by Alechia Dow
It is fortunate, then, that AvR0la was able to give those commands in his stead. This is the first time in months, possibly a year, that he has had free time to wonder about what has been happening in this quadrant. Although he communicated with Avi regularly, he was under constant surveillance by true Ilori above, performing at full capacity. His focus was divided unevenly.
M0Rr1S turns to AvR0la, exhaustion in his very bones. “What do the humans do on these surveillance intermissions?”
AvR0la shifts against the doorway. “The humans engage in what they call a party. They fornicate, converse, listen to music—”
“Music. Where do they get it?” M0Rr1S tries to sound less excited. He has to approach this and all things in a calm, detached manner. It is the Ilori way. But this center has music, and he has struggled to accumulate more since true Ilori allowed him to experiment with the media.
Music is human expression. Human expression is dangerous and leads to free thinking. Revolt. Death. And so true Ilori leadership has banned it, much to M0Rr1S’s dismay.
“We don’t know, sir. We’ve done sweeps, but we have not found where they are keeping their illegal collections. Admittedly, most sweeps are done by our altered, mood-enhanced humans from the half-solutions program, and we cannot be certain of their diligence.”
M0Rr1S turns to AvR0la. “Has that aided in fewer human executions?”
“I was ordered to withhold those details from you, as it would contradict your command.” AvR0la’s words are measured for Il-0CoM. They know M0Rr1S has a revolutionary view of human treatment that would make him a target for true Ilori derision. M0Rr1S awaits the answer AvR0la reluctantly gives. “Executions have declined, but they still happen too often. Our quadrant alone has had the most executions globally.”
He keeps the anger from his voice. “Why is that?”
“Sir, as you have been isolated in medical services above, true Ilori command—specifically your familial code—has stepped in to evaluate effective management of the human population here.”
Not his father or his mother. Both would surely be too busy, too important for something so trivial. But his brother. Brixton. Of course, he would condemn humans to death. He would surmise that there are enough humans to spare, and a message must be sent to those who remain.
It is also a personal message for M0Rr1S; his command means nothing to the true Ilori. He will never be free and will always be lesser, not only for his labmade origins, but for his desire to feel.
“It is good, then, that our quadrant will be the first to be tested,” M0Rr1S admits. “We need to stop killing the humans—our success depends on it. And the formula will work, I know it will. How long must we wait for production?” He sighs with an air of impatience, but it covers his despair. He doesn’t want to leave, not just yet. Not without the music.
“They’ve said your vaccine shall be tested in this center within the next six rotations. If successful, completion is projected in nine. Globally in twelve.”
“Fast, but good.” M0Rr1S straightens his back. “The parties, where do they happen? I believe I will be able to locate the contraband materials, and perhaps prevent further...punishment for the humans. Will you connect to my drive and send the building plans to me? I have not explored beyond the labs.”
AvR0la smirks but keeps the humor from their tone. “Of course, sir. When do you need them?”
“I’m free now.” A weight seems to lift from his shoulders as he utters those words. “The freest I’ve been since I was brought here.”
“That is good, sir.” Their tone cracks a little before they correct themself. They have never been free. “I will send the plans.”
They leave M0Rr1S to solitude once more. He thinks of AvR0la as family. Real family. They are direct, quiet, loyal and never question him, although they should. One word from AvR0la could have doomed M0Rr1S before he ever got the chance to prove himself or attempt this mission.
A mission that has named him the youngest commander in Ilori history. One most believe he was assigned only because of his familial code.
When the labmades survived the landing less than two years ago, their bodies adjusted to Earth, the air and the food just as they were designed to do. Some true Ilori had cheered, as if they were not certain their experimentations would work until the labmades entered this new atmosphere. M0Rr1S hadn’t realized until then just how expendable his race was to the true Ilori. He’d known he would always be considered their lesser regardless of rank, that the labmades would never be considered equal no matter how hard they worked, but that moment was when he’d understood that the true Ilori did not value his kind.
That understanding grounded him further. He’d taken the lead on human services: from the half-solutions program to the vaccine. He became the face of Ilori innovation, earning a promotion from the Chancellor of Acquisitions. He did it all without live experimentation in isolation on a carriership above.
The isolation that has doomed this center’s human population.
His gaze catches on the only buildings lit up in his designated quadrant. The last centers. Humans that fit their desired specifications—those between the ages of sixteen to fifty with strong immune systems, most compatible with, and most likely to survive, the vaccine. However, some will still be moved to human housing, where they have more freedom, less restrictions, better access to food and medicine. Especially the elders, a requirement created by true Ilori who value age above all else. Already young children, babies and those expecting or nursing babies, and those incapable of giving consent, have been moved. It is important that humans do not perish, only their freedom.
Once the last of the humans still in hiding and battling in caves fall, the true Ilori will finally have their controlled vacation destination.
