Deupawn: By Angels Born

A Deupawn short story

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By Angels Born

I know not how the work bears its fruit, bittersweet, 
I know not whether these means be justifiable, or their ends righteous, 
I know not what fate has in store for me beyond the damnation of my eternal soul, 
But should it take ten years, a hundred, or a thousand, I strive to carry out the work, 
For I have glimpsed the future: immutable, dreadful, and glorious, 
And mine, Jann Sorenson’s, is the hand that sees it done.

---

Genius. Scientist. Engineer. Technologist. Humanist. All applied to a former human named Jann Sorenson.

Humanist - a funny term for an individual who had shed his fleshy coil and “Ascended.” In older times, a humanist concerned themselves with the divide between mortals and the divine. But these days the term carried a more literal and earthlier connotation - for Jann believed humanity deserved to survive, to thrive, and had spent the better part of his life combating its extinction.

Dr. Sorenson was a machine now, and by necessity served the Cabal, a race of posthumans engaged in a protracted war of annihilation against their organic predecessors. For the past several years he worked at the Cabal’s most prestigious labs developing technologies and weapons for this genocidal pursuit.

This reality necessitated the addition of one more hat to his rack: spy.

“Spy.” Jann preferred this label over other terms. Liar, for example. Manipulator. Deceiver.

Traitor, the most common one.

Jann did not report intelligence to a foreign party. He did not manage a network of agents. He did not run a cell of revolutionaries, nor did he disseminate seditious propaganda. He did not engage in sabotage or misdirection of any kind.

He simply survived where he should have perished, knew truths meant to remain unknown, and brought to reality that which should not exist.

---

Dr. Jann Sorenson pushed his datavisor back up. The cursed thing never stayed put, its constant slide down his nose yet one more irritating thing about this new, silvery metallic body. It still felt foreign to him despite his Ascension 15 years ago. And the black mop of silky threads atop his head – a sample of what passed for hair amongst the Ascendant – tickled his forehead constantly, reminding him how much his former human self had relied on its unwashed stiffness to keep it in check.

Hans, a friend with hair of rust instead of oily black, crossed his arms and leaned his steely butt against a desk. Taking advantage of his status as co-founder and partner at Jann’s lucrative research institute, instead of the prerequisite lab coat, Hans wore slacks and a festively colored sweater over his silver surface.

In all the galaxy, Jann trusted no one more than Hans. But Hans had yet to learn Jann’s most fearsome secret. Perhaps he never would.

Old and wearisome arguments tumbled from his colleague’s mouth: “It is less than a 1% rate. Measures are in place to shrink it further. Resuscitation protocols and such, as you know. Transference. Those are the projects we should focus on. The concepts have tested merits. And I assume you have seen the latest government mandates.”

Jann shook his head, took a breath deeper than essential for speech, said: “To hell with the mandates. Mandates for new terror weapons. Mandates to make immortality more immortal. There are over a hundred mandates we operate under, now. They have become meaningless. And may I remind you I run a privately funded research firm.”

“A regime-sanctioned private firm, you mean,” Hans said in friendly warning. “You know this attitude is dangerous. The Primus Lords answer to the people’s current fancy. If their whims are not met, by necessity heads are found and made to roll.”

Jann ignored his friend’s preaching: “Besides, the loss rate is already low. It cannot go much lower.”

“This is a good thing. The whole aim of Ascendency. For most of us, anyway. We seek to live forever.”

Jann needed a rest. Posthuman society, only 70 years old by now, needed a great deal of fine tuning – culturally integrating a belief in proper downtime periods being Jann’s main concern for the moment. Everyone shared an expectation that because metal and circuits had replaced their biology, that somehow people should work and play nonstop.

“No one lives forever,” Jann said tiredly.

“You say this a lot.”

“How many times does it need saying? You and those like you seem to think you are special. What makes you special, Hans? Does fate owe you specific favors?”

“I do not believe in superstitious nonsense like fate. I plan to be careful. It is why I worked so hard for Patrician status. No battles or front lines for me, please, and thank you.”

Jann smiled. If only Hans knew the reality of fate…

His smile did not last. “You are part of the problem, Hans. Too many think like you. It is all, ‘Me, me, me! My enriched life experience, my eternal life.’ Too few are concerned about the future. You will die. I will die. We all die, eventually.”

Hans affected a hurt look.

Jann felt an urge to apologize, the man a capable partner and a rare friend.

