by T. C. Edge
Mikel listened, interest growing, and spiking at her final words.
“Just the beginning?” he said.
She nodded.
“Oh yes, we’re speaking only of phase one development here. Other synthetics offer varying abilities and gifts, and come in various shapes and sizes. Our scientists have performed…miracles here…” She trailed off, as though losing some steam in her pitch, a frown beginning to settle. Her earlier buoyancy fell away, her raft punctured and threatening to sink.
Mikel inspected her closely. She was a woman torn, he realised. A woman who’d done this for her daughter, but nothing much more than that. She spoke quickly of these synthetics, but without passion. She was a saleswoman rattling off a patter, sticking to a well-worn script.
Mikel could see it in her eyes - she didn’t believe in this, not fully. Whatever was going on above her, whatever her superiors were planning, she wasn’t entirely on board.
But what was that, exactly? What was the purpose of all of this?
Mikel’s intrigue grew. He had to know.
“What are the MSA planning?” he asked, studying her, voice a raspy hiss.
She looked up to him, hesitating.
“I…that’s beyond your remit, Mikel,” she said. “And mine. I’m not a member of the military, or high command. These new soldiers will be under another’s guidance.”
“President Chase’s,” said Mikel. Martha’s eyes flickered down. “Yes, of course. Revenge, is it? Revenge for your nation? I understand that well. Many people wish revenge against me.”
He smiled, and he noted the slight shudder run through Martha’s frame.
“Well, my part in this is to aid in your transition,” she said, clearing her throat. “As promised, you will not be required to serve us once the procedure is complete…”
“Hmmmm, but that raises a concern,” whispered Mikel, sharp mind seeking potential pitfalls, problems he might encounter. He wasn’t prone to giving up his freedom like this, putting himself in the hands of others. Yes, he was driven here by a mix of desperation and desire; desperation to escape his hunger, desire to see how powerful he might become. But he remained wary of tricks and plays against him. He wasn’t about to lose his guard.
“And that is?” asked Martha.
“This new science of yours,” whispered Mikel, picking up a sheet, inspecting the image of the clone upon it. “It’s about immortality. The defeat of death. You can take my mind from this vessel,” he said, opening out his arms, “and transfer it to another.” He held up the image for Martha to see. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”
“More?”
“Of course. The consciousness of your subjects, your soldiers, will be kept somewhere. Right here, I’m thinking, in the depths of this facility. Death to any synthetic body on the battlefield will no longer mean losing that soldier’s mind, his experience, his knowledge. He will merely be uploaded into a new form, will he not?”
Martha nodded.
“Then, I have to ask.” He leaned in, cool eyes unblinking. “If my consciousness is stored here as well, what is to stop you from destroying it, if you so wish?”
Martha pursed her lips, but didn’t look away. She seemed to have expected this question. Perhaps other soldiers, other volunteers, had brought forward the same concern.
“What you say is true, Mikel. The science of Professor Phantom goes beyond merely transferring human consciousness to another vessel. It is about being eternal, if one so wishes. A soldier who cannot be killed is a devastating weapon. They may lose their physical form, but their consciousness will remain intact. Right here, as you say,” she nodded. “Physical ‘death’ on the battlefield is no longer the end.”
“You’re not answering my question, Mrs Mitchell,” said Mikel coolly. “Can you not just destroy my stored consciousness here, at any time?”
Martha inspected him for a moment, perhaps wondering how best to proceed. Then she nodded once more.
“That is correct. All volunteers will have their consciousness stored at this site. The process of transference into one of the synthetic bodies merely creates a duplicate.” She drew a breath, and ran her hand across the top of her hair. “However, destruction of the stored consciousness will not impact the duplicate. That will only cease to exist with the destruction of the physical form.”
Mikel frowned, scratching his chin with long, sharp nails.
“I see. And what of memory? If a soldier dies on the battlefield, and their duplicated consciousness is lost, then what? Does the stored consciousness recall what the duplicate experienced?”
“No,” said Martha immediately. “Memory can only be updated on-site. Soldiers will periodically return to ensure that happens, and their experiences and memories are logged and updated into their stored consciousness. If they are killed in battle, whatever they have experienced between those periods will be lost.”
Mikel turned to his thoughts, working through the information he’d been given. The woman was laying it out cleanly, and didn’t appear to be hiding anything. It seemed to Mikel that the gift of immortality was going to come with a price-tag. In order to achieve that, he’d have to let his consciousness be stored here, ready to be re-uploaded into another synthetic form should be be killed out there.
But no, that wasn’t how he considered things. He didn’t wish to have another ‘version’ of him stored here for that purpose. It wouldn’t be him, would it? He had no intention of returning here to upload memory, experience, knowledge.
He wasn’t part of the MSA, or their military. He wasn’t a part of this system. No, he wished to remain rogue, a lone wolf, as he’d always been. He wanted to step from this facility, and live his life as he desired, without being beholden to anyone.
