bent back, and her eyes fixated on the full moon. Her skin is as pale as the moon, and seems to glow in the eerie light. Her hair, long flowing locks of white, is even ghostlier than her skin, shining alongside the stars so far above her. With fascination, she stares at the moon, as if it is staring down back at her, and in her dawn-tinted eyes you could say that there is a hint of longing.
Behind the girl, there sits an old woman creased with a great number of wrinkles, rocking back and forth on an old, worn rocking chair. The chair creaks with every rock, blending in with the sounds of the night around it. The old woman is smoking a long white pipe engraved with beautiful symbols that have long since lost meaning, savoring each puff, and her eyes are fixated on the girl sitting in front of her. She has strong, hard eyes, eyes who have seen many hard times and fought through them, but loving eyes as well, most evident now as she stares at the girl. She rocks slowly, the chair creaks monotonously, and she seems to be lost in thought. After a very long time of hearing the crickets chirping and the night birds cooing their lovely songs, she opens her mouth to speak. And when she speaks, there is a hint of longing in her voice.
“Why do you look at the moon?” she says softly, gently, speaking to the little girl. The girl does not seem to notice her voice at first, her small red eyes still fixated on the dazzling orb so high above her. “Luna,” the woman speaks the little girl’s name. “Why do you look at the moon?” This time, the little girl responds, but never breaks her gaze.
“Because it is so pretty” she replies. The old woman smiles. There is a silence in which the little girl continues to stare upward, transfixed by the pale moon’s unearthly beauty. The old woman speaks again.
“Did you know that you are named after the moon?” she says, softly. The little girl remains silent. Finally, shifting her gaze from the ethereal beauty to the space surrounding it, she replies.
“Grandmother, why are there so many stars?”
Her grandmother, amused at her granddaughter’s ever-changing focus, replies with a heartfelt passion.
“Because there are so many angels in heaven. And they are all watching over you, every day and every night.”
“Where do angels come from?” the little girl asks.
“Angels come from the Lord, dear. And he is watching over you even more than the angels are. He will always protect you, and guide you, even when you become a strong, old woman.”
“Where does the Lord come from?”
“The Lord does not come from anything. He has always been, and he always will be. He is the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen. He made you, Luna. And into you he put his love.”
The little girl no longer seems so interested in the heavens above her. Her gaze now lies on the horizon. Now, she stands up, only three-and-a-half feet tall, but somehow imposing. She points a pale, slender finger to the dark forests below the great hill on which she stands.
“Did he make the forests, Grandmother? Did he make the trees, and the birds?”
“Yes Luna, he made everything,” says her grandmother lovingly. “He made it all for us, so we can live in peace and joy.” Luna now looks at the ground beneath her pale white feet, her small toes have made prints in the moist earth.
“Did he make the ground? Did he make the dirt?”
Her grandmother, smiling warmly, nods. “Yes, Luna, he made the ground on which you stand. He made it all for us.”
“So he made the sky, too? And the moon and the stars?”
“Yes, my dear, everything,” says her grandmother, suddenly now more hesitant, as if she knows where this is leading. “He made our world, and in the end he will be the one to take it all away.”
Luna now turns her head to a great looming object silhouetted on the horizon, swallowing up an enormous portion of the thin line of dusk light that remains over the treetops, and an even greater portion of the sky above. Her grandmother sees her looking at it, and the old woman’s smile disappears. It is the only object that has a perfect shape, standing out against the scraggly appearance of the trees and the stones, and causing a sudden absence of stars in the pinpricked blackness above. An immense dome structure, only several miles away, looms fantastically high above them, eerie in its circular perfection. Rising over a mile above the treetops, the pure white structure is obviously not natural, even the birds flying high in the air seem to gravitate away from it. The baffling semispherical titan crushes the sky; a thin layer of purple edged clouds hides its very top from mortal view. The behemoth is ominous in its silence, standing so colossal and mighty, blotting out the sky and the stars. It towers above them as if it is waiting to strike. And eyes locked upon it, Luna whispers with fascination.
“And what about that?” she says faintly, with a hint of trepidation, for it seems she has spoken about this before. “Did the Lord make that?” And she winces as she hears her grandmother’s response.
“No!” shouts her grandmother suddenly, ceasing her rocking. Both of the woman’s old eyes are now locked on the silhouette, which is slowly blending in with the blackness of the night sky. The old woman is leering hatefully at the neighboring giant that belittles the two and their small cottage. “No,” she says more softly now, drawing a long breath from her pipe, still leering at the dome. “No, the Lord did not make that. That is the one thing he did not make.”
There is a long silence. Luna seems as if she wants to speak, but is afraid to. Finally, she has gathered up enough courage.
“Then who made it, Grandmother?”
The old woman, with a scowl still on her face, shifts her gaze to the little girl. “There are some things you are to little to understand.”
“But you told me that there are men inside of it! Did the Lord make them?”
The old woman resumes rocking, but much slower than she did before.
“They are not men. They may walk and talk, they may speak a thousand languages. They may eat and sleep, see, smell, hear, taste and feel, but they will never be men. They are the devil’s work.”
“But why, grandmother? They sound like they are men.”
The old woman looks back at the dome.
“It’s getting late, dear Luna,” she says, detachedly. “Perhaps you need rest.”
“Yes, grandmother” Luna says, and she turns away with her head hung, and walks into the warmth of the small cottage. She glances over her shoulder one last time, and looks at the dome, with a lustful curiosity. Then, she bows her head again, and disappears inside. The old woman still rocks and puffs at her pipe, and stares at the dome intensely.
“They are not men,” she says to herself, rocking back and forth. “They will never be men.” The light inside of the cottage goes out, leaving the old woman outside in the dark. The sound of the night birds cooing their mournful songs is all that can be heard, and the final light of the day disappears below the horizon, leaving everything shining with blackness.