Earth; a planet of lush landscapes, oceans brimming with natural wildlife, and seasons beyond imagination. A new destination. A new escape from the mundane. Earth; a new Ilori colony.
M0Rr1S imagines another advertisement, this one more enticing.
Live and breathe like the humans. Leave your shell behind and experience life in this world through the eyes and body of a native. Embark upon a new adventure.
The ads will circulate universally, and the profits made from rich tourists will more than make up for the costs of creating custom labmades to blend in to each new colony. There are endless possibilities. They could expand, market to other worlds, to other species wishing for exciting getaways.
M0Rr1S entertains the thought of more newly acquired Ilori colonies. There are many already, and several scheduled for acquisition after Earth. If he were true, if his mom hadn’t raised him, he might feel as if this were his right. He’d study advertising and care nothing about the lives destroyed during colonization.
But he is not true, and like all labmades, his life is not his own to determine. It never will be. The humans will now be the same. It’s unfair, M0Rr1S knows, to take a world from beings with limited technology and understanding of the universe, as if the Ilori are entitled to their bodies, homes, their nature, and then use it all for profit... It can only be wrong. Just as it is wrong to create beings to serve others. And yet he must help his masters do both.
He will play that role; too much depends on his abilities and knowledge.
On the second from the top floor of this center, M0Rr1S’s focus returns to the world outside the window, where the final traces of humanity are being stripped away. The veliopters tear down the deserted skyscrapers and buildings, dig up the cement until they strike dirt, and then they fertilize.
AvR0la knocks again, startling him.
“Sir, the plans should be in your incoming mail. Will you require anything else?” M0Rr1S regards AvR0la for the thousandth time. It is easy to mistake them as cold, impersonal. But he knows that AvR0la prefers precision, dislikes attention and has an unflappable, militaristic nature
that comes from being the top of their class at academy. They are the perfect Ilori, unlike M0Rr1S.
“No, that is all. Thank you, AvR0la. What G00287 granteth—”
“—the Ilori taketh.” AvR0la’s lips quirk before they nod.
M0Rr1S grasps the back of his chair and unwraps the black jacket there. According to AvR0la, it is uncomfortably chilly in the lower half of the building. His origin planet is warm, and this cold seeps into his bones and makes him homesick.
He pushes the third button on his panel, accessing his main menu. It pops up over his left eye, where the in-box flashes once, alerting him to a document. Using focused thought, he opens the plans for the center he has lived in for three days but knows nothing about.
He stares at the levels below the surface, marked as uninhabited. This, he decides, must be the place. Wherever humans store their possessions not in use, there are things surely worth finding.
As he strides through the sterile white laboratory rooms that once served as human doctors’ offices illuminated by bright fluorescents overhead, he purposely avoids the humans sitting behind tables, completing their manual labor on projected screens. It is his fault that their skin is sallow and reeks of chemicals, that they’re exhausted, staring at mathematical formulas on screens that are too wide for them to fully grasp without difficulty.
True Ilori have declared that a purposeful human is a good human. They must be kept busy, or they’ll have time and energy to rebel. In a building of approximately twenty-five hundred occupants, like this one, rebellion could mean failure.
He nods in the direction of those that greet him and follows the blueprints to an unadorned cement stairway. His time is short but he prefers to move down the stairs instead of using the elevator.
When he reaches the end of the stairs at the bottommost floor, he is met by a locked door. He closes his eyes and pushes the lock with his mind, eliciting a small pop as it swings away from him.
It’s even colder down here.
On his panel, he switches his built-in lenses to night vision. He enters the darkness, breathes in the dust and mustiness. He likes these smells. They are new, different. He had always hoped to explore places like this. Below the ground, damp and cold, finding something hidden. Having a small adventure.
And that is what he plans on doing now. Searching. Undisturbed. He doesn’t want to hang some poor human for hoarding contraband music; he wants only to keep it for himself. His collection is small but growing, and he’d like it to be large enough to fill an individual transportation pod when he travels elsewhere in the galaxy—assuming he is granted that privacy. If he has any luck, he will find intact hard drives with large music files.
Before computers were destroyed, humans kept all sorts of personal items, including music, on these plastic little boxes with USB cords or small sticks he’d been told. Apparently, they imported most of their music into the “cloud,” but Ilori command shut that down after the initial invasion. They directed electricity away from large, global servers for their more advanced needs.
Thus, he must look for the physical remnants. So far, the only computers given to him have been old, and most, if not corrupted, had very little music. It was difficult to gain access to them; true Ilori didn’t see the value of allowing M0Rr1S to analyze human technology or art for the purpose of the vaccine. Here, he can get them himself.
If he were caught searching, he could claim it was necessary to understand behavior for the vaccine. They would not doubt his name over a flimsy excuse. But if they truly knew why he was searching, that he was collecting music, he could be punished. Maybe executed. And yet, he cannot bring himself to burn such beautiful treasure, no matter the cost.
