“But, Korliss,” said Sevrik, “even though Project may be physically weak, we still run the risk of spoiling him. Not consciously, of course, but on some level Project is going to be raised as a prince. He’ll be mindful of the fact that we’re treating him better than a normal human being.”
Korliss considered this, then said, “If only there was some way... that we didn’t know who Project was.”
“What do you mean?” said Didi.
“Imagine if we had a school of youngsters, all from the same generation, and one of them was our Project. If we didn’t know who Project was, then he or she would be treated the same as the others. You see? I mean, it’s a purely hypothetical construct, but still-”
“The Makers of Mothers,” said Didi, suddenly.
“What about them?” said Korliss.
“When a woman’s egg is inseminated by her mate’s sperm, through the DoS, the zygote is quarantined in a disease-free environment for a few days. That way the cells can safely divide, and attain some hardiness, before they are placed back in the mother.”
“Pharaoh’s Curse can’t set in if the baby spends those first vulnerable days outside of its mother,” said Sevrik, nodding.
“That means,” said Didi, “that if I could get into the area where the zygotes are kept, it’s conceivable that I could... that I could change one of those children.”
Silence. Korliss felt a knot in his gut. Sevrik could not seem to wrap his mind around the idea. “What does that mean?” he said slowly.
“It means we could rewrite a child’s genes, and we wouldn’t know which child it was. If the zygote is one, three, or even a hundred cells in size, I could do it. And I could set it up so that I didn’t know which child was... modified.”
“I don’t know about this!” said Korliss, shaking. “Didi - this feels wrong.”
“The philosopher speaks of feelings?” said Didi. “Korliss, we’re giving someone the potential to be a champion.”
“We’re erasing someone’s destiny!”
“We’re enhancing someone’s life so that they don’t have to live in fear,” said Didi. “Look at me, Korliss. If I could change a fully grown animal into something more, do you think I’d hobble about like a cripple all the time? Do you think I’d take scores of drugs to deal with Gravedigger’s Bones, clinical depression and social anxiety, chronic bronchitis, gouge-eye, diabetes, allergies to light and a hundred different foods? Who erased my destiny, I wonder, Korliss? What sort of person would I have been, if someone had given me the opportunity to live a higher quality life?”
“You were given one of the most powerful minds in Haven,” said Korliss, “and the will to never complain about your condition, until now.”
“Two good qualities that were slowly cultivated over a thousand generations,” said Didi, “and which could be wiped out within the next two or three. We don’t have a choice, Korliss.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“We could choose to stay in the moral right and leave this next generation untampered - and face possible extinction, but with a clean record of conduct. Or we could do that which survival demands.” The two allies looked eye to eye, and Didi said, “I choose survival. Whether this is immoral, or the greatest deed ever done, I’ll leave to future generations to decide - generations that have the time and luxury to debate because they no longer have to worry about extinction.”
Korliss stared at the ground for a long time, then said quietly, “How would we keep track of him? What if he dies when young, and we don’t even know it?”
“The NeuSen Array. I was going to eventually make one for every child in Haven. It keeps track of brain activity without infringing on the privacy of the individual. I was going to use it to find potential scientists more easily. If we tuned the one I already have to our Project, it would tell us when his brain is going through great change, or when it ceases to function. When the Array goes black on Project... we start over again.”
“What do you think?” said Sevrik, eyes burning. “Korliss, are you in?”
“Yes,” he said, almost before Sevrik could finish.
“In terms of our duty to the species,” said Sevrik, “there never really was a choice, anyway.”
“And if we do make a monster?” said Professor Korliss. “What will we do if we create something utterly wicked, but too powerful to kill?”
“For every problem, a solution,” said Didi. “And for that problem, I have a final solution. I can place tiny, regenerative machines the size of cells inside the zygote’s mass. The Department of Research hasn’t developed a working nanomachine yet, but we’ve made great strides. These machines are much bigger than theoretical nanomachines, but still too small to detect if you don’t know exactly what you’re trying to find. They will be tuned to a frequency that will be broadcast when and if we choose, and when the machines pick up that frequency, they will utterly annihilate their host. If our champion turns into a monster, or even if he’s captured and his modified genes run the risk of mixing with the demon’s, we can flip the Killswitch and end the gamble before we lose.”
