What we’re capable of Armonk joins in without speaking.
Raising my arms and face to the skylight, I soak in the sun and gather my strength, my shared power to transmit silent messages. Let’s ask the monsters questions I suggest to my friends. Trump them at their games.
Armonk, Blane and Thorn receive my message, I know this by the way they pause, head my way, and raise their own faces to the skylight—for energy, for direction.
The monsters can hear us, Thorn says silently. So, talk to them.
Who are you? I try to ask them. Who are you and why did they create you?
For war, for war, for war they shoot back.
We are you, we are you, we are you they also insist.
But who do you think we are? Armonk asks them. We were not created for war. You’re different.
The monsters snap their backs up and down. How dare you, how dare you!
No different, no different, no different than you comes the retort from their very own faction.
You are killing machines, killing machines and that’s all! Blane scolds. His silent proclamation blazes through the warehouse, inspiring a fiercer rally amongst the monsters.
We are you, we are you, the power, the power, the power of Reds, of the Fireseed, the Fireseed they insist as they writhe and thump their massive wings against their pods.
You are only part from us, part from us say our friendly Reds.
If you’re us, then you cannot be war machines I say without words.
They’re us and they’re not us our own Reds explain as they soar overhead. Us and not us.
If you’re made for war Thorn tells the monsters you must destroy yourselves.
Destroy yourselves. Destroy yourselves to save the stroma from contamination! we chant fervently in our heads now that we’ve begun to figure things out. The part that is us, NanoPearl stole from Thorn’s mind and from the Reds they captured. The parts that aren’t, well, those are gruesome adaptations designed to wage war, for mass slaughter. God only knows what lethal weaponry they contain. I never want to find out.
We are more than copies, more than copies the Red beasts insist. There’s a deafening pop and we see that one of them has broken his neck binding. He swings his massive head toward us and roars. We stumble back, shaken. Our Reds are shaken too. They lunge at the great beast’s eyes to taunt him.
Time is running out I try to convey privately but the beasts hear me too.
Running out! Running out, the emboldened one roars. Your time is running out! He struggles mightily against his remaining leg binds. Raising his snout, he snatches one, then two more of our Reds and clamps his powerful jaw closed, gobbling them whole.
The rest of our Reds shriek but keep their distance.
How dare you! I scold silently.
The Reds are ours to eat the monsters insist.
We are not yours our Reds eep back as they careen around the monsters.
These mutants are, in truth split, tortured souls. They must know, in their core, just as the Fireseed does, as Armonk always insisted, that if there is enough emotional turmoil and contamination in their ranks that their sacred duty is to immolate and self destroy.
You must immolate. Self destroy we chant to them inwardly.
We raise our rallying cry until every part of us vibrates as one. One hive, one solar battery, one mind of the great Fireseed.
Our Reds swarm overhead, squawking in a manner I’ve never heard before now. They’re reprimanding their monstrous counterparts. You cannibals, cannibals, cannibals! The warlike Reds still trapped in their binds, snap back, their teeth gleaming.
Immolate, immolate, immolate our little Reds screech while they race in faster and faster circles, as if they’re stirring a boiling pot brimming with healing elixir, designed to fix something irretrievably broken. Immolate!
Blane steps out of our circle and raises his gun to the monster that has just broken free of its leg bindings. “You’ll pay for killing our Reds,” he growls.
“No, Blane!” I shout. “Come back.”
“This thing will kill us all if I don’t do it first,” he insists.
But he won’t kill the beast with a taser; he’ll only aggravate it. A wave of sheer terror crashes through me when Blane steps closer and fires. The monster unleashes a torrent of infuriated howls as its claws reach out like curled sabers.
And then, its jaw gaping, one of its sharp teeth ejects at Blane. Made for war it growls. Its tooth rockets through the air, plunging deep into Blane’s thigh. Blane moans and drops, blood spurting onto the floor.
I want to shoot at the thing so badly. It’s hurt Blane, and killed our Reds. The second taser is tucked in my sock. I could reach down and grab it. But it won’t kill it; only rouse it to further rage. We need to keep working together to raise the energy of the stroma. It’s the only way. My heart batters hard against my ribs.
Armonk, Thorn and I increase the decibel of our silent chant: Immolate, immolate!