Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II)

by Muhlenkamp, M. C.

  I know I am not supposed to wander on my own, but I can't remain in bed anymore. The quiet stillness surrounding me creeps into my skin, crawling through my pores like the chilling fingers of an unseen spirit. Still, I prefer that over the fears that lurk in the corners of my mind. I look around the dimly lit hall. Thirteen beds line up in a straight row, one right next to the other. My hands caress the white mattress, looking for a pillow or a cover that I know won’t be there. The self-activating temperature control, which rises and lowers its temperature according to my own, keeps me perfectly warm at night. But I still feel exposed without something to hold onto.

  My feet touch the icy ground and I find the solid reality of my surroundings somewhat reassuring, knowing that at least my sister will never know such seclusion. I move noiselessly through the glossy corridors, walking past living quarters and into the bathing hall. The white domed room reminds me of the internal structure of a beehive, except the honeycomb cells on the roof and walls disperse wider on the floor. Motion detectors inside each hexagonal platform and the path leading to them use dynamic technology, allowing the units and trail to flex and fold away from the floor as needed.

  I peel my sweat-soaked gray tank top and shorts away from my skin and drop them on the floor. The white surface sinks on contact, absorbing the clothing as if they had fallen in a giant tub of heavy cream. I walk forward. Every cell looks the same, so it doesn’t really matter which one I choose. I step onto one of the honeycomb units, disturbing the interactive, substance-like floor, and watch as circular wave patterns emanate outward from my feet. The platform begins to sink, stretching and flexing downward, creating walls around my body as I descend deeper into the nook.

  Then, a small cavity opens in front of me. I reach out to take the black ball from the opening, pressing it slightly with my fingertips. The waxy circle gives in and I know if I squeeze too tight the ball will burst, leaving behind a gooey mess dripping all over my hand. The cavity closes, receding back into a perfectly smooth wall. Several protuberances appear next, almost as if some unseen force is pushing against the walls of the compartment. They flex outward and twist open. Soapy water shoots out, quickly steaming the walls of the small compartment.

  I run one hand through my hair, working the foamy liquid into my scalp. The oil ball in my hand begins to melt as it comes in contact with the water and I methodically scrub my body with it. The thick substance flows down my limbs and onto the white floor, disappearing into the newly emerging grate openings. The memory of my sister peeks out of the closet I hid her in and I have to hold back my tears again.

  My hands find their way to my lips, and though I clasp my mouth shut and grind my teeth together, the scream building inside my chest rises. My dark and desolate insides have created a monster. I can’t fight it. Not within the recesses of this secluded chamber. I heave, unable to contain it, and let it out, crumbling down onto the floor. I give way to all of my pain, all of my fear, and all of my despondency, feeling powerless, broken. The monster wraps its arms around me, seizing my shoulders and rattling the empty cage my body has become.

  A low, continuous beep echoes inside the compartment, informing me that the water flow will soon stop. I force my legs to stand. I may be falling apart, but I will not let anyone see it. Not here. Not anywhere. I run my fingers along the surface of my eyelids, letting the sprays wash away my weakness and subdue the monster back into its cold cave. The water shuts off, and the fixtures begin to melt into the wall, folding back into the white mass and disappearing from view. The walls appear to move, but it’s just the base of the compartment rising back to its original position until I am once again standing on the hexagonal platform.

  Water drips onto the white path as I make my way forward and the floor creates small splits in front of me in response, flexing into a grate system and blowing warm air upward. By the time I reach the dressing hall I am mostly dry. I pull down a pair of spandex shorts and a gray tank top from a rack, put them on, and move to the next stall where I grab a clean training jumpsuit. My lungs expand, breathing in a renewed sense of relief as the darkness inside of me recedes and my mind takes control once more. I turn toward the exit doors and stop in my tracks. Eleven’s silhouette comes into view, casually leaning against the curved wall.

  Judging by the self-satisfied expression plastered on his face, I am pretty sure he has been standing there for quite some time. I bury my apprehension behind a façade of indifference and make my way forward. My heart begins to race. For a split second I think Eleven will just let me pass, but I am recoiling from his touch before his hand reaches me. His smug look intensifies at my reaction, curving the ends of his lips into an unpleasant grin. My legs lock in place, consciously making an effort to stay grounded. Eleven bites down, emphasizing his angular jaw and muscled neck. His fingers find their way to me and my throat contracts, pressing against my vocal cords with a force so feral I think it will choke me.

  Eleven’s purple eyes begin to transform, along with every feature on his face. His cheekbones rise, his hair grows, his purple eyes lighten until they are the perfect hue of blue.

  "What is it about you?” His voice isn’t his. I know it and yet I can’t help my own reaction at the sound of his voice. Seven. Looking at me, talking to me, and yet not being him. “What could he possibly see in you, I wonder.”

  I lean back, anger flaring inside of me. I hold onto it, finding the strength I need to shake out of Eleven’s grasp, and the illusion fades. "Let me pass."

  "I wonder if he knows the effect he has on you. Knowing him the way I do, he probably construes your behavior in all the wrong ways.”