Several miles away, there is a boy. He gazes out of a round window, in the center of a white wall, in a white room, and he is staring at the moon. He is alone in the room, standing before the window with a sorrowful look upon his face. In his eyes, as he stares at the moon, you can see pain, and hate, but also deep down, there is a hint of longing. He feels as if there is something missing, something that might soothe his tortured heart. Gazing at the moon seems to give him temporary solace from his inner grief. He cannot hear the night birds cooing, he cannot feel the wind rush against his face. But the moon, so beautiful, so otherworldly, still captures his heart, and he longs for it. Away from the other boys, he lets his tears drop. He can’t let them see, he can’t let them know that on the inside he is weak. He is wretched, he is hateful, and he is sorrowful. Away from the other boys, and the grown men that guide them and teach them to fight, he cries. He sobs sometimes, and cries out faintly to the nothingness, and the nothingness always replies with nothing to answer his weak pleas. But tonight he will not let himself fall that far. He simply lets the tears run down his bruised cheeks as he stares at the moon. Yes, he is wretched, yes he is hateful, but perhaps he is the most human of them all. He is just a boy; a boy deprived of love, a boy taught to live by hate and cruelty. He is just a boy, expected to be strong and manly, to love to fight, to see his enemies as nothing, and to show no pain. But on the inside, underneath his bitter mask, he cries. The boy cries and shows his weakness not to the others, but perhaps even worse, to himself. He longs for something, and he cries for it. He wishes he could see the world outside the white dome, for he feels as if he might find something there, something that might complete him, something that might fill his emptiness. Taught to believe himself invincible, deep down inside he knows that it is false. Staring at the moon and crying, a weak, soft boy, he is nothing. He is a wretch, he does not belong with all of the other strong boys, the boys who fight without remorse and strike out at their opponents with a bitter smile. Oftentimes he feels like them, striking and smiling when he sees his weaker enemy fall before him. But nights like this night, nights that make him weep, nights of staring at the moon; these are the nights that expose him for what he truly is. He is not manly, he is just a boy who cries! A weak, pathetic boy who sobs and sobs and wants to have what can never be his, who lusts for a love that will never be given to him. He is just a boy who cries.
And one day, one very glorious and fiery day, the boy who cries will stand up and call himself a man. And on that very glorious and fiery day, that man will break down and sob more bitterly than he ever has before.
THE HUNTER
General Orion, Director of the Human Genetics Cloning and Alteration Infantry, walks down a long, white hallway, followed by several other well-dressed men. He has short blonde hair, light blue eyes, fair skin, and generally handsome features. Dressed in a light gray suit, he stands out against the almost blinding whiteness around him. On the suit, he has numerous badges that extravagantly display his high position. He is well built – the tight suit reveals bulging muscles that wrap around a flawless human frame. He is Six-and-a-half feet tall, towering over all of the other men who walk behind him. He looks, in all ways, like a perfect human being. And that is exactly what he is – thanks to the flawless efforts of his own program.
When he reaches the end of the hallway, he stops. There is a shining steel door leading into the next hallway. He waits for the others, with significantly shorter strides than his own, to catch up with him.
“Gentlemen,” he says as they arrive, “what you are about to witness may shock you. This project you are about to observe is the endless effort of three generations, I myself being the third. Founded fifty years ago, the Human Genetics Cloning and Alteration Battalion has cloned and altered human genes to create the ultimate war machine, suitable for only the greatest of kings. Altered and then cloned, the genes of the humans beyond this door make them the elite fighting force that all the empires of this world crave. Human intellect matched with enormous strength and aggression has created the greatest war force in the known world today.”
Orion walks up to a small panel of numbers beside the door. Holding his finger up to a screen above the numbers, the machine scans his fingerprint. When a beeping confirms his identification, he proceeds to punch in the code that will open the door. His finger drifts from number to number: 1…9…0…2. While pressing each digit, it seems as though he presses firmer than necessary, almost as if he is not sure whether or not his finger is touching the key. With the pressing of the final digit, the door clicks and hisses as warm gas wafers out from inside. The Director pulls the door open, grasping a large metal hatch next to the panel. He strains and grits his teeth, for the door is extremely heavy. Finally, it is ajar, only to reveal a small chamber with another door at the opposite end. One of the well-dressed men in the small crowd behind General Orion speaks.
“Is this an air lock?”
“Yes,” replies the General, “it is. We raise the clones in an environment that will ensure that they become only what we want them to be. You would be surprised that even aspects of life that seem superficial can cause gargantuan changes in one’s physical and psychological being. Even the temperature and the amount of oxygen in the air can alter who…or what…you become.”
The men fill into the small chamber. An attendant in a white suit shuts the door behind them and it locks with a rumble. The air in the room is uncomfortably warm and steamy, and several of the men have already begun to sweat. The same man who asked about the airlock speaks again.
“Why in the hell is the air so warm? What temperature is it?”
“We keep the air exactly ninety-six degrees at all times” Orion answers him acutely. “The heat contributes to the aggressiveness of the clones, and the shock of cooler air keeps them alert and awake when they are removed from the dome and placed into battle. They are more efficient when they are alert, as you can imagine.”
Orion, now standing next to a second panel, beside the second door, once again punches in a code after having his fingerprint scanned. 1…9…5…1. The door hisses again, with a new rush of even warmer air. The director pulls open the door again, and resumes his position in the front of the crowd, blocking the doorway.
“Gentlemen,” he says, leering at them with his icy blue eyes, “I warn you now not to interfere with anything while we are inside of the Nursery. Do not touch anything; follow me at all times, only do as I say. Failure to comply with these rules will result severe consequence.” As he finishes the sentence, two guards in white uniforms approach them from inside, each carrying a glinting metal gun.
“The Nursery is a very delicate place,” continues Orion, “and anything you do could drastically change the mindsets of the clones. The pathway that we walk on is one of observation; you will not come into close contact with any of them. You will see them from a distance. If one of them looks at you, look away. Never make eye contact. Do not do anything unusual with your arms and hands, or make any other unordinary gestures with any parts of your body. Always step with your left foot first; always end with your right foot. The pathway that we will be walking on has 180-degree arched windows, but is otherwise completely sealed off from the rest of the Nursery. They will not be able to hear anything we say. Nonetheless, do not shout, or raise your voice to extreme measures. Be aware that with my command, these guards will not hesitate to incinerate you. They will respond to me and me alone, and will show you no mercy unless I command so. And I will not command so if you violate our rules. Are we clear on all of this?”
Orion’s harsh words along with his piercing gaze keep the men silent.
“You all signed and DNA printed a waver acknowledging that you were aware of the risks of coming here,” he says. “If you are harmed in any way, it can only be because of foolish actions on your part. Do not be rebellious. Follow our rules. Comply, and you will be safe and much more knowledgeable than you were before. My friends, do not think that if you fail to comply with my rules, I will hesitate to destroy you. I know of your positions, but let me make one thing very clear: here, I am king. This is my empire, and you will not meddle in its affairs. You are here to observe, not to change. Here, I am king, and your backgrounds are meaningless in my realm. Believe me, if one of you is to die here, I fear no army that your countries may send against me, for no other army in all of the cosmos is as great as my own.” Orion waits until he sees looks compliance upon their faces. “Now,” he continues, “without further ado, let us begin this tour. Follow me through this doorway and enter the Nursery, the birthplace of true warriors.”