He stands in front of twenty storage units lined against the walls with slotted wooden doors. Inside them are personal belongings that will either go with the humans to new housing or will be left behind. Nothing of value, an Ilori would say. His eyes flick toward the first door on the right.
The lock is already broken, so he opens the rickety wooden door, and his spirit lifts. Mattresses and tables, lamps and toys. A trove. He shifts things around, expecting dust, but there is none. This room is used, and used often. But for what?
A lamp shatters on the floor, and he jumps in fright before laughing with little humor. If they could hear him laugh, they would wonder if he was malfunctioning.
We do not laugh, for we do not feel joy. We do not cry, for we do not feel sorrow. We survive without weakness.
He thinks of his father’s words, echoing in their chamber every morning. There are no feelings, child. You are weak. You are a disappointment to the 1lv name. Father is right. He is weak, and he will—disappoint him.
That brings M0Rr1S something akin to joy.
A glittery substance catches his eye. He turns his head and narrows his gaze on the mattress. Clever human. He strides over and reaches for the corner before gently peeling back the fabric. His eyes widen. Books. Many, many books. Who would be rebellious enough to keep these? In this center, this counts as two transgressions—instant death.
True Ilori leadership commanded labmades to ban all human art and execute any human in possession of it globally, but especially here where the humans outnumber the Ilori seven to one.
They stated that humans use books as a means of covert communication. That the books themselves could create codes, for coordinated attacks, that the labmades couldn’t crack until it was too late. They cited that some of the early failures in Ilori-run centers were because of human art. And there was no way to disprove this. Especially when many Ilori perished in those battles.
As for music, leadership banned that from the very beginning. It interfered with their hearing, making ambushes by the humans too easy. Most was confiscated and destroyed in centers like these, but humans, M0Rr1S knows through study, cherish their art. They hid it in any way they could or downloaded it onto tech devices they can’t even access anymore.
His focus flicks back to the books. He longs to touch their jackets, to run his fingers across the words there. And he does. He can read human languages, but he is not allowed to, much like he is not allowed to listen to human music. The Ilori have their own stories and music, but they are mostly propaganda about the greatness of their kind. He much prefers the sounds and consonants of the human languages when spoken and sung, but he is afraid of getting caught. A book cannot be downloaded onto his system in such a physical form, yet music, in the right form, is untraceable.
The true Ilori say there is nothing to gain from reading human texts or appreciating their art. That the knowledge labmades possess should be acquired only through Ilori teachings. The true Ilori do not just desire superiority, they want full control over labmades. Yet, as his fingers run down the spines of the books, a part of him finds joy in their presence. And a desire to know what stories lay inside.
He flips through them, putting each back in its place as he goes. No underlined phrases or notes fall out—no, these books are not harbingers of revolt, like command has warned. Death will not find their owner for this, not on his account anyway.
The door clicks, and he wonders if he should hide or stand his ground, scare the poor human to death. The former suits him, and he hits a button on his wristband, creating a shadow where his body once stood. He squeezes into the one empty corner before he realizes he is still holding a book in his hand, lost in the shadow with him.
The door opens, and a human comes inside—a girl, based on the identification code on the collar of her blue top. JQB-305-7-21. The numbers tell him not only who she is, but state her personal frequency marker, a way to send messages to her mind.
She regards the broken lamp, her eyes assessing. She strides to the mattress, stepping into the dim light of her flashlight and avoiding the broken glass, before she pulls back the fabric.
He hears her counting, just under her breath. Her fluffy, cu
rly hair spills out of a purple knit hat.
She counts the books again. She must have realized one is missing and is panicking. If he comes out of the shadows now, it’ll cause a commotion. And he’ll be expected to kill her. If he doesn’t kill her, then he might start a chain of events that will eventually lead to more death. He doesn’t want to kill her. He has to put the book back.
Her gaze shifts to the corner and, for a moment, it’s like she’s staring through the darkness right at him.
She is fascinating.
He wants to know why this human girl is keeping books in a mattress when the cost could be her life. He respects her strength. Would he do the same for music?
Suddenly, the book feels glued to the palm of his hand.
M0Rr1S can’t just put it back and forget about it. He has to meet her, talk to her, ask her. Why does she rebel? What do these books mean to her? Do they make her feel less alone, like music makes him feel?
A song pops into his mind, one of the first he ever downloaded from a confiscated phone. “Raspberry Beret,” by a musician called Prince. He doesn’t know why she reminds him of this song. The purple hat, maybe, the captivating beauty... He wonders if she likes music, too, or as much as he does.
A voice whispers in the back of his head that she’s human; they’re from different worlds...
Maybe that’s why he decides to keep the book for now.
CHAPTER 3
“Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
—Oscar Wilde
JANELLE