  My nostrils flare and he smiles at the obvious rage he has ignited. "What do you want?"

  Eleven continues as if I hadn’t spoken. "I wonder what you would do for him. How far you would be willing to go. It is admirable really, your own restraint in spite of the depth of emotion he causes in you. Still, everyone has a limit. Everyone breaks sooner or later. Everyone has a weakness. He might not be yours, not yet anyway, but I think I have already found a way around that.”

  My heart sinks as I consider his statement. "What in the world did I ever do to warrant your desire to hurt me? Why can’t you just let me be?" I can barely conceal the shakiness in my voice.

  Eleven leans back, relaxing every muscle against the wall, and closes his eyes toward the ceiling. “It has nothing to do with you personally. You must understand that I really couldn’t care any less if you were someone else. But Seven’s fascination with you makes you the perfect target. You are his weakness, or at least you will be, when the time is right.”

  “You disgust me.”

  Eleven’s eyes snap back to me, vivid and full of resolve. “I am not the one you should be disgusted with.”

  I rush past him, clutching my training suit against my chest. My wobbly legs carry me half way to the living quarters, before they stop mid-stride. I look at the white training outfit, now wrinkled inside my hands, and step into it with shaky limbs. My world spins around me and I have to place my hand against the smooth wall to steady myself. The revulsion coursing through me rises up to my throat and I am grateful I haven’t eaten anything yet. At least Eleven didn’t take things as far as the first time, when I experienced firsthand the magnitude of his ability to change the reality of the world around me. I clutch my empty stomach as the memory of Earth before the attack seizes my mind. It had seemed so perfect, so real. He had made my sister appear in front of me, too, and I, like an idiot, lunged my arms forward to wrap them around her. I remember sobbing in what I thought was her shoulder, tightening my embrace around her, until I noticed she wasn’t hugging me back. That’s when I realized it wasn’t really her.

  I stepped back, and with a sinister smile she gripped my wrist, transforming into the leader I have come to care for against my better judgment. Seven pulled me into him, and though I fought his grip, he didn’t let me go. His wicked expression dimmed to something resembling curiosity.
The depth of expression he usually had was completely gone, but still, his proximity unsteadied me and my heart began pounding even faster, making me forget it was an illusion. Seven’s hand found my neck, pulling me closer in spite of my own resistance. My eyes dropped to his lips. He looked like Seven. He felt like Seven. My body relaxed, about to give in, and Eleven appeared in front of me, grinning in understanding.

  I shake my head, dismissing the distressing memory of the man that could change my reality with a single touch, and begin to walk again.

  “Where have you been?” Nine’s voice reverberates through the hallway, her tone cold and demanding.

  I walk past her without looking up. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when I have to pay for your negligence.” I know what she means and I can’t blame her. “Thirteen.” Her tone softens and when I look up, I can barely contain my tears. Her forehead wrinkles in confusion and her hand somehow finds its way to my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Her question rings inside my ears, filling it with resentment and bitter sarcasm. I feel the monster waking up again, clinging to my inner walls with its ferocious claws. It shakes me, tearing through me with all its might. I’m caving. I can feel it coming. My eyes close, in a last attempt to suppress the stinging tears. I manage to get hold of the vicious desperation that is eating me whole and clamp it down, burying it deep inside the core of my tormented soul. I will not give in. Not in front of her. Not in front of anyone. “I’ll be fine.”

  Nine tightens her grip as a gesture of reassurance. “Please don’t leave like that again. Seven hasn’t been around to notice, but you know wandering on your own is against regulations.”

  I nod.

  Nine’s cheeks bulge high and her lips curve upward, flashing perfectly white teeth. Her dark skin, smooth like hot chocolate, seems to shine under the pale lighting. “Let’s go.” She taps my shoulder and begins to make her way back into the living quarters.

  The entire unit is up and about. Two out of three adjacent rooms accessible only through self-activated sliding doors, which open in the morning and close at night, swarm with physicians and physical assessors. Unit fighters sit at random, while the medical team evaluates every inch of their bodies in preparation for today’s battle. I take a seat at one of the tables in the third room, the eating lounge as we commonly refer to it, and just stare down at the polished surface, glossy and spotless, like the perfect exterior of a teardrop.

  Nine sits across from me, placing a breakfast tablet on the table and sliding it in my direction. I don’t look up. I stare at the cream-looking bar, scoffing. It looks like a deceiving rise crispy treat, because it tastes like nothing—a mixture of bland nutrients, which only serve the purpose of keeping me alive and well nourished. Someone else sits by my side. “What is a dictum?” Five’s voice comes out in a whisper, as if she is ashamed of the words leaving her mouth.

  I part my lips to answer, but Nine’s voice cuts me off. “A dictum is a decree, a formal order.”

  “So what does Battle by Dictum mean?” My eyes travel down the lustrous surface of the table and settle on the distorted reflection of Five’s golden locks, her dainty nose perfectly straight amid the delicate features of her face.

