The corridor lapped at my heels, my body feebly outrunning it as it grows narrower and narrower and narrower. First it takes me by the waist, then the legs, then at last those heels. I felt every organ jolt forward, slamming against the backside of flesh as all my progress, all my momentum leapt forward, beyond me.
There I stood, stuck. The monotone voice echoed up the corridor, chilling my spine as the words came up at the waist.
"That all you got Hector, a lousy 5.7 meters/second?" the voice roared. No anger came through the deadpan strains of the PA system; it was the volume that chilled me. I felt the corridor snapback off of me, revealing the grid in which I stood, the same ratty shorts, socks, and kicks I was sent out in on these endless training sessions. I felt only the hoarse warmth of a hard day's work without the satisfaction.
Revealed to me was the grid, the usual prison of geometry, of black tiles and glowing green lines. What normally was the signal of a break or, heaven forbid, the end, had now become a wire-walk. The green lines flexed and wavered beneath my shoes as the tiles became null and void. I could have cast myself off, if I cared to, but by now the muscle memory had taken hold, and my body had become the machine they desired.
I really tried for it. Tried jumping. But it seemed as if only the brain wished to leap headlong out of the skull, with out the levers of power to get ahold of the rock-steady legs and perfectly even arms.
One step, one step; direct, straight, and true. I kept going until, by mercy or recognition, the door parted at the end of the room, a searing white light blazing my eyes as my body continued to soldier on and on. I felt the door and heaved myself through, landing on the cool white floor in an exasperated, short-lived plummet. Maybe it was my last chance to cast off, only taken too late.
I looked up to see the matte black loafers and white lab coat to match.
"Pay no mind to the P.A., Johnson," he said, fixing his glasses, "I'd argue you're in tip-top shape."
A tech came up to him, clipboard in hand. "Fit enough for the next Martian raid?"
The observer's brow furrowed, and he looked me over once more. "Think you got another round in you?"
God I wanted to say no, but my body snapped to attention. Muscles ached, bones felt fit to crack. But like a dog I turned and went for the training chamber door. Before I entered, I heard an exchange between the observer and his assistants.
"Don't we have enough Model 10s to handle it?" one asked.
The observer, his smile audible, replied. "With a chance at evolution like this, you'll find bots are least controllable by comparison."
The body stepped forward into the chamber, and I, into darkness.
Discussion about this post
No posts