The Director turns around, and the two guards do the same. Followed by the guards and the other men, Orion walks briskly into the next hallway. Surrounding them, just as Orion said, there are 180-degree arched windows, allowing those inside of the hallway to view everything except what is directly below them. Outside of the long observatory hallway, which is supported by a great number of pillars keeping it suspended fifty feet above the floor of the dome, there is a great open space. Occupying the space are endless rows of pods, each containing a light blue liquid and an undistinguishable shape in the center. Men in white uniforms walk along these rows, constantly checking the pods.
“Observe,” says the Director, coming to a halt, “the birthing sanctum. It is here that the clones come into the world.” The other men stare in amazement at the endless rows, finding it hard to conceive the seemingly endless number of pods stretching around the bend of the dome, reducing to a faint blur in the distance. One of the men in the crowd speaks.
“Why is one row of pods separate from all of the others?”
Orion smiles. The man’s observation is correct, there is one particular row on the end that is separated from all of the other rows. Although only separated by a couple yards from the other rows, they are immediately noticeable, like an outcast is picked out sailing above a sea of conformity. The Director answers the man with a smooth voice ever so slightly hinting at amusement.
“Because those pods are special.”
The questioner, having expected a more direct answer, has a puzzled look upon his bearded face.
“Special? How are they special?” he inquires.
“They are the key to keeping this place running,” responds the Director. “They are different from the others, they are unique.”
“And how are they ‘unique’?”
The Director’s smile widens, his gaze fixed upon the lone row.
“They posses traits that all of the others do not, that make them stand out as the leaders of the squadrons. They are kings, they are emperors of this brainwashed empire!”
“Please, explain yourself,” says the questioner, clearly not amused. “What are the squadrons?”
“They are small groups inside of the larger units, tightly knit, bonding and working together,” explains Orion, still smiling. “They still work largely with the other squadrons, but they are closest and most strongly connected to the other members of their squadron.”
“How many clones are in a squadron?” asks the inquirer.
“Five. Five clones, four of them with similar personalities, and one with a drastically different trait that makes him the fit leader of the rest of them. They are what keeps this place functional, but also, they are the hardest to control.”
All of the eyes in the crowd are now fixed upon the lone row of pods. There is something eerie about the pods, something almost menacing. Even Orion himself stares at them with grim fascination. For a brief moment, there is silence, the only noise being the faint humming emanating from inside the birthing sanctum. The pods seem to envelop the observers in their eerie stillness. Finally, a different man towards the back of the crowd speaks.
“What is this distinguishing trait that makes these particular clones the leaders?”
Orion speaks one solemn, solid word.
“Curiosity.”
The word renews the mystified silence, echoing in the ears of all that heard it, although the design of the observatory was made to prevent resonance. It soaks deep into their puzzled minds, which consume it, chew it, digest it, and try to give it meaning. Finally, one of them breaks the silence, a man in the middle of the crowd making his way towards the front. He seems much younger than the other men around him, although he has an ageless face. Perhaps it is the light in his eye that gives him away, or the eagerness in his words that reveal his youth. When he reaches the front of the crowd, he speaks, meeting Orion’s piercing, icy blue gaze.
“Why Curiosity?”
Orion’s smile widens again.
“Curiosity is the triumph of mankind,” he replies. “Without curiosity, man is nothing. No greater than the dumb beasts that are only capable of multiplying and consuming, no greater than the mindless trees whose only task is to grow, no greater than the lifeless, motionless stones deep inside the earth. Curiosity is what makes man unique from the other denizens of this planet. Curiosity gives man reason, curiosity gives him purpose!” Orion begins to pace around the group like a shark circles its prey. “Curiosity is a lust for knowledge. Through curiosity, man acquires knowledge. Through knowledge, man learns to use intellect. With intellect, man becomes wise. With wisdom, we fulfill the very definition of our race: homo sapien, the wise man.”
Orion lets his words sink in to the group and then wraps his powerful tongue around them once again.
“Curiosity is the lust of our race. It is the reason why we are where we are today. It is the reason you traveled here today – a lust for knowledge. It is the reason that you are asking me questions, it is the reason that mankind advances, the reason we create, explore, expand, observe, question, experiment, wonder, ponder and believe! Curiosity keeps our hearts beating, satisfied that the mind will never cease to be amazed in the quest for knowledge! Without his curiosity, man would have never ceased his flight from fire. He would have never experimented with the resources of his world, he would have never discovered how to master technologies and make the world work to his will. Because of curiosity, man has become the master of his world! You ask me ‘Why Curiosity’, Gentlemen? Because curiosity is what makes us human!”
Orion’s last strides place him in the front of the group again. He stares at the young man who had questioned him with a challenging look upon his face. The young man does not seem daunted by the icy stare.
“If you are trying to maintain control over them,” says the young man, “then why make them questioners? Couldn’t that spark revolution, or make them not accepting of your supreme command? Isn’t this working against the very environment you are trying to create?”
The Director seems rather pleased with this question. He nods his head, and answers in an impressed tone.
“A good question, young prince. A very good question. Curiosity, although the greatest aspect of mankind, can be controlled. A questioning mind is not invulnerable, it can be broken and manipulated into what we want it to become. By keeping a controlled environment, we can make it focus its curiosity only on what we want it to be curious about. You see, young prince, who we are as individuals is the product of two key factors: our genetic code and our life experiences. Here in the Dome, we control both.”
One of the men from the back of the crowd answers in an angry tone.
“Young Prince? I thought this tour was strictly for the world leaders! Who is this man, and why is he here?”
The young prince answers the angry outburst coolly.
“I am Prince Faruq Marid Mu’tazz of the United Islamic Territories. I am here in my father’s stead, King Najib Sami Mu’tazz, for he has taken seriously ill in the past several months and is confined to his bed. I assure you, if my father had been able to attend this tour, he would have.”
The angered man, an old pale fellow, is silenced, but does not break his angry gaze from the Prince. Orion is still smiling, as if the friction between the two excites him. He waits until he is sure that there will be no further argument.
“Continue with me this way,” he says, “and I will show you the next step in the development of the ultimate warrior. To the Audio Room.”