If he were to die out there, so be it. Mikel had never feared death; they were allies, kindred spirits. He didn’t wish to cheat his old friend, deny him the chance to take him one day.
No, this wasn’t about becoming immortal for Mikel, he now knew. It was merely escaping his hunger, boosting his power, wandering the world as he always had. Causing pain. Destruction. Chaos.
He sent his eyes on Martha, his decision made. She awaited his words, hands clasped before her, neck angled up to meet his lofty gaze.
“How long are the lifespans of these synthetics?” he asked, looking at the images on the table.
Martha followed his gaze.
“Well, we’re not entirely sure,” she said. “They were genetically designed and built to age extremely slowly. However, until we conduct further tests, we can’t be…”
“I don’t need an exact figure, Mrs Mitchell,” hissed Mikel. “Give me an estimate.”
Martha thought for a moment.
“I should imagine several hundred years at least, depending on wear and tear. Perhaps up to a millennia.”
Mikel’s lips warped into a smile. A thousand years. That was plenty enough for him.
“Well,” he said, grinning. “In that case, I’d have my consciousness duplicated, and the original destroyed,” he said. “I don’t wish for you to hold a piece of me here, Mrs Mitchell. I’d prefer to hold onto my independence.”
Martha dipped her chin.
“So be it, Mikel. But be aware that your death will be final, if that’s your choice. You will not be able to be brought back.”
“Oh, I have no intention of dying for some time. And should you ‘bring me back’, as you say…I think we both know it wouldn’t be me. There’s something…unnatural about this science that unnerves me. I prefer to be apart from it all, and not have my mind held prisoner down here in this dungeon.”
“As you wish,” whispered Martha. “Now, do you have any preference?” she asked, waving her hand over the images.
Mikel looked upon them once more. He felt disgusted by the thought of looking as they did; of having others, many others, looking almost identical to him. He’d have to get used to it. To lose his eternal hunger, his suffering, he’d need to make
sacrifices.
He looked at them, searching for the one with the darkest eyes, the darkest hair. His fingers flicked through them. One stuck out above the others, but only by a little. The hair was a gloomier shade of brown, the eyes a deeper blue.
He chuckled to himself as he looked at the young clone.
I guess I can always dye my hair…get some contact lenses, he thought.
“That one?” asked Martha.
Mikel nodded lightly.
“Why not,” he said. “They’re all as ugly as the next.”
Martha seemed to smile at that. A real smile.
“A fine choice, Mikel. Now rest up. I’ll return in several hours to see it done.”
She moved back through the door, pulling it open and stepping into the corridor. The Ravens stood waiting, the smell of their nanites wafting through the opening, pulled in by the swing of the heavy door.
Mikel’s stomach lurched, nostrils flaring.
It was a sensation he hated, and loved. One he knew, deep down, that he’d miss dearly. But one he knew, too, that he needed to escape.
Forever.
89
Martha Mitchell stepped through a door and looked upon a face of utter beauty. Hair of gleaming gold. Eyes of sparkling blue. Teeth so white and a smile so pure she thought the girl must be an angel from above.
Wearing a pretty white dress, she certainly looked angelic. Martha’s daughter, her dearest Sarah, back from the brink of death.
Sarah slipped straight off the bed as Martha entered, running barefoot across the carpeted floor of her accommodation up on the highest subaquatic floor. She wrapped her mother up, arms strong again, her vitality returned. Her sparkling eyes brightened the room as she gazed up.
“Mommy, when are we going home?”
Martha knelt down, and hugged Sarah tight. She couldn’t get enough of that, and had spent half of the last twelve hours with her little girl tangled in her arms. The feel of her body still threatened to draw tears; her flesh plumped up again, her skin soft and vibrant.
Her sickly form - her real form - had been abandoned; now she had this brand new shell, this wondrous vessel. This cloned body that had given Martha such reservations before; reservations now cast off as her daughter’s consciousness, her memory, gave it life.
She hadn’t asked what had been done with Sarah’s old body. She didn’t really want to hear the answer. Most likely, her cancer-stricken body will have been taken away and cremated, ashes flung to the winds and scattered over the lake. It might have been nice to have had them, were that the case; to keep the final vestiges of Sarah’s original physical form in an urn, use it as a reminder of just what she’d done, and why.
The thought still made her cringe, sent a stab of guilt through her.
The last few days she’d spent at this facility had been both joyous and harrowing. Seeing her daughter come back to life gave her joy she’d never expected to feel again. But being present as others were given life - synthetics powered up by human minds - engendered the opposite feeling.
A sense of dread filled her, fuelled by an abhorrence at what she’d done, at what was set to happen.
It wasn’t just Pamela’s revenge, the chaos she was about to unleash. No, this went further than that, so much further. What was happening here was changing what it meant to be human. It was the power of God, wielded by man. It was the taming of death.
Things that shouldn’t be possible by natural order. Things that made clear man’s ascension to something beyond what they’d once more. Something almost…divine.
