Chapter 4 Antonio
The hum is the first thing, the ever-present, low-frequency thrum of filtered air and cooling servers. It’s the sound of absolute control, a sterile white noise that fills the observation room and my own head. It’s the only sound, aside from the soft tap of my finger against my lower lip.
Before me, the wall is a mosaic of contained lives.
Twenty-four high-definition screens, each a window into a room that is not a room.
It’s a cell, though I’d never be so crude as to call it that.
Each is identical: six by nine paces, smooth, seamless walls that glow with a soft, circadian-rhythm-adjusting light, a bed that folds into the wall, a toilet and sink unit that does the same.
The air they breathe is precisely oxygenated, scrubbed of contaminants and laced with a mild, calming aerosol to prevent hysterics.
Their diets are engineered by a nutritionist who once worked for Olympic athletes, precise macros, vitamins, minerals.
All to keep the specimens in tiptop condition.
They are my livestock. My collection. My insurance policy.
My finger stops tapping. I lean forward, my elbows on the polished obsidian console, and survey my kingdom.
Men move in their little boxes. Some pace, others lie on their beds, staring at the featureless ceiling, lost in whatever pathetic fantasies of rescue or revenge they can conjure.
One is doing push-ups. Weights are provided during their two-hour daily outdoor allowance.
Sunlight, fresh air, and rigorous exercise are, after all, essential for maintaining prime physical and mental health.
A sickly specimen is of no use to anyone.
Today, I need a specific kind of specimen. Today, I play God.
The two guards flanking the door behind me are so still they might as well be part of the architecture. They are clad in black, their faces impassive behind tinted visors.
My gaze drifts from screen to screen. Any one of these men would work. They are, all of them, a perfect match, which is why they’ve been allowed to live. If you can call this existence living.
A childhood rhyme, absurd and trivial, bubbles up from the depths of my memory. It feels appropriate. The ultimate decision reduced to a sing-song jest.
“Eeny, meeny, miney, mo,” I murmur, my voice a dry rustle in the humming silence. My finger, long and pale, points at each screen in turn, a modern-day Roman emperor condemning gladiators to their fate. “Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go…”
My finger moves like a metronome of fate while the guards stand motionless.
“…Eeny, meeny, miney…”
My finger slows, hovering over a screen near the centre.
Cell 12. The occupant is sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed, examining his hands.
He has good posture. Strong shoulders. Thick, dark hair shot through with notable strands of silver.
He looks well-bred, even in his synthetic jumpsuit.
There’s a defiance in the set of his jaw, even in repose.
I remember that defiance. I remember his face the day I finally caught the fucker.
“…mo.”
The word hangs in the air. I let the silence stretch, savouring the moment of decision, the sheer weight of it.
This is power. Not the crass power of a bullet or a bomb, but the quiet, absolute power of choice over life and death.
I own the air he breathes, the food he eats, the very rhythm of his heart. And now, I own its final beat.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to.
“Cell twelve,” I say, my voice clear and devoid of the previous whimsy. “Bring him to the white room.”
One of the guards acknowledges the command with a single, sharp nod that is more a tilt of his head than anything else.
A soft chime sounds as the order is transmitted.
On screen 12, a section of the wall in the cell hisses open.
The man looks up, his body tensing instantly.
Two figures in black, identical to my guards, enter.
He doesn’t fight. He knows it’s useless.
He stands, allowing them to secure his hands behind his back with plastic ties, and is led out.
The cell door seals shut behind him, and his screen goes blank, replaced by the facility’s stark insignia.
I lean back in my chair, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Oh this is perfect, a delicious twist of fate I hadn’t even anticipated when I began my selection.
I rise and smooth down the front of my tailored navy suit.
“Come,” I command the remaining guard, and stride from the observation room into the stark white hallway beyond.
The walls are the same luminous, non-porous material as the cells, curving seamlessly into the floor.
It’s like walking through the inside of a giant, sterile egg.
The “white room” is the antechamber to this little underworld. It contains two chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor, all white.
It is a place of conversation.
Of revelation.
Of breaking.
