The man’s eyes cracked open, just barely, though. From what he managed to see he was in some aqua-green substance, gelatin-like. He couldn't move at all, and yet it felt strangely relaxing. Only a warm numbness ran through his body. Looking down at himself, he saw dark blue snake-like objects embedded all over him from his limbs to his abdomen and back. These, too, he could not feel. What are they? Without even contemplating for more than a few seconds, the answer inexplicably came to him: cables designed to monitor my bodily functions. Some other voice had revealed this to him, but it was once more silent.
He could see nothing beyond a few inches within his face, so he decided to shut his eyes again. Then the man saw something that beckoned his attention: three blurs hovering over him. They appeared to be human shaped, and as confirmation, he heard the first sounds he’d heard of his existence…voices. They were muffled sentences here and there, indecipherable. Once more, unconsciously his body fulfilled the need for him. The man’s hearing somehow readjusted all on its own, and he could now hear everything. All were indeed human voices, but none recognizable. Come to think of it, he'd never heard any other voice other than his thoughts.
“Are his eyes supposed to be open?” said one voice, sounding eager yet somewhat cautious.
“I suppose so,” said another older, calmer, voice. “Since they’re about to be reactivated, after all. He must be the early bird of the group.”
The three shared a laugh.
“All right,” said the other, “begin the liquefying process. Rotate the tanks.”
The three blurs left and once more there was silence. Dead silence. The man, who'd been anxious upon contacting another human being, now felt what must've been a disappointment. All he'd felt in life before these past few minutes had been blackness, the cold deadness of nothingness. He wanted out, but how? Suddenly, he felt his fingers twitch.
The gelatin-like goop was starting to melt into a warm, aqua-green liquid. Now he was capable of locomotion. The sensors detached simultaneously, and the man awaited what would happen next. Within a few seconds, the tank was being tilted upright, putting the man in a standing position in his soup. The man could see the two men and a woman before him, waiting for something to happen perhaps. He turned his head to the left to see more tanks with people just like him. He turned his head to the right to see only more. They too were beginning to open their eyes. What is this? As the situation developed, he noticed the liquid began to drain out of the tanks, including his own, little by little.
The man finally felt his feet touch the bottom, and something tugging on the back of his head roughly. It was a light pain, but one he felt right where his vertebrae and skull connected. The pain eased, and the tendril-like injector crept back up into the interior of the tank's ceiling. The trio stood before the tanks, which opened, and the men and women jumped down ten feet or so.
The three humans could feel the ground tremble slightly as the soldiers landed on their feet. A few of the lab instruments and test tubes rattled. One man smiled more so than the others, looking amazed at the people before him. They were dripping wet but standing perfectly still in the frigid room. All of them were silent, their eyes staring out into the laboratory. The most welcoming of the three walked over to the group of men and women, inspecting them.
“Excellent job, Ms. Hamilton,” he said. “I think this time they’re ready.”
The woman of the group acknowledged the compliment, nodding her head.
“Let's wait for confirmation, shall we?” she said, looking at a lab worker. “Reboot their heads-up displays. Then we’ll proceed with the other routine checks.”
The man watched them speak, observing the scientist who he now knew as Ms. Hamilton. It's strange, he thought as he took notice, which the woman seemed on edge, tense. She was busy with a cigarette, savoring the object it would seem. As she breathed outward, she coughed slightly but quickly took another puff. The man out in front, though, was simply fascinated by these strange men and women standing like aged Greek statues.
Several statistics appeared in his vision: numbers, words, measurements, room temperature, among many things. As he looked at each of the three humans, the moment his pupils locked onto the bar code on their I.D. card files appeared, which he read in seconds. Within those few seconds he absorbed a great deal. The woman was Doctor Genesis Hamilton. Apparently, she was their reactivation team manager. The man who hadn’t spoken at all since he’d awoken was Edward Myers, an intern serving under Hamilton. All of them turned their eyes toward the man with the gleaming eyes.
