by Edward Zajac
And this was wrong.
The only question was how.
He had tried diplomacy before, but that didn’t work. He had tried threats, but that only delayed the inevitable. That left only one other option as far as Fletcher was concerned.
An option Fletcher always dreaded.
He sniffled, blinking away tears. Why couldn’t he be more like those sentients, both fictional and actual, who could think their way out of any situation? Like that one infuriating physician who kept popping up all the time. The one with the fedora and the long, multi-colored scarf that stretched all the way to the ground. “Ooh, I can solve any problem with only my mind.”
That bastard was the worst.
His assistants, however, were a different story.
(The SAHSMB would once again like to condemn such disgusting attempts at humor. They are puerile and have no place in polite sentient society. And if you could send a copy of said condemnation to each of our wives, we’d really appreciate it.)
The physician could always save the day. But not Fletcher. His mind just didn’t work that way. It was the Noomani in him.
Fletcher balled his hands into fists when another guard kicked a Weiylan for no apparent reason than for his own enjoyment. Maybe Dahlia was right. Maybe Kahpuani wasn’t the answer. Maybe if the Weiylans actually fought, actually revolted against their captors…
But then they’d be warriors, just like they were all those years ago when they nearly slaughtered each other. All because this Weiylan wasn’t from the same clan as that Weiylan.
Fletcher chuckled to himself. It was like being home again.
“Did you hear everything I just said?” said a distant voice.
“Hmm?” said Fletcher, turning. Dahlia was staring at him, expectantly. Probably expecting that he’d been paying attention to her this whole time if the look on her face was any indication. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Absolutely. Heard everything you said.”
“Then what was I just talking about?”
“Ummmm,” said Fletcher. “You were talking about the ship.”
“And what did I just say about the ship?”
“Ummmm,” said Fletcher. “You know, the usual. Where I can find central command. Where they conduct their experiments. Stuff like that.”
“Good,” said Dahlia. “For a moment there, I didn’t think you were paying attention. There are barracks on every floor. Yours is on level three. C-85.”
“Right,” said Fletcher. “So, what’s my job on this ship?”
“Oh, you get one of the stellar jobs on this ship,” said Dahlia. “You work the tank.”
“Of course I do,” Fletcher grumbled morosely.
“You gonna be all right with that?” said Dahlia softly, bowing her head to a passing guard.
“You’d be surprised what I can handle,” said Fletcher as they came upon a maglift.
“Good,” said Dahlia. “Take the magcar down to level eight. And if anyone talks to you, remember you’re a Geffen.”
“Onsee-ow-ow-wee.”
“Right,” said Dahlia. “After that, meet me back at Storage room A-480.”
“Won’t that look suspicious?”
“Not at all,” said Dahlia. “Kweek and I meet every day for… personal training.”
A shiver trembled down Fletcher’s spine. “I assume you couldn’t say no.”
“I could have,” said Dahlia. “But then who would watch over Rama?”
Fletcher nodded. “You’re a tough woman, Dahlia.”
Dahlia shrugged. “Is there any other kind?”
letcher exited the maglift. The corridor on Level 8 was identical to the one uplift–long, white, and absolutely bright. There were two guards marching towards him and four Weiylans crossing in the distance, pushing a biobed into a far room.
But otherwise, the area was empty.
Fletcher sighed. Dahlia could have at least told him a little bit about this place. Something, anything. Of course, maybe she had. But if she had, then she should have paid more attention to see if Fletcher was actually paying attention and then she would have known that he hadn’t been paying attention, which would have been worth her attention.
So, whose fault was it really?
One of the approaching guards pointed back towards the Weiylans. “Eesee’s waiting for you. He’s about to shell himself so I’d get a move on.”
“Yep yep,” said Fletcher, with a quick nod. He dropped his head then followed the Weiylans inside a far room, pausing at the doorway to appraise the area.
And after some thoughtful appraising, he decided it wasn’t worth shleck.