  I can feel Nine’s stare burning a hole through my forehead. “It means this particular battle will have rules of its own, completely separate from the standard regulations.”

  “How can we prepare if we don’t know what we’ll be fighting against?”

  I turn to look at Five, only to see Seven standing a short distance away. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. His black armor, fitted perfectly to his body, stands out amid the white surroundings. I can’t seem to hold back the hollow muscle inside my chest as it contracts and dilates faster and faster against my ribcage. Seven’s eyes fall on me, soft and anxious. I wonder if he can feel the emptiness inside of me, eating every bit of my sanity away, right along with any hope of relief. His long, white hair is interweaved together, plaited securely one layer on top of another to form an intricate braid. The threads twist together from the top of his skull to about shoulder length, where some kind of knot secures it in place, letting the rest of his hair fall loose down his back.

  My eyes return to Five. “We prepare by being ready for anything and everything they can throw at us. Standard regulations may not apply, but when you are in that field the only rule that really matters is survival. No matter the cost.”

  I lift my eyes again. Seven’s blue oceans pierce through me, but they seem glossed over with an almost imperceptible barrier. I’ve seen it before. He isn’t Seven now, not really. He may look like himself, but his true self is currently hiding, hibernating behind the eyes of a perfect soldier, emotionless and detached from everything and everyone. I tear my eyes away just as one of the physical assessors calls me from the medical room.

  I stand up and walk in his direction. The assessor immediately takes me in, probing my body with his fingers, tracing the integrated plate beeping under the skin at my wrist, and examining every muscle in my body. I follow his hand as he presses his fingertips against my knuckles, massaging my hands and forearms, and looking for any signs of imperfection. The integrated plate beeps again, lighting the circuit fluorescent white against my pale skin. Lines, circles, squares, all making intricate paths around each other inside the rectangular tag inserted into my muscle tissue.

  I am not sure what the plate tells the assessor, but he is frowning. His hand moves up my arm and shoulder, pressing harder and harder as it moves down my back. He presses along the side of my waist and I cringe back, exuding a grunt too loud for my liking. The pain from his touch spreads through my torso, blurring the edges of my vision. The assessor releases me, presses his own wrist plate, and closes his eyes. I can feel my eyebrows sinking, wrinkling in annoyance as I watch his eyelids flutter relentlessly. I’ve seen Seven do this before, he is talking to someone. I take my time, watching his crooked nose, full lips, and angular jaw. His eyelids stop moving just before his eyes open to fall on me.

  “Take a seat.” The assessor walks to the wall and begins to move his fingertips over it as if he were writing a secret message. His white uniform would blend perfectly with the colorless surroundings behind him if it weren’t for the consecutive black stripes running down his long sleeves.

  The wall lights up to show a fluorescent pattern just like the one trapped inside my wrist. I lean back, aghast. The wall is actually moving, just like the floor in the bathing hall, bending on itself to create a flat table. Several items break through the surface, as if the wall had spat them out. My stomach curls and knots at the sight of the new tag, resting untouched on the counter. The strands of hair hanging loosely against my back begin to lift of their own accord and I freeze. The unseen force tugs, twists, and pulls, plaiting one lock on top of the other. I swallow the eerie sensation spreading through my limbs, as I always do whenever an assessor with the ability to move objects with his mind plays with my hair. I feel like a doll, a child, a little girl surrounded by ghosts.

  The assessor walks back to where I sit, observing the tips of the last few threads knotting together. His iridescent green eyes turn their attention to the last unopened compartment on the wall, and the door slides away as if he had personally pushed it opened. My chest contracts in anticipation as the black suit comes into view. Cold fingers pry the skin at my hips, making me turn around. One of the physicians assigned to our unit, a woman with a round face, iridescent hazel eyes, and long hair tied into a ponytail, lifts my top and slips her hand into the side of my waist, stroking each rib with her thumb. My legs wobble as the pain shoots through my spine again.

  The physician nods to the assessor and he approaches. “This will hurt,” he says. A second later a splintering sound reverberates inside my ears, together with the sound of my own screams. “Stay still.” His commanding tone ricochets off my mind and my muscles take control, flinching away from his touch.

 
“Thirteen.” Seven’s voice enters my eardrums and my body responds, freezing immediately.

  My limbs shake out of control, but the pain begins to subside, gradually being replaced by the warm touch of the physician. Her palm rests against my skin, healing the rib the assessor broke with his mind. My ragged breathing steadies, and only after I regain complete control of myself do I realize my fingers are wrapped tightly around the physician’s other arm.

  Her hazel eyes meet mine, twinkling in understanding. “Your rib hadn’t been healed properly. We also need to replace your plaque. The fact that it didn’t notify us of your rib’s condition means it isn’t working properly.”

  I clench my teeth together, remembering my first experience with the insertion of the plaque. I had just arrived at the training facility, almost a year ago to the date. Each new recruit had taken her turn, sitting in a very similar room, while one assessor tore her skin open only by thinking of it, pressed the integrated circuit into the tissue underneath, and sealed the wound closed. I shake my head and the dreadful memory vanishes.