Lifeless

by Adrianne Strickland

  I made it to the third syringe, at least. I managed to find the injection port with the tip of the needle, swaying as I tried to stay upright, and was depressing the plunger when I lost consciousness.

  twenty

  I wasn’t upset when I woke up … because I woke up, rather. I wasn’t happy either. Nor was I surprised, or intrigued, or whatever people feel when they realize they’re not dead.

  I was nothing.

  I sat up, and wasn’t even surprised to find I wasn’t cuffed to the bed. It was a hospital-style bed, but with no metal rails, and the room looked a lot like a hospital room, except the walls and floor were padded.

  So it was that type of hospital room. Even the two doors didn’t have knobs; they were merely flat, equally padded rectangles in the walls. One had a small observation port, but other than that there was only a single window, set high out of reach and letting in dusky light. Or maybe it was dawn. I had no idea.

  I was wearing only the hospital shorts. My shoulder was bandaged, and my arm too, folded and wrapped against my chest like a mummy’s. That had been the arm with the IV in it, so I couldn’t see what damage I’d done. There was a new IV needle taped in my other arm, but I wasn’t hooked up to anything. That didn’t mean I hadn’t been given anything.

  I was awake and alert, no doubt, and I remembered everything. I’d killed Jacques, Drey, and Ryse. Jacques’s death had been against my will, but then I’d very willingly killed Ryse. Drey’s death had involved a bit of both.

  But I felt … nothing.

  They had definitely given me something. They’d done things to numb my body before, but this time my body was fully functional, short of my shoulder. No, they’d screwed with my mind, completely suppressing my emotions.

  I would have been pissed if I could have felt pissed. I even tried to muster something, any feeling at all, and I just couldn’t.

  What I felt was the need to piss. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone. As I stood up, I considered pulling out the IV needle, but then I shrugged and left it. If I removed it, they would only have to put another one in. Besides, I would have had to do it with my teeth, and that would have been a pain.

  A minor inconvenience, rather. But my damned bladder was another story. With my good arm, I knocked on the door with the observation port. I knew the drill.

  “Hey,” I called. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Ten seconds later, a buzz and a click came from the second door. Inside was a toilet. Even the seat was padded.

  When I was finished and back out in the room, I heard the bathroom door re-lock behind me. I rolled my eyes. Another minor inconvenience.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m not going to bash my head on the toilet rim or try to drown myself in the bowl or something unsanitary like that. In fact, I don’t even want to kill myself anymore.”

  Or at least I felt neutral about it.

  “And hey, I don’t really care about anything anymore, so if you want me to pass the Word on to someone else, or have me kill a few more people, I’m fine with that.”

  I wasn’t sure why they hadn’t just done this to me from the beginning, honestly. Then again, I figured it must have been because neither Ryse nor Drey would allow it, for drastically different reasons: Drey wanted me to keep my conscience, and Ryse wanted me to feel as much pain and misery as possible. And since they’d both been my Godspeakers, they’d gotten their way.

  Now I didn’t have a Godspeaker. Nor did I have a conscience.

  Really, it was freeing. I mean, I still cared about certain things or certain people in an abstract way. I cared about Pie. I wouldn’t have minded seeing her. I cared about Khaya, and I wouldn’t have minded seeing her as well. I appreciated that Chantelle was still alive. I would have preferred Jacques and especially Drey to still be alive, but I wasn’t broken up about it.

  Break for me, Ryse had said, before making me kill them. But I hadn’t. And then I’d said the same thing to her, and she had broken. So it had all worked out in the end.

  I had a hunch that I might actually be broken and I just didn’t know it yet, but at least this was how the mathematics of my non-emotions seemed to be working at the moment. I sat on the edge of the bed, my chin in my good hand.

  Then again, maybe I should fix things in case I was broken—make everything as right as possible before I finally fell apart. I’d told Drey things would be all right, after all.

  And Drey had told me something, back in Jiang’s flat in Beijing: Cruithear was the key. He’d been preparing me for something to do with the Word of Shaping. At the recollection, a thought took shape in my mind:

  What else could he have been preparing me to do? There was only one thing I could think of. And why not?

  If I pulled this off, it would realistically be the last thing I ever did. I was fine with that. But to get close enough to her in the first place, I’d have to do a few other things first.

  And honestly, I was fine with that too.

  When I banged on the door, I didn’t ask to see Cruithear or anything obvious like that. I asked to see Swanson.

  He came. I was surprised they even let him, since he was supposedly suspended and under arrest. But then when I saw him enter my padded room without death-proof clothing, his normally immaculate hair and suit disheveled, I realized it was at his own risk. And that no one would really care much if he died.

  I certainly wouldn’t. But I didn’t really care enough to kill him, either. I didn’t even get up from where I sat cross-legged on the bed.

  Before he could open his mouth, I said, “You people really need to decide what you want to do with me. I’m willing to either hand over the Word of Death to an automaton, or, if that route has too many risks, I’m also willing to be the Word of Death and kill whomever you want, whenever you want, however you want, but with a few conditions.”

