Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project)

by Catherine Miller

  These were his clothes. The thought was a troubling one, but she was not going to complain. She felt better, somehow, everything covered, not a peek of skin more than was necessary so her movement was unimpeded.

  She touched the walls, trying to activate a mirror, but nothing altered, so with a woeful sigh, she combed her hair with her fingers and braided it quickly.

  It felt good to be clean, to have clothes to wear and her hair tidy. So she felt a little more herself when she opened the door to face the madman again.

  She startled when he was not in the galley as she’d expected, but had somehow managed to create a table near the bench when she was absolutely certain there had not been one before. Steam emitted from the bowls of broth—multiple, so either he anticipated her level of hunger, or he intended to eat with her.

  She was not certain why she found the latter to be so unsettling.

  But in addition, there was a plate full of brown rolls, their tops shiny. An improvement, but not quite the fare she’d been hoping for. She’d grown spoiled with the Project, the assortment of foods beyond what she had ever experienced on the home-world, and she, however ashamedly, had liked the decadence.

  But, she supposed, it was good for her to return to simple fare, to eat like her family did once more.

  She had to turn her thoughts quickly away, certain she would cry again if she dwelled on them too long.

  “Are you eating too?” she asked, finally noticing the second spoon and feeling stupid for having already asked.

  He sat down on the bench, ignoring the query entirely, and brought one of the bowls to himself.

  Bowls. Not mugs. So that had been his selection rather than the replicator. He had wanted her to have something to warm her hands, knew she would make a fool of herself trying to use a spoon with her shaking fingers.

  Apparently he thought her better today, more capable of a proper meal.

  Surprisingly, she did not feel too bitter about his assessment.

  “Do you intend to sit?” he asked between bites of his meal.

  She hesitated, but that was foolish. The bench was not a long one, and it would be far closer to him than she would have liked. But that was where the food was, and she still worried he would rescind it if she was anything other than amiable. So she shuffled around the table, the metal of the floor cold against her feet.

  “Nourishing broth?” she questioned, bringing her bowl closer and taking a deep breath. Smelled just the same, so it seemed a fair guess.

  The madman only gave a grunt in acknowledgement.

  She bypassed the broth in favour of one of the rolls, tearing off a bite and putting it in her mouth. It was surprisingly sweet, more flavourful than the broth by far, and she had to remind herself that the table was for two and she could not hoard the entire plate for herself.

  That did not stop her wanting to.

  She did not like that her arm brushed his as she ate, but if she moved any further to the edge of the bench, she risked slipping off entirely.

  She swallowed another bite of brown bread, savouring the sweetness. She could sit silently, could eat and see what came next, but that did not seem very useful beyond assuaging the gnawing insistence of her stomach that it was overly empty.

  So she took another bite and a sip of water before addressing the madman. “I... I was wondering if we could talk about something.”

  He paused in his efficient consumption of his own broth, though resumed it fairly quickly. “And what matter would that be? Your release?” Cool eyes met hers. “My intentions for the rest of your colleagues?”

  A weight settled on her chest. Perhaps guilt, perhaps anger, and suddenly her roll did not taste quite as satisfying as it had before. “No,” she answered, trying to keep the bite of resentment from her tone, but not quite succeeding. She wanted to, most especially since he had been the one to bring it up, but she forced herself to move on, to not allow him to bait her into an exchange that could not possibly end well.

  He turned, and she wished he hadn’t, as she did not want him looking at her. She could never tell what he was seeing, and it made her skin prickle horribly with self-consciousness. “What then?” he prompted when nerves kept her silent.

  She took a breath, forcing a calm that she did not feel, and met his eyes. She would not cower. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, but not in this moment. “Your name.”

  It was the most reaction she had ever seen from his features, the confusion and... surprise more apparent than any of the other minute emotions he seemed to experience. “What of it?” he asked stiffly, turning back to his broth.

  It left the distinct impression that he was hiding from her, an odd thing since he was seated just beside her, altogether too close for comfort.

  Yet still, he tried.

  “I was thinking,” she tried again, feeling a tinge more confident in her reticence to use the numbers he had given once she saw his reaction to the subject. “That maybe...” she realised belatedly that she was tearing her roll into bits, crumbs going all over the table, and she made herself drop it before she created even more of a mess.

  She huffed, annoyed with herself for wasting something precious, and determined to speak quickly so she could focus more on her eating. “That isn’t a name. As you said, that... that was a number on a file.” She didn’t want to speak of these things, didn’t want to think of them either, not when she felt such a conflict of her loyalties—to a company that had treated her well, had given her an opportunity likely above anything her education would have suggested she was capable of accomplishing. Or was she supposed to renounce all ties with them and follow after the madman with his insistence that the Project she had so admired was full of evil?

  She didn’t know. All she really was certain of was that she had no desire to use such a moniker for the madman. He was not a machine, was not a specimen in a lab. He was a person, and responsible for his actions. For the deaths of many, regardless of their affiliations.

