Liberation
Nola stood alone, barefoot in the bathroom staring emotionless into the mirror positioned above the sink. The cramped subsection of her spartan quarters was poorly lit by a single horizontal luminescent bulb just above the mirror, already on its death throes and in need of replacement. Her reflection was barely visible through the mirror, as the light source cast a creeping black shadow against the dull white interior of the bathroom wall behind her. The plain white tile sent a chill up her legs that made her hairs stand on end but didn’t seem to faze her inert body. The artificial fans contributed a dull hum as the blades recirculated air continuously through the chamber and throughout the facility. A faint odor of alcohol and sanitation latex teased the hairs of her nostrils with a slight burning sensation, reminiscent of a medical laboratory or a hospital, yet did little to stir her attention.
The surface of the young Gallentean’s pale skin glistened from beads of sweat as the artificial glow reflected off her body. In contrast to her pallid exterior, her cheeks began to flush red as her body reflexively began to shiver. Her short, crimson hair, matted and unkempt from negligence, simply stuck to her forehead while the excess moisture trailed down the side of her face. Her full lips were cracked and dry yet remained sealed, refusing to hint at any emotion or thought that may have been passing through the othwerwise comatose figure. To the casual observer, she was a rigid, lifeless fixture as static as the stationary objects situated in the cramped bathroom around her.
Neural implants, devices connected directly to a body’s central nervous system, were a remarkable advancement for humanity. Commonly installed in the subdermal layer of the skin, these extraordinary tools could process a near limitless array of properties to enhance the user, ranging from playing audio, feeding extra-sensory data, to probability analysis of achieving a perfect hand in a card game. The possibilities, much like the mind they were designed for, were virtually endless in potential. The only obstacle was money and determination, of which Nola possessed both in abundance.
Locked away in her own mind was once a safe haven from the burdens of the extraaneous aspects of life; remembering social customs, birthdays and special occasions, favorite colors, when to smile, and be attentive were all burdensome white noise to the things that truly mattered. But with the advent of wireless neural communication, the sanctuary that had been hers for so long now became an endless maze of priority and procedure. Daunted with an assortment of urgent tasks that required her attention, Nola was often left comatose as her mind reeled with the optimization of shift schedules, laboratory project deadlines, and the vital request from every self-important researcher that needed her personal and immediate attention for the most insignificant minutia. There were some days when she enjoyed the challenge, while others she wished she was someone else. The weight of the world, a place she had created, was on her shoulders now and depended on her for its very existence.
There are forty replicas walking about this facility … breathing the same air. Why am I still doing all this work?She already knew the answer.
I don’t trust anyone, not even my own flesh and blood. The sudden realization stirred Nola’s body from its stasis. Her deep, hazel eyes gazed back at herself through the mirror, disgusted with her disheveled state and suddenly overwhelmed with self-loathing.
Look at you. You’re a mess; A lifeless golem of flesh and bone, with a sprinkle of metal for flavor. You ran and hid when your friends needed you. You destroyed your sister’s life and she never wants to see you again. What do you have to show for yourself?“Go to hell.” She muttered out loud, only half registering the sound of her own voice. The self-loathing coalesced into open rebellion, but the doubt continued to tug at her soul like a jagged knife through fabric.
What have I become? What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Was it worth all this?Her heart thumped frantically and breathing intensified as she overwhelmed herself with a sudden sense of urgency. Her hands trembled as her mind raced furiously, wide-eyed with madness as she gazed upon herself through the mirror. Both hands arose slowly and interlaced through numerous strands of brilliant crimson, shimmering at a particular angle when met with the dull white luminescent glow of the bulb. The tears welling up in her eyes began to trail down her cheeks as a mixed expression of fear and absolute revulsion filled her face. Her lower lips began to tremble with uncontrolled rage as her pearly white teeth clenched tightly together, pushing her body to near hyper-ventilation as spittle showered the glass before her.
Tireless devotion to task and career fulfillment could not divert the sudden swell of guilt manifested from simply looking into a mirror and seeing herself for what she truly was.
You’re a monster with a pretty smile.Nola did not like what she was looking at. It was as revolting and ugly as the cadavers resting peacefully in her laboratory, awaiting further exploration from a botched experiment, as disgusting every bullet-ridden corpse tested on in Rho Dynamics’ high velocity testing chambers, and as gruesome as every innocent she’d ever butchered in the name of science and progress. With a painful shriek, she nearly tore her hair out as she clawed and yanked at the wet strands of crimson. Panting weakly, suddenly feeling violently ill, she hunched over face down over the sink, expecting at any moment to expel what little solid was travelling back up her esophogus to make its departure. Yet nothing escaped, not even the dull emptiness that passed for compassion in her sullen heart.
In what would have passed for an eternity in her mind as wasted, precious moments of optimization and efficiency, she rested her forehead against her forearm; eyes closed and face down with her nose touching the stainless steel sink lost in chaos. The void was a welcome change of pace for Nola; a sobering reality that her sanctuary now reside entirely devoid of thought. Composing herself at long last, she lifted her head and faced herself once more. Shaking her head slowly, not liking what she saw, she remarked casually to herself, “No more lies.”
