Discarded
Page 33
Leah was standing in the door to the operating room, her chest heaving as hard as his. The stand of lights from the table dangled from her hand, still tossing sparks. Cayden was standing in the middle of the tank display, his machete-like knife in hand. From the slash marks on the walls, and the cut patterns in some of the tanks and the glass front of the ‘recovery ward’, he’d found plenty of use for it. Like his two ‘brethren’, he was covered almost head to toe in womb fluid and viscera. Unlike them, however, his breathing and posture were completely calm, even normal. He didn’t seem to register their presence, only kept staring at the Doctor. Garrett had gotten back to his feet, one hand pressed to the wall while he held a handkerchief to his face with the other – but showed no sign of wanting to run or beg.
None of the four spoke. Then Cayden blinked once, apparently bringing himself out of his trance – or the last of his rage. He strode up to the Doctor, who had by now put the bloody cloth away, and was standing erect again, without the cane, meeting the older Golem’s hard stare with a steady one of his own. Cayden halted a step or two short, blade still in hand. Greg readied himself for the swing that would take the Doctor’s head off, or spill his guts over the floor to join the other bits of flesh. Instead, in one quick, smooth move, Cayden’s arm came up. The blade shot past Garrett’s head, burying itself almost halfway in the concrete.
Garrett didn’t flinch, or even blink. With the same sharpness of motion, Cayden turned his back on the man who had created him – created all of them – and marched toward the stairs. Not looking back once, he climbed up to the next level, and went out into the foyer beyond. Greg heard more glass breaking, and other objects being hurled to the floor or walls – then the slam of a door, hard enough to dislodge more bits of glass from the destroyed office façades. Greg sensed the older Golem wouldn’t stop walking until he reached the surface – maybe not for hours, days, weeks. Not until he’d put everything – the Facility, the Project, the Doctor – far, far behind him.
And us? Leah came up to him. She didn’t speak, but her haunted, tear-filled eyes held the same question. He had no answer; he couldn’t even form a single word. Everything was hazy, like his mind was filled with weighted fog. To give him some focus, he looked toward Garrett. The Doctor was standing without aid now, hands folded atop his cane. There was no sign of any bruise or blood from the hit he’d taken; Greg guessed he must have pulled back more than he’d thought. The pain and torment in his dark blue eyes were real, however.
Seeing it made Greg’s fists clench again. The hot rage rekindled. He hadn’t known a sensation could reach such heights – until a few moments ago. He’s feeling pain? Him? The anger burned hotter. All the nights of agony, from the operations to recovering; all the friends I watched die, or wish they had; all the lies that kept us here, and sent us out to suffer and die – And he’s the one in pain?
He took a step forward, fist half-raised. Garrett watched him, unmoving. Another step, the fist rising higher – then suddenly slackening, falling back to his side. The heat inside died down to embers, replaced by a cold, burnt-out numbness. What’s the point? He could pound Garrett’s face into the wall until it turned to paste, rip apart the lab and everything above down the foundations – none of it changed a thing. And you pushed for this. You wanted to know what lay at the heart of this place. For the team, for the Sanctuary– and for you. Now he did.
He tried to make himself focus. Only one task remained at that moment, as he saw it: To warn Hiroshi and the others. To scrap the plan, or as much as could be, and get away. The Sanctuary could hold out against the remaining Brown Coats, though they might take losses. Against the entire Army, and Air Force? No. Better to break up and scatter, like they’d lived before. With Overwatch, they stood a good chance of staying ahead of any pursuit, and maybe even holing up in a slew of isolated, well-hidden spots, out of sight and mind. It’d be a life spent on the run, looking over their shoulders for drones or bombers or men in brown coats, but it would be theirs – and one well away from this.
These half-formed plans came to him as if from a distance, unimportant and uninteresting. I should’ve died at Balkash, or a hundred times before.I should’ve stayed in the mountains, when the Air Force hit– or let the Brown Coats put one between my eyes. Any of these would’ve done the trick – and spared him from the here and now.