“And then,” said Korliss, “the child’s destiny truly will be erased.”
“We have to consider every possibility, no matter how grim,” said Didi. “And we must be prepared to make any sacrifice.”
***
Today
On the night of the third day since the disappearance of Project, Korliss watched the lights of the NeuSen Array toss and burn over his table monitor. The colors shifted violently, erratically, as he had never seen before. He was stricken with utter horror, completely immobilized. “What is happening?” he said under his breath. “What is…”
The lights shifted into red, then purple, then flashed out, one by one, until the apartment was cast into darkness.
***
Project is dead, thought Didi. Or, at best, lost to us beyond any hope of recovery.
He switched off the empty, hollow monitor of the NeuSen Array. He turned slowly and looked at the Killswitch. The button glowed red, ominous and hateful. Patronizing. Didi rose slowly, his brace creaking one long, tortuous note.
It is finished, he thought. Pushing the button is a formality at this point.
Didi took three steps toward the Killswitch. Just then he saw movement on his monitors. The camera feed showed white-armored Guardians rushing through the halls. They were in the Department of Science, armed with black rifles, stomping down stairs and rushing through darkened hallways.
Coming here? Didi stopped, heart pounding.
Doesn’t matter, he thought, continuing on. They don’t know the pass to get in.
There was a hiss of air and the whir of small gears as the door to Didi’s inner chamber opened. Didi turned.
Sevrik’s black silhouette stood in the doorway, framed by the flashlights of a troop of armored Guardians.
“What are you doing, Sev?” shouted Didi.
“Stay right there,” said Sevrik, his voice torn and raw.
Didi turned away and hobbled toward the button.
“Stop him!” Sevrik commanded.
Guardian Rangers rushed into the chamber and grabbed Didi by the arms, holding him easily as his legs gave out from under him.
“Don’t harm him,” said Sevrik. “Hold him, don’t let him move another step.” He stepped in front of Didi and said, “Treat him with the respect that the Head of the DoS/DoR deserves.”
“Sevrik, you traitor!” shouted Didi. “What is this!”
“I’m no traitor,” said Sevrik. “I can’t let you do what you were about to do. There’s too much at stake.”
“You have no idea what’s at stake!” said Didi.
“I’m putting you under arrest,” said Sevrik.
“Under what charges?”
“I’m arresting you for tampering with the genes of the unborn, Didi.”
The blood pounded in Didi’s head and his eyesight collapsed into tunnel vision. In a haze of
panic he heard a Guardian nearby hissing, “We trusted the DoS to keep us clean.”
Sevrik moved as if help Didi steady himself, then whispered, “I couldn’t let you push that button, Didi. I have my reasons. I need more time to-”
“You fool!” said Didi. “If they knew about Project, don’t you think they knew about the Killswitch, too?”
“Shut up,” said Sevrik. Many of the Rangers looked at one another.
“You think you’ve bought time to look for Project. How much do you trust your men, Sevrik? They heard you say the pass-phrase to get in!”
Sevrik stood silent.
“If you don’t want anyone hitting the Killswitch,” said Didi, “then you’re going to have to set up camp right beside it! When will you sleep, what will you eat, who will you trust?”
Sevrik gritted his teeth, said, “Take him away.”
As the Guardians pulled at him, Didi said, “You’ve damned yourself to rot in here, you traitor! I hope you trust the demon not to steal Project’s genes while he’s too immature to protect them himself!”
Didi looked back as they dragged him away. Sevrik stared at the Killswitch. “You don’t understand!” shouted Didi. “We have to kill him! You don’t understand what the demon is, not like I do! You don’t know what will happen if they suck him into themselves!”
