Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (21 page)

Madison yanks me back, almost off my feet. “Forget about that one, the owner won’t be here for a while.” She hauls me back on track, leading the way along the wandering path.

Deeper into the woods is fine, just don’t lead me astray.

* * *

For a time, the forest only thickens as we push on, then the trail ends at a bluff overlooking a dry canyon. Down in the canyon, long shacks are aligned in rows, like barracks. In an open area surrounded by the bland housing, individuals are assembled into regimented columns. These people have clothes, drab green shorts, matching tee-shirts, and black boots. They appear to be exercising. A man in front directs the group—one two, one two, on and on. What a pain in the ass, and a perfect waste of time.

“What’s going on down there?” I ask.

“Calisthenics,” Mac says.

“Yeah, I figured as much, but why?”

“Do you want a body that’s all flabby and weak? Certainly not! We provide only the best. Our units are high quality, top grade products.”

“You mean, those are more bodies, not people?”

He looks down on the exercising crowd. “Last week’s batch, a special infantry order. The military is quite particular. They demand superior physical endurance, so we must condition the units extensively before delivery.”

Last
week?

“Mac, just how long does a batch take?”

“It varies, though I am rather proud of the latest batch. I created them in only six days.”

“
Days?
How is that possible?”

He gets a crafty grin. “Trade secret. Don’t think just ’cause I’m showing you around means I’m going to reveal my techniques. That’s proprietary information. Visit any of the competition and you’re looking at a thirty day lead time, at least. They don’t know how I do it, and I don’t plan on letting them know. You’ve got to have an edge in this business, and my best edge is turnaround time. With all my tricks, I got ’em whipped.”

Somehow, I believe it. But at the same time, can hardly believe any of it. A body farm? My dreams are tame. I won’t press him to divulge his precious secrets. All that remains hidden, and I don’t remember, could be secrets I may not want to know.

Mac urges that we continue and leads the way along a minor dirt path, toward a concrete structure that overlooks the barracks and exercising bodies. A bland building, two stories with no windows, it looks like a factory or warehouse. We enter through a side door into a dimly lit environment populated by computers, display screens, and tall cylindrical contraptions hissing vapor, strung together by a network of clear hoses pumping bubbly foam. Mac takes us through another room where technicians are working at consoles, and others tend to enormous tanks of swampy green liquids. I assume these are real people, as they appear consumed with rather intelligent tasks, more than just flexing their muscles.

Mac escorts us to an office, and we sit before a wide desk lined with computer screens. He takes a seat between us and waves across the screens, which display colorful schematics of body parts and their functions. There are diagrams for every muscle, fluid and organ, down to the cellular level, annotated with the purpose of each.

“This is where we work on new designs,” he says. “We’ve toiled long and hard to engineer the perfect unit, durable yet flexible, with high tolerance for pain, and the capacity to repair damage without outside help. You know, the world out there is a tough place, and there’s not always someone around to put a unit back together. A multitude of systems make up every unit, and each must work together flawlessly if we expect the thing to survive. Every design must pass rigorous trials before moving on to the prototype stage.”

The many screens present an overwhelming library of knowledge about bodies and their construction. The wealth of specifics is staggering. Mac points out features, calls up new screens, and explains details of countless components as we try to absorb it all. He seems very excited to have us here. I take it he doesn’t get many visitors, at least, anyone who sticks around for long.

“Here are some of our earlier designs,” he says, pointing to a screen that shows complete bodies, rather than an exploded view of disassembled parts. “All have various problems. This one for example, too much hair. Keeps it warm, but the damn thing sinks in water. So we cut back on the hair and modified the skin for better fluid repellency, making brief aquatic periods more manageable. And this one, way too tall. Falls over too much, quite a problem with balance. We struggled with it a great deal, gyroscopes and such, but in the end, it wasn’t worth the trouble, and besides, it just made their heads too big. Instead we reduced the vertical size. But not too much, see, this one is too short, couldn’t reach any food and starved themselves. Every detail must be just right.”

