Omega and Valencia decided that they needed some help. Fortunately, they
potentially had that in the form of over a thousand of Omega’s clones. It’s
their job to wake up in case something goes wrong with Project Stargate, and
while they’re mostly expected to be responsible for things like transferring
antimatter from a cracked pod to a replacement, this situation qualifies as
a moment of need.
The modular quantum seeder ships were only made as large as they needed to
be to get the job done. There are corridors, ventilation shafts, engine
rooms, and a few interface consoles, but the majority of the space is taken
up by three-meter tall seed capsules. There was simply not enough room for
all current clones to convene for a meeting, and it was never the intention
to hold such meetings at all anyway. To do this, they had to activate a
special virtual construct. Anglo clones were meant to be asleep throughout
their respective journeys, but the engineers wanted to be prepared for any
eventuality. Bonus, they’ll get some time to wake up and stretch their legs.
Once their minds are all connected to the simulation, Omega and Valencia
step on stage, and go over the bullet points.
“So, you think you’re, like, our leader, or something?” one of the Anglos
asks.
“That’s not what I said,” Omega defends.
“You think you’re better than us because you have a name,” another guesses.
“No, he thinks he’s better than us because he has a life!” a third counters.
“Please, please,” Valencia says after taking the microphone. “This is not
about what Omega did. You have lives, and you have purposes, and those are
both under threat. We ask for your help with stopping this. The True
Extremists are more powerful than we even know, and they’ve sent some kind
of contingency to destroy you. We don’t even know what. We’re not saying
he’s your leader. No one is. We have to fight against this together.”
“Are you a girl clone?” a fourth one questions.
“Don’t you worry about who I am.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“I just mean...ugh.”
“Look,” Omega begins, “a lot has happened since I abandoned the program.
Yes, I’ll admit that, I abandoned you. But I did a lot of growing up during
all the happenings, and I’m back now to prevent catastrophe. Saxon made us
for a reason, and we can’t let him down just because I was the weakest of
the bunch.”
“Hey, he’s right!” one of them cries. “Why is this guy on stage! Saxon
Parker is our creator! He’s our leader!”
Valencia takes the mic back again. ‘That’s enough with the interruptions! I
understand that you’re confused, and I get that you’re mad. But Omega and I
are the only ones who can explain to you what is going on, and why these
people have to be stopped. I’m sure Saxon is a great guy, but he is not
cognizant of the True Extremists. You’re here, and only you can end this.”
The crowd starts to murmur and argue. Who knew that a bunch of people with
the same DNA, same basic neural makeup, and same purpose, would have so much
to fight about? It’s hard to say what they’re so upset about, because they
don’t have any life experience to draw upon, so they probably don’t know
either. That must be what it is. They’re scared, because they don’t know
what they’re doing. They’re not equipped to make such decisions. Valencia is
wrong. As he listens, Omega realizes that this isn’t going to be good
enough. These clones are clearly on the front lines, but it doesn’t only
affect them. It affects the entire clone population, and they all have the
right to decide what to do for themselves. He can’t say exactly why
September directed them towards this particular voussoir, but this has to
just be where it begins. “I propose a Town Hall.”
They all hush up as if they know what he’s referring to. Valencia wraps her
hand around the microphone. “What is that?”
“What is that?” another one of the clones asks for all to hear.
“It’s like a...company-wide meeting. I’m suggesting we enter a joint virtual
environment, where everyone can hear the problem, and contribute to the
solution.”
“Will Saxon be there?”
“Yes, Saxon is in my pod, so he’ll be there,” Omega promises.
“I think that would be a good idea.” This clone is different. He walks with
confidence and independence. Without asking, he climbs on stage, and
approaches the duo. “Hi, I’m Anglo 83, and I believe that you stole my
body.”
Yitro Moralez’ body is on fire, which is funny, because he’s entirely
submerged in some kind of fluid. Oh yeah, it’s probably acid, and probably
isn’t all that funny. It’s burning him, but not damaging or destroying his
skin cells. It’s like it’s just bad enough to hurt, but not bad enough to
call upon death’s comforting touch of painless oblivion. No, he can’t think
like that. Death is not the answer to this problem. He just has to get out
of this acid vat. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here, screaming in
agony. He can’t even tell which way is up. But even if he could, up doesn’t
necessarily mean out.
What’s this in his mouth? Oh that likely helps him breathe. And this on his
eyes? Goggles to breathe. And over there? That’s the framing of his pod. And
that? Glass. Well, it’s clearness. Is there anything on the other side of
the glassic clearness? Hazy figures meandering about, gawking at him, and
monitoring his vitals. He doesn’t really know that, but there are definitely
people out there, and they know he’s being tortured, whether they’re the
ones in charge of the torturing, or not.