Sevrik leaned over, slowly, and picked up a small chair. He heard Didi shouting from the hallway. A few Guardians remained nearby, straight and alert.
Sevrik dragged the chair across the floor to the Killswitch.
“We’ve damned creation!” shouted Didi, from far away. “Genetic apocalypse! The devil turned deity! Genetic... apocalypse!”
Sevrik adjusted the chair, then sat down. In darkness he waited.
Chapter Fourteen
The Wasteland
He awoke. His body was sore, his senses chained to a world of pain. The sun was full and white and burning directly overhead. He heard the low hum of voices all around. He clenched his fingers, felt hot sand, and he knew that he was alive.
A shadow covered his face. His vision was blurred, but he could see the face of a young man directly overhead, wide and with dark hair.
“Marlon!” he said, rising quickly.
The young man moved away, crouching in the sand. The blur sharpened into someone unfamiliar. They stared at one another. He looked around and saw dozens of people crouching all around him on a wide desert plain under the blue dome of the sky. The people were unkempt, the grime on their faces mixed with cracked, yellow tribal skin paint. Some cried softly, others wailed and beat their fists in the dirt, some stared back at him with empty faces, but most of the people simply sat and waited to see what the fates would decide for them.
He lifted up on his knees and looked further out. He saw men with scars and black tattoos wearing heavy boots, leather jackets, and motley armor. They were armed with rifles and handguns. He saw them leading other groups of ragged people to sit with the main group, using whips and heavy sticks when their captives did not move quickly enough. Some slavers rode on the backs of lean horses and shouted orders to their scarred enforcers.
They heard gunshots in the distances, layer upon layer, and the primitives clung to the ground. An old man began praying, “Omne Padre, oh, oh, Omne Padre. We stand before the valley, we must not fear. He leads me to green pastures, he lets me drink untainted water. Oh, Omne Padre…”
As the old man continued, the dark-haired young man sighed loudly and covered his ears. Finally the slaves lifted their heads and resumed their hushed conversations, their eyes always on their captors. The old man turned to him and said, “Just who are you?”
“I am…” he said, then cleared his throat painfully. He knew that he looked different from the others, the enslaved primitives. “I come from a place far from here. It’s difficult to explain. Listen, there was someone else with me. A young man, very strong. He was hurt. His name is Marlon. Have you seen him?”
The old man stared at him for a long time, then shook his head. Now others were watching him, trying to place his strange accent, staring at his strange pants and shoes and pale skin. “Are you a demon?” the old man said suddenly.
At that moment more slavers on horseback led another group of primitives to sit with them. One scarred slaver led his horse near the new slaves, then kicked a girl from behind, knocking her into the others. The slavers laughed, their voices guttural and inhuman, then left to continue their work. The slaves remained quiet for a while, then the old man repeated, “Are you a demon?”
“Of course not!” he replied. “I come from far away, that’s why I look different. But please, listen, are you sure you haven’t seen my friend? He’s–”
“No one else like you is here,” said the old man. He glanced at the dark-haired young man, who also shook his head. Finally satisfied, the old man said, “My name’s Agmar. I’m a slave – just like you.” He let that sink in, then said, “I’ve lived in the villages of the so-called primitives for most of my life. Deep in the hills… away from raiders and other scum from the cities. Now it seems they’ve found us. Only Omne Padre knows what will happen to us.”
“Tend the sheep!” cried a raider, his voice harsh and rasping.
“Mi-i-i-i-i-inding the sheep!” came the answer. In the distance they saw two armed slavers laugh and pass a bottle between them.
“They’re called the Ugly,” said Agmar. “They come from Pontius, west of here. They’re a gang of human garbage. They make deals with demons when they have to. They specialize in the flesh trade.”
“Slavers?” he said.
“Slavers,” said Agmar. He pushed a bony hand from his robe. They shook hands.
They heard more gunshots far away, then screams followed by laughter.
Frustration welled up in the boy and he said, “I fought demons… just to end up here.”
