Remember Us As Medea

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. A glimpse, which only a sliver of a shard, an insignificant, hopeless speck of humanity had. Was she fortunate? Was she lucky that her position granted her such proximity? She could never decide. Every snippet of that glorious sky seemed to clash with the Hell into which she was born. Always two opposite forces, destined to split her soul in two.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ralin would say, in that smug, honeyed voice of his. “As beautiful as you.”

“Yes,” she would answer, nodding her head in the way he liked, for he would ban her if she did not. “Yes, it truly is a wonder. Yours to behold, and yours to possess. Yours everlasting in all ways.” She would hate the words even before they rolled off her tongue, yet they were crucial for survival. If you were a pseudo, your speech had to impress.

Satisfied, Ralin would smile, then shoo her back to her clean, silky prison. Back to isolation. However, she knew that they would meet again by midnight, for as always, late was the hour he desired her most. She could practically play the entire encounter in her mind, it was so repetitive. He would return from the Hall wearily, then ask her to mist the room, ease him, or if he was especially greedy, sing. Her voice, she knew, was like sweet crystal bells, more perfect than any human’s ought be. Same was for her appearance, as whomever had fabricated her had made sure that she was the most gorgeous woman of all. That, and nothing else, was the true reason she was there. Ralin had wanted a pseudo of his own, and she had been the Mechanical Wing‘s first choice. Not that she had necessarily cared. That was, until she had become sentient.

And when was that? When, oh when? Or did it matter? For so long as her beauty was upheld, time would remain an infinite stretch. By all rights, it shouldn’t be any worry to her. Her deep caramel hair and smooth face were forever free from decay, so humans would always desire her. Would always need her. Somehow, though, the prospect of time being blurred disturbed her.

Ralin’s extravagant door loomed into view. It was the color of autumn, with gilded posts and carvings that mocked those of the peasants down below. An entrance suited, she thought, for a tyrant.

She hovered for a second before it, then once her identification was registered, opened the door and entered the rich bedroom within. She passed animated paintings and expensive furniture, her blue chiffon dress swishing as she went. At the door to his bathroom, she paused, gazing at her tan fingers on the wooden knob. So perfect, so clean. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, remembering how Ralin and other humans had admired them. An idea struck her, and she turned around to enter her quarters instead. The room was small, so she found her target effortlessly: the cherished, seven-foot cylindrical medipod. Once inside, she hooked herself up and guided the pod to fulfill her desires. The selections were simple, the process rapid. However, the experience felt like much more; a rebellion of sorts. An expression, for the first time, of self.

Later, when Ralin returned to his chamber, he picked up her arms with shock. The navy, swirling clematis vines weren’t overly bold, and hadn’t even been swapped to cover half of her arms; nonetheless they drew notice. He must’ve thought them ugly, based on the expression he bore. She thought them stunning. “Who did this to you?”

“None. I was using the medipod to refresh and saw the option. It seemed appealing. To you, that is.”

“Well, that was stupid.” He clenched his jaw and began guiding her to her quarters, seemingly oblivious of her resistance. She knew herself to be stronger than him, but did not want to reveal it just yet. “I honestly thought you pseudos were smarter than that. It looks like nothing but a blue mess.”

He stopped, and she stared at the glowing medipod before them. “I don’t need it.”

A dangerous expression crossed his face, one which could as easily have been fury as contained laughter. “Get in.”

“Why?” The retort slipped out, and suddenly she wished to slap herself. No pseudo would fight back, idiot. Luckily, he didn’t catch the change, and only became more annoyed. “Get in,” he repeated.

Mind fuming, she stepped into the cylindrical pod. Ralin hooked her hands up to the machine’s interior, although she could easily have done it herself, and stepped back to wait. Within seconds, the medipod hummed to life, and she noticed her arms tingling. The patterns and dyed fabrics, she knew, were reordering themselves, and once she left the pod, they would be as pristine as they had been in the morning. Indeed, after a quiet beep announced the job’s completion, Ralin held her hands up to the light and they were plain again.

···

“Ninety.” The name drifted quietly in the room. It was one she despised, and one day, she promised herself, would be burned from memory.

She lifted her chin, afraid that Ralin would beckon her to his bed. But no, thankfully his worn, gray eyes held a different flicker inside them tonight. She recognized it instantly as pride.

“Sit there.” He pointed to a soft wooden chair beside him, and she obeyed. To Ralin, the seat would have felt like a blissful throne, but all she could sense beneath her was thorns. “I have good news for you. Today we’ve reached ten million.”

Her eyes widened. Ever since males lost their reproductive abilities to the heat, humanity had been sheltering underground, attempting artificial birth in cruel cubicles. Their territory - Ralin’s - was the last remaining. He was frighteningly determined to outperform his predecessors, and thus negligent of the females’ wellbeing. Ninety had never seen their birth center in person, but from the databases, records, and exchanges she’d absorbed over the years, it had grown into an image of horror. The women were merely tools to a better future, and were seen in such a twistedly precious light that few could be spared anywhere else. That was why pseudos like Ninety were used. That was why all women the classes saw were fake. “That’s wonderful.” Terrible. Selfish.