  But still, he should have a name. Not hide behind a number that he claimed was given to him.

  He set down his spoon, his broth nearly finished, and she was certain he was going to disappear upstairs and lock her away again. Apologies leapt to the forefront of her mind, not because she meant them, but because she did not want to be trapped. Not again.

  But he did not leave. Only turned, looking at her, his eyes assessing as they regarded her. “State your purpose,” he commanded, his voice more gruff than usual.

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I just think that you should have a name, that’s all.”

  He shook his head once, his eyes narrowing. “I have given you a mode for address, and you are attempting to refuse it. Explain why.”

  She did not think he would like her thought process. It was too accusing, too combative, though there was an underlying thread that perhaps she could follow that might assuage what she was certain was his mounting irritation.

  “People have names,” she offered lamely. “And... and you’re a person, so you should have one too. Not a number.”

  He blinked once, his expression carefully neutral so she could not see what was coming. Fear insisted that he was going to hit her, that she had angered him, that he was unpredictable and therefore a threat.

  But he had promised to warn her first, so she made herself sit there, to watch him as he did her, and wait for his reaction.

  “Names are bestowed by parents,” he answered, his tone suggesting he was dismissing her.

  “True,” she allowed. “But not only by them. Siblings give them when they’re too young to speak properly. Friends give them too, to show their affection.” Or enemies might give them as well, harsh, cruel things that were spat out in mockery.

  And she was his enemy, wasn’t she?

  But that wasn’t her intention, despite it all. She wasn’t looking to hurt, though maybe she should be. Just like she should be more willing to use one of the host of weapons locked away so nearby.

/>   What did that say about her? That she was a coward, most likely. That as long as he did not hurt her, then she could speak amiably, could accept his food and his clothes and offer no other complaint. Never mind what he did to others.

  Guilt replaced her hunger and she wished she had never brought it up at all. “Forget it,” she dismissed, intent on forcing her attention back to her food.

  The madman shifted, not interested in accepting her change of subject. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, something odd in his voice that made her pause, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

  He was hesitant. Something she had not heard from him before. He was always sure, always prepared. Unnatural. But to hear him cautious, he almost sounded...

  Human.

  She put down her spoon, uncertain what to do with such a change. Humans could hurt. Humans could lash out in anger, despite their promises.

  But he looked at her with such interest, as if fully expecting that, since she had apparently offered, she would be the one to give it.

  What parents had never done.

  If he was to be believed, what scientists supposedly had not thought important enough to give to him.

  The weight of its importance was not lost to her.

  And she hadn’t the least idea of what to suggest.

  7

  261 did not know why they were discussing this. She had asked for his designation and he had provided it, yet she felt the need to press the matter further.

  He had not known that names could be bestowed later than birth, and it troubled him that he had been ignorant of something so fundamental. He did not like to appear so, did not like the look in her eye that, if he was to guess, greatly resembled pity.

  It shouldn’t bother him. It didn’t matter what she felt, or what she called him. That was not her purpose here. She should be eating her meal, thanking him politely for his efforts with the replicators, and then perhaps join him on the main level, sitting in her chair and staring at the viewscreens as they journeyed to their next destination.

  Not attempting to make him feel inadequate because of something beyond his control.

  He stiffened when no answer was forthcoming, though he told himself he was merely returning his posture to proper spinal alignment. This was a ridiculous subject, and he should not have indulged her. Talking was a distraction as evidenced by her much larger portion that remained uneaten while his was mostly consumed.

  “No, just wait,” she entreated. She appeared flustered, and he could not imagine why. She had been the one to instigate this. “Names are hard!”

  “I would not know,” he reminded her, certain that he kept his voice level, though a flicker of hurt passed her features that suggested he had not kept it quite as calm as he had thought.

  “And that’s wrong,” she murmured, nodding to herself. He turned, waiting for her to complete the thought. To admit that if what was done, then the Project had been wrong. That it was good that they were destroyed, would continue to be so, so none of their wrongness could continue to spread, a poison throughout the galaxy.

  He’d thought long on the subject while Clairy slept. What troubled him most was that there would be others deployed on missions, unaware of the changes in their circumstances. The freedom he had bought for them.

  They would attempt to return to their stations, knowing no other option was available to them, and find it gone.

  There was no protocol for that. No carefully honed instinct that would tell them how to proceed.

  Would self-preservation, long-buried and doubtlessly starved for any sort of care, insist they find a new home, shelter and food like everyone else required?

  Or would they drift aimlessly, lost and purposeless?

  He could not leave a buoy, could leave nothing with instructions or a suggestions for their future courses—not if he did not want to be tracked down himself. He was not a fool. Authorities in the quadrant would not be pleased with his actions, no matter how justified, and it was better for it to appear as some sort of reactor failure that compromised the entire structure.

  A tragedy, yes, something to be mourned by the masses.