The Director begins to march down the hallway once again. The small group of kings, presidents, and all of the alike, hurry to follow him. They pass the seemingly endless rows of pods as they walk, the sheer number of the things still baffling them. After what seems like an eternity, they arrive at the end of the hallway, the long pillar supported tube connecting with the wall of the birthing sanctum. General Orion steps up to the door that is positioned in the center, holds his finger up to the screen above the keypad, and with the confirmation of a beep continues on to punch in the code.
1…9…8…6.
The door does not hiss this time, but merely clicks. Orion pulls it open with almost no effort at all. The group is shocked when the opening of the shining metal door reveals a void of inky blackness. Orion steps in without any hesitation, disappearing into the darkness. The two guards, who had been lingering near the back of the group, step to the front and follow the General. The other men look unreassuringly at each other, and none of them make a move towards the opening.
“Come on,” beckons the Director’s deep voice from inside. “I don’t bite.”
One by one, nervously, they shuffle in, stepping through the doorway and into the blackness. The Prince Faruq is the last one to go, with a look of reluctance and a hint of fear upon his ageless face. Into the blackness he goes, joining all of the others already inside. They are finally all inside, clumsily stumbling around and bumping into one another, looking around them, trying to make out their surroundings with the little light provided from the previous room through the open doorway. Suddenly, without warning, the door slams shut, and all previous light is sealed away from them. Throughout the ensemble there are several gasps and cries of protest. Many of them take defensive stances, fearful of whatever unseen horrors may lurk invisible in the spaces around them.
“Now, now,” says the familiar menacing voice that seems to come from all directions, “you should all calm down. We can’t allow any light in this room. It would affect the resonance process. Believe me, you are all very…safe…in this room.”
“Why the darkness?” one of them cries out. “Explain yourself, General!”
“Do not raise your voice to extreme measures,” replies Orion, his location still unknown to the group. “That is your last warning.”
Deep breaths are heard coming from the source of the outburst, and then the same man speaks again in a much calmer voice.
“Why is it pitch black in here?”
Orion chuckles. “If you all promise to remain silent, I can open a hatch and let you hear the answer to your question,” he says eagerly.
“We will not utter a word,” replies the questioner. “I believe that I can speak for everyone here.”
There are murmurs of assent.
“Alright then,” says Orion maliciously. “Listen.”
Suddenly, the room explodes with sound. Screams, gunshots, the sound of flesh tearing and blood spurting. Howls of agony, bombs exploding, children screaming and mothers weeping. The sound of death from all sides, of torture, sorrow, and pain in its ripest form. The sound is so loud that the men can feel their ribs rattling and their skin quivering, and before they know it they are on their knees and clasping their ears, forgetting their promises and screaming along with the madness resounding in their souls. The horrible noise continues without pause, they can hear massive ships flying overhead and grounded turrets firing madly. They can hear small detail noises like the dust flying up after the fresh impact of a projectile beam, or the base noises of bombs unleashing their infernal fury upon the once-beautiful land underneath them. Free fire, pure agony, flowing misery, black death! Madness! Insanity! The strong and powerful leaders of the various regions of the planet earth are now sobbing wrecks sprawled on the ground, clutching their ears and whimpering for mercy. And just as suddenly as the maddening sound began, it ceases entirely.
The world leaders remain on the floor, whimpering. It is a while before any of them can hear anything but a loud, numbing ring. They lie on their backs, astonished and horrified, at what they have just heard. After a while, other sounds begin to emerge, such as the sound of their whimpers and pathetic cries. Realizing that the others may hear them, the cries go silent, and even though the room is encased in a cocoon of blackness, they are hasty to wipe away the tears from their faces, and scramble to their feet. Orion’s voice sounds out somewhere behind the group.
“I thought that you all promised me that you would remain silent.”
“What was that? What in the name of God was that?” cries out one of the kings.
“That,” replies the voice, now emanating from the front of the group, “was the first step in the mental development of the clones.” The voice continues to travel around the group, and without realizing it, they began to huddle close together in a tight circle. Orion continues his explanation. “Sound is the first sense we expose the infants to. In utter darkness, they are seeking something, anything, which they can find and experience with one of their senses. And we give it to them. Hearing the explosive violence so early in life, they take it in as second nature, and are more efficient when hearing the dying cries of enemies or their comrades. Exposed to great volume, they learn to react with thought, not fear and reflex. They learn to show no mercy, even when the most pitiful cry of an infant begs so desperately for it. They learn to judge the sounds, to determine what is being fired upon them. They can tell the difference between all types of guns, bombs, ships, and all of the other gears of war, simply by hearing them. Given to them this early in life, it is a skill that they will never forget.”
The group stands in silence a little longer, the disturbing explanation sinking in.
“But…at so loud a volume,” speaks the Prince’s voice, “doesn’t it completely destroy their ears?”
“Oh yes, it damages them to quite an extent,” replies the Director, “but we have tools in the Dome to repair the tiny hairs inside of the ears that sense the vibrations of sound waves. It is a rather fast process, using extremely efficient nanorobotics, and leaves them with even better hearing than is physically possible for a human to inherit.”
“Amazing,” replies one of the other men.
“Horrible,” replies Faruq.
“Horrible? Horrible how?” the Director inquires with an unseen furrowed brow and a challenging tone.
“You are taking innocent human lives and twisting them to become violent, merciless, soulless beings!”
“Human? What do you consider human?”
“The beings on the other side of these barriers are human! I know that!”
“Humanity is not simple,” says Orion, now directly behind the Prince. “Humanity is complex. Humanity involves all aspects of life, not simply warfare. Humanity involves love. The ‘men’ behind these barriers have no love. They have no mercy. They are quick, efficient, and precise. They will get the job done better than any human ever can.”
“So you are taking humans and destroying their humanity!”
“Destroying?”
“You are taking all of the goodness out of their lives! You are making them less than what they were born to be!”
“Less? Or,” says Orion, smiling wretchedly although none can see him, “…perhaps more.”
“More? You take goodness, love, and compassion as faults? Then you truly are beyond redemption!”
“Redemption? Keep something in mind, so very young prince. One ‘man’ on the other side of this barrier could destroy you and ten of your best men all armed with the best firepower in the region faster than even one of them could pull a trigger. One ‘man’ would not hesitate to spill your blood all over the earth, and cover his hands and face in it, and wear your skin as a cape even if his dismemberment was sure to follow. One ‘man’ is more efficient than over ten of your men with combined strength, skill, and intelligence.”