“Dr. Krenzler, we await your orders,” they all said in unison like a stale chorus.
Hamilton stepped forward. “You models were defective, but we've reactivated you all after a little readjustment. Time for roll call. You will be called from left to right. Answer accordingly.”
She was hoping all eight of these units were now in working order. All of them were early ones, all within the First Fifty. Their malfunctions had forced Neeson to return them to hibernation until revisions could be made and now the time had come, almost a solid three years later.
“S.S.C Unit 9,” said the first.
“S.S.C Unit 13,” reported the next.
The man stood at attention. It would soon be his turn, and he wouldn't falter. As the soldier next to him called out, his unit number popped up. He read it aloud as he had been ordered to:
“S.S.C Unit 21, sir.”
Unit 21 stood under the bright lights in the freezing room. To him temperature was just a number, and he paid it no mind. Instead, he pondered on the next stage of this process. He was ready for an assignment more than anything else in the world.
Unit 21 wanted to use his body for the first time. Subtly as he could, he began to turn his gaze away from the humans inspecting them.
The cyborg looked down at his forearm muscle, noting the small hairs. His light brown skin reflected a bit of the light, drying ever so slowly. Unit 21 looked up again to see Dr. Krenzler walking toward him. His eyes focused on his master. Have I done something wrong? It seemed so, for his smile was completely gone.
“Unit 21, I hear they refer to you as The Grim Reaper. Morbid but memorable no doubt.”
“I don’t recall, sir. I've never seen anything beyond that darkness.”
Hamilton and Myers watched on in silence, their eyes locked onto the scene.
“No? Give it time, soldier. Soon enough bits and pieces of your valiant acts will return to you. Observe, can you tell me your enlist date?”
“Doctor, I don’t follow you.”
“The date you officially became a part of the SSF.”
Will’s CPU was sending him information. Within the fragments of milliseconds, he was reading through files concerning his training camp, his original drill sergeant and so much more. He finally seemed to find what he was looking for. He hoped.
“March 2045, sir.”
Dr. Krenzler nodded silently.
“You see? The process has already started.”
The cyborg felt relief as Krenzler patted him on the shoulder. Unit 21 no longer gazed at anything besides the doctor.
“These robots are impressive, sir,” commented Myers as he finally spoke.
“Cyborgs, Myers,” Krenzler corrected, “Cyborgs. The robot is such a demeaning term if you'd like my opinion. Now, let’s get down to what matters. What is your number one priority, above all other functions?”
To obey commands without question, sir!” they all said in unison. It was quite the sight. Indeed, they were in working order all right. Krenzler walked back over to Hamilton and Myers.
“They are just as the Chancellor and Neeson envisioned them: perfect soldiers free from pain, desire, and fear.”
“Is that so?” Myers asked.
“Yes, and their loyalty will be undying. Their prime directive is submission. You cyborgs hear that? Any UNR official is your superior, even this intern over here.”
In an alien-like fashion, all eigh
t of them stared at Myers. He realized they were awaiting an actual request from him, and he found his mouth dry. Frankly, this disturbed him.
“I see, Doctor. Now send them away.”
Krenzler cleared his throat.
“Here are your first orders: go get your gear and meet up with your partners in the storage area.”
“Yes, sir!”
As they walked away in a single file line, Unit 21 could hear every word they were saying. They all could, but it was of no concern to them. If it was not an order, then it never was.
“So, they’re finally perfect,” Myers said.
“No, these units are still damaged no matter what we do,” Hamilton clarified.
Krenzler now stood close to Hamilton, his tone drastically different. This man had a tone to his voice that told the doctor that he wasn’t blind to the harsh realities that had befallen the project.
“I know we’ve had setbacks. It’s regrettable that the neurosurgery required for the reflex augmentation has led to severe fragmented memory for these units. I know for some of the First Fifty the damage is irreversible, but we know what state these minds would be in if we had not intervened.”