“Of course,” Hans conceded. “Eventually we will all suffer some natural accident. But time is on our side.”

“Time is not on our side. Consider conservative projections. Half a percent loss rate per year. That is almost sixty billion losses to the population in twenty years.”

“Sixty billion sounds like a lot unless compared to the whole. Hell, Jann, it includes war casualties, which make for more than half of them.”

“But in twenty years Hans – it becomes nearly ten percent of the population!”

“A lot can happen in twenty years.”

“My point precisely! What if the war turns for the worse? The smaller the population, the greater portion conscription must swallow. Even ignoring that effect, in forty years less than half a quadrillion of us are left!”

“Yes, I can do the math. If people would just listen to sense, realize Ascendency brings immunity to aging, not danger-”

“‘If people would just,’ he says!” Jann swayed and rolled his eyes. “People never ‘just’. People are people! In 140 years, half of them will be gone! Less than one baseline human’s extended lifespan!”

“Alright. I aim to live for millennia. You say I have a fifty percent chance of being dead in less than two centuries? That does seem a bit soon for my taste.”

Hans’ response surprised Jann, who felt the argument going stale. “I’m glad you’re coming around to my point of view…”

Hans made a face at Jann’s verbal slips: “I’m “and “you’re”. Posthumans typically spoke words at twice the rate humans did, but had abandoned contractions, finding them uncouth. An inefficient idiosyncrasy lost on Jann.

“Not exactly,” Hans corrected. “If I must flip a coin to survive two centuries, I think it makes a stronger argument for focusing on Resuscitation and Transference. Not repopulation, reproduction.”

“Hans, you—” Jann bit off his initial retort, mentally scrubbing it for a slightly calmer, more sanitary delivery: “Hans, you are not likely to die in two centuries. Not unless I throttle you first.”

Hans shrugged.

“I need a break,” Jann announced.

Hans grunted his approval, slapped his thighs, and stood. “Fourteen hundred tomorrow?”

“Fourteen hundred,” Jann acknowledged.

“Want to go get a bite, Jann? Got my optics on some steak.”

Jann sighed. “No. Maybe next time.” Hans made this offer nearly every day. Jann always meant to go, eventually. He had not enjoyed the taste of “real” food in months.

“Your loss,” Hans said. “Just remember, you do have to ingest something eventually. I hope staying topped-off will keep me on the surviving side of two hundred.”

Jann smiled thinly at his colleague. “Go on, get out of here.”

Hans nodded, grabbed a raincoat from his rack, and left.

Jann shook his head at Hans’ coat. Many worried that Cabal Prime’s atmosphere had grown acidic enough that rain could damage posthuman surfaces, a myth that persisted despite official debunking. Posthumans had no need for raincoats.

Then again, they had no need for cigarettes either. Jan rolled up his sleeve and pulled one out from a custom-designed shoulder compartment. He lit it with a flick of his metal thumb and took a nervous, rattled puff.

His posthuman body did not – could not – suffer from a nicotine addiction. Nor did he benefit chemically from the drug’s calming effect, its narcotic too weak for posthuman metabolism without extreme distillation.

He smiled at this thought as he took another long pull. Then he grimaced at the smell. A weed normally only noxious to nonsmokers, Cabal Prime’s tobacco crop’s struggles worsened the more the world’s biosphere deteriorated. Importing wreckage from destroyed ringworlds to build capitol infrastructure, the former earth-like world had all but become an ecumenopolis in less than a century. One megacity now blended into another, and the world’s surface had no more oceans to speak of, any fluid not the product of exhaust now captured in countless self-contained industrial circuits. Most of Cabal Prime’s farms ran hydroponically, watered by icemelt from imported asteroids, and the majority of Ascendant sustenance came not from crops but artificial synthesizers.

The planet had transitioned to hard metal much like its people had. Still, Jann refused the synthetic tobaccos. He remained loyal to an old and favored brand, though he had nearly cursed aloud at the latest shipment receipt. The price of the last carton rose high enough to alarm even a man of Jann’s wealthy means.

A lung cancer survivor before conversion, he had thought Ascendency might free him from aching joints, anxiety-addled shortness of breath, and the suffocating inflammation of his previous body’s ill-fitting prosthetic throat. In some ways all that had gone, but despite the perfect function of his new, superior frame, Jann could not stifle a groan of discomfort when he stood.

