Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project)

by Catherine Miller

  “All you’re really saying is that you’re going to tell me before you kill me,” she murmured softly, more to her mug than to him. “And you seem to think I should thank you for that.”

  This conversation was going nowhere, which seemed to be an ongoing theme between the two of them. She did not seem a particularly simple girl, but she clearly was a stubborn one.

  Perhaps sleep was what she needed, and then she would be able to see how generous his promise had truly been.

  He had not given any such thing to her colleagues.

  He did not like to think of her that way, his fingers itching to end her just as he had the rest of them if he dwelt too long on the association. So it was better to end this farce of a conversation and allow her to rest.

  Perhaps things would improve in the morning.

  He had not given a great deal of thought to her accommodation, but that mattered little. He stood over her, his hand outstretched, and she eyed it woefully for a moment, clearly uncertain about what he meant for her to do.

  “Your cup,” he instructed gruffly. “Unless you intend to keep it?”

  She hastily surrendered it, and he returned to the galley and placed it back into the replicator to be disposed of.

  “Come,” he ordered, going to the farthest door and pressing in the code so the doors would open. He was not about to alter any of the authorisations to allow her full use of the ship, but he could not deny that it would soon be tedious to have to escort her for every little need.

  He had taken so little time to actually plan, so it should not surprise him that he regretted portions of his actions already. Not the explosion itself, not the deaths that had occurred—though he was certain that Clairy would have him do so.

  But there were other ships he could have taken. Ones that might have been equipped for a female hostage.

  Ones where she could have had a room that was not also a prison.

  She moved slowly behind him, but she did follow, her eyes taking in the cordoned off spaces. There was no mistaking what they were, and he did not turn to look, but knew that her lower lip would be trembling.

  Again.

  She seemed an endless fountain of tears and despair, and it was growing tedious.

  Better to leave her to sleep rather than to snap at her for something beyond her realm of control.

  He hoped, at least.

  She walked with shuffling steps, and he did turn, to ensure she did not collapse prematurely. He had considered giving her something to help her relax, to stave off whatever shock she was slipping into, but had ultimately decided against it.

  He doubted it would take much time at all before her body simply surrendered, regardless if her bed was within a prison.

  Which was good, because he needed to think. To plan.

  There were more of them out there, breeding more and more of his kind even now.

  And that would not be tolerated.

  “What is this place?” she asked, her voice as hollow as her eyes as she looked about the room. He passed the cells that had been so recently filled, doubting that the scrubbers had come through yet to ensure no traces of his previous cargo remained.

  He would not be able to offer her much, but it would be clean.

  “Prisoner transport,” he answered truthfully, seeing no point in lying to her. “I was assigned to tracking and detaining wayward assets.” Something prickled, unfamiliar and discomforting. They were prisoners, yes, and they were useful, in their way. But their crimes had been disobedience to the masters. Instincts that were not his insisted that their terminations had been deserved, that his work was a necessity that carried no shame.

  Yet still the prickle irked him, suggesting otherwise.

  He gave it a firm dismissal, turning back to the female.

  She appeared firmly planted, eyeing the cell before her with all the terror and suspicion that she could muster, and he resisted a strange urge to sigh. The terms of their contract were vague at best, as she rightly pointed out that it merely precluded an unexpected death. He could still hold her captive, could still lock her away and deprive her of basic dignities, since no real harm was being done.

  At least, not physically.

  But her kind did not thrive in isolation, a body could only take so many tears, and it was not his intention to abuse her.

  “This will be your room, for the duration,” he informed her, trying to use more civil terms for a situation that was anything but.

  She made no move to accept it, and he wondered if she was going to force him to move her bodily into the space. There should have been nothing overly intimidating about it, the prison enclosed with an invisible barrier rather than physical bars, and the field was not even activated. He wondered if she was uncertain of that fact and reached out his hand, waving it rather stupidly so she could see for herself. “It is safe to pass through,” he assured her, hoping she would get moving before she fell over.

  She looked thoroughly exhausted, and she was taking careful breaths, though he could not understand exactly what was troubling her.

  He turned back to her, preferring to utilise his words rather than simply drag her inward. “Explain your hesitation,” he ordered.

  She chewed at her lip, staring down at the floor, and for the first time he realised how short her skirt had become due to his ministrations. He knew little of modesty other than the overriding principle that others possessed it while he did not, and he briefly wondered if she was embarrassed by her state of dress.

  An illogical concern. He did not care if she looked haggard. It was merely a testament to his victory that even their uniforms had not come away unscathed.

  “If I go in there, you’re going to lock me in,” she explained in a soft voice, her arms clutching about her middle.

  He inclined his head slightly. “And that is... troubling to you?” He could not think why. If he did not lock her in the cell, he could just as easily lock the hatch. If he did not secure that, the outer doors of the ship would hold just as fast. She was a prisoner, and they were quibbling over the size of her inevitable confinement.