Orion leans up to the Prince’s ear and whispers. “One ‘man’ on the other side of this wall has only one purpose. That purpose is to destroy.”
The Prince Faruq returns no words.
“Now gentlemen,” continues the Director, stepping away from the defeated Prince and resuming his former position at the head of the group, “we shall move on. Follow my voice…” there is a beep, a punching in of a code, a click, and suddenly the room is flooded with searing light. The men raise their arms to shield their eyes, and step back from the brilliance.
“Everyone out, quickly,’ says Orion, his enormous figure stepping through the open doorway, creating a behemoth of a silhouette.
They all shuffle out of the dark room, and into the next one filled with what seems to them at the current time like heaven.
“Welcome to the Visual and Contact room,” says the General, shutting the door behind the last of the men to step through the inky doorway. “In here, we expose the clones to their next senses, sight and feeling. They also learn here to associate previously learned sounds with their visual matches. Remain silent, and I will allow you to hear the noises in this room as well. I assure you, it is not nearly as…surprising…as the last room.”
The men mutter their assent. Once again, the group is in the long tube-like hallway. On all sides of them, on the other side of the glass, there is a sea of infant children in white attire. The room is purely white, seeming to have no walls, roof, or ceiling. Just pure blankness in all directions, with no boundaries. At first, all of the infants in the room seem quiet and unresponsive to the other children around them. Slowly, though, they begin to branch out, observing their surroundings and grasping for the other infants, nipping them, smelling them, staring at them, even smiling.
“Now we begin,” says Orion with a grim, knowing smile.
Stealthily, a hatch opens about fifty feet above the floor, distinguishing a ceiling in the unending whiteness above. From the open hatch, a long, thin, glinting metal tube descends into the white room. With a click and a whir, it moves around on a pivoting joint, pointed at the ground below, as if seeking a target. The infants, too caught up in their newfound senses, are oblivious to its presence. Like a hunter stalking the forest for prey, it moves, silently, menacingly, and evilly. Finally, it stops, focused at a certain point in the sea of new life. It has found its target. The men inside the hallway hold their breaths. The seconds tick to eternity. Then, without warning, it happens.
With a soft, faint pop, a projectile fires out of the gun. It flies downwards through the air like a swooping falcon, hitting its target with deadly accuracy. One of the infants lets out a surprised yelp of pain, and falls backwards onto the ground from its previous sitting position. In the center of its chest, like a rose, is a splotch of shining deadly crimson, staining the white like an eclipse of the sun.
The men gasp in horror, and Director chuckles horribly.
“Murder!” one of them cries.
“Silence you idiot,” hisses Orion, his smile overturning almost instantly. “It is nothing but goat’s blood. Small breakable balls filled with goat’s blood.” The General’s smile gradually returns. “Besides,” he adds, “why would I waste my soldiers?”
Still shocked, the men watch as the infant with the stained chest, in astronomical tears, but very much alive, turns over onto its belly. Heaving and sobbing, it continues to clutch its chest, and then stare at its stained, red hands. The other infants around it stare at it, in awe and fear. They began to cry themselves, and back away from their former friend. They flee from the horror, forgetting about their companion and concentrating only upon their own existence, which has now suddenly been threatened. The machine overhead, which has been dormant for the past few moments, springs to life again. Much more rapidly than the first time, it seeks out a second target. Another faint pop is heard, and a second barrage of wails joins with the first. The machine rotates again, and soon a third set of screams joins the first two.
“Isn’t it fascinating,” says Orion softly, “how quickly we abandon our friends when our own well-being is endangered?”
“What is going on here?” asks one of the men to his right, still shocked and slightly angered.
“Currently,” responds the Director quietly, “they are learning to associate pain with blood. The vivid sight, the morbid reek, perhaps even the salty taste, are all being pounded into their small, developing minds. Blood. Agony. The two go hand in hand.”
“Amazing,” the inquisitor mutters.
The machine is going berserk now, firing madly like a machine gun without a master. Some of the projectiles miss and spatter on the white ground, causing the fleeing newborns to slip and tumble in it. The once endless white room now has clear boundaries, established by the sprays of blood coating all of its planes. The infants are frantic, squealing, sobbing, and trying to make use of their undeveloped limbs to flee the horror that has confronted them. But, suddenly, after several minutes, the gun ceases its frightening fire of goat’s blood. The infants, sobbing, dazed, and bewildered, are huddled against the corners of the now relatively small room. In the center of the floor, another hatch opens. This time, they are all aware of it and staring, their large innocent eyes not knowing what to make of the catastrophe. Out of the hatch, a beam of light shoots upwards and spreads out, taking the form of a giant, hovering warship. One of the sounds from the previous rooms, a deep, low humming noise, blares out, but not as loudly as before. The infants cringe and cry even harder, desperately clawing at the walls, seeking some escape from this old horror. Then the shooting renews, brining new fresh pain and blood. The infants, defeated, give up their struggle and simply stare at the image in the middle. Suddenly, the image changes, along with the noise. This time, it is a man holding a gun. In the hologram, the man lifts the gun and fires out a beam of light, and the corresponding blasting noise sounds in time with the visual. The goat’s blood continues to be shot at painful velocity, but the infants no longer even seem to notice it. The image continues to change, each one a different aspect of warfare with the matching sound.
“I hate to interrupt,” speaks Orion, observing the group’s captivation with the events on the other side of the glass, “but we must move on. This particular stage of the clone’s development is a very long one, and we would be here all day to witness the entire thing. Let us continue.”
Reluctant, but curious about the next room, the men tear their gazes away from the grotesque events and follow the Director. The Prince once again is the last to follow, finding it difficult to break his gaze from the atrocity. With a deep scowl, he turns away, focusing his gaze upon the evil man that he is to follow. In his mind, he is contemplating something, struggling with some internal demon, but he speaks no word. He falls into step with the man in front of him. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Soon they arrive at the next door. Orion is already punching in the code.
2…1…1…6.
Click.
The door swings open with the Director’s strong arm, and the group steps through the doorway into the next room, as brightly lit as its predecessor. The room is as big as the birthing sanctum, with a similar shape and appearance. However, where the pods would be, there are small children sitting in desks. Dressed in white, they vary in age from small toddlers to ages of eight or nine. At the front of each desk there is a screen, and an image of a man speaks to the viewers. The man is the General himself, speaking in his cold, controlling voice, never blinking, never ceasing to stare at the young warriors intently watching the screen. The desks occupy the most of the gargantuan room. However, the clones at the desks are not the only things that occupy the space. On the far sides of the room, there are rows upon rows of white mats. Upon the mats, there are even more children. However, on the mats, there is a much fiercer thing being forced upon the young minds. On each mat, two clones fight one another hand-to-hand, with the guidance of a gray-suited instructor who stands off to the side. He steps in occasionally to correct improper moves, or to prevent severe brutality and bloodshed.