He had shed his mortal coil and become an immortal post-human machine. But some burdens did not seem so easily eliminated.

Jann left Hans’ office to find his own. He doffed his lab coat and work visor, replacing them with a fedora and matching brown trench coat. He did not fear the rain, but he wished to be left alone, especially given the animalistic debauchery common to Cabal Prime’s capital city streets. He pushed the brim of his hat low over his eyes and made his way out.

He cursed when he noticed rain-inflicted acidic vapors steaming from his hat and sleeves.

---

Jann returned to his penthouse apartment. A layer of cotton-like clouds hid the ugliness of the world below. Beautiful oxygen-tinted bluish white light poured through the room’s tall windows. On days without cloud cover Jann would have seen a dying world and its dying people meandering through it, smothered in junk salvaged from the glories of a dead past. Though distance normally concealed the worst attributes of Cabal Prime’s steely grey surface, Jann preferred not to witness it at all, thus his payment towards expensive accommodations high above its ugly surface.

During his regular after hours walk, Jann’s thoughts had turned to Hans’ warnings of public rancor, lordly mandates, and rolling heads. Dismissive at first, upon further dwelling, Jann felt sufficiently spooked. He had made a quick detour to a ritzy liquor store before traveling home.

He now made his way up spiral stairs to his holovid player; a private-theater-sized device mounted on a central mezzanine in the penthouse’s open floor plan. He dropped a box of drinks on a black onyx table in front of the player then deposited himself on a neighboring couch of corrugated metal. He found the couch’s sturdy construction more revolting visually than physically uncomfortable, but his hard metal body had worn to ruins one too many pricey leather seats at this point.

With his feet kicked up on an expensive table, he lounged on the awful couch, cracked open necessarily strong alcohol, and hate-watched the news:

This is CPN.

Good evening citizens. Today is a historic day. On Cycle 7 of GT 19.730.6, military officials announced the successful pacification of every system in the Sagittarius arm-

“Pacification,” Jann scoffed under his breath. “You mean burned to cinders.”

-we turn to our expert consultant on military matters, retired Tagos Baron Longhammer-

“A ridiculous stage name fit for pornography. Ashamed of your real name, Theodore?” Jann might pretend he avoided politics, but the wealth and high placement of the people in his social circles required knowing all the players.

He poured one bottle’s entire content straight down his throat. A local drink more than half alcohol by volume, Jann’s posthuman body still required more than a bottle or two to feel any effects approaching drunkenness - a necessity when consuming the accompanying visual and auditory tripe.

Thank you, Bri. Sagittarius, as your viewers may recall, is one of many smaller spiral offshoots of galactic geography. While this campaign has been militarily successful in ending threats to the core from that corner, much work remains to be done, as technically it has not seen to the complete destruction of the foe in strategically bypassed systems. There are over one billion stars in the Sagittarius Arm, after all.

“Theodore!” Jann groaned his aggravation at the baron’s smug delivery. He flicked his eyes in command of the camera-controller, interrupting several newspeople’s obligatory chortles, changing the channel.

A different government-sanctioned propaganda outlet came on; Wallace BreConnor, a pundit Jann found less distasteful than most. Jann emptied a second bottle in another long swig and watched the orange-haired man through the bottom of its blurry transluminum base.

-today’s top story: Cornelius Phistiphan, Legate of the 69^th Heavy Guards, has been arrested this morning. Known as the “Phantasm” – a name coined not for his abilities as a commander, mind you, but for his supernatural skill at never being spotted anywhere near a battlefield – faces a roll of damning charges longer than the list of death threats our show’s employees compiled this morning.

Jann chuckled at that but shook his head as he reached for a third bottle. Irritated as much as entertained, Jann liked Wallace, but he found himself in a particularly foul mood. Before making the decision to change the channel again, the chyron changed to something that piqued his interest: “LIVE HUMANS ON PRIME?”

-we found most interesting: a charge for debauchery and other acts which bring government moral authority into disrepute, and charges of gross public obscenity-

(Chuckles on set)

-now, many of our viewers will assume this is just another political hit job — and rightfully so. None of this behavior sounds unusual for a highly placed military or government official. Our legal firm searched for hours just to find that yes, these laws still exist somewhere in the archives, though we had to blow away layers of dust to read them ourselves-

(More chuckles on set)

It turns out, at least as investigators allege, that the “Phantasm” used his connections and leadership position to fashion a sophisticated and extensive smuggling operation. The cargo? Live humans, brought to the very heart of Cabal Prime. Once here, the “Phantasm” charged patrons top credit to watch innocent and upstanding citizens coerced into perverse acts with these prisoners. Sex and violence, people! Some customers even paid to watch two or more humans do one or both to each other!

