by Eyal Kless
The baby was limp in his arms, most likely suffering from malnutrition and severe radiation poisoning. It was a surprise she was still alive, the little fighter.
He was the only one who turned to leave. There was no use in parading his guards through the decontamination process. Dienna and the rest of the team were waiting for him on the other side of it. She took the baby from his arms and rushed to the clinic. He walked after them, with dignity. Never run. Not that I could anymore.
“Hello, Norma,” he said when he entered the clinic. “Report to my ears only.”
After all these years, the AI’s voice was cracked and distorted to the point where it was actually discomforting to hear, especially when resonating inside his head. Her voice subroutines needed a complete overhaul, but no one of his team was proficient enough to conduct such an operation, and he simply did not have the time nor the patience to go through the delicate process. Besides, the distorted sound reminded him that time was running out. He did not have long before the forces of entropy would strike him down. Everything was falling apart. He was falling apart. It was time to make yet another bold move. His last one should certainly make an exit.
The baby girl’s numbers were bad but not diabolical. She might live, or at least survive the process, which was the most important part.
“Begin radiation flush process and cellular rejuvenation,” he commanded. The others had already shuffled out and left him alone. Hearing him speak out loud, Norma responded verbally as well.
“I remind you this process is costly, and with our limited resources and the baby’s survival chances—”
“Do it.” The nice thing about Norma was that she had stopped getting pissed off when he cut her off, especially after he made those changes in her programming. Decontaminating the baby meant that some of his soldiers would have to forgo their monthly radiation treatment, but the dividends would be worth it. He hoped.
“Take a DNA sample as well,” he added as the machines around him began to hum. This process took a lot of energy and the cost was always dear, beginning with the long scanners. He was blanked out for sure now, blind to the world. He prayed the freezers remained functioning—it would be a royal mess if they lost power like they had two years ago.
“I remind you that our bank is at ninety-three percent capacity,” Norma’s voice had a definite colder edge this time. “This would add null point sixty-eight percent and put us at high risk of . . .”
He looked down at the unconscious baby, letting Norma’s voice fade into the background. It had been so long since he thought of Deborah, but when the memory surfaced it was like a hammer blow to his chest. He used to have snippets of her overly excited voice messages and clips of her horse-riding high jumps in his brain amp, but they were wiped off so long ago, he wasn’t sure anymore that the face he conjured in his mind’s eye was his daughter’s real face. It made him angry.
“How diverse is her DNA?” He steeled his voice.
There was a pause. It was a sign of Norma’s decline that she had to take time to calculate the answer.
Yeah, entropy is a bitch.
“She is a seven point two on the scale,” the Sentient Program finally answered.
He made a decision. “Take her DNA and dump a sample of value seven or less. Did you analyse the parents yet?”
“Of course I did.”
Was Norma offended by his comments? Long ago he had stopped caring about who got hurt by his words or actions, but there was something about the baby that woke a long-lost sensitivity in him. He hated it.
“Which one of the parents is more compatible?”
“Both could donate working organs.” This was not a surprise, as all his people were compatible to some degree; he had made sure of that. Norma continued, “The female has much better stamina than the male and a seventeen percent better chance in surviving any medical process, should you not take one of the major organs, of course.”
Ach, the good old days when one could have grown the needed organ in a lab. Nowadays he had to cull the herd.
“How am I doing?”
There was no pause this time, Norma kept a constant tab on him.
“You are functioning seventy-three percent at the moment.”
Seventy-three? He felt less than that, to be honest. He once went as low as forty-seven, and that was hell; he even had to use a cane for months after that. Never again.
He turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Killing the mother would mean certain death to the child, that he knew, but even if the radiation purge was successful, it would be a miracle if the child lived to adulthood.
He pondered about what to do as the process continued. When the purge was over he injected the baby with a booster and a vaccine. Not the healthiest mix in her weak condition, but that would have to do.
Her skin was still pale but had lost the yellow feverish hue, and her breathing was definitely deeper. She was asleep when he took her in his arms. Even after all these years, he instinctively sniffed her head, a useless gesture as he had lost his sense of smell long ago.
Deborah . . .
There was a saying in one of the old religions, he did not remember which one: He who saves even one soul, it is as if he has saved an entire world. Even if this was true, the tab was not running in his favour.
When he walked back outside the sun was already gone and the clouds were heavy with contaminated rain. For the people gathered outside, it would be a long, wet track back to their homes. They would not wait for the second part of the ceremony, where the price had to be paid.
He pinched the baby and she awoke with a startled, healthy wail of complaint. This brought a cheer from the awaiting crowd, and they all went to their knees as he approached. And so, another legend is created, another miracle. A story that will spread from family to family and from village to village, told and retold on those cold, dry nights. With each version, my part will become greater and the price diminished until it’s forgotten. This is human nature in a nutshell.
The baby’s mother rose back to her feet and accepted her daughter into her arms. She was crying with gratitude and relief.
