Source Material

These bodies, superficially human, had never witnessed a harmful bacterium. Those few that had become “sick”—a profane word amongst Pigi and the greatest shame on their Doxei keepers—had been reprocessed years ago, the economic loss recovered. What remained of the superior class’ stock now bumbled about in the low-lit holding chamber. Amid a sanitized haze, each Pigi was a shadow. A few silhouettes resembled standard homo sapiens, but most were deformed with bulging guts or over-broad torsos. Some of the Pigi spoke in half-whispers to any ear that cared to listen so near to the end. The rest simply stared at the tides of bodies, rocking to and fro as if they rode a Doxei ocean liner. All were naked, except for the scrap of folded steel surgically implanted to the base of each neck.

Like swine, thought Rafa as he fidgeted with the heart-shaped tag that rested in the dimple between his collar bones. He was one of the silent ones. Pigi words were powerless before coming here. It frustrated Rafa that so many chose now to assert their humanity through pointless chatter. Yes, swine—the metaphor fit the situation well, but Rafa was not so clever as to have invented it himself. It was no secret: from the moment the Pigi children could encode lasting memories, their futures were imprinted on them, and a necklace embedded through their throat and anchored to the C7 vertebra. For the young ones, it dangled harmlessly as they played their assigned games. Should Rafa try to remove his tag, the cords—long since absorbed into the flesh of his adult neck—would bifurcate his windpipe. He would drown in his own blood. Hence the honesty on the Doxei’s part; their livestock—the Pigi, the “source” of their eternal splendor—was powerless to affect change. Forever marked for their intended purpose, not even the strong could escape or fight back, and everyone knew it. This knowledge, freely given, made the Pigi servile.

“Ah, a cœurier, I see,” said a hulking, masculine shadow as it approached Rafa. “Look here, I’ve been pneumonated. You and I are like brothers. I wonder if we ever competed together.”

Rafa remained silent. The speaker had a kind face, which smiled too much given the present circumstances. Typical pneumonated Pigi: always so smug and free. While most Pigi wore their mark around their neck, those entrusted to protecting the lungs had pendants in the shape of a sideways eight fixed to their foreheads. (It would still kill them if they tugged on it; however, the cord wrapped around their scalp to the base of the skull and around the brainstem. Drowning ruined the lungs. Cerebral decapitation was cleaner but a more costly implantation. Naturally, the contest-oriented Pigi admired the pneumonated, kings amongst cattle.)

“How fast is your five-mile dash?” asked the shadow. When Rafa again said nothing, it enquired about his two-naut breast stroke. Rafa knew his times but would not share—no point in competing now. What mattered was not what this Pigi thought, but what the Doxei spectators in their arenas had already decided. For years, Rafa had honed his muscles, most importantly his heart, through exercise and growth hormones. He was fast and a bit of celebrity. Doxei fans came from all over to see Rafa the Rafale shoot like a bullet from the starting block. They placed bets on his victory and, behind closed doors, negotiated the price for the four chambers thumping away in his chest. Pigi had no money. They were fed when their owners dictated, slept in designated barracks. When the trainers said “dance,” the Pigi danced for the preservation of society. Then, their organs were repossessed for a profit. Hearts and lungs generally fetched the best prices; however, niche markets existed for vocal cords, tongues, and the like. After seeing mayors and governors shouting his name and wearing his number, Rafa assumed the bounty on his product was quite a sum. Of course, he would get none of it. Even if he were allowed a share, the dead savor no riches.

The talkative shadow had had enough. It grumbled about being more sportsmanlike and wandered off. In a way, they had been like brothers. Cardiovascular Pigi performed in physical feats. Others, like the keepers of stomachs and bowels, engaged in activities befitting their organs, bouts of eating and competitive fasting, for example. Those were the lucky ones, the designated luxury organs. Lower quality wares developed in the bodies of Pigi who toiled in the factory or farm. Regardless of the labors and regimens and sports, all successful Pigi arrived at the processing facility in their thirtieth year of life. After that point, the Doxei had determined the risks of physical degradation outweighed the benefits of exercise and drugs.