The room was a massive medlab, full of medscanners, biobeds, enormous servers, and technicians of all shapes and sizes. A puralit sanitary bulb illuminated the area, giving the room and everyone inside an eerie green tinge. Six lab technicians, dressed in scrubs that covered their bodies from head to toe, wandered back and forth between various machines, stopping only long enough to note a reading onto a datapad before moving on. Two techs, a gold skinned Lassen male and a Bylarian with smooth, ageless black features, sat on the other side of a plastiglass pane, looking down upon the medlab below.
Fletcher’s eyes were instantly drawn to the biobeds. Or what the locals lovingly called the tank. Tubes weaved in and out of twenty biobeds, wending along the floor in a serpentine fashion before terminating at a teardrop shaped reclamation jar in the middle of the room. Every so often, a thick, unctuous liquid would drip into the jar, disturbing the still liquid. It looked green, but that was only because of the puralit bulb. Fletcher knew its true color. It was white. Thick and white.
Two Weiylans wheeled a biobed into place, anchoring it to the floor with four deusteel bolts and a gravmag repulser. They nodded their heads, smiling at a tech before leaving.
“About time you’re here,” said Eesee, a Lerandan guard. “I’ve got a fleet sticking out of my Wave Gate. Damn those Starlight rations.”
“Ena-up-up-ena mo-ay,” said Fletcher, feeling a pang of guilt for his Geffen gibberish.
“Yeah, whatever,” said the guard, absently. “They’re about to start so just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.”
Fletcher decided to never take theater advice from Eesee in the future. Not only did he not enjoy the show, he thought the actors should have been fired, the director hanged, and the writer publicly flogged for stylusing such a horrid script.
It began innocuously enough; a faint hum somewhere in the distance. Then came the screams. Even though the beds were magbolted to the floor, some beds actually wracked, tearing plasticrete tiles from the floor as the Weiylans flailed at the images in their minds.
That was evidently due to a recent upgrade to the biobeds. This was according to one scientist who just wouldn’t shut up about the whole process. Up until recently, the scientists had used projected images and sensory deprivation to stimulate the Weiylans. Now, they used a cortical tap at the base of the skull to tap directly into the Weiylan’s neurological system.
“That was my idea,” said the scientist. “We now get three times the amount of serum. And it’s so much more concentrated now. It barely requires any distillation.”
Fletcher glanced down at the scientist’s nametag. Sicil. He jotted the name down on his mental black book. Fletcher had two mental books. A black one for scum like this and a red one for all the loves in his life. And the likes. And the why nots. And the eh, I could do worses.
A far biobed suddenly grew ominously still.
“Sunning weakling,” said Sicil, more annoyed that concerned. “She didn’t even make it three sessions.” He tapped the comm on his lapel. “Bint, send that blue fellot of yours down here. We lost another one.” He turned back towards Fletcher. “I don’t know why they send us females. They can’t handle anywhere near the same amount of stress.”
“Yep yep,” said Fletcher levelly, eyeing the scientist obliquely. Although Sicil didn’t know it, his name was shooting up the charts on Fletche
r’s Black Book of Comeuppance.
The entire harvesting process came to a halt. Every few minutes, Sicil would glance down at his datapad then shake his head in dismay.
“Where is that sunning fellot?” he said, tapping his frustration out on the tiles beneath his feet. “Every delay means credits out of my account. I say we just collar the bluies, bed ‘em, then toss ‘em. And if they revolt like Xa claimed they did years ago, I say we cull ‘em and move on. But no. Boss lady says we have to be gentle with ‘em. Sunning bureaucrats.” Sicil threw his hands into the air when Rama finally arrived. “It’s about sunning time.”
“Sor-ree,” said Rama. “Rama just…”
“I don’t care,” said Sicil. “Just get her out of here, and be quick about it.”
Rama nodded then scrambled over to the biobeds. When two medtechs opened the cover, Fletcher’s heart nearly broke, because Rama’s surely did.
The blue beast’s shoulders sagged at the sight of the Weiylan woman lying there naked on the biobed. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, her face set in a perpetual state of terror.
Rama sniffled slightly, squinting as if in pain. He slid his hand over her face, gently closing her eyes. Then with the care of a mother lifting her newborn for the very first time, Rama slipped his hands beneath her lifeless body and lifted her into the air. Her head collapsed against his shoulder as if seeking refuge there, her long, thick, and somewhat oily black hair draping her face like a shroud while the rest of her dangled limply from his arms.