He calls up another screen that displays a variety of strange creatures, some resembling animals—birds, lizards, all very odd, almost funny. I’m fascinated by one that looks like a cat, but stands on two legs like a man.

“What’s that one?” I ask.

“An earlier model we tried for a while. Not bad, it has its advantages, but the hair’s a problem, just too damn much. Always coughing up a hairball. And the eyes are too vulnerable. We found it better to utilize compact vision components and situate the devices further back in the skull, under the brow, out of harm’s way. The whiskers are useful in the dark, but they look absurd on later designs. Sharp teeth work well for a carnivore, but initial prototypes survived better on nuts and vegetables, so we engineered a flat design with ample molars, more effective at breaking down the cellulose matter most units prefer.”

“What about the legs?” I ask. “I mean, only two? Break one and you’re going nowhere. Why not four, like most animals?”

“Oh no, bipedal is the best, by far. We learned that ages ago, after extensive testing. Bipedal makes the most versatile vehicle, especially with the refinements we’ve added to the current model. Here, have a look.”

He calls up further screens detailing various organs, each responsible for simple, though important tasks. He bubbles with excitement as he shows off his accomplishments, then an assistant stops by to ask a question, and Mac gets grumpy. He excuses himself to give the assistant a good lashing, and keeps his voice low, but his irritation is apparent. He quickly returns, back to his excited self, and pages through screen after screen, looking for something in particular. He stops on a diagram of the inner ear, and connecting ear canal.

“I worked on much of this myself,” he says. “Nice design, eh? I had a terrible problem though. Prototypes were screaming in pain, they just couldn’t take it.”

Madison asks, “What was the problem, Mac?”

He laughs, ho ho ho. “Well, my pretty one, if you expect to hear anything, you need an open passage for sound waves to enter. Unfortunately, that leaves it open to critters as well. A terrible problem, those insects crawling in there, scratching up the tissue, looking for a place to nest. It drove those early units insane.”

Madison cringes, and rubs one ear. “The poor things, how awful.”

“So how did you get the bugs out?” I ask.

“Simple,” he says. “I engineered a pliable compound with an obnoxious odor, and glands to secrete the foul substance.”

“Earwax?”

“Precisely. Bugs hate the smell, and stay out.”

Madison and I exchange silent glances. Her smile says it all, we agree—Mac is very clever. And we have these bodies to prove it.

I playfully remark, “So I have you to thank for that nasty stuff in my ears.”

He pulls a tight grin. “And no bugs.”

“Why not make a body out of metal?” I ask. “Then you wouldn’t have problems like that.”

“We’ve tried that before, and some models work pretty good, but it has other issues. For one thing, it’s not self-healing. Well, unless you want to carry a blowtorch everywhere you go. And it’s too heavy. If you want durability, that’s great, but all the extra weight gets tiresome. Just imagine the energy requirements on a unit like that. Not very efficient. Good for warfare, but not the rest of the time, like when you want to relax. Imagine sex if you had a metal body, boy, now wouldn’t that be something. Well, I guess you could say you’re as hard as steel.” He pauses to chuckle, ho ho ho. “But cuddling afterward wouldn’t be very comfortable, big metal parts clanging together, you know. The current model is much better, soft and resilient. Besides, you can add armor any time you like, and take it off when you’re done. That’s the beauty of the bipedal design. It’s so versatile, and all on its own.”

Today’s discovery is bizarre. Drop by your local body dealer and negotiate the purchase of a new, improved model. An odd notion. I half expect we’ll talk options next, then terms, contracts and service agreements. The available products do look splendid, no doubt, but this body should do just fine for now. It’s like a comfortable, worn-in shoe, a good friend that I have come to know well. Regardless, I’ll be back here someday. This body won’t last forever.

