This Number Speaks
Page 2
PART ONE
By
Thirty-Seven
Today was my first day at work. Here is how it went down.
In the hall outside the Governor’s office there was a white line glowing in the floor. It streaked off, down the corridor and around a corner. I followed it until it broke off in front of a large steel door. To the right of the door a thin slit was cut into the wall; directly to the right of that was a small square video screen.
I touched the screen and it lit up, flashing black and white dots randomly, then assuming a dull blue glow. An image appeared. It was an image of what I was already looking at: the slit and the screen. A disembodied hand reached into the frame holding a white disc exactly like the one now resting in my pocket. The hand on the screen inserted the disc into the slit. I mimicked these actions, using my own disc and the screen went black. For a moment I thought I had done something wrong, and then the door opened.
To say that I was shocked by what lay inside would be an understatement. I was absolutely awed - horribly, atrociously and in all other ways inexorably awed. Wall to wall dead bodies, corpses on beds lined up in a grid pattern thirty meters from side to side and at least a hundred meters deep. I was in a gigantic mass-tomb.
The pale blue walls of this horrid place seemed to rise up forever. Indeed, the light from the torchiers lining the walls could not plumb those distant heights and the pale blue seemed to fade into pale black. The actual ceiling of this room instantly became a myth to my unbelieving mind.
Despite the presence of well over 500 cadavers in this place, there was no scent of decay, not a whiff. In fact, the place was so utterly devoid of odors as to seem odd and I began to doubt these were corpses at all. But their vacant stares and terribly impossible stillness told a different story. No chest rose to breathe. No arm scratched a sleeping itch. I was not prepared for this, but I strove to remain indifferent in the presence of such macabre company.
Almost mercifully in the distance, a tiny black rectangle made a slamming sound and I realized the tiny shape was a door through which had just come a man. I could see him walking towards me, dressed head to tow in snow-like white garments. I began walking towards him, passing body after body, death after death. When we were close enough to talk without shouting, he extended his hand, still walking and he spoke.
“Hello, Thirty-Seven!” his voice was insultingly cheerful and seemed almost sarcastically bright in this hall of doom. “I am 192!” He had a high forehead, which was deeply lined. Long white-streaked dark gray hair was swept back from his brow and rested on his shoulders. He wore matching lab coat and pants. He was a slight, yet tall man, as tall as myself. His glasses were small and round, with black lined frames. He had small blue eyes. We shook hands and it was my turn to speak.
“Hello 192, it is good to see someone is alive around here.”
192 gave a sly smile and replied, “Oh, these people are all alive, just not around here!” His laughter echoed hugely in the massive crypt.
He raised his arm in a gesture towards the door through whence he had come and I instinctively started towards it, my psyche screaming at me to get as far from that place as possible. I stared at the door as we walked towards it, trying to keep my eyes off those of the bodies we passed. He spoke of many things. I heard little. He sensed my apprehension and quickened his pace, thereby quickening mine. We finally reached the tiny black door, which had grown as we approached it and was now a stately two and a half meters tall. It was also very wide, no doubt to accommodate the swift passage of deathbeds.
192 touched the center of the door with one finger and it swung open before us, revealing an exquisitely appointed laboratory. There were white counters upon which sat microscopes, Bunsen burners, and beakers of multi-colored liquids. Clear cabinets lined the walls and they contained various jars and boxes displaying mysterious samples and arcane isotopes. All sorts of technological wonders were scattered about the room. In the very center of this fantastic research center was a perfectly circular table around which six perfectly circular stools had been arranged.
“My office,” 192 looked around as if for the first time realizing that this was indeed his office and I was in fact, here to eventually take it from him. He gestured towards the table and we sat across from one another, each of us our hands folded, smiling.
I spoke first, “Who are all those people?” I waved a hand at the black door.
“Excellent question!” 192 beamed. He placed his hands flat on the table and stood up. He stared at me for a moment, smiling. He blinked, turned to his left and walked across the room to a large oval video terminal and touched the center of its screen. The screen lit up instantly, displaying a spinning white ankh on a background of flowing white clouds and bluest sky.