  And he found it exceedingly tedious.

  “If you should prefer, I will not enact the field.”

  Her shoulder relaxed minutely. “You won’t?” she pressed, and he wondered what about his demeanour would suggest he was deceiving her. He considered telling her about the cameras supplying a steady stream of vids to the cells, that her attempts at communication with the outside would be met with swift detainment, but hesitated.

  He had always assumed that the masters could see him—it would be stupid to act otherwise. But she had not matured in such a manner, was doubtlessly used to privacy and walls, of doors that she opened at her own accord.

  He could not offer that, not without allowing her into the system as a whole, and that would be imprudent.

  “I will not,” he promised. She was extracting quite a few of those, it seemed. Her relief was short-lived when he gave his clarification. “However, should you do anything dangerous or compromising, we will have to revisit the matter.”

  He could see the stiffening of her spine, the furrow in her brow. It was an odd thing, to appreciate the way someone could so readily bristle, but he found himself doing so. She was so free with her emotions, despite her obvious attempts not to be so, and he found it rather... fascinating.

  “You’re going to have to be a little more explicit about what compromising means to you.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Do I? Very well. Do not make any attempts to access the computer systems. Do not attempt to damage my ship.” If the masters heard him call it that, they would punish him severely. Nothing was his, and anything that he used was merely out of their benevolence.

  But the masters were dead, and he chose this craft, saved it from what had become of the rest of them.

  Guess that made it his after all.

  She huffed, rubbing her arms and then moved a hand to her temples, rubbing
with greater force than he would have expected. “I was never very good with tech,” she divulged, and he looked for signs she was attempting a deception. “Didn’t grow up with much of it, and it took a lot just for me to learn what I needed for my job here.” Belatedly she realised what she was saying, and he saw more tears fill her eyes, and it was time to make his retreat before he was subjected to another round of her sobs.

  Why had he brought her again?

  “Good. Then there should be little temptation to be foolish.”

  He gestured toward her cell again. He supposed it was less important that he stay, but some habits were long ingrained, and would be more difficult to extricate. Prisoners were always secured before he returned to the upstairs, and so he found himself waiting for her to enter her new dwelling so that he could leave.

  Her steps were short, shuffling things, and she took paused, taking a breath before she crossed over the entrance. She gave him a quick look, presumably waiting for him to betray her, to go to the keypad on the wall and lock her in anyway, but he made no such movement.

  “Sleep,” he commanded. “You need it.”

  And he turned, his skin itching to seal her in, to finish the task so that the masters would not be displeased.

  His lips twitched. They certainly would be, but how he chose to keep his captive would be among the least of their concerns.

  “Wait!” she called when he got to the ladder, his foot already on the first rung. “I... where will you be?”

  He turned his head back. “When?”

  She looked terribly lost and uncertain, and for all her questions about what he wanted from her, he began to wonder what it was she wanted—or perhaps simply expected—from him. “Are... are you going to come back down here?”

  He took his foot off the ladder, seeing that she was growing even more distressed. He could not begin to fathom why. “You are going to have to expound if you want any sort of satisfactory answer.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch the computers, so I can’t try to learn the replicator. Which means if I get hungry, you will have to use it.” That lower lip of hers was beginning to wobble again, and he wondered if it frustrated her as much as it did him. “Am I going to die here?”

  The girl made little sense, likely even to herself. “You will eat regularly,” he promised. Another one. “But you are overly tired and things will not look quite so dire after you have slept.” Maybe. He didn’t know. From her perspective everything to come was likely bleak and filled with horror.

  To him, it was exhilarating.

  “But what if…” she began, stemming her words at a look from him. He was not trying to frighten her, but clearly he had done so, though he could not be sure how.

  It was a curious thing to watch her wrestle with her dependence on him, the desire for privacy, to be far from the man she doubtlessly feared above any other, yet was also afraid of being left alone.

  He did not entirely know how to remedy her distress, the simple solution not entirely favourable. “Would you prefer a sleeping draught so that you do not have to be plagued with such fears?” The desire was there to call them irrational, but they were not. Not completely. She did not know him, did not understand his motivations, and he supposed another might have snatched away a woman, locked her away until she was weak and pliant, willing to barter anything in exchange for even the most basic of necessities.

  But that was not what he wanted from her. Not in the least. Her cooperation, yes, wanted to test the limits of her conscience so that he might better understand his own purpose, but his intent was not to abuse.

  He doubted she would see it that way.

  She took a step backward, and that was answer enough even without her politely murmured, “No, thank you.”

  He nodded, expecting her choice, and made to retreat to the ladder once again.

  Only to be halted.

  Again.

  “Wait!”