“If you and I were in complete agreement, then the ‘First Fifty,’ as you call them, would be disbanded entirely. In little over a year, we will have reached our goal of 144,000 units. What do these few matter?” Hamilton said.
“We cannot allow such waste. You know that the people’s money made this project possible and we have to utilize our neoartium as best we can.”
***
S.S.C Unit 21 arrived at his locker. He was thankful it was a few down from the rest of the super soldiers. The locker itself perplexed him since there was no sign of a lock or a keypad to input a pin. What there was provided was a black screen on the door. The computer, its sensors had picked up someone in front of the locker, spoke to him:
“Identification,” the monotone voice demanded.
“S.S.C Unit 21,” Will answered.
There was a pause of no sound. Will guessed there was some step he’d forgotten, but this wasn’t so.
“Place hand on the scanner for verification.”
The small black screen before him lit up to a dim yellow. An animatic showed the image of a hand with its fingers spread. Below there was a short sentence: PLEASE ALLOW 3 SECONDS TO SCAN.
Will did accordingly. After the three seconds, there was a loud beep and a click.
“Welcome, S.S.C Unit 21.”
Inside was just as cold as in the room itself. Neatly folded on the bottom of the storage unit were a long-sleeved black shirt and gray pants. Besides them were his boots and against the wall was the infamous cyborg armor. On a hanger was a black leather overcoat, and the smell assured him it was brand new. These items were pieces of himself and placing each one back on felt divine. Glove by glove, boot by boot, he became complete.
As he put on his belt, he saw something lying at the bottom of his locker. Unlike everything else inside, this item was blood red. Will knelt to pick it up, inspecting it closely. It was soft to the touch and had clear signs of fading in some areas. What use is this rag?
The longer he held it in his hands, and the more his pupils lingered on it, he began to see more.
He was no longer in the storage area standing in front of his locker. He was crawling through mud, caked in the thick muck with rain pouring down on him. Ahead of him was nothing but more mud and above him was a cloudy sky and barbed wire. The cold sunk down into his fingertips, but his heart was blazing. If there was an end to his task, he couldn’t see it. Besides the sloshing through puddles, there was another sound he could not place. The more he crawled, the louder it seemed to get.
It was when his body began to slow, his muscles burning, that the sound became a droning siren.
“Goddamn it, Marconi! Hurry your ass up! We’re all waiting for you!”
Hearing that scathing voice, Will’s elbows dug into the waterlogged earth. Move! Come on!
“I seriously cannot believe you still have that old rag!”
Will flinched. This voice had rung directly in his ears. He turned his head to see a man had entered his quarters. He wore an overcoat like his, but it was dark blue. After a few seconds of staring, it came to him.
“Luis? It’s you,” Will said.
The two embraced, an unconscious action on Will’s part. New memories returned to him, pushing out the image of the lowly, wheezing, trainee in the rain. Now he saw battlefields covered in layers of corpses. He and this man, S.S.C Unit 18, stood over them all. The image of weakness was washed away.
“Who else would be your partner, you dunce?” Luis joked. He stood there oddly quiet for a moment. Is that…it is. Will could see the formation of tears in Luis’ eyes, something he was sure he’d never seen before.
“How long was I gone?”
“Three years, Will.”
Unit 21 raised his eyebrows in mild shock. “Have I missed much?”
“Just a little, but they woke your ass up just in time to get some action. Plenty to go around, too.”
“Great. When do I get my sword back?”
Luis chuckled, clapping his hands. “Goddamn, I missed you! Still, protocol says you need a few weeks of training before any combat.”
“Training? You’re joking.”
“I can’t say that I am. Just to get you back into the groove of things. On the bright side, the op Kane has in mind is a class act. You pass all your tests, and you can join me on a flight to the Far East.”
Will smirked.
“Then let’s get started.”