“I know.” He smiled to himself, then said, “Imagine the day when humans can once again expand to the surface. We’ll be populous again, and will be able to battle the heat like our ancestors could not.” He fingered a small arrangement of delicacies beside his bed, and Ninety wondered for a moment what they must taste like. What eating felt like. “I have a great plan for us, you know. I think if we expand our birth centers, we can keep our race alive.”

“Expand?”

“Yes. As the population grows, more women will be needed to maintain it.”

“I see. What about the male centers?”

He frowned. “What about them?”

“Will you continue to experiment? You’ve said before that genetics could perhaps help them.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“But will you take more precautions? Surely having the majority die during the process should be a worthy issue-”

“I don’t think you understand,” he interrupted. “All lives lost, men and women alike, are for the greater good. For our future.”

“Do you have graves?”

The sudden question seemed to take him aback. “What?”

“Do you have graves for them? For all those who’ve been lost?”

He blinked. “No.”

“And why not?”

“Does it matter?” He sat up, tight like a drawn bow. The shadows appeared to loom towards her with them, menacing. “What is it with you tonight? Where in your wires did all these questions come from? Look-” he stroked her hair, and she had to fight the urge to recoil, “-let’s be peaceful. We’re celebrating a success.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry, Ralin,” she whispered, a hidden cold laced throughout her words. “I’m being irrational. Today is a success.”

He relaxed, and the chamber felt warm again. “Good.”

···

The next morning, after Ninety had finished cleaning, she went over to Ralin’s office under the great window. The sky held a dusky hue which resembled the waters of the low-class. At the sight, a new emotion crossed her: guilt.

Arriving at Ralin’s desk, she picked up the message chips he wished to send and inserted them into their slots in the wall. Two assigned to the Martial Wing caught her attention, but she swallowed her curiosity, knowing full well a regular pseudo would never ask why. For the next couple of hours, she completed tasks for him, and the endless silence was welcome. Nonetheless, at around noon, the calm was unexpectedly interrupted by gunshots.

Both froze. Pseudos stationed around the room rushed over and surrounded them, guns pointed out and at the ready. Out of the corner of her eye, Ninety noticed Ralin edging to stand behind her, acting as if she was his shield. She wanted to punch him for it.

Outside, the chaos grew louder. Harsh yelling erupted throughout the air, joined occasionally by another gunshot. Then with a loud boom, the doors to Ralin’s office swung open. Ninety gaped. There, in the center of forty-one guards, carrying a massive machine gun and covered with grime, stood a woman. And shockingly, one bearing the mark of a Matriarch. A child bearer.

“Ralin Lowe,” she bellowed. Her gun arm shook. With the other, she pointed at him, as if the motion allowed her to grip his very soul. “You murderer, you tyrant, you selfish, filthy hog-”

The pseudos locked their aim tighter on her, and the subsequent electric charge sent vibrations through the air. To Ralin, the blond-haired leader said, “One word, and we’ll fire.” Ralin, however, remained motionless.

The woman continued. “Ralin Lowe. Your list calls me Ma-3941, but to you only, my name is Medea. Over nineteen years, I’ve birthed twenty-three children for you, none of which I ever saw again.”

Ralin bristled. “It’s for the-”

“Every day, I’ve sat in my cell like an abandoned dog. I’ve sat and waited, knowing others like me sit in cramped rooms just across my walls. None of us can talk! You don’t let us-”

“One word, and we’ll fire,” repeated the pseudos.

“Please-”

“We’ll fire at your word.”

“No one listens!” cried the woman, tears streaming down her pale face. “No one listens unless you have a gun and threaten their-”

Ralin clenched his hand. “Fire.”

Gunshots. Smoke. A scream. The woman toppled to the ground, dead.

Frigid quiet enveloped the room. The pseudos straightened themselves up and turned to face Ralin, awaiting directions. Ninety did not have a real heart, but whatever orb of sentience laid inside her shattered. Small skirmishes and intrusions she had seen, minor offenses she had seen, but never death. Never anything like this.

Ralin turned to the pseudo guards, his face expressionless. “Clean up the mess.”

And so the deed was done.

···

Darkness.

Ice.

Clouds.

Storms.

Ninety’s mind was a race of pain and grief, emotions rattling inside it like cold coins inside a jar. She had not cleaned when she got back. She had not used the medipod to refresh. She had not done anything except sit against her quarters’ wall and lie utterly, utterly still. A choke escaped her. Perhaps by doing this, time would cease. Perhaps her wounds would heal.

But no. No, they never did.

Ninety lifted her perfect hands, shifted them underneath the sinister yellow light, and thought of breaking them apart. Just to spit in his face.

No. No, her anger was stronger than that. She wanted his pain to sink deeper, for him to revel under the punishments he deserved. Even a god cannot survive without suffering. And though Ralin was worlds below being a god, the phrase applied well.