“Take these.” He shoved the wrapped pills into her hand. “Melt one in boiling water, let it cool, and drip it into her mouth after feeding. Do it twice a day for a week.”
She did not dare meet his eyes but nodded her understanding as her husband came to stand beside her. It was now obvious who would pay the price, and he was pale and visibly shaking. Nevertheless, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and briefly lay a hand on his wife’s shoulder. The mood of the crowd grew sombre, but they accepted the transaction. A price had to be paid, that was the rule. At least this farmer did not resist. He walked away with the soldiers without glancing back. By the time he would see him again, the farmer would be strapped to the chair in the clinic. This was when most forgot all about their promise and pleaded for mercy.
Let’s hope, for your wife’s and daughter’s sakes, that you survive. But I need, at the very least, a new kidney.
He turned to follow but, as always, the sight of the Star Pillar looming above the military camp made him pause in wonder. It was several hours drive away but Tarakan’s greatest feat, a true wonder of the world, was so enormous, it felt as if he were standing at the bottom of it.
This is where it all began. I guess this is where it will end.
As he stood, lost in memory, a collective chant rose from the crowd behind him, first a whisper, but intensifying in a long crescendo. They were calling his name, in gratitude, in awe, in submission.
His name was Mannes.
Chapter 1
Twinkle Eyes
There is nothing out of the ordinary in waking up, unless you are dead.
My first memory, as soon as I opened my eyes, was of my consciousness rapidly diminishing into black nothingness. Even as I drew my first rapid breaths, I knew, to the core of my being, that I had perished in the City Within the Mountain, and as if leavin
g this world wasn’t enough, I died in horrible agony. During the last bit of the transition, my body had been shredded by the claws and teeth of Lizards. One never knew what people really felt or thought as they died, since the dead are hardly in a position to talk about it. But now I had the answer, and it wasn’t nice or comforting at all. As my mind was being pulled away from my dying body it instinctively fought to cling to this world and the vessel it occupied, refusing to lose consciousness. I remembered the whole horrid mess of it right until the very end. And yet, my eyes had just opened and I sat up in a soft bed. I was alive. Or was I?
My first reaction was to check myself with my hands. I was dressed in a thin white tunic and pants made of a soft material I had never felt before. I pulled the tunic up and checked my abdomen. It was whole—no sign of the sharp claws that I knew had ripped my skin. The memory flashed through my mind and made me recoil and drop the tunic.
I shook my head to clear the awful images and looked around. I was inside a small room, which was empty but for a small door at the far end and an open window to my right. Rays of light accompanied a soft breeze, and the sound of chirping birds spilled into the room. I got up from the bed and saw tall, sturdy oak trees only a few paces from the open window. The air was sweet, and I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. That was a mistake. As if waiting for an opportunity, memories flooded my senses. The stench of death and the pain and horror of dying filled my head. It was terrible, and frighteningly vivid.
I stumbled backwards and found myself sitting on the soft bed again, breathing hard, vowing not to shut my eyes for as long as I could. After a while I looked around again and saw that my initial impression of the room being empty was wrong. There was a mirror hanging on the wall. A quick check showed that I was still me, whole and marked with the same tattoos around my eyes that I was born with. Someone must have done an amazing assembly job because I distinctly remembered there being pieces of me all over the place. Which prompted my first clear thought.
Something’s not right.
Not that I was complaining about being alive, but there was something definitely odd about this whole situation. I felt it in my gut, which, I checked again, was now safely tucked inside my body.
There was nothing to do but walk to the door, grasp the wooden handle and open it. I didn’t know what to expect, but it sure wasn’t a pair of white slippers awaiting me on the grey doormat. I gingerly slipped my foot into one, and watched it mold itself perfectly to my foot.
Yep, something’s rusted here.
I stepped out onto a paved footpath crossing a small garden in full bloom. As I watched, large yellow-and-black bees buzzed among perfect blossoms. Small hummingbirds flew above me, and the sun caressed my skin. I dared not close my eyes again, but stood still for a long time, basking in it.
Is this heaven?
After a while I took the footpath to a small gate, walked through it into the forest. It wasn’t long before I reached a small clearing, where a young boy was waiting for me, sitting at a wooden table laden with ripe fruit, cheese, bread, and a steaming pot. I recognised him as I walked closer: brown eyes, a shaved head, a small scar on his chin. There was no mistaking it was the child that I grew to imagine and then recognise when I met his projection deep inside the City Within the Mountain. He was now and had for many years been a part of Adam, the mostly dormant Tarakan Sentient Program, and though he could change his appearance at will, for some reason he had chosen the features of the young boy with which he was uploaded.
I sat down on the wooden bench across the table. Wordlessly, Rafik lifted the pot and poured the steaming contents into the cup that was in front of me. I watched the hot liquid filling the cup. When Rafik placed the pot back at the centre of the table, I looked at the cup and said, “I bet you didn’t have to do that.”
I picked up my cup and sniffed the tantalizing aroma. “I bet my cup could have been filled without you lifting or even touching the pot.”