Blinding halogen bulbs broke the dim silence. Suddenly aware of the situation in full view, some Pigi gasped and screamed. The nightmare had just been proven true. A second wave of tears and shouts followed as some Pigi, having lost all composure, tore at their tags. They died slowly, writhing and gurgling on the floor. They should’ve done that sooner, thought Rafa. If these people were trying to rebel, they missed their moment. The master would still reap his crop: at this point, organs could still be harvested from the deceased.

The light on the blank, white walls reminded Rafa he had a nose. Pigi were carefully monitored for cleanliness and disease, so they did not smell. In fact, despite hundreds of people crammed into the relatively small space, it smelled empty, like a recently sanitized locker room or sleeping habitat. Beyond that, Rafa felt his prized muscle pounding inside his chest. Even at rest, it drummed a tight staccato. Nervous? A Doxei might call it that. In Rafa, fear for encroaching doom did not register. He had forgotten long ago how to despair over his death. Instead, his heart tightened in anticipation. Despite his own coolness, the muscle longed to achieve its ultimate goal, to be rid of Rafa and to enter into a glorious, everlasting Doxei body. After that, the rest of his discarded corpse would be rejoined with his family, as was tradition. Rafa did not know who his “family” was. No Pigi had parents—to their knowledge—or siblings or relatives. Rafa had only ever met one family, that of his closest friend and mentor, who had stood in this very hall before being processed a decade ago. Rafa had expected some form of ceremony, akin to the many medal presentations he had attended. Instead, he watched as his mentor’s lifeless body was tossed into a pit churning with human compost. Such a sight was generally forbidden to Pigi; however, Rafa’s budding fame had earned him a spot on a vid program celebrating Pigi’s selfless service in the quest for immortality. The young Rafa’s surprise and vomit were broadcast for all Doxei to see and enjoy. No doubt, they felt accomplished in allowing him to say goodbye.

At the far end of the facility, a single door opened, revealing a new chamber of pure white light. An arrow flashed on the wall above the door and a mechanical voice droned, “Enter Now. Enter Now. Enter Now.” Nearer Rafa, a few other openings appeared. Herders in quarantine suits stepped forward and ignited their cattle prods. They barked muffled orders. The words were unintelligible; however, the tone and the flickering tips of their goads were sufficient to start the Pigi crowd moving single file through the door. Again, a few rebellious sorts tried to fight back, charging the herders with nothing more than fists for weapons. They whimpered as their bodies went limp. One Pigi, clearly a cœurier, took two zaps to topple as her turbocharged heart resisted the electrical impulse. Rafa shook his head. Still too late.

Quietly, he waited his turn. Ahead in the line, the talkative pneumonated from earlier continued to boast about his achievements. His demigod lungs amplified his voice for all to hear. A few diminutive Pigi stared, soaking in his grandeur as the queue moved forward. Rafa listened for want of something to do but remained thoroughly unimpressed with the gesture and the stories. Eventually, it was the pneumonated’s turn. He waved to his audience before disappearing through the portal. In his absence, the room was silent, save for scattered sniffling and moans.

The line advanced with industrial efficiency until Rafa stood before the doorway. He stepped into the glowing void. Suspended from nothing, a mechanical claw reached out and gripped his heart-shaped tag. Deftly, the claw unfolded the stamped steel and flash-photographed the serial number printed inside. Despite the claw’s delicate movements, the tugging put pressure on Rafa’s larynx. As it let go, he coughed.

“Welcome, Pigi citizen, K-N2489-71950362,” said a hollow, pre-recorded voice.

“Let us look at your achievements,” it continued. A projector screen descended and Rafa’s race times and medals streaked by, too fast to read. “Congratulations on your achievements. Now, let us see how much that heart will fetch. Your highest bidder has offered… 21,717 drachmae. That is quite a sum. You should feel proud. Your contribution to society and our enterprise is much appreciated.”

The money was considerable, but Rafa had heard of hearts going for more. Personally, he had expected less.

The mechanical arm returned brandishing a syringe.

“Do you have any final words?” enquired the voice.

Without warning or hesitation, it stuck him with the needle. Rafa’s brain died instantly. Before he dropped to the floor, another pair of robot arms caught his motionless body, but his heart kept beating—strong for its new owner.

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