“Now that you’ve seen the asylum and have gotten a feel for the inner workings of the creation of my Monarch slaves, I wonder if you have any questions for me, Dr. Bjorn.”
The two men were walking side-by-side toward the administrative offices at the hub of the compound. The Senator oozed pride and confidence with every step. Dr. Bjorn moved with his typical shuffle, eyes down and deep in thought.
“Yes, Senator. First, I noticed on some of your—candidates, I believe is how you referred to them?”
“Yes, yes. ‘Monarch Slaves’ seems so boorish, so we refer to them as ‘Candidates’ or ‘Monarchs’.”
Nodding, the doctor continued, “I noticed some candidates were branded with an altered infinite symbol.”
“Well, since Williams and I have worked together all these years, and he likes to brand the survivors of his serum, I adapted that symbol to suit my MetaMonarchs by adding an ‘M’ inside each loop. All candidates are marked so we can easily identify their status as either Monarch or MetaMonarch. The difference, as I’m sure you can imagine, is profound in terms of how they are programmed. As we use any number of means to create the trauma-based mind control we seek, a MetaMonarch needs everything to be taken up several notches as their strength and intellect have already been heightened.”
“It makes complete sense, Senator. Now, during our tour you mentioned something about ‘the perfect concussion.’ Would you please tell me about that now?”
“I’ll do better than tell you; I’ll show you!” Arkdone waved his hand toward a corridor with an excited flourish.
“My engineers have perfected a project I began working on two decades ago through my connections in the US Counter Intelligence Agency. At the time, you see, the CIA had so many subprojects under my advisement; some fell by the wayside not because they weren’t completely valid, brilliant ideas, but because the technology of the time wasn’t advanced enough.”
Arkdone’s lips pulled back exposing what looked to Bjorn like razor-sharp teeth. The doctor blinked deliberately and saw Donovan Arkdone frown slightly.
“You have had a long day, doctor. Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow to see ‘The Perfect Concussion’ device in action.”
“I’m sure it’s just a little jet lag, sir. My curiosity wouldn’t allow me to sleep without seeing the device tonight. That is, if the offer still stands?”
“Of course, Fredrick.” Arkdone nodded happily at his newest companion’s dedication to what Arkdone considered an art.
With a flourish, the Senator opened the thick doors leading to what looked as much like a workshop as it did a laboratory. Arkdone walked around the room with a sparkle in his black eyes as though he was about to open birthday presents a day early.
Arkdone’s body moved with grace as he made his way to the back corner and began pushing a few buttons. “I truly believe,” he was saying, “that the only way to work enjoyably, other than doing what you love, is to listen to music you love.” And as if on cue, the speakers Bjorn hadn’t even noticed mounted to the ceiling of the room came to life singing.
“‘Lacrimosa’ by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The stringed instruments dance hauntingly over the ominous bass and tenor voices while the soprano and alto voices offer forgiveness in their melodies.” Arkdone swayed slightly to the music and closed his eyes as though savoring a delicate wine. “It was his last piece, you know. A Requiem he only partially finished himself. He predicted it would be played at his own funeral and he was right. He died at the age of thirty-five. Did you know that, Fredrick?”
“Sir?”
“Mozart.”
“I believe I’ve read that somewhere.”
“You may wonder why I chose to play this particular song for you,” Donovan smiled surreptitiously.
“It is a Requiem. Music performed during a funeral. Am I correct?”
“You are a good listener, Fredrick. I like that about you.”
“Thank you sir.”
Bjorn stood still waiting patiently to be shown the device. He’d worked with enough geniuses to know it was best to let them digress as much as they needed to because once they arrived at their intended destination, it was truly brilliant.
“This is what I want to show you, my good sir.” Arkdone walked over to a table on which several dozen sliding levers were positioned just so. Connected to the machine by a thick assortment of colorful wires was a helmet of sorts.
“This is the Perfect Concussion,” he said so happily he nearly giggled. “It exposes the prospective candidate to a precise subaural frequency blast, rendering their memory nonexistent. It’s so beautiful in its simplicity, really.”
“When would you use the device?”
“Well, sometimes, I find it necessary to start a candidate with a blank slate of a mind, so to speak. It makes them so much more malleable for my programmers.”