“Sometimes the gesture is as important as the result,” Rafik answered, watching as I took a sip from the teacup. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. The last time we spoke I asked Rafik to appear in adult form, but this time he had chosen to appear as a kid on the verge of adolescence. I wondered why.
“Are we . . . am I . . . inside Adam now?” It was an obvious question, but I needed confirmation.
Rafik nodded. “Yes, we extracted you just in time. It wasn’t easy, or ‘a smooth operation,’ as you Salvationists like to say, and we had to do some delicate reconstructions to your consciousness, but here you are.”
I managed to suppress a shudder as I looked around. “Is this all real?”
“You asked me that before, remember?” Rafik answered, watching me nod my assent before adding, “Does it matter?”
I drank more deeply this time. The liquid was too hot and burned my throat. I coughed and spat most of it. It felt real.
When I got my bearings, I set down the cup but Rafik leaned over and poured some more tea, careful not to spill a drop.
“Did we even win?” I looked him in the eye. “We lost many good Trolls in that battle. It would be nice to know it wasn’t in vain.”
“We have control of the main laboratory, yes.” Rafik leaned back in his chair. “And Cain’s Lizard production has been halved. The numbers are now . . . manageable. In time, the Valley will be cleansed of the hordes and it will be even safer to come back.”
“With some more Puzzlers,” I remarked, noting to myself that his face remained blank. We had entered the City Within the Mountain to find Rafik only to find ourselves caught in the middle of a war between these two strange entities, Adam and Cain. That war had begun with the Catastrophe, and I was just another name in the casualty list.
I took a strange yellow fruit from the basket.
“You have to peel the skin off,” Rafik warned me just as I brought it to my mouth.
“Is it any good?” I asked as my hands broke the tip of the fruit
“You’ll have to try for yourself. I like it.”
He was right. It was very good, especially for something that did not exist.
“What is it called?”
“A banana.”
“Nice.”
I ate the banana but resisted taking another one from the basket. I dropped the peel and saw it land on the ground beside me.
“What now? Happily ever after?”
There was a glint in Rafik’s eyes. “No, I am afraid we are not there yet, but before I explain, let me ask you something. The reconstruction of your mind was—” Rafik made a point of searching for a word he most likely already knew he was going to use “—not easy. Even with Tarakan technology, it was a long, meticulous process, and it could be disorienting. Could you tell me your name?”
“Twinkle Eyes,” I answered almost immediately.
Rafik tilted his head in mock amusement. “What is your real name?”
It was childish, but I wanted to keep at least one thing away from the people, or creature, who had forced me and my friends on a suicide mission. “I think I like the name Twinkle Eyes, if you don’t mind, but wait . . .” The meaning of his words suddenly hit me with the force of a power hammer. “You said it took you a long time to put me back together again. How long has it been since I died in the laboratory?”
“A little over five years.”
“Oh rust.” I breathed out, my hands grasping the wooden table. “But I don’t remember anything since being torn to pieces . . . since dying.” I pointed at Rafik, surprised that my finger was not trembling. “You just kept me in a dark cell. That was not what we agreed upon.”
“First of all”—Rafik tapped the table lightly with his finger—“that deal was made under extreme duress.”
“Still. A deal’s a de—”
“We agreed to save and upload you into Adam,” Rafik said, interrupting me for the first time, “but there were no preagreed terms as to the conditions in which we would keep you. This”—
he gestured around us—“all this”—he pointed at the food on the table—“costs energy we cannot afford to spend. We kept you alive and stimulated enough not to go insane. But there was no reason for you to be kept conscious.”
“So I might as well have died in the laboratory. A dreamless, bodyless sleep seems awfully close to the universal description of death.”
“Yet here you are, drinking and eating with me in the middle of this beautiful forest.” Rafik took a careful sip from his own cup, blowing gently on the surface before bringing it to his lips.
“This place doesn’t really exist,” I said, leaning back and glancing at the banana peel I had thrown to the ground. It was still there.
“Not in the physical world, true, but there are many advantages for you here.” Rafik began counting them on his fingers. “You will not grow old, or tired, or sick, and you will sleep only when you wish to experience that condition.”
“After what you did to me, I’m not sure I want to close my eyes ever again.”
“There is almost nothing you cannot do here.” Rafik ignored my comment, pointing up. “See that high branch over there?” I looked up. “Try flying up to it.”
I looked back at Rafik. “You mean . . . I can . . . ?”
Rafik nodded, a soft smile touching his lips. “If you wish—the physical world in this place would allow you to fly, easily.”
I got up from the bench and stood there, looking up. “What do I do?”
“Just wish to fly to the branch.”
And so it was. My legs suddenly left the ground and I slowly glided up to the high branch.
I whooped like a child, then tried some manoeuvres. They were easy once I realised what I wanted to do. I spread my arms and soared up to the skies. When I looked down, I saw that the wooden cabin and the garden were just small dots under me. What I thought of as a thick forest was nothing more than several rows of trees surrounding the centre. Beyond that there was white nothingness spreading all around me. It was a sobering view.