And yet no one there seemed to care. The technicians were busy checking their datapads while a few scientists, like Sicil, looked annoyed by the inconvenience.
But that was it. Nothing more.
It was MEocity at its finest.
MEocity was the brainchild of Dr. Bootron Smeth, a sentient psychologist from Bylar Prime focusing on the subjectivity of sentient morality. After conducting nearly twenty thousand experiments on over twenty different planets, he determined that sentient morality was malleable, based solely on whether or not said ethic directly affected said sentient or not.
Of course, the death penalty was a just and reasonable tool in the justice system, unless you’re talking about my cousin because he’s really a good guy, no matter what he did to all those women. Yes, child labor was bad, but I can get a Magi PCD-5000 for only two hundred and fifty credits, which helps the economy so…
MEocity: putting the me in metaethics since the dawn of civilization. After all, I am me so whatever I think is right because I thought it.
Fletcher couldn’t even imagine what Rama was going through right now. He couldn’t even imagine why Rama had volunteered for this onerous job.
That must have been Dahlia’s idea. But why? What was her plan?
Unfortunately, before an answer came to mind, another question cut in front of those other pertinent questions, even though each one of those questions had taken a number and queued up in a calm and reasonable fashion as a civilized society demanded.
Fletcher looked up and thought, Why is Rama carrying the body with absolute ease?
Only one answer came to mind. Rama forgot what Dahlia told him. And that could mean disaster for the great blue beast. If these techs saw his true strength, Rama would be the next contestant on that unpopular reality show, The Weiylan Tank.
Even though he didn’t like it, Fletcher stormed forward and kicked the great blue beast in the back of the knee. Rama instantly collapsed to the ground, as if genuflecting.
“Esse-up-up-dee,” said Fletcher, tapping at the KWEEKORE on his lifesuit. He then tapped Rama on the head before pointing down at the lifeless Weiylan.
Rama looked up, his eyes wide.
Come on, thought Fletcher, trying to send his thoughts via t-mail: the hip, new telepathic way to communicate. Come on, you gentle blue bastard. Figure out what I’m trying to say.
But Rama just knelt there and stared. Fletcher began to lose hope for himself and for Rama. And then it came. Rama nodded slowly, moaning and groaning as he staggered to his feet.
Yes, you magnificent giant. Yes.
“Esse-up-up-dee,” said Fletcher, striking Rama on the right shoulder blade. The blue beast stumbled forward, even though the strike probably hurt Fletcher more than it did Rama.
Dahlia appeared just as Rama reached the doorway, the corners of her mouth rising in something resembling a smile.
“It’s about sunning time you came,” said Sicil. “Dispose of that one and bring us another. Kweek, go with her. And pick out a strong one this time. No females.”
“Eesa-yep-yep,” said Fletcher, standing at attention.
Sicil rolled his eyes. “What did I tell you about that Geffen talk? Either learn to speak Universal properly or shut the stars up, you felling idiot.”
“Yes,” said Fletcher softly, bowing his head. “Sorry.”
Although Sicil didn’t know it, he was propelling himself to the top of Fletcher’s mental black book, just past Mr. Horowitz who said the privateer would never amount to anything in life.
How wrong he had been.
letcher didn’t dare say a word as he followed Dahlia and Rama down the hallway. He knew that would have been the ultimate insult, especially since Rama was currently reciting the Weiylan Eternal Rites of the Dead. It was an ancient Weiylan ritual where a fellow clansperson would quietly intone his or her own sins unto the recently departed who would then champion said Weiylan’s case before the great Welan, creator of all that was good and holy.
The Weiylans had rites for many of life’s landmark moments such as the Eternal Rites of New Life, Eternal Rites of Marriage, and the Eternal Rites of the Dead. They even had one for Weiylan puberty called the Eternal Rites of Stop Touching That.
When they reached Engine Room 3, a Lerandan guard with a plump, round face nodded knowingly to himself, as if accustomed to this ritual. He typed a code into a numpad and an octagonal bulkhead door instantly flung open.