Reaching into an adjacent closet, Nola fished through her supplies until she found what she was looking for, placing the instruments on the counter for inspection: a pair of scissors and a container of bleaching powder. Exhaling deeply, and without a word, she began to cut.
***
“Wonderful,” the wrinkled old NiKunni man muttered with a tinge of disgust, “Another industrial full of failed genetics.”
Narrowing his beady eyes, Dr. Onsworth peered judgingly at the growing line of people exiting from the docked Iteron-class transport. Farmers, factory workers, homeless, and derelicts of all shapes and sizes, most of whom had spent more than a week to reach this destination, were tired, dirty, and worn from the journey. Carrying what remained of their past lives, sometimes as little as the clothes on their back, the unwanted of empire society uprooted in hopes of finding a better life. Desperate, many boarded without even questioning their destination.
The docking bay was one of four entry points to the facility, each capable of holding a vessel as large as a freighter. The room dwarfed the tiny transport ship and at a distance the people were no larger than specks of debris on a display panel. Magnetically sealed and pressurized, the chamber was filled with offloaded equipment, various personnel, and a growing number of refugees still awaiting their chance at a new life, milling about in groups huddled together for company.
With a datapad in hand, the scowling doctor tapped on the screen occasionally, making sure the screeners and the multitude of sophisticated weapons detection systems were performing their duties to his satisfaction. It was not a job he particularly enjoyed doing and felt it beneath him, which he made sure
everyone was painfully aware of, but would make absolutely certain it was done at a level befitting a man of his stature. Innappropriate jokes and raucus laughter at the misery of the poor and displaced seemed to be his only outlet for pleasure in this thankless task.
“Is everything in order, Fenton?” A soft spoken, feminine voice extruded with unexpected authority, starling the old man from his misery. He turned quickly to face the young Gallentean he had learned to respect as an equal, and begrudgingly as his superior, and had to do a double-take to match the voice with the face.
“Oh, Dr. Doyle!” he exclaimed with surprise in his eyes and an unusually fatherly tone, smiling as warmly as a wrinkling old NiKunni could. “This is an unexpected surprise. Is everything alright?”
She could tell that her radical change of appearance did not go unnoticed with the old man, whose eyes lingered over her much shorter, bleached white hair and casual attire. It was rare that she was seen, by anyone, in anything but a sterile white lab coat and matching surgical outfit. To anyone who did not know her she would have appeared as a normal woman; to everyone else that spent any time around Nola knew this was anything
but. Ignoring his inquiry, she gestured toward the industrial ship berthed at the docking bay with a nod of her head, “This is the new shipment I presume?”
“Eh…er, yes,” he almost seemed hesitant to follow her lead, reluctantly turning his attention back toward the insignificant masses, “Primarily test subjects as you can see. Worthless drivel, really. I’m concerned we won’t have room for all of them. I sincerely doubt we’ll find any diamonds in this rough.”
Turning his attention back to the young scientist, Fenton managed a weak smile once more as he examined her new features, wondering what had prompted such a change. Her attention was elsewhere, looking past him, almost through his face; a behavior he had never grown accustomed to since making her acquaintance. Feigning sincerity and politeness once more, he inquired gently, “I don’t mean to pry, Nola, but is it wise to be here so soon after your illness? These specimens have not yet been decontaminated and I fear your immune sys-“
“Prepare these people for integration.” Nola interrupted without a pause.
“I, what?!” The doctor’s expression was a mixture of horror and shock, “You must be joking. These people are peasants. How could they possibly contribute to our cause?!”
The young Gallentean woman merely blinked at him, which seemed to set him off even further, his fatherly tone giving way to his natural, gutteral growling “Where are we going to acquire our test specimens if you insist upon saving every street beggar and petty criminal?”
Nola arched an eyebrow and paused to consider it for a moment. “Use the Minmatar males. Integrate the rest.”
The response seemed to have calmed the old man’s nerves momentarily, but she followed up quickly before he could react, “I am preparing to depart within twenty-four hours. Please have my vessel prepared for voyage.”
“But-“
“Also, I have divided my responsibilities between six, two, and eighteen. I expect you to be cooperative with their authority.”
“But madame Doyle, I must protest! This is highly-“
Nola narrowed her eyes as she replied curtly, “That is
Doctor to you, Fenton. Do as I ask.”
Without an opportunity to reply, the young woman turned and left, leaving Dr. Onsworth looking after her with a disapproving scowl. He knew not to try his luck with her, but the anger at being disrespected boiled his blood. To be treated like a peon was unthinkable, and now…peasants are allowed in
his paradise. Something had to be done but he wasn’t sure how or when. These…
unclean would be sure to suffer his wrath before their integration; he would make sure of it.
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Topic: Liberation (Read 1705 times)