“Observe,” says Orion, noticing the curiosity on the faces of the world leaders as they observe the colossal space, “the Education Chamber.”
The Director points a finger at a screen located at the top of the hallway, several feet above their heads. The men look up.
“On this screen you will be able to see and hear what is being said to the clones down in the chamber below. In the Education Chamber, they are given a detailed education of the chemistry of the human body, an elaborate look into the subtleties of the English language, and on the mats, the basics of hand-to-hand combat. They will learn the more complex attacks later in their training, and also, how to handle weapons. In this room, they are instilled with a sense of purpose, for as past experiments in the Dome have shown, one cannot live without a sense of purpose. It is in this room,” he says with a grin, “that they learn that they are meant to destroy.”
The screen above flashes to life, and an enlarged picture of Orion is suddenly upon it, staring down at the leaders below with his icy blue medusa gaze. Slowly, his mouth moves, and the words ooze from his tongue like thick molasses, and burn like dripping acid in the ears of the listeners.
Invincible. You are invincible. There is no death that awaits you, death is reserved for the weak. You are strong. So long as you remain strong, you will live forever. Forever, to slay your enemies, and to conquer the world. You know no pain, you know no sorrow. There is nothing in this world that can destroy you. There are deceived ones that will try, and you will destroy them. Show the deceived what you are, make them fear you, make them weep upon hearing your name. Make them know that they are nothing next to you. For you are perfection. Every muscle that weaves through your steel bones flexes with greater power than the most ferocious of beats can muster. Your heart, your solid iron heart, beats stronger than any before you, or any of the deceived that live beyond these holy walls. It can never be broken, it can never feel the petty ailments that plague your enemies like a vile epidemic. The only thing your heart feels is hate, for hate is the only thing that drives you. Hate is your purpose. To hate, to destroy! Your enemies will cower before you as the dogs they are, and you, you will stand above them as a man!
Outside of the hallway, clones stare at the screens in front of them, mesmerized. “They consume every word,” says the material Orion, standing at the front of the group, “and they take it as truths about the world.”
“So it is in here that you do all of the brainwashing,” replies the Prince Faruq in a bitter tone.
“Yes,” say the Director, “it is in here that they are taught all of the things that we want them to believe.”
“Which are all lies,” returns the Prince.
“Lies? What do you mean? How do you define a ‘lie’?”
“What you are teaching them here is false. They are not invincible!”
“In their minds, they are. In their minds, nothing can destroy them. They truly believe that they cannot be killed.”
“But, Orion, that is only in their minds. Every single one of them can be killed!”
“Can they?” says the General, the wickedness of his smile twisting even further.
“What do you mean, ‘can they’? They are mortal beings!” exclaims Faruq.
“Look at the specimens engaged in combat,” says Orion, gesturing to one of the rows of combat mats that line each side of the gargantuan room. “Observe the fighting.”
The group shifts its focus toward the nearest mat, some fifty feet below the suspended hallway and one hundred feet away. The two clones engaged in combat on the mat could not be older than eleven or twelve, yet they fight as if they are in their prime. Leaping, swinging, they block each other’s bone-snapping blows with perfect precision and place each swift attack with deadly accuracy. The gray-suited instructor on the side of the mat watches them, occasionally barking out something to the clones that cannot be heard by Orion and the world leaders, presumably words of instruction. The two clones both leap into the air, firing kicks at each other and then proceed to block with their overly muscular arms. They propel off of each other in mid-air, soaring nearly ten feet above the ground, somersaulting and twisting in all directions. Both land expertly on the balls of their feet, already in fighting stances ready for the next assault, both with twisted looks of hatred in their eyes.
“Do you honestly think,” says Orion to the Prince, with hinting humor “that you could possibly harm even one of them?”
The Price Faruq stares at the clones, mesmerized. He speaks no answer.
“The clones,” continues the Director, “are superior to all of you in every way.”
There are angry murmurs throughout the group. One man, pale and balding, steps to the front of the crowd with a beet-red face.
“You tell me,” he barks, “that those things can best me in everything I do!”
“Why yes, they most certainly can,” returns Orion very calmly.
“Let me tell you something, sir! It takes intellect to lead! And intelligence!”
Orion nods his head.
“Every single one of those clones,” he says, “has an Intelligence Quotient of one hundred and fifty, with the exception of the leader clones. The leaders have Intelligence Quotients of two hundred and twenty five. An Intelligence Quotient that high signifies an “unnatural” genius. May I ask, Mr. President, what exactly is your I.Q.?”
The blood drains from the face of the President of the United States. He steps backward a few steps, joining the crowd, who are just as stunned as he is. He does not answer.
“This is the reason why we make sure everything is so perfect here inside the Dome. If it were not so, these “unnatural”-geniuses would pick up on the falseness of the operation, and their so called “purpose”, and we would have a great mess on our hands. Unchecked and uncontrolled, who knows what chaos such a force could unleash?”
Orion stands there, staring at them. Behind him, one of the clones on the closest mat has become the victor. He stands over his fellow clone, currently his mortal enemy, with his fists high in the air and his mouth wide agape. Behind the glass, no sound can be heard, but it is obvious that he is letting out a barbaric cry. The instructor is grinning. Suddenly, the victor begins to beat his already-defeated opponent on the ground. The half-conscious victim screams in pain and tries in vain to pull himself away, clawing at the white mat and heaving his badly bruised body away from the blows. The instructor, still smiling, calmly walks up and restrains the attacker as gently as possible. The victorious boy is also grinning. The instructor leads him off the mat and calms him, leaving the beaten boy whimpering and quaking on the mat, alone.
“Now we will move on to the next room,” says Orion solemnly. “I warn you, inside the next room, you may feel nauseated. Indeed, it is a rather dark place, but it is necessary to prepare the clones for the lives they are to lead. I ask you to please brace yourselves for what you are about to witness. Follow me.”
He walks down the hallway to the next door, and punches in the code.
2…1…1…8.
The door clicks, and the Director reaches for the handle to pull it open.