I know what you are thinking: “Brilliant! Why did I not come up with this genius idea myself?”

(More laughter)

We can safely assume the charges will be dropped once investigative jealousy is soothed to its satisfaction. Here is what the “Phantasm” had to say about his legal situation:

(Screen switches to an image of a spiky-haired young man wearing a tuxedo and sunglasses)

“Yolo.”

(His lawyers quickly drag him away from the podium)

(Laughter on set)

A tone from downstairs interrupted Jann’s racing thoughts.

“Enter,” he announced.

The door to Jann’s penthouse slid open. Jann stood quickly, tipsy and swaying. He barely remembered to blink the command to turn off the holovid, then patted himself down for spilled alcohol – dry, fortunately.

“Doctor Sorenson! My brilliant tutor!” the newcomer said, rising on his toes to search for Jann from below the mezzanine.

“Hello, Patri,” Jann welcomed the young intern, drawing his attention. “It is finished?”

“Yes, yes!” Patri said, practically bouncing with excitement. The little man raced up the curving stairway to join Jann. Arriving, he held out a wand-shaped contraption. “Built to combine all the functions you seek in one device, as promised!”

“Alright, I believe you. Hand it over.”

Patri bowed deep and offered it like some medieval courtier. He spoke to the floor: “My internship is extended? It is due to end in three weeks.”

This new generation’s culture and its feudal hokum, Jann thought at Patri’s obsequious behavior. He whisked the object out of Patri’s hands, said: “I will think about it after some testing.”

“Thank you, master!” Patri straightened from his bow. He lingered, taking in the beautiful, open view of Jann’s lavish quarters and its natural lighting.

Jann avoided eye contact. The alcohol started to hit, and he found it an increasing struggle not to oscillate on his feet.

“What are you having, master? I detect the scent of a marvelous beverage!”

“Get out,” Jann waved him away impatiently, the motion threatening his balance.

“Of course, master!” If Patri was hurt by the dismissal, he hid it flawlessly. “Until next time!”

The little man scuttled down the stairs, paused at the door to wave goodbye, and left. The door automatically slid closed behind him.

Jann burped – an uncomfortably hollow, reverberating metallic sound when made by a posthuman. Struck by a thought, Jann stumbled drunkenly down to the quietly sliding door, making it in time to interrupt its complete closure. He leaned through its gentle pushing insistence and shouted down the hall to his retreating apprentice: “Wait! Come back.”

The little man spun on his heel instantly, almost as if anticipating Jann’s request, and scurried back. “Yes, Master Sorenson?”

“You have heard of this ‘Phantasm?’ The smuggler? I hear he is one of you youngsters.”

“Yes! What a scandal!” Patri’s condemnatory words carried an undertone of admiration.

Jann weighed his odds.

Patri filled the silence: “So that is what you had me fashion the device for!”

“No, it is not,” Jann said, the truth in part. “But it could be of use by pure coincidence. Tell me, do you have any useful connections to put me in touch with this ‘Phantasm?’”

“I… uh…” Patri looked away, abashed.

“Get me a meeting, and I will extend your internship for another year.”

“A year?” Patri said, astonished. Then he grinned. “Well…”

---

A few days later Jann frequented an old haunt with a new companion in tow.

“Welcome, Doctor Sorenson. You arrive late for your engagement.”

Jann nodded to the matron. “I detoured to home to get changed,” he explained. Acid rain had spoiled another outfit.

The matron’s loose clothes slid teasingly over her body. Jann unwittingly caught a glimpse of her “enhancements.” One could always tell where a posthuman had “work” done, the naturally expressed body of an Ascended always developing thin seams around such alterations. Such evidence could be hidden with proper care, though some seemed to take pride in advertising the corporal freedoms granted by Ascendancy.

While finding the practice distasteful, Jann could not claim himself an exception, carrying numerous research and self-defense additions to his body. Storage compartments and the tools of his trade hid beneath his metallic skin, each marked out in neat lines on his arms and legs.

“The rain, doctor? They say-”

“Hella Frei,” Jann said impatiently.

“Of course, doctor. We keep her schedule clear for you at this hour, as usual.”