* * *

The tour is complete, and Madison wants to get going. Mac joins us and we begin a trek back to the farmhouse. Returning the way we came, we pass through the forest and once again absorb a view of bodies roaming the woods. But now they seem different. Learning of their construction gives a new perspective. The manufactured units are electrochemical machines converting food into energy, enabling their locomotion so they may search out the next source of fuel and stay alive, while waiting to serve the purpose for which they were painstakingly devised. Mind-boggling to imagine, as Mac described, the multitude of systems that make up each unit, which must work together flawlessly for a body to survive. Mac has achieved success—the bodies are surviving as designed. Even mine, a miracle after the punishment this body has endured. Watching the countless bodies roam the woods, and now knowing of his hand in their creation, I can no longer regard Mac as simply a body farmer. His accomplishments amount to a marvel of engineering.

As we hike the forest trail, I remark, “Seems you’re pretty good at this, Mac.”

“One of the best,” he says, a few steps ahead. “Time will do that to you, my boy. Been at this business now, oh, eighty, maybe ninety—”

“Years?” I ask. “You don’t look that old.”

“Years?” He laughs. “On what planet? Maybe some pathetic world going around the speed of snail-snot rolling uphill. A planet that slow would probably fall out of orbit. Actually, come to think of it, there might be one that slow. I was reading somewhere in a magazine . . .”

“Not years? Then what?”

Trailing behind me, Madison says, “Lifetimes, silly.”

“Sure,” Mac says, “and that doesn’t count the twenty or so I spent as an apprentice. Someone has to teach you this stuff, you know. It doesn’t grow on trees, ho ho ho.”

“That’s hard to imagine.”

Madison says, “Why imagine when you can remember.”

Here comes that tricky logic of hers.

I stop to face her. “Okay, Madison, what am I supposed to remember this time?”

Her grin is sly. “You’ve been doing something for a while, too, you know.”

This guessing game is getting old. “And what would that be?”

“Fighting the Association.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Is there a point?”

“How long have you been fighting them? How many—”

“Lifetimes?” The significance of her query begins to sink in. Before this moment, I hadn’t given serious consideration to the implications of existing as an entity separate from the body. It means multiple lifetimes in numerous bodies. The concept of reincarnation has been laid before me, and I’ve talked about it as being true, but no one has asked to quantify that truth, and what it really means—until now. How many times have I repeated this struggle? Countless lifetimes I imagine, but as Madison has pointed out,
remember
is the key word. And she made it specific—how many lives spent fighting our enemy.

“Look at it,” she says, and Mac doubles back, curious for my answer as well.

As before, I make the request of my mind to unleash the obedient servant, and the veil of certain knowledge is breeched. From the darkened past, a number comes to me.

“Six hundred and fourteen.”

Odd, the words just sprang from my lips. Then it hits me. I can’t believe it. No, I can, it’s true. I
know
it’s true. Boiling rage joins this newfound detail of my past. Hundreds of lifetimes worth of skill and experience
nearly wiped away.
Insidious bastards! All I have sought to learn, to accomplish, all my advancements, every awareness, destined for erasure. My task is renewed. My revenge is certain. I will destroy the Association, every last one of them.

Mac lays a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa there, big fella, take it easy. Anger like that will get you nowhere. Remember that much if you can hold on to anything.”

The tree, in the dream, said the same. Have I learned anything? Only that my intense hatred of the Association grows stronger. But hatred is not the answer. Anger will block my true strength. Could I
not
hate them? That is uncertain, though there could be a time when it was possible, somewhere in a long-forgotten past. But if a moment that preceded hatred was recalled, what will I become? Perhaps effective enough to conquer what I hate. But more frightening is what else I may become—free of hate, along with every other emotion.

* * *

Not far to go, the farmhouse is coming into view past the trees. Mac pushes on ahead of us.

Behind me, Madison calls, “Adam, are you coming?”

I turn back. She stands waiting near a connecting path.

“I thought we’re going back to the house.”

“Not yet,” she says. “Come on.”

“Go ahead,” Mac says. “Don’t worry about me. You and Maddie go enjoy yourselves.” He continues hiking and leaves us behind.

Madison motions vigorously, urging me to come. “Hurry up.”

I double back and join her. She takes my hand and hauls me onto another trail winding through the forest.