Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project)

by Catherine Miller

  A low chuckle, more sardonic than anything. “How is that fair?”

  Cydrin pulled out the cylinder, feeling a surge of satisfaction that a small measure of control was his once more. “Because we have masks and you do not. And I can assure you that I did not use my full arsenal on the rest of the station.”

  A pause, and Cydrin waited for the blaster to return to power, but the sound did not come. “Fair enough,” the man called back.

  And however stupidly, stepped forward, dropping the blaster at his feet.

  Cydrin could have shot him right then, and probably should have. But curiosity bade him wait, when explanation was preferable to wandering about looking for bodies that were not there and possibly finding more trouble along the way.

  That did not mean Cydrin released his weapons. The cylinder was placed at this waist and the blaster remained at the ready, primed and prepared to fire should he feel the need to do so.

  He was crouched low, but Clairy turned, peering over the desk and seeing that the man was free of his weapons, she began to stand.

  Cydrin grabbed her but she gave him a fierce look. “He surrendered to you,” she reminded him. “Conversation clearly has its place.”

  He did not doubt that. What concerned him was that things could turn quickly, and he did not want her to bear the brunt of the damage.

  But she was determined, and unless he was willing to bodily detain her, the best he could manage was to pen some of her impulses into something more useful.

  “Remain behind me,” he insisted, his eyes darting about for signs of anyone else joining them.

  There were none, but his skin prickled with awareness, and he could not be certain if the sensation was based on any rational instinct or simple caution. The man smiled at their approach, rolling lightly on the balls of his feet and back, seemingly unconcerned by the dangers.

  “I had a plan you know,” he admonished with a shake of his head. “I’ve been here for over three months, waiting and learning. And then you two show up and I have to scramble to pull it all together.”

  Cydrin’s finger was stiff against the trigger. “Pull what together?” he questioned, his patience thin. None of this felt right, and it was wearing on him. He did not know how long it would be before he simply shot everyone on sight and took Clairy away again.

  Likely what he should have done from the start.

  The man tilted his head slightly. “You really can’t recognise me for what I am?”

  Clairy interjected before Cydrin could command the man to speak plainly. “Are you like Cydrin? Someone... someone born like him?”

  The man showed a hint of distaste before he covered it quickly. “Not exactly like him, no. He must be a second-born. Or maybe even a first.” His eyes flickered over Cydrin’s form, assessing. “I’m a fourth. Built for charm, you know?” Another smile, disarming in its way, built for beauty. For when seduction and flattery allowed for better access than subterfuge and careful planning. “Were you the one that took out the Beta facility? That did come as a surprise.”

  Cydrin merely stared, feeling no need to answer to the man before him. “And where do you factor into this?” he continued, peering around Cydrin to get a better look at Clairy. “Martna, was it?” Another flash of his teeth, and Cydrin did not know how it could be considered charming when all he saw was a threat. “I did not think that our beauties were out amongst the populace yet.”

  He could not see her clearly and he was unwilling to turn his head from his prey long enough to get a good look at her, but her voice was firm as she responded to him. “I’m not important,” she hedged, her tone absolute. “I think you’d better tell us what you’ve been up to before Cydrin gets impatient.”

  The damaged tank gave another splutter, a light flashing in warning of its malfunction. As if the exposed wires and spluttering were not evidence enough of the pod’s distress.

  The man gave an easy shrug, his mannerisms so natural that Cydrin felt a tinge of envy. This man would assimilate easily. Obviously had, to the point where the masters had employed him as a regular worker rather than the slave that he must have been originally. “I could,” he agreed. “Or, if you’d trust me enough to follow along, I could show you.”

  Cydrin raised the blaster. The shot would be a simple one. A single press and a streak of orange would go through his brain. He might die, or he might not, but his incapacitation would be immediate. One through the heart would stop it quickly enough, though that was more risky. Two shots might be preferable, to ensure that the muscle was truly obliterated, resuscitation impossible.

  “I think you had better give a bit of an explanation now,” Clairy suggested, in case Cydrin’s posture was not answer enough. There would be no trust. Not here. Not in the walls of this ridiculous station.

  The man—though Cydrin supposed he was not truly that. Not fully at least—had enough thought of his preservation that he rubbed at his chin, a slight look of discomfort coming to his features. “You aren’t one for compromise, are you?”

  Cydrin gave a shot over his shoulder, and if it was enough to graze his skin ever so gently, then perhaps that was intentional.

  The man gasped and clapped a hand over the wound, though it was clean and no blood would be produced, staunched by the shot itself.

  He grimaced, a hint of irritation coming to his eyes, but he began speaking.

  And that was quite the point.

  16

  Clairy was forced to fight with her own impulses—the one urging her to go check the man’s injury to see if he required assistance, and the one that wanted her to jerk the blaster out of Cydrin’s hold before he could make use of it again. She had been making progress and he was being close-minded and foolish rather than simply allowing her to help.

  How he’d wanted all along.