“Her schedule better always be clear,” Jann said darkly. “For the sum I pay, we agreed she sees no one else.”

“Of course, doctor,” the matron insisted soothingly. “That is what I meant to say, of course.”

“Good,” Jann was wary of the matron’s passive aggressive attempts to alter their arrangement. He made a mental note to have a conversation with her later. For now, he had more important matters to attend. He gripped the shoulder of the cloaked man who had followed him in.

“Lead the way to Hella.”

The matron hesitated. Her greedy eyes, focused on her high paying customer, had clearly overlooked the stranger’s presence.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“None of your business,” Jann told her. His stare dared her to mention this violation of house rules.

She seemed on the verge of protest, but clamped her mouth shut. “Come, then,” the matron said with excess conviviality. She led them upstairs to the usual room.

Jann herded his companion along, tugging him this way and that.

From over her shoulder the matron watched the stranger with barely hidden curiosity and no small alarm.

They arrived at the designated door. The matron seemed to summon some spine, said: “I must inspect him for hazardous modifications before he may enter.”

“I am impressed by your concern, madam,” Jann said. A thread of principle survived beneath the lady’s avarice, after all. “Worry not, I have done a thorough inspection myself.”

“Doctor… I must insist. You know how precious Ms. Frei is to me.”

Precious to your credit log, Jann thought. Hella would bring in quite a fortune even without Jann’s exclusive patronage.

“How does double this month’s rate sound,” Jann offered.

The matron wrung her hands nervously but nodded her acceptance. “Such a sum serves well as collateral against nefarious treatment. I have faith in your commitment to the girl’s health and happiness,” she said. She held up her hand and a blue string of numbers hovered over it.

Jann passed his hand over hers, locking in the transaction with an irritated swipe. The matron bowed out of the way, her loose clothing exposing her network of “enhancements” again.

The door opened automatically.

“Enter!” a sing-song voice called out.

“Come along,” Jann said to his silent tromping charge.

Hella Frei awaited them in the center of the circular room. Though dressed in loose transparent garments much like the matron’s, Hella could not have been more different. Jann could not help himself – his eyes drawn to her beautiful, seamless body.

“Hello doc-” The sight of the stranger cut her off midsentence, and she asked nervously: “Who is this?”

Jann had anticipated the girl’s surprise. “This individual is the next evolution of my research efforts. You understood this day would come.”

“I see…” Hella said uncertainly. She walked a few steps away to perch gracefully on the lip of a cushioned chair, her customary spot for Jann’s more than weekly visits.

“As I meant to imply, I will need you to move to the bed this time,” Jann urged.

“Are we not to converse as usual?”

Hella made the complaint sound milder than Jann knew it to be. He could sense her fear. “This will be not too much different from the occasional sample or inspection,” he tried. Jann had a willpower to match the fiery heart of a star, but when he saw Ms. Frei’s shudder, his determination faltered.

“This seems… very different from that.”

Jann hardened his heart. “You are right, of course. You are an intelligent one, and I should not sugar coat it. I am not sure why I tried. Especially because my companion-”

Jann grabbed up a tuft of the cloak his follower wore and yanked it to the floor, revealing a tall, muscular, bronze-skinned young male.

“-is human,” Jann finished.

Hella shot to a stand, knocking over her chair. She retreated to the wall unsteadily, nearly tripping on the spill of her gossamer-thin garment. Her jaw moved, but her lips only produced inaudible sputters.

“We can do this here, or back at my lab,” Jann said, doing his best to keep the pain of regret from his voice. “My work would benefit more from laboratory conditions, but I felt you would find this scene more familiar and therefore comfortable.”

“I… I…” Hella glanced to the door, looking as if she meant to flee the room. “He is disgusting! Dangerous!”

Jann looked over at the human as if judging his appearance for the first time. Despite a few scars and a clear, genetically-engineered heritage for ruggedness and warfighting, the man presented as the pinnacle of physical beauty; or would have been seen as such in a time before the people of Cabal Prime chose to become machines.

“Worry not, we are safe,” Jann implored, acknowledging the futility of arguing the subject’s handsomeness. The eye of the beholder, and such. “While he is conscious of what I make him do, a carefully implanted nerve staple forces him to follow my instructions to the letter.”

“You cannot expect me to… to… I would rather-”

“Not?” Jann knew she meant “die,” and supplied a different word intentionally, hoping to deescalate her shock.