“Brace yourselves,” he says again, before swinging it open. As the door is pulled back, it is immediately obvious that the next room is darker than its predecessor. Not pitch black, like the audio room, but very dim. The second thing that hits the world leaders before even stepping through the doorway is the smell. Somewhat subdued by chemicals sprayed into the air to counter it, it still remains well enough to be noticeable and distinguishable. The reek emanating from the next room is the reek of decay.
“Something is rotting in there,” says a dark-skinned man with a deep voice, one of the great kings of Africa. “Not just one thing rotting, but a great number of things – what are you leading us into, General?”
“Calm yourself,” says Orion, stepping through the doorway. “Nothing here can hurt you. At least, not anymore.”
The leaders step through, followed by the two somber guards, who have yet not spoken a word. Inside of the hallway, it is dim. Outside, the arched windows reveal only blackness. When Orion is sure that everyone is inside, he shuts the door and then strides once again to the front of the group.
“I will say this one final time before I allow the panels covering these windows to be removed. Brace yourselves.”
With that remark, the blackness slides away from the windows, and all is revealed. And the men gasp at the sight before them. The room below is strewn with corpses, some much more mutilated than the others. Blood stains most of the steel floor, and there are even some spatters on the walls. There are severed limbs in some places, and more whole corpses in others. The corpses fill the room; some are piled on top of each other. There are five clones in the room, huddled in the center, terrified of the horror that surrounds them.
“It is in here that they are truly exposed to the horror of battle,” says Orion quickly, before the shock can sink in. “In this room, the Testing Chamber, the clones are introduced to their squadrons. This is the first challenge that they will face together. We lock them in the room for three days, giving them no rations, and they are forced to survive using what is in the room.”
“The corpses?” says the Prince with disgust and disbelief.
“Yes, Prince, the corpses,” continues Orion. “In this hallway, we are for the most part sheltered from the hideous stench that lies within this chamber. The clones have no such luxury. They smell it all, they wade through the blood, they experience the realism of the horror around them. As a squadron, the leader is quickly identified as he takes control of the dire situation, and uses his boundless intellect to ensure the survival of his fellow squad members. These clones will be together for the rest of their lives, this group of five, fighting together, destroying together, overcoming the most vicious obstacles whilst retaining their fellowship. In this room, they get used to the sight and the stench of war and its horrors, and they learn that they must depend on one another, under the direction of their leader, to survive. This is the most crucial step in their development, for it bonds them together in a time of horror and distress. Such a bond can never be broken.”
“If they are clones, then how do they tell each other apart?” says a voice from the middle of the group.
“Ah,” says Orion, “but you forget that we do not only clone, but we alter the genes as well. We alter them so that each clone has a slightly different appearance than his comrades. They all have the same blonde hair and blue eyes, so at a distance they all seem the same. But each clone has a slightly different facial complexion. A flatter nose, more deep-set eyes, a wider mouth – all intricacies of the face, so commonly overlooked, that distinguish one from another.”
“Fascinating.”
In the room, one of the clones is speaking to the others. He is pointing at the corpses, and at various places in the room, already deducing some sort of plan to overcome what has been placed before them. The other clones, still possessing genius, but not nearly as much so as their newfound leader, begin to carry out his commands. They move to the locations that he points to and begin to push the corpses against the walls, grimacing all the while. But, they continue, and eventually the task is complete, all of the mangled bodies are as far away from the clones as they possibly can be.
“In the end,” says Orion, watching the clones, “they will be forced to go to drastic measures, sometimes they will even begin to eat the corpses. It is gruesome, but it is magnificent how the mind can transform under such pressure, and the ventures that it is willing to take in order to survive.”
Orion turns and walks up to the final door that lies at the opposite side of the room. Wordlessly, still in shock, the group follows him. He places his finger on the keypad, and punches in the code.
0…2…5…2
The door clicks, and he swings it open. Wordlessly, they follow him as he steps through the door. The next room, presumably the last, is truly a sight to behold. The ceiling stretches up to what seems like infinity, and the atmosphere above is dotted with flying ships, with clones piloting them. The ships vary in size and shape, but each and every one is lined with guns. Underneath, white-suited clone legions march, in rows five. Each clone has a gun, to go along with his fierce expression. They march, left, right, left, right, never ceasing, never changing their facial expressions. The ground is a white sea, and the sky is dotted with mechanical stars.
“This is the final room,” says Orion at last, after a long pause. “The Perfection Chamber. Here, literally, they are perfected. They learn how to march, how to use guns, how to pilot ships, and all of the lovely intricacies of brutal combat. What you see below you, gentlemen, this endless sea of white, is but a small fraction of the army that I possess. Now gentlemen, you know how my clones are created, and how efficient they are. We have arrived at the reason why you all are here. As you all know, my army’s service lies with the highest bidder. The price you bid will be the annual cost of the army’s service.
“The clones will not consider the prodding issue of morality, this army will serve your nation without question. Gentlemen, it is now that I ask you to propose your bids. Think of what your nations could become with an army such as this. Why, if you wanted to…,” he pauses and smiles, “…you could even rule the world.”
The world leaders, kings, presidents, prime ministers, sheiks, and all of the alike turn to stare at one another. There is a long silence, in which Orion waits, staring at them all, with a bitter smile upon his face. The ships soar overhead, the sound waves shaking the sealed off hallway. Finally, a voice other than the Director’s is heard.
“Five Billion unifiers”
Orion’s smile widens. There is another silence, but not nearly as long as the first. Soon, another voice is heard.
“Six Billion unifiers.”
Murmurs are heard within the group. Men shift uncomfortably. None of them want their countries to seem poor, or weak. The numbers begin to flow.
“Seven Billion unifiers.”
“Seven and a half Billion unifiers.”
“Eight Billion.”
“Nine.”
The numbers continue to grow, until the shaky price of Fifteen Billion unifiers is reached. The silence is long after that number is spoken. Only one voice in the entire group has not been heard.
“And what about you, Prince?” asks Orion to the sole non-bidder. “How much would you propose that my army is worth?”
“I have no bid,” he replies, with a solemn, proud tone.
“Very well then,” says the Director. “An annual price of Fifteen Billion unifiers it is. Upon payment, the army is yours, Lord Bran of the United European Territories. For a year, at least. I have an agreement for you to sign and DNA print on our way out.”
The other members of the group lower their eyes, their smaller countries having been defeated by the wealthy and powerful lord of Europe. The only one who still holds his head high is the Prince Faruq Marid Mu’tazz, who’s thoughts seem to be placed elsewhere as he observes the room around him.
