prologue
❨ ᵃᶰᶰᵒ ²¹⁴⁷ ❩
THERE IS A boy, and he is impeccably drawn to the sound of life.
He stands in the doorway of his home, both hands curled around the straps of his schoolbag as he watches life simply happen before him, as he listens to the gentle whirr of hovercars as they pass by. When he gets older, he decides, he'll have one of those: one just as sleek, as quiet, as beautiful. His distasteful gaze flits over to the black one resting in the driveway. But, he tells himself, not the same colour as his father. Never the same as his father.
The city that rises in sharp peaks on the horizon is a composition of ugly metal buildings, half-rusted where the rain has clung to their worn, uneven facades before evaporating. But they- he- lives in the richer suburb of New London, and everything here is pretty and glass and clean. The cars make no noise; all run on self-sustaining electric power, none of the buildings are rustred, no people carry knives or other sorts of weapons, save for those who are permitted to do so. Those, he knows he can trust. And yet there are some people here whom he knows he can't trust.
There's been a rumour going on that the infection is spreading, that the wars, numerous and led by politicians who preach peace, are coming to New London, and that nothing is truly safe anymore. He can pride himself in front of his classmates for knowing such things, because his father works with important people, in the government, and he can snoop at the top of the stairs after dinner and know things that the others can't even imagine.
The only real truth, however, is that none of his friends know what it all means. Neither does he. Of course he doesn't understand it- why should he?
"Darling, what are you doing?" The sound of high heels clattering against the flat, tiled floor of their house buzzes in the back of the boy's head. He knows who it is. It's his mother, of course, but right now, he's infatuated by the live city and the cars before him, and he doesn't want to leave. "Sweetheart?" She kneels down in front of him, and as he allows his gaze to drift from the hovercars to focus on her face, he notices the slight glimmer of the nano-glass facemask she's put on to protect her face from radiation and infection, and to stop her from inhaling the bad air.
She takes his hands. "What are you doing?" She repeats. He can see the soft glint of orange sunlight in the nano-glass as it bends and twists itself to move with her face as a second skin.
"I'm going to school," he says flatly and pulls his hands away, his little fingers curling tightly around the straps of his schoolbag.
"Sweetheart, it's a Saturday. There's no school on Saturday." She notices the lack of surprise as she speaks to him.
"Oh." He wears no expression.
She stands up, but still he gazes past her, out onto the long road, but it's devoid of cars. It soon begins to bore him and he follows his mother inside.
"There we are," she continues, taking his school bag from his shoulders and placing it on the floor before brushing her fingers over his hairline to peel off his mask. "Where's your mask?" She demands, suddenly panicking- what if he's ill, now, what if it's already spreading?
"Forgot it." And then she's all over him, checking him, making him inhale pure air, because she doesn't want him to get ill, she doesn't want to lose him... Not her son, not the boy that had been assigned to her by the government, just as every other child was assigned to certain parents. At least they can afford to have him checked up.
Not her son, not the ten-year-old boy with the black hair and the blue eyes that she so adores...
▿
"Do you not think that it's perhaps... a little bit excessive, sir?" The young man's protest is quiet, hesitant, almost afraid.
"I see a shield around the world, Commander."
He turns to face the young man, observing him. His features are still soft, not yet chiseled with age. He still looks like a boy, one on the cusp of adulthood.
He is not yet done talking.
"Are you sure you wish to oppose me? There are things in this world that must be taken care of, Commander, and if nobody else is to act upon them, then we must. There is a fire inside us from which we must shield ourselves, one which fuels sentiment, hatred, lust and greed." The man's cold smile exponentially amplifies the importance of his words. "War is coming ever closer. Infection is growing, and I have hereby proposed a necessary evil to rid the world of all those we cannot save, and of all the things that threaten it."
"But the death toll, Sir..."
Jonathan's demeanour is collected. "Those who die will be remembered in this new age that we will pull out from the debris that we will have left civilisations in. They will be martyrs, and they will have saved the new generations." By now, most of those in the room are nodding their heads in agreement of what is being said.
It is so easy to manipulate people with glorifying words.
The world will be protected, and that is all that matters right now. There will be losses, yes, and Jonathan will forget all of them, because they will not matter; they will be for the greater good. For now, though, he is done persuading them. It has been a long day at work, he still has calls to make, people to ask for favours, but despite all the work and the stress, he knows it will all pay off in the end.
"Dismissed," he calls, and stands with his documents, bringing the long meeting to a close. "We start the human trials tomorrow." He sees them all in his mind, the boys and girls, some not much older than his son, all unwanted children or volunteers handed over by international governments. There are over three hundred of them, three hundred children that will serve to protect their new world.
The trials worked on 57% of all the rats, but they are running out of time, and a majority by 7% is enough for them to proceed. They have to do it before it's too late: now is the right time.
Now is the right time to change the world.
He is so close to achieving his goal.
And so, once the world has fallen into unity, once it has fallen into order, they will live in a paradise on earth— and it will suffice.
▿
"What are you going to do to me?" Crumpled in the pocket of her trousers is a photograph of a smiling couple. Her mother, her father.
The nurse hands the girl a white hospital gown. "Put this on and give me your other clothes," she says curtly. "Doctor Wilson will be in to see you soon enough."
She unbuttons her blouse with care, being extra-mindful of the one loose button at the bottom, where the thread has uncoiled somewhat. She pulls the gown over her head and hands the woman her trousers as well. The rough fabric of the gown feels alien against her skin.
"Socks too, please. Good." The nurse takes the girl's hand and leads her over to what looks like an operating table. "Lie down."
"But-"
"Please, darling, I don't want to have to force you," she says, and her words are received by a frightened stare from the teenager. "Just- please just lie down." Her fingers trace over the girl's blond hairline, and with a yank, she pulls off her protective mask, tossing it into the bin. "Doctor Wilson will see you now."
"What are you going to do to me?" The question keeps on resurfacing, bubbling up like froth on the lips after ingesting a particularly lethal toxin. "What are you going to do to me?" The poison, in this case, is fear.
But each time, the same answer comes: "you have nothing to worry about, you have nothing to fear. Just relax."
The nurse holds her down by the shoulders as she writhes on the operation table in pain, tears forming tracks as they run down over her temples, sinking into her light strands of hair. Every needle they stick into her skin goes down to grind against every bone in her body.
"Get the titanium alloy ready." It's a man's voice that mutters the words.
"What— are you doing to me?" The plea is desperate, this time, and she repeats it with a yell as the liquid metal starts flowing in, and it burns, it burns!
The rims of her eyes are raw and salty, the corners are wet and the pupils dilated as she opens them, and the lights above are a glowing blur of blue and white. The only thing that comes out of her mouth is a hideous, ear-splitting scream, and it bounces off the walls in a painful, disorientating echo.
▿
[ anno_2147 -- comm No. 10071 :
subject report : Dr. H. J. Wilson ]
Dr Wilson, a status report on your subject is required. What is your subject number?
0097F.
Please proceed with the report.
Subject has become unresponsive after the seventh internal modification. However-
[ 1_ subject report is not complying. ]
[ 1.1_ persistence is required. ]
Deactivate and abandon project.
But-
[ 2_ subject report is not complying. ]
[ 2.1_ persistence is required. ]
Deactivate and abandon project.
Deactivate and abandon project.
▿
And that's exactly what they do, and as Doctor Wilson leaves the laboratory, setting the equipment down, he thinks about the nostalgic photograph he's placed in a drawer in the corner of the room, and how his subject has fallen into a coma, a void where time will not affect her, a void where she will no longer remember the names of those who once loved her.