Jann was no stranger to hateful deeds. Each line he crossed passed easier than the last. But he cared for Ms. Frei, had come to value her friendship and beauty as much as her usefulness to his work. A small part of him wished to abandon this procedure, explain it away as a psychological test or some terrible joke.

“Yes, I would rather not!” she said.

“That is an outcome I hope to avoid…” Jann meant to sound threatening, but instead the words came out sincere. Somehow, a shred of his old decency survived, choosing this moment to surface.

Hella’s hands scratched the wall behind her, balling into fists. “You promise this is for… this helps with…”

“Yes,” Jann pounced hurriedly. “You’ve told me one day you dream of having children, starting a family, no?”

“Yes,” Hella said.

Jann knew better than to believe Ms. Frei matched his enthusiasm for his research. He knew her words only served to rationalize her way through the difficult choice he presented.

He did not delude himself into thinking future success could wash away this particular sin. No, pride is what pushed him on this path, pride and a vision’s guarantee. He was an evil man doing evil things. But he felt relief at her willingness, however coerced it might be.

“I will do it,” she said. “Only if it helps our people survive.”

“It will,” he said. He made a hand-sign to the human warrior, one psychologically imprinted upon the prisoner in the brief time since Jann had purchased him. Jann did not want to speak foul words and had spent his limited time before this appointment doing all he could to sanitize the situation.

He cursed himself for focusing too much on his research and not developing more practical applications to amass wealth for his firm. Purchased at an eye watering cost, he obtained this male human captive at one-hundredth the rate the females went for. Though it would have been distasteful for similar reasons, at least securing a willing male Ascendant research subject would have been less problematic…

---

The deed had been done. Scans run and samples taken. Ms. Frei had graciously agreed to come to the lab the next day for some necessary follow up procedures.

Jann had never personally partaken in Hella’s real services. He had not seen her that way. But after yesterday, he could not help but feel cuckolded. Only his shame at the human prisoner’s abuse outweighed Jann’s jealousy. The warring feelings helped convince Jann he was not a totally wicked man.

Jann thought of calling Patri to cancel a few of his now-irrelevant tinkering projects, then thought better of it. The wily intern had an amazing aptitude for the miniaturization of complex devices. Jann might still find a use for many of those more portable implements in the future and wanted to retain Patri’s services.

Jann paced his office as he wondered what to do with his human acquisition. He addressed the man: “I apologize for putting you through that before we could be properly introduced. My schedule is normally not so tight. I took advantage to save you from other… ‘customers,’ while I could.”

The cloaked human stared ahead, blank-faced as a cow, his lack of expression a byproduct of his mind-control implant.

“I would prefer to free you this moment and ask your permission for all this. Ask you to become a willing partner in my efforts. But I cannot risk disabling the implant. You do not know the culture of these people here on Cabal Prime. You are safer robbed of your will. For the meantime, at least. I will endeavor to change this as soon as possible.”

The human did not respond beyond a slight twitch of one eye.

Jann paused his pacing. “Do you have a name?”

“Offermoteve,” the big man acknowledged through a tightly clenched jaw.

The human’s thick Expish accent surprised Jann. The man’s guttural speech, almost a different dialect, strained Jann’s hearing and saddened him. One more concrete example of the growing gulf he strived to shrink. Man and post-man had coexisted as little as 90 years ago. War at full scale had not come until a generation or two later, and Jann himself had still been human as little as 15 years ago.

“Well, your name then. What is it?”

“Krel,” the man said. He reached behind his neck to give himself a scratch.

“Krel. No surname? Peculiar. In any case, I brought you here to discuss how we may help each other. I wish you to know I am on your side – humanity’s side. Please disrobe and allow me to take some measurements so I can requisition proper clothing for you.”

“Krel,” the man reiterated. He removed his cloak then resumed his neck scratching, more intense now.

“Please stop that,” Jann urged. “Your incision has not healed. It will make a terrible mess if it reopens.”

“Krel,” the man repeated, his neck-scratching grown furious. His facial muscles twitched, brows sporadically flickering between docility and anger.

“Cease with that!” Jann recognized the man’s intent now. “You cannot survive the staple’s removal! It will sever your spinal cord!”

The human stumbled a halting step forward. His face contorted between passivity and rage. His scratching turned outrageous, his speckled nails flinging droplets of blood.

Jann retreated behind his desk and hammered at its panic button underneath. “Guards! Head office! Subdue the human! No killing!”