  Swanson blinked, then sighed. “Tavin, you can’t mean that. You nearly killed yourself. They had to pump you with so much oxygen … ” He grimaced as if remembering. “No one would trust you enough to let you—”

  “Then I’ll earn their trust. I’ll stay locked up, drugged. Hell, I like the drugs. Bring me the people I need to kill at the start. I don’t even have to leave the Athenaeum ever again, as far as I care, though I would be happy to do that too once they trust me enough.”

  He folded his arms. “Are you serious?”

  “As death.” I smiled, and he stepped back. “And I’ll start proving it immediately. Or … let me hand the Word over to an automaton right now. I’m bored, and something needs to happen.”

  “Boredom can be a side effect of the drugs you’re on.”

  I scratched my shoulder, trying to get at an itch under the bandages. “Well, whatever. Make up your minds.”

  “Do you … ” He hesitated. “Do you still want to die? Is this some kind of death wish?”

  I scoffed and dropped my hand. “No, it’s impatience with all the dithering. But I see the City Council’s dilemma: an adult automaton might turn into a death machine if I give it the Word, and, more importantly, it can’t lead them to Khaya. Meanwhile, I’m too unstable and might take the Word of Death into oblivion with me, given the chance. Or, at least, I was unstable. But I’m not now. So what I’m suggesting is they take a risk either way, and either kill me or let me kill people who aren’t myself.”

  Swanson frowned, mulling over what I’d said and looking doubtful. “I’ll … bring your suggestion to the Council. They might not listen to me at all, but I’ll deliver the message.”

  He turned for the door. He was clearly uncomfortable being around me like this. He no doubt didn’t recognize anything that had been his son. That was too bad … for him.

  “Then tell them this too,” I added. “Tell them I can give them the best of both worlds. I’ll be a model Word of Death, almost as good a
s an automaton, until I can pass it off to an actual one … one designed for the Words.”

  He had frozen. “Are you suggesting … ”

  “Yep. I’ll help them find Khaya. Voluntarily.” I felt nothing when I said it. “And then she can bring all the child automatons to life, for the Words. That seems to be the best solution, doesn’t it?”

  Swanson turned back to stare at me in disbelief. “Why would you do that?”

  I shrugged. “Drey always said the Words didn’t belong to people … only to the Gods. I think they’re too much of a burden, frankly. I mean, look at what I’ve had to go through, and now I’m only fine with it because I can’t feel anything. I might as well be an automaton. If the Words were with automatons in the first place, no one human would have to bear this. And you people would no longer have to mold kids into tools … or monsters. Automatons are already tools.”

  Swanson was gaping at me, almost in awe. “I … ” he stuttered. “That’s been my goal all along.”

  He meant it. All this time, he hadn’t just been cruelly using children. It had been eating him up inside, in spite of the fact that he, like everyone else, couldn’t witness power like the Words’ without trying to take it and use it. Maybe, at one point, he’d had a soul like I’d had.

  But neither of us had one anymore.

  “Now we share the same goal,” I said.

  Swanson practically hammered on the door in his eagerness. “This could change everything.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” I said as he hustled out.

  It didn’t take long. I didn’t think it would. My suggestion got the City Council’s attention, and fast. Swanson returned with Carlin, Angelina, and five other people in tow who were vaguely familiar, all men and women in suits with gray or graying hair. Council members, I imagined, and other Godspeakers I hadn’t yet met.

  But only Swanson came into the room. The others had to huddle around the observation port or just listen, which almost made me smile. I knew they could hear me through a hidden intercom, which would pipe their own voices inside if they wanted to talk.

  “First,” Swanson said, after the door was re-bolted behind him, “the Council wants to know what your conditions are.”

  I had them all ready to go. Still sitting on the bed, I leaned back on my good hand, heedless of the fact that I was wearing nothing but hospital shorts.

  I started with the one that would be hardest for them to swallow. “One: You can’t make me kill anyone I don’t want to.” Before they could object, I added, “But my standards are pretty relaxed right now. Basically, I don’t want to kill Chantelle or Pie”—I glanced at Swanson, considering—“or, hell, maybe not him either, since he’s technically my dad. Or any children, but you shouldn’t want to kill children anyway, because that’s just mean. Anyone else is fair game.”

  Swanson had looked frightened, then relieved, and then dubious. He glanced at the faces crowded in the observation port, which were whispering back and forth. “Your willingness will need … demonstration, of course,” he said carefully.

  “Fine by me.” I went on before their whispers could get any louder. “Two: No one touches me. Ever again. Except to take restraints on or off, which I understand will be a necessity at first, until you trust me. But I’ll give myself my own drugs. Feel free to watch me to make sure I take them. Just don’t ever touch me or godspeak through me, or I will kill you. I can’t imagine anyone would be too eager to touch me anyway, since both my Godspeakers are dead.”

  There was some louder murmuring at that, but I spoke over them again. “Three: Chantelle goes free. She gets a nice house in the city somewhere and a decent monthly stipend. I don’t even want to see her again. And no one else will lay a finger on her or bother her ever … including after I’m dead, since I’ll probably die before her.” The murmuring tapered off and my eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s not already dead, right?”