Slowly, robotically, Greg turned away from the mournful gaze of the Doctor. Leah watched him, her look almost that of a scared, uncomprehending little girl. Avoiding her gaze, he started for the steps himself. He didn’t know where he was going, or what he’d do next – and didn’t care in the slightest.
A flash of reflected light winked in his eye when he passed the Doctor’s office. He didn’t stop, or slow his stride, but he still caught a glimpse of the source. A framed picture lay against a toppled, splintered metal desk. The glass was cracked, but the photo – a smiling woman and grinning young boy, both with dark hair – was easy to see even in a second’s glance. He lost them, so he made us. A perfect, all-powerful ‘family’, leashed and drugged– and never knowing or wondering why.
The anger tried to flare again. Instead of letting it, Greg kept walking, up the stairs and into the foyer. The security booths were pulverised, turned to heaps of tempered glass; the weapons, armour and gas grenades were tossed every which way. The fire door stood partway open, one hinge nearly broken. He nudged it open. The staircase wound up and up the shaft, until he couldn’t see it any longer. He didn’t care. He put one foot on the first step, the other on the next. Soon enough he’d be back on the levels he’d known his whole life – and yet never known at all.
Chapter 25
Later That Night
Greg sat at the edge of his cot. He stared at the bland, white linoleum floor, seeing nothing. The mattress was stiff, unyielding: one step above wood or stone. He’d been sitting since he’d come across the room, hours ago; he didn’t remember how long ago, or care. It might’ve been his at one point, or not; they were all the same. The space was small and cramped, with only bare metal panelling for walls, a lone bulb directly overhead, and Gaia’s ubiquitous eye above the door. The blue lens was dimmed, almost unnoticeable. Perhaps she – it – was still online after all, and giving him a measure of privacy. Another first.
He’d passed through this room and any number of its kind more times than he could count – between training, surgeries, missions, recoveries. The memories were still unclear, but he could remember that much. And since a few hours ago, they’d been coming back in a steady torrent, some fragmentary, others hazy but nearly whole. The missions were the clearest; perhaps the inhibitors had been arranged somehow to leave those intact, for debriefings. Endless laps around the track. Just as many rounds in the wrestling and empty-hand rooms, the weights and exercise machines, the flight simulators, and on the firing ranges – above and below ground – practicing with everything from pistols to Stingers. Classes where he sat ramrod-stiff in unyielding metal chairs, typing out notes, or listening to or watching lecture after lecture: tactics, science, first-aid, and so many other subjects he soaked up for their possible use in the field. One tasteless meal after another in the cafeteria. Passing other Golems in the halls, mess and gym, never talking unless they had to work together – or so he could recall, thus far.
The constant replay didn’t help. If anything, it made him wish he hadn’t held back from a killing blow. The Doctor’s face seemed to hang behind every memory and image, like a half-faded afterimage. More than once, Greg could almost see him in the background, watching him in every session, assignment or recovery. Yet he couldn’t stop it – and wasn’t sure he wanted to. One thing was clear from it, at least: He had never been intended as anything other than a weapon. Leah, Cayden, Taylor, the others on the Council and in the Sanctuary, the ones who were still out there or already dead – they weren’t intended for anything else. The inhibitors, the surgeries, the ARC – from day one, it had all aimed toward the same result.
Bitterness rose like a geyser. He let out a bark of harsh laughter. Whatlife? He wasn’t even supposed to exist, officially or unofficially. None of his ‘kind’ were. He, Leah, Cayden, the Council, the other Sanctuary survivors – they weren’t soldiers, or heroes, or orphans. They weren’t even human: they were rejects. Discards, pure and simple. Scraps of unwanted DNA, cobbled together to make something more, something else. Something to be controlled, trained, inhibited, until the right moment. Something with one purpose, and only one: Killing.