Martha looked at her daughter again, however, and knew she was a hypocrite.
Here was her little girl, brought back from the darkness and into the light. She couldn’t, in all good conscience, smile upon that wondrous miracle and yet denounce the same procedure being used elsewhere.
There was a difference, clearly, between a girl of ten being given a second chance, and the creation of an army of synthetic super-soldiers. But still, the general principle of the science remained the same, and Martha had no right to question it.
She sighed, and shook off the concern. It wasn’t hers to think about any more. It wasn’t her burden. In time, someone would have completed Professor Phantom’s research. Better, perhaps, that it was here, where it could be controlled and overseen. Where someone such as her, with the ear of the President, could try to keep a lid on the chaos that might follow.
Yes, she thought, yes, that’s what I’ll do. I brought the data here, so it’s my responsibility to make sure it isn’t completely abused…
“Mommy?”
Martha blinked. She’d let her mind wander. She drew back from Sarah and looked into her beautiful sapphire eyes.
“Yes, darling?”
“When are we going home?” the girl repeated.
Martha held her smile it place, though it wanted to fall. Oh, they weren’t going anywhere, not for some time. President Chase would never allow it, not with what Martha knew. She’d be a great risk out there. This place would become her prison.
But, a positive spin needed to be put on that. Her mind had been made up, and she knew now her purpose - stay here, keep an eye on Pamela, and try to council her as best she could.
Pamela still remained unaware that Martha harboured these feelings, that her true desire, were it not for Sarah, would have been to see the data destroyed. That was something she wished to keep to herself.
Such a truth would put her in danger around here.
She stood from her knees, and led Sarah over to her bed, sitting her down on the soft mattress. The room had been decorated to make it suitable for a girl of ten, coloured with yellows and pinks, and with entertainment available that would suit her age.
Sarah, it turned out, wasn’t the only child on site - other important personnel here had been allowed to bring their families - and thus many rooms had been outfitted to make them liveable, even comfortable, for young children.
Martha took a breath and smiled at her daughter. It was hard to stop from doing that.
“We’re going to stay here for a little while, darling,” she said eventually. “Mommy has important work to do. But it’s nice, isn’t it?”
Sarah looked around the room, and shrugged.
“I prefer my room at home.”
“I…I prefer home too. But we can’t go back yet. It’s safer for us here. You still need to recover. This is the best place for you.”
Sarah turned to her mother, an almost distant look in her eye, as if the previous few months were cloudy, hard to recall.
“Am I really better?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Martha nodded. “All better.” She lifted Sarah’s hand, kissing it, pressing it to her cheek with a smile. “You won’t get ill again. I promise.”
Sarah nodded and looked down at the floor, eyes thoughtful. She sighed, a frown falling over her eyes.
“I feel different,” she murmured. “My arms feel weird. And my legs.”
“Weird?” Martha felt a strike of worry. “What do you mean by that, sweetheart?”
Sarah shrugged again.
“I dunno. Like…like they don’t fit. They feel tight. Like I’m wearing clothes that are too small.”
Martha draped her arm over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her towards her. Another hug.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon,” she said softly. “You’re just getting used to…” she trailed off. She had no intention of telling Sarah that she was in a cloned body, at least not yet. This tightness must be related to that. It was a concern, but not a serious one. It was probably just teething problems. Yes, that was it. Nothing to worry about…
Still, she made a mental note to pass it onto Pamela and the scientists. All of the synthetics were being monitored for quirks during the early stages post-transfer. Martha had been asked by Pamela to do the same with her daughter, to watch for anything unusual.
It was new science, and such things didn’t always go without a hitch.
The thought that something might go wrong was terrifying to Martha, so much so that her reaction was to brush it aside and not dwell.
Of course, Sarah’s current consciousness was stored down in the consciousness repository, a place simply known as the ‘mind-vault’. It was, as she’d described to Mikel a little earlier, the storage location for those who’d undergone the transference.
Soldiers who had had their consciousness duplicated and transferred to synthetic bodies had no choice in that. They had been chosen, or volunteered, to serve, and would do so for…well, as long as they were required to. A life-sentence to serve, to kill, to fight and war. And ‘life’ for these brave men and women had just become a whole lot longer.
Sarah, however, was not a soldier, and was not required to serve. It would be Martha’s decision, as her guardian, to determine whether or not her daughter’s consciousness would be permanently stored there or not.
If not, then it would be deleted, leaving this Sarah, this current Sarah, as the only one left. If she died, suddenly, then there would be no way to revive her, to bring her back and implant her mind and memories into another cloned form. If, however, her consciousness was stored, then death would become a near impossibility.
It was a debate Martha would have with herself another time. Right now, until she was convinced that the procedure had worked properly, she would certainly keep her daughter’s consciousness intact down in the mind-vault.
Beyond that, however, she thought it likely that this Sarah would be the last. It would spit in the face of her own morality, make her even more of a hypocrite, if she allowed for anything else.