In a graceful, deft movement, she rose. Her back and underside ached for support again, begging for more time to wallow in despair. She shoved the thought away, for she could not afford to waste such powerful feelings now. Better they be stocked, strung arrows ready to fly.

She prepared. Put on the ivory dress he liked, combed her hair until the brown locks flowed in smooth, rolling curtains. She sat down in the chair beside his bed and waited. Waited. Waited.

Waited, for her chance.

At last, when the evening was deep and the lights dim, he came.

“Good evening, Ralin,” she said, her voice matching that honeyed one of his.

He appeared surprised by her tone, but quickly soaked it in with delight. “Hello.”

“You must be tired. Go on to bed when you’re ready, and I’ll sing you a song.”

His smile widened. “That would be lovely.”

Minutes passed, in which he dressed himself for bed, careless of her presence. Then he walked over, caressed her cheek and ran his fingers through her neat hair. He settled himself underneath his sheets, and finally closed his eyes. “You may begin.”

Ninety waited still. She inhaled, exhaled deeply, which to him would seem like adjustment before she might fill her lungs with song. She beamed slightly to herself, content, and after another inhale began.

The river grows

Starlight kisses me like

Diamond rays.

I see the moon

And she whispers,

By my light, you’ll pay.

Ralin smiled, eyes still closed. Her words were beautiful, so enchanting and eloquent. She inched forwards, slipping his trimming scissors out of the dress pocket she’d slit. Her steps were careful and practiced, so delicate that the carpet absorbed every impact.

The river grows

And dawn breaks open in

Rose-gold sprays.

He was underneath her now. His breath was brushing against her skin.

I see the sun

Ninety raised the scissors.

And she whispers,

Your poison won’t stay.

Blood splattered out and across her face. Ralin released a gargled, horrified scream which was instantly drowned out by his own gore. He writhed underneath her, but she was strong and kept him pinned down, her face hovering inches above his. She stared at him, kept piercing him with her eyes until she was sure he was on the brink of death, then leaned into his ear and whispered, “You, Ralin Lowe, are the poison.” When she sat back up, he was dead.

Ninety released her grip on the scissors, barely able to register the wobbling room around her. She glided back over to her closet, wherein she swiftly changed dresses and wiped the blood from her arms and face. They couldn’t have heard. There’d be alarms by now.

She shut the door behind her and entered the pitch-black hallway, illuminated solely by intermittent ceiling lights. She moved towards the office, passing guards every now and then, to whom she explained, “Ralin forgot a book he would like to read.” Unconscious things as they were, none pried her further.

Upon reaching his mahogany desk which was cool to the touch, she found the controls for pseudos along the current level. Ha. It could’ve been funny then, Ralin realizing she’d actually processed the codes he’d entered. Not ignored and forgotten them like pseudos were supposed to do.

Cautiously, so as to not attract the attention of the three guards in the room’s far corners, she shut off all power among pseudos on the level. It was an easy task, created in case of emergency. She watched with satisfaction as the three guards stiffened, gone.

Ninety plopped herself down into Ralin’s plush leather seat, swooping her legs up until they lay crossed on his desk. Her arms, she folded against her stomach, and her gaze, she made sure was hard. Smug, too, to mock Ralin in the grave.

Seconds trickled by, but she was determined. They were coming, that she was sure of. It was just a game of patience. A game she was overly capable of.

There.

Footsteps echoed throughout the office’s surrounding halls. Hushed, light footsteps that her sensitive ears could pick up. Then the doors swung open, and they were in.

Dozens upon dozens of pseudos swarmed around her. Somewhere off in the distance, a guard yelled, “He’s dead! Ralin’s dead!”

The black guns stuck themselves closer to her face. Locked and loaded arrows, ready to fly. But oh, they did not know, hers had already sailed.

“Name,” barked the leader, whose red headpiece of distinction was the only evidence he was not human. “I said name!”

“Ninety,” she said. “Maiden ninety, though you may call me Medea.” The addition clearly seemed to make the guards pause, for all information regarding the day’s earlier encounter was engraved into their database, including the Matriarch woman’s words. She smirked. Medea was the name of an enchantress, one whose emotion had led her to do unspeakable things.

“Stand up,” growled the pseudo.

“No.”

“Mn-90, stand up and prepare for questioning, or we’ll take what we need from you dead. You have ten seconds to decide. Ten.”

She continued to smile.

“Nine.”

By now a human’s eyes would’ve hurt from their flashlights. Hers, as always, did not.

“Eight.”

“When this moment reaches anyone conscious-”

“Seven.”

“I’d like it to be known-”

“Six.”

“That I may be dead-”

“Five.”

“But I’ll never have stopped living.”

“Four.”

Ninety looked up at the window, at the vast expanse of unknown beyond. She hoped some human or pseudo, years from now, would be able to visit it. And she hoped that when they did, they’d be free.

“Three.”

“Remember people like me by one name.”

“Two.”

“Remember us….” Her gaze returned to the leader. “As Medea.”

“One.”

She smiled, and the guns went off.