I take a seat and wait. The door whispers open, and the guards bring Pearce in, forcing him into the chair opposite me. They remain standing behind him, hands resting on the shock-prods at their belts.
He looks older now. Stress ages a man wonderfully but his eyes are the same; a sharp, intelligent blue, currently blazing with a hatred so pure it’s almost admirable. He scans the room, then me, his mind clearly working, calculating odds, searching for weakness.
“You,” he finally spits, the word dripping with venom.
My grin widens. “Hello, Pearce. It’s been a while. I trust the accommodations have been to your liking? The chef tells me the quinoa and grilled salmon was particularly good this week.”
He strains against the plastic ties, the muscles in his forearms cording. “Go to hell, Macrae.” He spits my father’s surname like it’s an insult, like my paternal side doesn’t hark back to clans and dynasties far greater than his could.
“Tsk. Such ingratitude, after all the care we’ve taken. The vitamin D supplements, the personalized training regimens. We’ve invested a great deal in you, Pearce. In all of you.” I lean forward, folding my hands on the table. “And today, that investment pays its dividend.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your purpose,” I say, my voice low because you don’t need to shout when you hold all the cards.
“The reason you were collected and stored here for safekeeping. It wasn’t random.
Nothing I do is random. You are here because you have value and today, I am going to give you the one thing you’ve always craved, above all else. ”
A flicker of confusion disrupts the hatred in his gaze. It’s a tiny crack, and I pour myself into it.
“Power,” I whisper the word, letting it hang between us like smoke.
“You wanted it so badly. You schemed for it, manoeuvred your little pieces on the board, thought yourself a grand player in a game of dynasties. But now, finally, you will have it. Not in the way you imagined, of course. The universe has a far more exquisite, more ironic sense of humour than that.”
Pearce’s jaw works. He’s trying to stay hard, to remain anchored in his anger, but the sheer absurdity of my statement is pulling him adrift. “You’re insane. You’ve brought me here to talk in riddles before you kill me. Get on with it.”
“Kill you?” I laugh, a short, sharp sound that echoes off the sterile walls.
“Pearce, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to make you immortal.
Your essence will become part of something far greater, far more powerful than your pitiful ambitions ever could have achieved. You will be the saviour of an empire.”
I rise from my chair slowly, a predator uncoiling. The guards behind him tense infinitesimally, ready to pounce if he makes a move. He doesn’t. He’s frozen, watching me, his mind racing to catch up.
I circle the table, coming to stand beside him. I can smell the sterile, antiseptic scent of his jumpsuit, and the faint, clean sweat of a body maintained in peak condition. He is a perfect specimen. My selection was impeccable.
“Did you know,” I muse, dragging a single, well-manicured finger along the line of his shoulder, feeling him flinch at the touch, “that we’ve been sequencing all of you?
A full genomic map. It’s part of the intake process.
Blood draws, tissue samples, all so politely taken during your monthly ‘health check-ups’. ”
My finger trails down his chest, over the coarse fabric. I can feel the strong, steady thump of his heart beneath my touch.
A good, strong heart. A vital heart.
“We were looking for something very specific. A key to a very particular lock. And you, Pearce? You of all people are a perfect match.”
I stop my finger, prodding gently right over his sternum, right where the muscle and bone cage the frantic, living thing within.
“A genetic match for our Grand Master.”
The words land not with a bang but with a dreadful, sinking silence.
Pearce’s frown deepens, the gears turning, turning and then they lock into place with an almost audible click.
I see the exact moment understanding dawns.
It doesn’t come as a slow sunrise; it arrives as a nuclear blast, bleaching the last of the colour from his face.
The chair screeches against the floor as he lurches backward, his body a coiled spring of terror and rage.
“No.” The word isn’t a shout; it’s a guttural, strangled thing ripped from the very core of him. “You can’t. You can’t…”
The guards are on him before the second syllable is out.
They are efficiency personified. One locks his arms in an unbreakable hold, the other presses a gloved hand against his forehead, forcing his head back, exposing his neck.
Pearce thrashes like a wild animal, his legs kicking out, connecting with the table, sending it skidding.
The sound is a violent crash in the pristine quiet.