It was like opening the gates to hell. A blast of heat buffeted Fletcher’s lifesuit at nearly fifteen feet away, gently warming his skin. And if he could feel that much heat through his lifesuit, Fletcher could only imagine the excruciating pain Dahlia and Rama were experiencing at the moment, both physically and emotionally.
Inside the chamber, purple flames rippled and heaved over a devilium sea, mauve tendrils lapping the air as if tasting their sudden presence.
Devilium was prized throughout the universe for its utility and versatility. When combined with a nerron gas, devilium burned at nearly 6000 Kellins, which was ideal for dissolving metals down to their base elements. When combined with a plastigel paste, devilium made a wonderful prophylactic. Well, it did until the Starlight Company recently pulled the condom from circulation after an unfortunate accident on Eion where a Bylarian spontaneously combusted mid-coitus. But as his family said at his funeral, it was the way he would want to go.
Rama and Dahlia grimaced at the relentless heat, but continued nonetheless. When they were within a Weiylan arm’s reach of the chamber, they closed their eyes and placed their hands on the deceased woman’s forehead, Rama’s lips moving as he intoned one last prayer.
Then he tossed the body inside.
The ritual might have seemed callous to some, but anyone familiar with Weiylan mysticism knew it was actually quite touching. Weiylans believed that their bodies were simply fleshy husks within which celestial spirits resided. And when the stroll through this reality came to its inevitable end, the mortal coil had to be purged so that the spirit may continue its long, starry trek to Welan.
With the ritual complete, Dahlia and Rama turned on their heels and walked away. Fletcher fell in step behind them, following them onto another maglift.
“Hangar Bay,” said Dahlia. Once the doors closed, she placed her hand tenderly on Rama’s arm, squeezing it tight. “Good job back there, Rama. I knew you could do it.”
“Rama almost forget.” Rama smiled down at Fletcher. “Until someone mind Rama. Rama
thank Fle… Rama thank KweeKore.”
Fletcher nodded, sniffling away his sadness. “What was her name?” he asked.
Rama inclined his head. “Da-as Anama.”
“It means one whose heart is pure,” said Dahlia plaintively.
Fletcher nodded again. They were all pure of heart. That was why he wanted to help them, then and now.
The maglift doors opened unto another white corridor, only this one was brimming with activity. Guards scurried about like Bylar roaches at the first sign of light. Ten or so guards rounded the corner at full speed while another five took positions on either side of the hallway. A young Weiylan girl trailed after them, dragging a mop across the illumi-tiles while another crawled behind her, wiping the area clean with an orange poffin rag.
Fletcher leaned in close to Dahlia. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Not a clue,” said Dahlia softly. “But it can’t be good.”
“Agreed,” said Fletcher. “Let’s get the Weiylan and get the suns out of here.”
Dahlia led the way down the corridor, stopping outside Hangar Bay 3 where a Lassen guard stood, well, guarding. “Now’s not a good time, binta,” she said. “Come back later.”
“But Sicil needs another subject,” said Dahlia, keeping her head low. “Now.”
“Oh, for…” The guard glanced quickly down the hallway. “Fine. Just be quick about it.”
The hangar door opened with a hiss. Dahlia immediately coughed into her hand, wrinkling her nose as if assaulted by an ungodly smell. Or so Fletcher guessed. He couldn’t smell anything in his lifesuit except the stench of Methanene gas, which the scientists on Erustad described as “fetid and foul, with the slightest hint of cherry.”
But Fletcher could definitely see something. And what he saw was utterly abhorrent.
There must have been at least two hundred Weiylans inside the small hangar, some frighteningly young and others horridly old. Most were dressed in grey uniforms that looked two sizes too small, ripped at the seams in order to fit their bodies. There were no beds, no tents, no creature comforts whatsoever. Just a few ragged old blankets on the ground that Fletcher assumed were their makeshift beds. There was a Class 1 deusteel storage container in the middle of the hangar, its dull red façade streaked with sooty black marks, possibly due to laserfire. The walls of the container were bowed out slightly; the front panel ten feet away, charred and deformed at the edges. Four more deusteel containers lined a nearby wall, one stacked on top of another, reaching all the way up to the ceiling above. Each was scorched and deformed at the edges.