“Fought demons?” said Agmar, laughing without humor. “These monsters are worse, believe me. But tell me… what’s your name?”
The boy opened his mouth, then stopped. He almost gave his nickname, the name he’d gone by since birth, but something seemed wrong about doing that. That old life was over.
“Wodan,” he said. “My name is Wodan.”
***
All day long the Ugly brought more captives down from the hills. One hundred slaves, two hundred, three hundred… then they could not be easily counted. That night the raiders drove them into a circle, waving torches and cursing, while others aimed at them with rifles, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. Wodan, Agmar, and the black-haired young man stayed near one another. Eventually the slaves were ringed by raiders on horseback, then made to face north. Wodan could see the faces of the raiders in the torchlight; they were hideous, mutilated, noses missing and ears shredded, like inhuman masks. In the shivering red torchlight they appeared demonic.
More raiders approached on horseback. They wore black furred cloaks to guard against the cold night, and the torchlight glittered on the rings on their fingers, ears, noses, lips, eyebrows. Wodan recognized two of them immediately: A tall man with a blond beard and dyed checkerboard facial scarring, and a short man with dark hair and runic scarring. He felt dread, for they were the men he’d seen on the mountainside, the men he’d gone to for help.
One man rode ahead of the others, then stopped before the gathered slaves. He rode a tall vanilla horse with dead ruby eyes. The man’s long black cape nearly trailed in the dust behind him. Wild red hair and a red beard framed a black sun tattoo that was carved in the middle of his pale face. His dark silk shirt hung open and showed, among a nest of scars, a large rat’s skull stitched into his chest. Two large handguns hung low on his hips. He radiated power and authority. Most unnerving of all was his smile, immobile and unnatural, which revealed yellow teeth peeking through his thick mustache. As he looked over the slaves, two raiders on foot moved to stand on either side of him, illuminating him with their flaming staves.
He cleared his thr
oat and, still smiling, said loudly, “My name is Barkus, leader of the Right Arm of the Ugly. I would like to speak truth to you, as none ever will, never in all your life. I hope that you will listen to me.”
The smile never left his face. The slaves looked to one another, then averted their eyes.
“You are now a slave and, until we reach civilization, I am your master. But since I, too, am a slave, I feel it is my special duty to explain to you the rules of this game. I do this because I want you to be winners, not losers. I want you to overcome what seems to be a cruel fate and succeed at life.”
Wodan studied the faces around him. He studied the scarred faces of the Ugly in the torchlight.
Barkus continued. “To start, let me tell you of the nature of your new life as a slave. When we reach civilization, I will sell you to your new masters. You will work for them, and the work will be difficult at first. In exchange, your masters will clothe you, feed you, and give you a place to sleep at night. Your masters have further duties in your care, which I will explain later. I will not tell you where we are going, and I cannot tell you where you will end up, but do not worry: In most cities, it is illegal for a master to kill his slave. As long as you obey your master, and do your work well, your life will not be bad. This is not to say that life will be easy. If you disobey your master, you can be punished. But, as tribals living outside of civilization, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that life is never easy.
“I am not speaking down to you. I know you are afraid; you see all these armed men I have at my disposal and, of course, you expect the worst. I am their master, just as I am your master, but what I say to you now comes from my long experience of living as a slave. My mastery and my power come from understanding my own enslavement. Let me explain. When I was twelve, and my brothers were eleven and fourteen, we ambushed our father while he was taking a bath and we killed him. On the one hand, we wanted to be free from his rule; on the other hand, we wanted his power and we wanted the loyalty of the organization that he led. This was very foolish. My younger brother and I got scared, and we denied that we were murderers. Our lives were spared. My older brother proudly admitted his guilt, but when he demanded power, he was killed.
“Do you see? My brothers and I did not bother to understand the nature of power and duty - how it works, how things balance out, how one moves and how one thinks at certain times - and because we did not understand, we acted foolishly, violently, and we were very nearly crushed by a game that we did not understand.
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