“Ferst nome: krel. Lost nome: yoo!” The human’s scratching ceased. His face stabilized into a wide and malicious grin. His hand came forward holding a fist-sized chunk of implant dripping crimson.

“Oh my,” Jann said, fascinated. Humans had done much work to improve their fighters.

He had little time to wonder at this. The human tossed the nerve staple to the ground and leapt. Jann braced to catch and overpower the human, trusting in the superior strength of his metal construction.

The human flew over Jann’s desk and bowled him over, heavier and stronger than even his enhanced bulk would suggest.

“Krel yoo!”

“Heard,” Jann retorted with a grunt, struggling to hold the human back.

The human’s muscles bunched in ugly, tremoring cords; to Jann’s mind they appeared like steel cables on the verge of snapping. To his horror, Jann found himself overpowered, the human slowly but surely pressing the doctor’s hands atop each other and rotating his limbs into an arm lock.

“Guards!” Jann’s shout became a strained grunt.

With Jann pinned, the human shifted the grip of his now freed arm. Jann’s head disappeared into the nest of the human’s bicep. Neck twisting, Jann fought as hard as he could, but the oversized human bent him to his will.

“Krel… krel… krel…” the human snorted acrid breaths into Jann’s ear. Something twanged painfully in Jann’s neck, a tiny component snapping as the human steadily worked to tear his head off.

Moments from certain death, Jann wondered what necessary twist of fate must arrive this moment to save him. He had beheld his destiny; knowing in its certitude, he had lived dangerously in impatient pursuit of this promised future. Ever since the fateful day he had touched… it. It had not shown him how, or when, or what path this journey would take, but his presence at the envisioned end had been predetermined.

The human’s blood dripped over Jann’s face, its coppery scent mixing with the human’s malodorous panting.

Jann should not… no, could not, die here.

But what if it had been a lie? An elaborate, cosmic prank? What if he died here and now, ignoble and forgotten? Panic, mild and unwelcome, attacked the frontiers of his rational mind. He tried to shout, but barely any air squeaked past his lips.

Blood infiltrated the space between the human’s grip and Jann’s slippery metallic jaw. The loss of friction gave Jann room to wiggle, relieving some of the strain on his neck. He struggled anew, attempting to slide out of the Human’s crushing embrace.

The human manipulated Jann with a wrestler’s finesse, converting his grapple in a manner Jann could feel but not see. Jann found himself pressed face down on the floor now, arms now pinned behind his back. The human grabbed the mop of fine black threads on Jann’s head, an implanted affection the Ascendant called hair, and punished Jann’s resistance by pounding the doctor’s head repeatedly into the hard floor.

Jann’s skull was almost as hard as steel, but the same could not be said for its insides. Jann heard more than felt one of his optical lenses crack. Spidery distortion crawled over his vision. Following impacts elicited increasingly harsher bursts of visual and audio static.

Just as he thought one more impact would do him in, the human let out a curdling scream, and his weight lifted from Jann’s back. Jann heard shouting; voices indiscernible over the wash produced by his damaged audiceptors. He crawled to the wall and used it to climb to a stand, unsteady and punch-drunk.

Vision cleared in his good eye. Jann searched the room and saw Hans struggling with the human, their fists entwined.

Jann’s colleague had torn a meter-long piece of metal railing from a catwalk outside Jann’s office then driven it deep into the human’s back. On second inspection, it appears Hans had tried clobbering the human’s bloody head with it first, then impaled him. A few centimeters of the rod’s sharp end now protruded from the beastly man’s ribs, yet incredibly the human still refused to die.

The grievous injury had clearly weakened him, however, and Hans seemed to gain the upper hand. Three claws emerged from the back of Hans’ left hand, an implant Jann had previously mocked, only now appreciating its merit. Hans pressed the blades towards the weakening human’s throat.

“Please, Hans! Do not kill him!” Jann beseeched. He stumbled forward, pushed his coat open, and unlocked his thigh compartment with a thought. An ornate, black onyx-handled laser gun protruded from his leg. Jann yanked it out and aimed it at the human, trying his best not to waver. “Surrender! We must be allies!”

The human spotted Jann’s gun in the corner of his eye. He “surrendered” swiftly, bending to one of Hans’ pushing arms, curling inside his grip and kicking out one of Hans’ ankles. The big man swung the flailing Hans around, still gripping his opponent’s bladed hand by the wrist.