  “No, no,” Swanson assured me quickly. “Just … incarcerated and quite distraught. But I’m sure we can take care of her.”

  “Good,” I said. “Of course, I’ll want proof that you haven’t just shot her, such as a legally binding contract signed by all of you, promising to provide for her for the remainder of her life no matter what happens to me, etcetera, and some photos of her in her new house or something. Also, I want you to apologize to her.”

  After another glance outside the room, Swanson said, “I think that can be arranged.”

  I went on without waiting. “Four: Similar to the last condition. I’m pretty sure Jacques had a wife, and maybe kids. Give them a lot—and I mean a lot—of money. And if he did have kids, they go to school and learn how to read. Again, I want proof.”

  Swanson only nodded this time. It was just as easy for them to make someone fantastically wealthy as it was to kill them, I imagined. “Understood.”

  “Five: I want Pie back. She stays with me, wherever you decide to put me, and if you won’t let me walk her then someone else has to. Also, we’ll need some dog food.” I paused. “And that’s it.”

  Swanson blinked. “That’s it? Those are your conditions?”

  “Yep.” It was just as I’d planned—after the first two conditions, the others were practically a relief they were so easy. But I didn’t want it to seem too easy, so I added, “Wait. Six: Once you trust me, I want to get out of Eden City, like go to an island and see the beach … and not because I have to kill someone on that beach. I can have as much surveillance and as many armed guards as you like, but I want to travel. Again, only once you trust me.”

  It didn’t matter if they thought I was hoping to escape through such a ploy. In any case, they’d now think I was waiting for a treat, like a good attack dog, and would be more inclined to obey in the meantime.

  An older female council member spoke up from outside, peering through the observation port. “And in return you’ll perform as the Word of Death, doing whatever we wish outside of your conditions, including finding the Word of Life? You will allow us to take her and the others back into custody, with the eventual intention of transferring the Words to more appropriate vessels?”

  “Agreed,” I said. “That is, if you agree to my conditions. Otherwise, no.”

  “We’ll need to discuss this amongst ourselves before we give you an answer, of cou—”

  “Okay, wait,” I interrupted, sitting up straight. “I guess that’s a seventh condition: you can’t take forever to decide. In fact, I’d prefer you decide today.”

  “Just like you need proof,” another Council member said, though I couldn’t see him, “we’ll need proof.”

  I nodded. “I understand. Like I said, outside of my conditions, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll even stay strapped down, drugged, locked up for as long as you need to feel comfortable.”

  “But we also have to know you’re … capable,” the voice continued. “You killed Dr. Winters in anger, and you were either forced or cajoled with all the others.”

  This would be like the chimpanzee all over again. They’d want me to kill, probably slowly and horrifically, just so they knew I could follow orders. So they knew I belonged to them.

  I shrugged from my seat on the bed. “I repeat: I’ll do whatever you want.”

  And I meant it.

  My first trial came relatively quickly. After observing me for a week to make sure I was taking my drugs and no longer suicidal, Swanson took me to a locked room in the depths of the Athenaeum that was filled with people. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs. They were prisoners, enemies of the state, the unjustly accused—whoever they were, it didn’t matter. They’d been rounded up for this purpose, and he’d told me what needed to be done.

  The people didn’t look so scared when I was wheeled into the room strapped to the chair—my only mode of transportation these days. But when Swanson, who’d somehow been nominated as the person to get me in a
nd out of restraints, unbuckled me and I stood up to look at them all … they looked afraid, then. With good reason.

  I killed every single one of them. I deadened their pain receptors, like I had with the chimp, but the resulting picture was just as gruesome as if I hadn’t. No one would have been able to tell otherwise. It was a bloodbath—literally. I looked like I’d showered in blood, afterward.

  I didn’t mind it, other than the physical discomfort of being so sticky and needing a real shower. The blood, the people—they didn’t really matter in the long run.

  I’d been so selfish, thinking only about seeing Khaya again, or about her rescuing me, that I hadn’t even considered the one thing that could keep her and even the world safe forever. But Drey had pointed me in the right direction: Khaya would be far less useful to the City Council, and therefore less of a danger to the world in general, if Cruithear—the other Word necessary for their plans—was dead.

  And if there was one thing I could do now, it was kill.

  twenty-one

  I waited another few weeks, after several more “demonstrations” of my abilities and proof that Chantelle, and Jacques’s family, were safe and secure, before I brought up Cruithear. I’d already been moved to a room without padding the week before, though they still kept me locked deep in the hospital, away from many, if any, passersby. Even to use the hospital gym, I had to go at night when everyone else was gone. Swanson would wheel me down the empty hallways in restraints and bring me inside while security locked the place down. Only then was he allowed to turn me loose. All that fuss to just lift some weights or jog on the treadmill. And I thought I’d been isolated before.

  As an odd side-effect, I was spending a lot more time with my biological father. After Swanson got used to my lack of emotion, he actually seemed not to mind being around me. Not that he had much of a choice, since the City Council had basically demoted him from the head Godspeaker to my babysitter. It was better than prison, I supposed. Then again, our routine wasn’t much different from a prison’s, and hanging around with me was probably more dangerous.