  It was less difficult than she thought to speak of us and we, to refer to them both as the unlikely team they had become. She might not condone his methods, might not approve his overall mission, but she understood it.

  Standing in that lab, likely similar, if not identical, to the one where he had been first created...

  A triumph of science to be certain. But twisted and perverted into something evil.

  And it could not be tolerated.

  There were so many people being created in the other rooms, the rows of them nearly taking her breath from her. Men and women alike, with no childhoods to teach them in between.

  How had Cydrin learned?

  How had this other man?

  They were so different, a testament to the changes in approach that must have occurred between their generations. This new man was almost too handsome, his smiles enough to cause her heart to flutter, whether in warning or in attraction, she could not begin to say.

  She did not trust him, not fully, but the shots had ceased and that was quite enough for her.

  And if Cydrin would be patient just a little longer, perhaps they might learn what had transpired in this portion of the station.

  The man scowled at Cydrin but made no movements to retrieve the blaster he’d dropped upon the floor, likely sparing his life in the process. “That was uncalled for,” he complained, gripping his shoulder as if his hand could protect it from anymore of Cydrin’s abuses.

  Cydrin raised the blaster again and she struggled not to move, to keep her hand from straying to his arm, to grip and hold, to make him wait.

  “All right, all right,” the man groused. “Can’t say I’m displeased I haven’t had to work with your lot before.”

  “Surprising, since one of my lot should have been sent to retrieve you.”

  A roguish grin. “He tried. He’s dead now.”

  Clairy felt strangely detached from such easy talk of death and violence. Perhaps she was growing numb to the horrors to be found here, to learning of what the people within the Project were truly like.

  Or maybe she had simply reached her fill today, unable to process anything more. She might feel it
later, might struggle to make sense of all that she had heard, but for now...

  It was tedious.

  “Where are the doctors?” she asked at last, feeling more weary than she had in an age.

  The man looked oddly disappointed. Perhaps he wanted a show, wanted to shock and surprise an audience—he seemed the type that liked people to fawn over him, to delight in his successes.

  She preferred Cydrin’s manner. Direct and to the point. When she gave a compliment, he would give her that peculiar look, as if nothing was less necessary than for her to acknowledge a kindness or a tenant of his character. “Locked up and ready for processing. Was doing final checks to make sure I hadn’t missed anyone along the way.”

  Clairy took a step forward now that she had better control of herself and wouldn’t fling herself at either party, whether in retaliation or defence, since neither would be appreciated. “Processing?”

  The man gawked at her. “Have you seriously been trying to do all of this on your own? And you thought that would work? I got the authorities involved. Or, at least, I will. When I’m good and ready.” A hint of malice flitted through his eyes, a cold juxtaposition to the warmth he seemed to naturally exude. How was charisma manipulated by genetic selection? How did they know how to make someone like him?

  By taking it all away from men like Cydrin.

  The realisation was slow and sickly, and she swallowed down the feeling, hating it all the while. These were not people. Not to the researchers for the Project. They were just bodies to be tampered with, minds to be shaped into their intended uses.

  And she’d worked there.

  Had been grateful to work there.

  “Surrendering them to the authorities is inefficient,” Cydrin countered. “Their research will still be available, and while you might find some with good intentions, others will see the draw and make similar facilities. Perhaps even perfect what the Project could not.”

  The man shrugged. “I intend to make a show of it, of course. Got all sorts of vids cooked up that will go throughout this region of the galaxy. Want everyone to see what’s been happening beneath their noses.”

  The damaged tank gave another splutter, a low keen beginning. She’d tried to ignore it, unable to stomach watching a baby writhe inside. Was it afraid? Could babies feel fear even before they were born?

  She clenched her hands together, trying to keep from looking.

  She failed.

  The men were arguing, Cydrin insisting that they should destroy the facility entirely. The other, which Clairy tended to agree with, rightfully pointed out that there was another complex deeper into the recesses of the galaxy. “Are you going to take that one on too? With just your lady here for backup? Drag her across the rest of the ‘verse?”

  Clairy stopped listening. She had little say in what happened next, and doubtlessly Cydrin had intended them to do so. They would stop along the way for fuel and to recharge the power cells, but he would see his mission finished.

  And then what?

  Let her go back home? And what of him? He wouldn’t make it on his own. Not in any good way. He would fall into old habits; dark, ingrained instincts that would see him fed and clothed, but ultimately would have him taking on the nefarious work that the Project had required of him. Only this time he could not claim to be their slave, a mere tool. He would choose it.

  Because he knew nothing else.

  She abandoned the men, walking over to the tank. The baby was going to die, she was certain of that. But that did not mean it had to be alone.

  That she had to be alone.

  She could know a kind voice, murmuring to her that Clairy was sorry, that she should not have to die like this. That she was a pretty baby, with a soft puff of light hair. Her eyes would be that newborn blue that Clairy knew so well, having seen it time and again looking back at her from a new sibling’s face.

  “I’m sorry, little one,” she whispered, wishing she was good with tech, that she knew anything at all that might help.