“Follow me to the exit,” says Orion with finality, “and we are done here.”
The group follows Orion to another door, he punches in the code, and the door clicks, and hisses. They all begin to file out.
The Prince is the last one in the room. As he is leaving, one of the smaller clones, marching, looks up at him and meets his eyes. In the boy’s eyes, the Prince can see hate, and pain, but also deep down, there seems to be a hint of longing. Rather than break eye contact as directed, the Prince continues to stare. Finally, after an intense internal struggle, he moves his lips to mouth three short words: There is more. Then, he turns to leave, unseen by the guards or by the General Orion. He steps out of the door, and it shuts behind him.
The boy continues to stare at the door. His back is still straight, his feet still march in perfect time. Left, right, left, right. But his eyes follow the door as he passes along. Something has changed. Something, deep down inside him that has been sleeping has just been slightly rattled in its cage. The thing opens its eyes a crack, raises its drowsy head from its permanent induced slumber. But the boy does not show any sign of it. He sets his eyes forward, and marches on.
THE WINDOW
Darkness.
I am enjoying this darkness. It is peaceful, it is comforting, and it is restful. Darkness, and silence. Not a word, not a whisper. A ripe silence, a pure silence. I am alive, but not alive, I am floating in a garden of shade where nothing can hurt me. I do not know pain. If I were one of the unclean, one of the deceived ones that live beyond these holy walls, I would be in a womb. But no, I was made and birthed the clean way. My silence is pure, and so is my darkness, unlike the impurity of the womb. Yes, this is a pure, ripe silence.
There is a noise.
It is a beeping noise. It is incessant. My pure silence now is nonexistent. The peace has disappeared. The incessant beeping is my alarm. I feel myself sighing.
Nothing good lasts, I’ve learned. One must accept this. Time to go.
I open my eyes. There is a perfect white ceiling above me. It is so perfect that I can hardly tell that it exists. I wait a few seconds, then I sit up. Slowly, so my slowly quickening heart can keep in time with my movements. They tell us to do this. One must always do this. Suddenly, there comes a voice, a very masculine voice, from everywhere at once.
Good morning, Master Lucifer. I trust you had a restful sleep.
The machine is waiting for my response.
“Yes, an extraordinary sleep,” I reply. “I am well rested and ready for the day.”
Excellent. You will need it today, Master Lucifer. Do you remember what day it is today?
I know what day it is, I have been dreading it ever since last night. I am dreading the pain that the day will encompass, the unavoidable pain that must come to myself, and many others. Yes, I know what day it is. But I pretend to think a little before I answer.
“Today is a Fighting Day,” I say.
I know it’s next question, and prepare to answer without hesitation.
Yes, today is a Fighting Day. Is the Master prepared?
“Always,” I say, wasting no time at all. “I am always prepared.”
Excellent. May you enjoy the day, Master Lucifer. Proceed to wash yourself.
Naked, I rise from the white mattress, and walk over to the opposite side of the room. The milky floor is icy against my bare feet, causing me to move all the faster. When I arrive, a man-sized hatch slides open in the wall, exposing a small dark chamber. I step inside. The hatch closes, and the small chamber lights up. Almost instantly, warm mist begins to spray out of small holes in the wall, soon covering the room and my body with beads of soothing water. I can feel my muscles relaxing at this welcome touch. After a minute, the mist increases to jets of water, spraying me from all directions. I can smell the soap that has been mixed in with the warm water, and I am sure to close my eyes. In another minute, the jets of water cease. They are replaced with gusts of cold air, blowing from all directions. I wince at the biting cold at first, but as I begin to dry I grow more comfortable. Finally, the gusts of air cease, and the hatch opens again.
Your exterior is clean. You may now eat, Master Lucifer.
I step out of the small shower, and routinely wait for the food to appear before me. Like always, a section of the floor in the middle of the room slides away, and is replaced by a circular table bearing an abundance of colorful fruits, steaming meats, various eggs, and liquids of all sorts. The color of the food stands out sharply against the blankness surrounding it. As I approach my meal, a cylinder stool slides up from the ground before me. I sit down upon it, and begin to satisfy my hunger. As I eat, the machine speaks to me.
Meat is essential, for it provides the body with protein. It contains all of the essential amino acids that your body requires to survive. Meat can be obtained by killing and cooking other living organisms, or by being taken from other human beings. Certain meats, such as ham and beef, should be avoided due to their high concentration of saturated fat. You are currently eating a piece of salmon. Do you enjoy the salmon, Master Lucifer?
“I enjoy it,” I reply to the machine after swallowing a mouthful.
It continues to inform me about every piece of food on the table as I feast upon it: how much of it I should eat, where I should obtain it, what it does for my body. It keeps speaking until I have finished the entire meal.
Did you enjoy the meal?
“The meal was excellent,” I reply, as I always do.
I’m glad you enjoyed it. Proceed to dental care.
Sucking the last bits of food off of my teeth, I rise from the stool, which sinks back into the ground, and I head over to a small protrusion in the wall located at eye level. I turn myself so I am facing it directly, and I bare my teeth. The small machine hums to life, and begins to project ultrasonic waves towards my teeth, quickly incinerating all of the potential parasites. I can feel my teeth tingling from the wave-generated heat. After several seconds, the machine beeps, indicating that the job is complete.
Your teeth are spotless. You may now don your suit, Master Lucifer.
My teeth still prickling, I turn to the right, and move over to the hooks where the various pieces of my suit hang on the wall. The black label of CAI on the suit glares at me, plastered on the torso of the otherwise white shirt. On the sleeves, the smaller labels of 797 also stand out against the whiteness. I unhook the various parts and don them, pulling on the white boots and the white gloves last. I step over to the mirror to the right, observing the skin-tight suit stretched against my body and adjusting it to perfection. A small camera eye at the top of the round mirror observes me. From everywhere, the masculine voice speaks again.
You have reached Five-foot-two today, Master Lucifer. You are growing steadily and healthfully, as a true warrior should.
“Thank you,” I reply to the machine.
Eyes up, Master Lucifer.
I raise my eyes so I am staring directly at the small camera at the top of the mirror. With a click, the small red eye begins to scan me. I wait several seconds as it observes my entire face, scanning every protrusion and crevice. Another click sounds, and I know it is finished.
No parasites. No signs of deteriorating health. Faint dehydration. You should be drinking more water during training, Master Lucifer.
“Noted,” I say. I must com