He returned to the table holding a thin black wand and sat down. He waved the wand at the screen and a menu appeared. He pointed the wand at the screen and made a little poking motion with it and dozens of photos appeared, each of a different person’s face, their names listed beneath them. None of these people had numerical or alphanumerical names. They were all Alphas.
192 poked at the screen again and one of the faces grew larger and a caption appeared next to it. It said, “Savil Plaingold – 47 – Single Pale Male – Very Rich – Brother Silver Plaingold is a Governor for the State of Universal Nanotechnologies – Wants to be 18 again for Typical Reasons – 3 Attempts : 3 Failures – 4th Attempt scheduled for Winter Solstice”
192 was smiling at the screen, lost in some distant thought. I cracked my knuckles and he snapped out of it, remembering my presence, and turning swiftly to camouflage his reverie.
“Those,” he began, “are the failures.” His eyes displayed an irresolvable hint of triumph as he uttered these words. “The process of reincarnation is very delicate and complicated,” he continued, “you will never understand it.” The last phrase was uttered matter-of-factly with no hint of condescension. “We actually have very few successes, but that knowledge is restricted. You are being made aware of this because it will eventually become your responsibility to deal with every one of those failures, and all like them.” At this he reached into his pristine coat and pulled out two aluminum cylinders. He tapped one of them on the table and it split open length-wise and another smaller cylinder fell out onto the table. “Smoke?” He raised his eyebrows and pushed the cigarette across the table. This was one test I was determined not to fail.
A SHUDDER THROUGH HER BONES
She woke up the next morning to the sound of distant gunfire. She had to get back to the Citadel. She pushed down on the floor, lifting her body, and stood up. Switching on her radio with one hand and donning her headset with the other, the familiar static sent a pleasant shudder through her bones.
“This is Suicide.” She spoke clearly, the words clipped off neatly at beginning and end. Nothing. She waited. Empty static. “This is Suicide!” She repeated with a firm aggression. Three seconds passed annoyingly then Click’s familiar voice cut in, sounding hysterical.
“Where have you been?” he sounded as if he were on the verge of either screaming or crying. “We thought you were dead - again!”
She was smiling now, “Yeah, right Click. You really think three losers and a couple of cats could end me? Listen, call off the search, I’m coming in.”
Click started babbling incoherently and she switched off the radio, still smiling.
A NEW NAME
Satan was born in Canto, New Texas, a region in the New States of America, where Southern California and Northwestern Mexico had existed before the Apocalypse. He was born into a wealthy family who had made their billions selling marijuana and cocaine to various governments the world over. He was not Satan then, he had been given a different name at birth. That name was I Killmen.
Jay and Kay Killmen owned a huge plantation on the outskirts of Canto and no one ever bothered them twice. Those who set out looking for trouble with the Killmens had a funny way of disappearing forever without a tra
ce.
I went to work for his parents as soon as he was able. By the time he was 10 he was managing 15 square kilometers of coca plants all by himself. He had a devoted crew of Native Mexicans who would kill for him. His parents knew he was growing beyond their control. This they allowed and encouraged.
One day I Killmen was working in one of his fields when out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement. Instantly he drew his gun and looked around. All his workers were too far off in the fields to hear anything less than a shot and he could not risk that just yet. He made a beeline for the spot he had noticed, along the Eastern fence. His brain was on fire as he approached the edge of the field. Then he saw her. She could not have been more than 16. She was a Mexican girl in army fatigues and she was holding a huge duffel bag into which she was stuffing large raw marijuana blossoms that she tore hastily from a flourishing stalk right next to the fence.
“Stop or die!” I shouted. The girl dropped the bag and whirled, going for her holster. I fired. He fired again and again. The girl slammed back against the fence and coughed dark, living blood.
Through gurgling gasps her last words materialized, “My father will kill you!”
Her father did not kill I. Word spread of the incident and no one ever bothered the Killmens again. Young I learned the values of both life and death. His parents threw a party in his honor.
MY FIRST DAY AT WORK :