  There would have been babies like this in the last facility. Ones slightly older, too. Obliterated along with the rest of the staff.

  Was that really the best way? She couldn’t imagine so.

  Another spark and the metal claw that was holding the pod together began to give way.

  This wasn’t right. Cydrin could say what he liked, could justify all he wanted about the rest of them, but this... watching a baby die and simply standing there...

  “I want to help this one,” she called out, interrupting their squabble. She did not know who was winning, nor did she particularly care. Not when her focus was entirely elsewhere.

  Neither man moved, but she could feel their attention settling on her. She did not want to tear her eyes away from the baby, but she did so, meeting Cydrin’s gaze. “You can choose to do what you like. I can’t stop you from doing a lot, and I’m not really sure that I should anyway. But I want to help this baby.”

  She could feel that he was ready to argue with her. Probably conjuring all sorts of rationales for her. But she wouldn’t accept them. There were so many, and she knew she could not help them all. But this one...

  This one was in distress, seeming to realise on some visceral level the danger that was coming for it. If the claw fell, the baby would surely die upon impact with the hard metal floor. And Clairy had witnessed many deaths, more than she had ever thought she would have to endure, but that was not one she was prepared to see.

  “Please, Cydrin,” she entreated. “Just... let me help one.” She would not ask for more, though the desire to do so was there. To back up the newcomer, to give her support for a surer sense of justice. One that did not include wiping out an entire people, one that might see some of his kind saved. Freed. To be integrated into a world not quite meant for them, but one that might need them anyway. Not for parts, not for killing. But as members of a whole.

  “Please,” she said again, looking back at the pod. To the little girl with the bunched up fists, squirming away, alive. At least for the moment.

  She would try, even if he refused to assist her, but she hadn’t the least idea of how the tanks worked. Did they open at the top, or did they release from the bottom, plunging a newborn into another, larger pod before they could even draw a first breath? She would not know where to grab should it begin to fall—cling to the glass itself, or try to catch a slippery infant before it hit the unforgiving floor below?

  Clairy was growing more agitated, her anger beginning to fester at Cydrin’s inaction. She had compromised a great deal of herself for his benefit. Had wrestled with her beliefs and understandings of the world in order to be his friend. And she asked comparatively little in return, just one life. One innocent that Clairy could remember, could dwell upon when she wanted to castigate herself for her participation of something many would condemn her for.

  Footsteps finally echoed, and she dared not look, unable to take the disappointment if they were not Cydrin’s. Dread filled her that he would remain unmoved by her pleas, that it would be the other man, so much more human in his manner, likely possessing a far great capacity for empathy than the man she...

  What? Cared for? Loved? Even in a small way that felt wholly different from all the other sorts she had experienced before.

  She sensed him before she even turned her head to acknowledge his presence, familiar and a blessed relief. Anxiety kept her from thanking him, too preoccupied with the imminent disaster, but she managed a quick look, a tiny smile, before she once again turned her full attention to the malfunctioning device.

  Cydrin still said nothing, and for a brief moment, she feared that he had not come closer to help at all, only to support her while she watched. She was not certain she could forgive him that, if ever he realised he would need to ask for such forgiveness.

  “I know she’s small,” she entreated, still trying to persuade. “I’m not saying that she’ll make it for certain. I just...” tears obscured her vision. “I’d like t
o try.”

  He probably thought her foolish. A sentimental child in a world with no room for such fancies. She should be practical, recognise that the baby was not fully to term, and realise she had no medical training of her own. Perhaps if there were a fleet of doctors willing to treat her, to help her to mature in any areas she was lacking.

  Clairy didn’t even have milk for her.

  She wasn’t a mother. Hadn’t given any thought to that role. But she knew how to be a sister, to tend a little one when her own mother needed rest. And she could try.

  Which is more than anyone else would do for her here. Even the host of doctors that Cydrin’s counterpart had detained wouldn’t help. She would simply be a flaw, a speck of data to be written down and explained away.

  Not a person. Not someone to be mourned.

  Cydrin reached into his pocket again, and she prepared herself for whatever weapon would emerge, either as a tool to help, or something to end it altogether.

  But instead there was as pair of gloves, and Clairy belatedly realised their function as he donned them, electricity licking at the air, sparks of it coming to the fabric of his covered hands but finding no purchase there. The blaster was slung over his shoulder as he grappled with the claw, trying to get it to release without resorting to more extreme methods.

  Until finally, it gave way.

  Belatedly Clairy realised she had ceased breathing, air returning to her with a relieved gasp when the tank was safely in his arms rather than the floor.

  Tubes hung from the metal above, and relief turned to action as Clairy hurried forward. “She won’t be able to breathe,” she worried, wanting to reach forward and open the pod but uncertain how to do so.

  Cydrin moved with certainty, placing the pod gently on the floor, balancing it with one hand while he opened it with the other. “You shall have to remove her,” he ordered, apparently unwilling to attempt it with only available appendage.