A snippet from one of his classes suddenly came to him – history, or maybe strategy, he couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter now. In ancient Greece, it had been common to ‘expose’ infants who were deemed unfit to live, due to some real or perceived physical or mental deformity. Too small, too sickly, a club foot or a tendency to cry or shit too often – any of these earned a spot on some lonely hillside, left to the elements or hungry predators. The tough, grim, militaristic Spartans had done this more than others, according to the sources. For them, it was the only way to cull themselves of inferior genes, and mould those who were spared into the perfect soldiers, the ancestors of the ‘best of the best’ today.
On some occasions, the books also claimed, someone would find the abandoned infants, and take them in as their own, sometimes even raising them in a way that overcame any deformities or afflictions. The Doc must’ve loved that story. And he’d done it one better, too. Everyone in the Project had been abandoned even before birth. Garrett had taken them, turned them into soldiers – and then left them to the world’s harsh mercies anyway, when he was done with them.
Greg stared down at his hands, watching the light shift over the clinger’s surface. The fingers closed, knotting into fists so tight the fabric creaked. What would he have done, if he’d been born? Not grown, but born? What would his life have been? Would these hands have been put to other uses, besides wielding knives or snapping necks? His vision began to cloud, with tears, anger, or both. Would he, maybe, have been loved?
A light tap came at the door. Greg didn’t speak, or budge. The tap came again, louder. Still he did nothing. There was a brief pause. The door handle began to turn, slowly, hesitantly. Greg made no move to grab it, or block the way.
With a soft creak, the door swung open. Leah stood in the hallway outside. She’d stripped away the rags of her civilian garb, leaving her in just the clinger. Silent as a shadow, she stepped in. She sat beside him on the bed, her movements stiff and creaky. She stared at the wall, unseeing. Her face was wet, but no new tears were falling.
Neither of them spoke, for what seemed an eternity. Leah’s lips began to move, but no sound emerged. Gradually, they formed a whisper. ‘All this. All our lives…’
Greg brought his chin up and down, mechanically. There was nothing he could say. Nothing to be said. Everything they had done – it had all been for this. The surgeries, the missions; the agony, the bloodshed, the losses; the Sanctuary – it was just ‘part of the plan.’ In the end they had had no existence, beyond these walls. They weren’t people – only survivors.
A soft grip closed over his hand. He looked up, into Leah’s bright, shimmering brown eyes. They leaned close, bringing their foreheads together. He felt Leah’s pulse, beating in time with his own, and the tremors beneath her veneer of controlled grief.
He lifted his head. She mirrored the motion, bringing his gaze level with hers. They stared at each other. Her lips parted. Slowly, ever so slowly, they shifted closer to each other. He brought his arms around her waist. Their lips met, pressing tenderly. He squeezed her tighter; she did the same for him. Their hands moved as though by instinct, searching and knowing in equal measure. Those first stirrings, when the inhibitors began to flush out, they’d seemed too strange, too foreign to act on – though he hadn’t hated them, either. Now… Neither of them fully knew what they were doing – only that they had to.
Abruptly, Leah shifted away, breaking free of his grasp. With the same smooth slowness, she stood up, bringing her hands to the neck of her clinger. The zipper parted, sliding down to her navel. After a moment’s hesitation, she peeled the garment away, pulling her arms free of the sleeves, and sliding it down to the floor. Her bare, brown-skinned body gleamed in the light above.
Greg’s breath failed at the sight. Trancelike, he got to his feet. His hands went to his collar, pulling the clinger from his shoulders. In moments, he stood before Leah, as bare as she. She smiled, the expression sad and lovely.
They drew to each other. He kissed her, harder and stronger. She matched him, holding his head to hers. As one, they lay back down on the cot, side by side. They stroked and kissed one another, letting the caresses speak for them.
Greg turned over, so that he lay above. He looked at her, asking with his eyes. Leah gave the smallest of nods. He shifted, bringing his weight on his arms. Leah’s hands caressed his spine from neck to navel, sending shivers across his frame. Gently, he pushed forward. Leah’s mouth parted in a slow gasp, of pain and pleasure mixed. Greg felt her hips rise to meet his, matching his slow, rocking rhythm. Her ankles wrapped together, pulling him tight against her.