  He was growing weary of this game, wanted time to revel in his victory, to begin planning the beginnings of his next. But he supposed this was a consequence to his rash action, just as surely as the destruction of the Project had been.

  He turned once more, but did not release his hand from the ladder, hoping to indicate that her words should be few.

  “Yes?”

  She was biting at her lip again, though she did not seem as close to tears as she had been before. So discomfort rather than a practical alleviation to the lip that wobbled far too often.

  “I gave you my name,” she unnecessarily reminded him. “Won’t you give me yours?” She looked down at the floor in front of her, and he followed her gaze, finding nothing there of particular interest. “I’d like to know what to call you if something goes wrong.”

  His eyes narrowed at her, trying to ascertain if she was already planning some mischief to his ship, but she wouldn’t look at him, and from what he knew of her thus far, he questioned her ability to formulate a plan so quickly.

  “261,” he answered, determined that he would pay close attention to the vids until she slept. He would not mistakenly underestimate her.

  She did glance up then, already frowning. “That isn’t...” colour infused her cheeks. He knew what she was about to say, regardless of her choosing to restrict the last few words.

  “You are correct, it is not a name. It is a designation. If there was any record of my elimination from the pod where I was grown, it would have those numbers, nothing else.”

  She opened her mouth, but he was not interested in hearing her opinion on that subject. Not in that moment. Not when he was so uncertain he could hear her defence of the people he hated, not when she would doubtlessly claim his experiences were flawed, a mistake. A misunderstanding.

  And he would want to kill her for it.

  So he retreated up to where he belonged, and perhaps to be cautious, or perhaps to spite her, he sealed the hatch and secured it.

  He would allow her to stew on his brief introduction and hopefully she would have less... irksome things to say about it after she had slept.

  But despite his determination to see to his own plans, to ignore the girl and all the trouble associated with her, that did not stop him from immediately pulling up the vids that showed the prisoner cells, highlighting the one dedicated now to her.

  She was pacing, wringing her hands, clutching at her hair, mumbling to herself, but too quietly for even the delicate surveillance to pick up.

  Minutes passed, minutes that should have been spent in thought and meditation, yet instead were used with captivated interest in how long she might maintain her steady march, how long before she succumbed to the bed and the exhaustion that he knew she felt.

  Twenty-four.

  Longer than he would have expected, but by no means a record for one of the cell’s inhabitants. He wondered if she would be hungry after her roving, but thought with a bitterness he could not quite understand that she could call him if she was hungry.

  With a name that was not a name.

  He remembered when he was a new creation, freshly emerged from the viscous fluid that had housed him during his short existence, the confusion that was nearly overwhelming. Too many sounds, too many sensations, his heart had beaten too quickly. A doctor had come when he’d crumpled, white coat breezing mockingly as he walked. But rather than a comforting word, an explanation, there had been a hiss of venom.

  Inspections were today.

  261 would not be an embarrassment, or else he would be terminated.

  And what a pity that would have been.

  An injection had come, and with it a calm that he had not been able to shake since. He had tried. Had tried to emulate some of what he had seen coming from the masters, but he doubted his ability to maintain it for any semblance of time.

  He wasn’t human, and there was no pretending otherwise. Not even for the girl sobbing into the pallet that made up her bed.

  There were no blankets in the cells. That had been a mistake in
the earliest days of his missions. If the masters wanted a prisoner, they were to be returned alive. Not the corpse he had found, blanket wrapped around a purple throat.

  He’d been punished for his negligence, had felt the bruises and cuts for days, and had endured the darkened isolation chamber for... he still did not know how long.

  But as he watched his captive, there was a strange sense of wrongness. She was not meant to be a prisoner, despite the similarities in their circumstances. He would not allow her to harm herself, but from what he had observed, humans slept beneath blankets, temperatures allowing, of course. They slept with a specified cushion beneath their heads.

  They wore clothes that had not been torn, regardless of the reason for it.

  He found himself frowning at the screen, an expression that he was used to seeing on others, but rarely experienced for himself. He reached up to test it, to see if it was truly there and not a figment of his imagination, his fingers prodding bits of flesh and muscle and judging their configuration.

  A frown.

  How odd.

  Her shoulders rose and fell as despair rippled through her, and while the audio had not managed to catch her words, her crying certainly came in clearly. He moved his hand to switch it off, to leave only the visual under the pretence of monitoring her actions for any nefarious purpose, but he stopped himself.

  He had brought her with him. It was naive to think that she would be happy about it.

  And it felt a sort of penance for what he had done, for the lives that were perhaps not as guilty as the rest, to listen to her mourn them when he could not.

  For despite the expression on his face...

  He didn’t regret it.

  Not one bit.

  6

  It took Clairy the longest time to fall asleep. He had made it very clear that she was to do so, but her nerves were all a jangle, and she felt watched and paranoid, unable to relax herself into anything that resembled rest.