***
San Antonio, Texas
What a turnout. Dwight once more stood in front of the Cathedral of San Fernando. This time the audience was larger. Much larger. Today there was not just the young. People of all ages were there. Most importantly, he could see the cameras amongst the crowd. Real cameras, not just phones. He could also spot the PSID operatives as well. It wasn’t because they wore armor or brandished a gun. No, he could tell by the way they looked at him. Without a podium to stand behind, he felt nude. The only thing left to do was what he was best at talking.
“I’m glad you all could join me this morning,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I stood in front of a group of so many people. For those that don’t know, my name is Dwight Terry, former governor of the province of Texas. Years ago, the old system I was a part of fell to pieces. From the ashes of it, the people chose Venloran to be our leader. Ever since then, we’ve been a truly united people. Recently, though, there have been people willing to tear that unity apart.
“They would claim they do it for peace or out of principle, but what principle is more important than loyalty? Chancellor Venloran has a vision: a vision of a world that is joined together as one. Right now, we are fulfilling that dream. Every day, more people are taking up the fight. We will win eventually. We will become one people! The people who fight unity are cowards. They fear the glorious future and what it will bring! Let us, brothers and sisters, not be deterred on our path to glory, righteousness and victory! We are untouchable, invincible, and unbreakable!”
Zaneta watched the broadcast on the telescreen. Her apple-cinnamon coffee cake was intact, and her French Roast coffee steamed away. Eli saw her fist was curled on the table. As Dwight droned on, everyone else in the café cheered.
“Together, step-by-step, we’ll bring a new dawn to this world!” the man yelled. Eli felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Zaneta, it’s time,” he said.
She kept scrutinizing the speech, a distinct vein on her forehead. This time he also tapped her arm. When she turned to face him, it was Eli who flinched.
“What?!” Zaneta said.
“It’s time,” he repeated. Now that she heard him, her tone and whole-body language changed.
“Eli, I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I’m pissed, too.”
Zanet
a chugged her coffee. It was only lukewarm, but she despised wasting a drink.
***
Sonora, Texas
Zaneta and Eli arrived at the apartments, Zaneta parking before they made their way toward Room 215. As they got to the door, they walked past a playground full of children. They frolicked in the grass for a game of soccer as others were on the swings. They just don’t know, Zaneta thought harshly. She remembered when she was their age, full of naivety. Her father and mother used to take her to parks just like these. Now the memory only angered her.
Zaneta kept gazing at their soccer game as Eli knocked on the door. When it opened, they were greeted by a woman with a pixie cut with a high fade. Her hair was a sangria shade.
“Ma’am,” they both greeted. Ruby waved them inside.
“Come on in, guys.”
Inside were a lot more people than the small apartment was made to accommodate. Most of the people, if not all, looked around their age. They sat at on the floor checking magazines as others watched the news on the telescreen in the living room. The air reeked of cigarettes and leftover California burritos. No matter what each person was doing, they all turned their heads to stare at the pair.
Ruby brought them to the kitchen where seated at a table was a man older looking than most here, but still very young. His mustache was thin, and his hair hung over his eyebrows. Now he was cleaning the dismantled pieces of an M-16.
“Jesse, they’re here,” Ruby told him. Jesse nodded as he applied more spray and kept wiping away. When he seemed done, the barrel glimmered under the bright kitchen light. He looked up at the two of them, appearing casual. All the while, Dwight’s speech was being broadcasted in the room opposite.
Zaneta saw his eyes focusing on the speech and looked downward at her shoes. Eli gawked at the many guns on the table alone.
“I heard you guys attended his speech on Friday,” Jesse said dryly. “Even tried to get a few of us to go with you. Goddamn, that was dumb.”
Zaneta couldn’t even bring herself to raise her head, but Eli felt insulted.
“We saw it as a sign of change, sir. A guy like him turning would’ve legitimized the movement for a lot of the older population,” he remarked.
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