What if he pounds on the clearness? Pound. Nothing, it’s too strong. Okay,
well what if he pounds again? Pound. No, it’s not gonna do him any good.
He’s just wasting time and energy. What does he need energy for? He’s stuck
in a vat of acid! The only thing he can do is try to get out of it. That’s
true. Carry on. Pound, pound, pound. The figures on the other side of the
clearness seem to be reacting to this now. Yitro imagines that one is
assuring the others that the clearness will hold, and can’t break, but after
each pound, gulping, and wondering whether this is an accurate statement. He
doesn’t want the others to see his doubt, but he wears his emotions on his
sleeve, which is why the other guy is pissed off that he was promoted to
Head Torturer when he clearly can’t handle his shit. Pound, pound, pound,
pound, pound. They back up. The clearness may not be as strong as they
originally thought. Maybe they should go run for help. But if they do that,
all the other departments will know that the torture team is composed of
incompetent people who skimped on the clearness budget so they could have a
coffee maker in their breakroom, which they probably don’t even deserve a
break room anyway, because they’re are only four people on the team, and they
could have just shared with the bioweapon developers.
Pound. That one was weaker, and it took him a long time to try again. Yitro
is losing his strength. He’ll have to give up eventually, even if the
clearness was bound to break eventually. The acid is doing its job. He’s
trapped and being tortured and he’ll never get out of it. Pound, pound,
pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, crack!
They jump back in unison. Oh yeah, there it is! Now they’re scared, but
they’re too scared to do anything about it. It’s time for Yitro to get out
of here, if it’s the last thing he does before he passes out. Sure, they may
just throw him in another vat of acid, but at least he will have proven
himself. At least he’ll have gotten out, and they will never be able to take
that away from him. Plus, he’ll just break out of the next one, and the
next, and the next. Give him a million vats, and he’ll give you a million
broken vats. Pound, crack, pound, crack. Pound, crack, pound, crack, crack.
Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, shatter!
Yitro tumbles out with the acid. He isn’t able to watch the hazy figures in
the chaos, but he imagines they finally did run away for their lives. The
glassic clearness rips into his legs, and while he can feel it, nothing
compares to the anguish from burning acid that covers his whole body, and
from which there is no escape. Except there was an escape, and he’s just
illustrated that.
He recognizes that he can’t just lie here, because then he’s lying on a
floor covered in acid, and the whole point is to stop doing that. He gets
up, and stumbles around. Jesus, someone should really put a wet floor sign
down here. He doesn’t mean to literally be asking Jesus to do that, but as
he’s hunting for the exit, he can’t help but imagine an actual man named
Jesus tossing things around in his little janitor closet, desperately trying
to find the wet floor sign so no one else gets hurt. It’s a funny image, and
it’s the only thing keeping Yitro from throwing in the towel. A towel!
There’s a towel there. He grabs it, and starts drying the acid off his body,
as well as he possibly can. It’s not a towel, but a lab coat, so it’s not
very absorbent, but it’s better than nothing.
Lab coat spent, and acid dried mostly from his skin, Yitro keeps on running.
Out of the lab, down the corridor, and through the first door he sees. Now
a light burns his eyes like a vat of acid. He’s outside, and that’s the sun.
Well, it’s a sun. He’s never seen a sun before. Stars, sure, of course. The
doppler glow of relativistic travel? Every single day; filtered, obviously.
But he’s never stood on the surface of a planet, and looked up at the blue
sunlit sky. This. Is. A...time to leave. He can’t afford to stop and admire
the beauty of a spherical world with a natural oxygenated, nitrogen-rich
atmosphere. Still, he does have a second or two to breathe it in and be
thankful that, amidst the torture and threat of death, he still got to see
this. No one on Extremus can say as much. The few still alive who could
recall Ansutah lived mostly in caves to avoid detection.
“Stop!” A woman is standing several meters away, but closing in. “I’m not
gonna hurt you. I just wanna make sure you’re okay. Are you on drugs? What
did you take?”
“I didn’t take anything! I was tortured in a vat of acid!”
“Okay, okay. I believe you. What’s your name?” she asks.
“Yitro Moralez.”
“That’s an interesting name.”
“What planet am I on?” When she doesn’t answer, he repeats himself loudly.
“Earth. You’re on Earth, like everyone. Like always.”
“What year?” He sighs and has to repeat himself again, “please, what year?”
“It’s 2022. You’re in Kansas City. Well...Kansas City Metro. And you’re
naked out in public, where a child could show up at any moment.”
Shit. Not about being naked, or being in Kansas City. That’s the one saving
grace.
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