He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat – of her. He began to rock faster. Beneath him, Leah’s gasps and moans came quicker, merging with his. She tightened her grip, making his ribs creak. He ignored the pain, and sped up, making the cot rattle in its frame. Her short nails dug into his back, drawing tiny drops of blood.
At last, he threw his head back, plunging his hardest yet. He let out a short, huffing groan, staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing. At the same time, Leah cried out, softly, eyes screwed shut. A pink flush rose in her face, spreading across her body. Warmth trickled down his thigh, and hers. Waves of bliss crashed over him, filling him to the brim.
When Greg looked down again, he saw Leah staring back at him, solemn and blissful. She stroked his face, with infinite tenderness. Then she brought one hand to his shoulder. A gentle push made her request clear. Carefully, Greg slid off, lying on his back. With similar smoothness, Leah swung a leg over his waist, sitting astride him. She stared down at him, hands brushing over his chest. He lay still, holding her gently at the waist.
One of her hands wandered, behind her. Greg shuddered with pleasure at her touch. That same intense look on her face, Leah leaned back. She stiffened for an instant, before relaxing, mouth half-open. He groaned, gripping her waist tighter.
She planted both hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the bed. Her hips began to grind, gyrating with a dancer’s grace and skill. Greg’s hands roved over her sculpted body, making her quiver even more. The cot shook and rattled beneath them.
Finally, Greg’s waist lifted, as if of its own will. A new torrent of ecstasy washed through him. In that same moment, Leah froze, and let out another trembling cry, loud enough to almost rattle the walls. Gasping, she seized both his hands in hers, squeezing with all her strength. Greg matched her, sucking in great breaths himself.
Little by little, the pleasure began to ebb. Their breathing slowed, becoming steadier and calmer. Still astride him, Leah lay down, resting her head on Greg’s sweat-covered chest. He inched onto his side, so that they lay together, face to face. Their eyes met, never straying even an inch. The only sound in the room was their breathing, and the soft tick of the clock above the bed.
*
A shrill, blaring note sounded. Greg sat up and swung his feet to the floor, grabbing for his clinger. The sound died away as he stepped into
the suit. He was halfway dressed before his eyes opened all the way. Then his brain kicked fully into high gear, and he stopped, hand on the auto-zipper, darting his gaze around the room to track the source. Naked from the waist up, he padded up to the door, staring directly into the blue lens. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
Gaia’s soft tones came through at once. ‘A possible breach of the sensor net was detected moments ago, Greg. With the storm and stirred fallout, readings are understandably difficult, and thus suspect. Regardless, Dr Garrett insisted you be alerted. He requests you and Leah come to the main training and observation floor immediately, to assess the information. All real-time data is being routed to his tablet, via my servers on that level.’
Greg closed his eyes. All that’s happened, and the sick,lying bastard expects our help? His hands twitched, almost clenching as they would around a throat. His throat felt swollen with rage, too much to even whisper. A wild urge hit him. If the storm was bad enough, maybe—
‘We’ll be right there,’ Leah said from behind. He spun around to see her climbing out of bed, holding the sheet to her body. She looked to the lens herself, every inch the soldier in her stance. ‘Where’s Cayden? Has he been warned?’
The voice seemed to hesitate. ‘Cayden does not appear to be present in the Facility, Leah. He may have engaged his clinger’s stealth options – my sensors are limited in those instances. Or he may have left the area altogether. I have sent warnings to his system, but there has been no reply.’
‘I wouldn’t reply, either,’ Leah sighed, almost too low to hear – though probably not too much for Gaia. She straightened, back to business. ‘Tell the Doctor we’ll be out shortly.’
The lens blinked once, presumably in affirmation, then dimmed again. Leah faced Greg, one hand already lifted. ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she said, still direct and calm. ‘You’re going to say we need to leave, before this gets any worse. That we have to get back and get everyone evacuating. That we should leave this’—she waved at their surroundings—‘to the Brown Coats, and whoever’s running them – along with Garrett.’ She lowered her hand, bringing it to the other that clasped the sheet. ‘How’d I do?’