  And though it angered him that any would want to do so, it was what he would have to allow.

  For now.

  Until the rest of them were gone. Only then could the truth possibly be known, if only to illuminate the parents of their failures to protect the offspring they entrusted to entirely the wrong sort of people.

  “What sort of names do you like?” Clairy asked, and he noted that she had taken another bite of the roll. He had not initially intended to include them, but from what he had observed, most people did not consume nutrients in the same form at each meal. The way she had hastily been drawn to them suggested he was correct, and she only occasionally stopped to take a bite of nourishing broth.

  Perhaps he would have to explore more of the replicator’s capabilities than his own small needs.

  Though a voice of resentment insisted that she deserved it for pestering him with a subject far beyond his knowledge or control. “I have no such preference,” he informed her, wondering why he felt a tightening in his chest. Perhaps a diagnostic would be wise after he had finished with his meal.

  “That’s no help then,” she muttered to herself, leaning back against the bench. She chewed thoughtfully, and he would have thought her in an amiable sort of mood, save the anxious glances she gave him every so often.

  “What do you hope to accomplish with this?” he asked abruptly, and her anxiety became all the more pronounced when she jumped, very nearly falling from the bench entirely.

  She huffed, trying to cover the shaking of her hands by rubbing them against her legs, now swathed in dark fabric. He had never seen a female dressed so, at least not in his travels, and he supposed what he provided was inadequate for her tastes. But she had made no complaint. He was not certain what he would have done if she had.

  “I’m trying to help,” she murmured softly, her shoulders slumping in... disappointment. “And I’m not doing a very good job.”

  He eyed her again, trying to look for her scheme, trying to ascertain how naming him might benefit some method for escape. He could think of none. If she, by some quirk in the system, was ever capable of alerting authorities, they would not know him by the name she chose. They would not know him at all.

  And he would never leave her so unsupervised in any case.

  “Are you attempting to do so for your sake or for mine?” It was an important question, at least to his mind. If her motive was simply for her own comfort—that she felt too uncomfortable with knowing that her companion was sub-human, then she could soon learn to overlook that. It was a simple truth, and one she should begin to recognise from his manner all too soon. But if she wanted to help him, even if so small a way...

  That was what he had wanted. At least, he had thought so. 932’s female was a benefit, an asset. Clairy insisted that she would not be, but perhaps she had yet to explore the full ways in which she could. If they were going to blend into planetary systems—which they would have to as the ship only had so much fuel—he would need a name. She was offering him a disguise, and if she was the one using it, all the better. A man alone was often of notice, but when he had a female companion...

  There was trust there. Because she trusted him.

  A lie, of course. Clairy’s every reaction to him was one of trepidation, but that could be altered. With time. And perhaps a few more promises.

  He mimicked her posture, easing his shoulders back, allowing a bit of a slouch into muscles unused to the position. She blinked at him, her wariness obvious, and frowned at his attempt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Conversing,” he answered simply. “With you.”

  Clairy’s brow furrowed and she glanced back at the table, her discomfort obvious. He did not know why she was unable to maintain eye contact for very long—if perhaps it was embarrassment that prompted her to look away or some
other reason—but it happened often enough for him to take note.

  It was a curious thing, her reactions. He could readily admit that other than the masters, he had never been around her kind for any great duration, but she never did react quite as he expected. So skittish, so clearly angry with him, yet unfailingly polite.

  “There’s a name,” she began, when evidently he had stared long enough to prompt her into speaking again. It had proven a useful tactic thus far, and he would employ it until it proved otherwise. “We... my parents that is, were going to use it if ever they had another son.”

  His head tilted slightly, a tumult of... something brewing within him.

  “Only there weren’t any more babies, so it’s not like it’s a used name, so it’s not weird like that. It’s just the first one that came to mind and...”

  She huffed out a breath and regardless of the food still on the table, she plunked her elbows down on the metal surface, burying her head in her hands. “I’m sorry I ever brought this up,” she mumbled, and he could not be certain it was truly directing to him, as it sounded more a statement of fact rather than a true apology.

  “What is the name?” he asked quietly, keeping his voice low and carefully measured so as to contain whatever tension was clinging at his chest. He definitely required a diagnostic.

  Clairy glanced at him, looking every bit as miserable as she had before she had slept, whatever goodwill she had managed to muster seeping out of her. It was not what he had wanted, but he reminded himself firmly that she had been the one to broach this tenuous subject in the first place.

  “Cydrin,” she offered at last, giving no indication of its history, the meaning behind the name itself.

  Cydrin. He had never met someone by the name, and that was a good thing. He would have rejected any that had been held by the masters, refusing to be used as a namesake for any of them.

  “Eat your meal,” he prompted, and watched her do so, her enthusiasm waning into half-hearted bites and feeble attempts with the spoon.

  He did not know if he could so easily take a name upon himself, even if it was freely given. There was nothing terribly objectionable about it, but it had been meant for a member of her family, not... not him.