Like a child Pol immersed himself in story. He discovered that Enhancement went back decades, from its slow and tentative beginnings through a host of evolutions with inevitably some traumatic failures. Sarvij, its original inventor, was among the failures. The unit showed Pol holos of before and after, detailing procedures that destroyed the very man who had believed in their creation. The unit-voice remained aloof, the pictures not so. Pol’s heart ached for the man’s incurable condition. Why, a touch, a sound, a breath of moving air could cause him torment, despite all attempts at shielding, soundproofed quarters, drugs or padded clothing. Death had truly been the kindest answer.
Eventually the unit murmured, “You are under stress. Please drink.” A beaker rose, half full of yellow liquid. Pol didn’t query what it was, he simply grabbed and drained it all, and felt his tension lessen. Then he sat a while, head bowed, and thought of those who hadn’t made it. Then he sighed and straightened up. At once the unit said, “As required you have now been afforded all relevant arguments. Current procedures, as you have seen, are much safer but there remains some risk. Total rejection currently measures four point four six percent while total assimilation is three point two six percent, with responses between graded as explained. Will you affirm you understood this?”
“Yes, I do,” Pol answered grimly.
“Do you still wish to continue?”
Despite the relaxant—or because of it?—Pol’s mouth was still dry. “If it goes wrong, the Company takes care of me?”
“The Company undertakes all responsibility for the care and welfare of deserving cases.”
He didn’t ask for details, not after the holos. “Then… let’s get this over.”
Questions fired at him out of nowhere: reasoning and problem solving, memories, impressions, ethics, it became a stream of challenges that grew more complex, jolting his imagination. But he felt a rush of satisfaction as his brain ballooned to meet the challenge. He could cope with this! He’d been afraid his lack of book-learning would make him fail but this test didn’t ask for textbook knowledge, past the very basics, seemed to him to slide around that aspect.
The unit called a halt and food was offered; did he need it. He felt out of breath as if he had been running, couldn’t settle. Trying to be calm he asked, “What time is it?”
“The time is fourteen thirty-seven.”
He stiffened. “I should be at work. They’ll penalise me for it.”
“That has been dealt with, without disclosure of your presence here. Once you initiated the test your foreman was automatically informed you had been transferred to another factory.”
In case he failed. Then no one, even him, would ever know what happened? Life would go right on as if he’d never… but he didn’t want that any more, for all the doubts he’d come with. Now a magic door had opened, just a crack, but he had glimpsed another state of mind, another world, beyond it.
Yet more questions followed, often abstract and confusing with no clear answers. Pol began to falter but the voice was reassuring. “The interview is almost concluded. It is only necessary to ascertain your current pain threshold. Please stay calm and seated.” The shock was gone before he tensed to meet it but it left him wilting. All of this, but would he even rate an offer?
Friends stretched out in his apartment. Bands of real sunlight fractured into rainbow colours as they all raised glasses to their newest Total. Pol smiled back. Three months of treatments; fever, checks and rechecks, hesitations, disbelief. Six months to reach the magic lurking all the time inside him, brighter, keener. Total. One of the three percent. One of the Company’s gods!
He had three degrees now, all achieved as practice exercises. He could learn a language in a day and speak it like a native. He could taste the sheer joy of living, every nuance, hear and touch it, like his fellows. He was one of them. They bid him welcome, he could sense their pleasure, and relief that he would join them in their fight to save their people. When they left he sat and looked around at what he had. Here was the status, the material advancement Vita wanted. Smiling at that silly thought he rose and went to show himself to Vita. She’d have worried, now he’d reassure her.
Funny, she hadn’t thought about Pol for weeks now, why should a dress she’d never liked remind her? When he’d been transferred so suddenly she’d called at first, left messages, been angry, then she’d grown accustomed to his absence. But she’d missed him, more than she’d imagined. That had rather shocked her. So he wasn’t Upper level, he’d been strong and handsome, loving and unselfish, things she hadn’t valued till she couldn’t find them. When the door chime sounded she got up to answer, unsuspecting, then stepped back. A male Enhanced stood at her door. What had she done? But then the man said, “Vita?” and his hand rose as he tucked the darkened visor in a pocket.
“Pol?” She swayed, then beamed. “It’s you? It’s really you? You look so…” Then her voice trailed off, for Pol, her doting Pol, was backing from her, face gone rigid.
Terry Jackman (Mrs) is a mild mannered lady living in a quiet village in northwest England. After ten years selling nonfiction her first novel, titled Ashamet, is earning five star reviews—but she still wonders how her neighbours will react if they find out!
www.terryjackman.co.uk
3.8 Missions
Katie Gray
Art: Dave Alexander
The wind screamed in and out the remains of buildings. It tugged at his clothes, whistled through the holes punched in his helmet for the strap, rattled his ear drums. There’d be a lull in the fighting, if he’d timed this right, but he could hear cracks of missiles in the distance. And there were mines, and sizzling pools left by chemical weapons, and the iSoldiers.
He skittered down a rubbly slope and checked his scope. The signal was a blip and fading. Lock on. Point two clicks, north-north-east. His scope fritzed and he shook it, cursing. The static cleared. He looked up.
The iSoldier was standing over him, a towering figure silhouetted against the burnt-orange smog. The flickering light from a nearby fire danced in its armour, black and gold. He couldn’t tell if it was one of theirs. It was armed. Wrist gun. If he bolted it would shoot him dead.
Procedure. He rooted his feet to the ground and held up his wrist to show off his insignia. “Identify.”
Like a panther, the iSoldier leapt from the wall. Snap. Its wrist-gun retracted. Reaching out, he touched its chestplate. “Identify.”
A buzzing. “Niner-niner-triple-three-delta.”
“Right,” he said, almost relaxing. “As you were.”
Its hand shot out, grabbing his vest, knocking all the air out of his lungs. He cried out, gabbling nonsense like, “Friend!” and “On your side!” and “Reds, see? Reds!”
It tugged aside the strap of his vest to get a visual reading of his rank insignia. Private Carter, Tracey. F-Tech.
Thump. He dropped to the ground like a discarded sack. In a single leap, the iSoldier bounded over the wall.
“Wanker,” Tracey said aloud. It didn’t make him feel any better. He adjusted the straps of his vest and levered himself upright.
He checked his scope. Point two klicks. Signal still fuzzy.
He ducked between barbed wire and broken masonry into the chewed-up remains of what had been a car park. He crouched, scanning the open space.
There. A pair of metallic legs spilling out from behind the skeleton of a car. He picked his way over, staying low, and stared at what was left of the iSoldier he’d been sent to patch up.
