The Soul Generator

I wake up in a cold sweat, the touch of your icy skin hurts my hands. ‘Why are you so cold?’ I ask, your blue eyes look up at me as your body disintegrates like embers on a burning fire. I’m not awake, and neither are you.

I flip the switch, the lights go on, I pray that this will be the day they tell me the warriors are ready for battle. Not because I want a war, the people don’t deserve any more death, but because I’m selfish, and because I’m going to programme your soul into one of their metal bodies. And this time, you can’t die.

I walk the lines, looking for faults that could delay their launch. I look into their eyes as I pass their faces, I feel like I know them all. I’ve condemned them to a body that will always be controlled by someone else and to a life of war. I tell myself I had no choice. I did it for you. Or did I do it just for me? ‘They’re all set. We can prep them tonight.’ The lead technician folds his arms smugly.

Five years ago, the people turned against each other, in a way that was irreversible, and detrimental to humanity. Bombs fell from the sky like hailstones, leaving us in a permanent winter, a winter of dust; bleak, lifeless, hopeless. I still expect to find bodies when I turn the corner on the street. The nightmares have transitioned into hallucinations. I can’t tell what’s real, sometimes I wonder did I die in the bombings with you, and this is my purgatory, here without you. I almost expect to find my own body in the ruins some day and realise I’ve been dead all along.

For those of us who survived, we work either in the lab or in reconstruction. I was chosen for the lab because I am an artist - I’ve spent years sculpting the faces for these machines, I’ve spent years, recreating you.

‘The attacks have become fewer; the flyers are planning something big. We will not be taken by surprise again. We expect the alarm to sound any day. You must stay in your compound, only essential journeys will be permitted. The streets will be policed by our soldiers. Our advanced technology has created soldiers like no other. We will rise from the ashes. We will prosper once again.’ His voice is firm over the speakers, he doesn’t quiver, I watch him as he speaks, his hands steady, his brow dry. Why is another war pending so calming for him?

‘Your father instils us with great hope.’ A woman comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hope is not so different from fear.’ I respond, her hand quickly drops and she turns to someone else in the crowd to indulge her ignorance. I know I’m as much at fault as my father, possibly even more, because my motivation is not for the people, but for myself. But ask me to choose you, or everyone else? I’m sorry but I choose you.

The night rolls in, the dark comes in like a heavy fog. I walk the halls of my fathers research building, I come to the door marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’. I can feel you on the other side of the door, your soul calling out to mine.

I pull the keys from my pocket, although the sketchy glances down the hall and the sweat building up on my lip indicates that I am not one of the few authorised personnel.

Walking through the door I feel like I’ve walked into a different time zone; a large bronze machine glows like a Christmas tree with multiple buttons and switches. There’s a tiny circular window, like one you would see on a washing machine, that allows me to look inside the large bronze container. Inside are many tubes carrying different coloured serums, these serums make up different parts of the bots personalities. We call it the soul generator.

A few months ago I made a test tube of you. I programmed you, everything about you, I even figured out a way to restore some of your key memories, and I’ve stored you with the other test tubes of souls that will be used to wake up our robot army. I labelled it with a red mark on the side. Now I just need to find it as quickly as possible before someone catches me in here.

My fingers delicately pull out the test tubes that are stored in the chemical freezer. They’re all labelled with numbers, but I don’t see a red mark. My heart starts to beat faster, where is it? I’m panicking, my hands are starting to shake. I grab hold of the locket around my neck. The one you gave me on our first Valentine’s Day, shaped like a heart and empty inside, because you thought a heart shaped locket was soppy enough.

Just as I’m about to hyperventilate, I find it. I find you. I grab it, and carry it safely under my arm to the main hall, where you are all lined up, the last night you’ll be innocent.

My eyes find you instantly, but the door swings open and my father and two of his guards stand side by side. He looks at me and holds up my locket with his fist. I reach up to my neck, it's bare, my locket must have fallen off. Now he knows. One look in my eyes and he knows.

‘Skye, tell me you didn’t.’ His voice echoes within the tall white walls. He pauses a moment, and we stand in a stare, like two cats ready to pounce on the same mouse.

I turn on my toes and start running, the guards take off after me. I run past the lifeless faces of your soon to be brothers as fast as I can to make it to you. Tears streaming down my face. What if I don’t make it. I grab hold of your arm and inject the serum into the small tube in your neck.

I’m thrown to the floor. The guards pin me down with my arms behind my back, but I look up, and your eyes open. Instantaneously I know it worked. I know it’s you. And then they drag me away.

It’s been two weeks, 14 days of knowing you’re out there, but not knowing where you are, or what you’re doing. The bombings have started again, and we’re back to living in a cloud of smoke. I’m not allowed out of the compound, but there’s a woman, Petra, Father sends her to check on me every day and she fills me in on what’s going on outside. She’s a quiet woman, but she has a kind face, and I can tell she’s used to faking a smile from the lines on her face, but she tries to always look genuine. I’ve asked her to keep an eye out for you, but every day she says she hasn’t seen you. I’m not sure whether to believe her or not, but right now she’s all I have.

I fall asleep with my face in my diary whilst writing to you, but I am woken suddenly by a knock at the door. When I ask who’s there, no one responds, but I can’t open the door from the inside.

‘Hello?’

Still there is silence.

The door unlocks and swings open. ‘Petra?’

She doesn’t speak, instead she just signals for me to follow her, and walks out of the compound.

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, but again she doesn’t answer. The streets are empty, emptier than I’ve ever seen them. Something feels different. The streets don’t just look empty, they look like different streets. They look like they did five years ago before the bombing started, the buildings are here again, standing as tall as ever.

‘Petra, I don’t understand..’

She’s gone.

The sky lights up, like a flash of lightening, but there isn’t a cloud to be seen, the sun beams luminously. My heart is beating fast again and I’m starting to panic. Please, where are you?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a shiny tall building, something glimmers around my neck. My locket? I clasp it in my hand and squeeze tightly. And there you are.

‘Leo?’

You smile, but you’re not a robot, you’re real. I reach out and stroke your face, your skin is warm and damp from the heat. I smile, ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’

My hand starts to disintegrate as I pull it away from your face. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask you, but this time, you can’t hear me.

The sun fades to black and when the light reappears, I am inside a large room with tall white walls.

I feel a sharp pain in my neck and there you are again. Two men hold you down onto the floor.

It’s me, not you.

I’m the one who isn’t real. Our eyes lock, I can see the same desperation in your eyes as I thought you saw in mine.

My limbs are cold steel, but nothing changes. I look around the room. If it comes to choosing everyone else, or choosing you, I choose you.