Jann could not be sure how it happened. One moment he held the gun, the next it had been slapped out of his hand. Jann reflexively gripped his neck, his touch discovering three fresh cuts — divots in his throat centimeters deep.

The sounds of several booted feat entered the room, followed by the buzz and hiss of laser guns.

Jann blinked stupidly at the ground, watching pink froth spill copiously between his fingers. The liquid dripped to mix with the red blood of the human on the floor. The fluids bubbled where they contacted, as if they too were at war.

The towering magnitude of the work laid out for Jann struck him anew.

A new voice spoke, one of the guards: “Are you alright, sirs?”

“Clearly not, imbecile!” Hans snapped. “Help the doctor! He flushes nano!”

“I have the doctor. Remove your hands, please.”

Jann felt multiple guards’ firm pulling as they separated his hands from his ruined throat. One of them sprayed Jan with a chrome-colored aerosol, its mist rendering rainbow colors under the ceiling lights.

“All better,” a guard proclaimed cheekily.

Released, Jann’s hands automatically wandered back to his throat again, feeling the sealed trenches, deep and wide enough to fit his fingers.

“Are you alright? Talk to me, Jann!”

Jann felt his colleague’s hands on his shoulders. Jann’s voice came out a gravelly whisper: “You cut me,” he said. The injury ruined his voice - ironically, it sounded much like his prosthetic implant had when he had still been human.

“You sound terrible,” Hans observed.

Jann’s good eye wandered to the floor. Vision in his broken optic already started to heal, its cracks thinning.

He found the human. Sight of the big man’s charred and bloody corpse brought mixed feelings. Relief that he lived, that his appointment with destiny would still be honored. Regret at the wasteful loss of life and scientific progress. Curiously, he also felt a great deal of pride – though forced to abandon his own humanity, Jann still fought hard for its preservation. This human warrior’s incredible toughness and capacity for violence spoke volumes of mankind’s will to survive.

Or, at least, a will to go down fighting.

“You were supposed to keep him alive!” Jann complained.

“Better to risk a firing than see our paymasters slain,” one of the guards observed humorlessly.

Jann shook his head, finding no flaw in the guard’s argument. He directed his next words at Hans: “The implant’s removal should have killed him.”

“Clearly it did not,” Hans said. He tugged on Jann, urging him to follow. “Let us get you to the adepts.”

“No. It will heal,” Jann croaked. He bent to retrieve his fallen pistol, dismayed to find new scratches tarnishing its fine embellishments.

Jann returned it to its compartment then looked at Hans with his good eye. “Let us go and get a steak.”

Hans regarded Jann with concern. Then, his worry melted away, replaced by a smile.

---

Hans sliced his serving with practiced finesse, dividing its full length in one go.

Jann, meanwhile, struggled with fork and knife, ravenous and out of practice. It had been some time since Jann last ate, seeing the act as a decadent luxury and a waste of resources and time. With his injuries, though, pastime converted to necessity. His posthuman metabolism already informed him he would require seconds.

“You still ought to see the adepts,” Hans said. “Your injury is severe enough to leave scars.”

Jann’s ruined voice emerged as a harsh whisper: “Perhaps. If so, I believe I will keep the scars.”

Hans arched a brow at this.

“A reminder of what I am up against,” Jann explained, finally parting a bite small enough to stab into his mouth.

Hans nodded, understanding now. “You do enjoy clinging to that sort of thing.”

Hans cocked his head and put a finger to his ear, clearly receiving a cast. It ended and he said: “They have cut the human open and found that he somehow pinched the implant in half. He removed its electronic components while leaving the neurothreads intact. This is how he survived, by leaving the anchoring mechanism in place. Incredible. I wonder what mental feat he employed to trick the staple into letting him grab it in the first place.”

“Steak should be grey or pink in the center,” Jann said through a grease-dribbling mouthful. “Not this… orangish color.”

“I am content the additive dyes do as good a job as they do.”

Jann grunted, deciding he would rather not learn more. It tasted close enough to steak for him.

Hans shook his head in wonder. “You are a marvel, Jann. You barely survived a near-death experience. Is this a normal occurrence for you?”

Jann shrugged, moving his knife furiously, extracting another dangling bite without waiting for it to part fully.

“You behave like a man who knows when his time will come,” Hans wondered aloud. “That his time is not today.”

Jann paused at that, chewing more slowly. Then he shrugged again. “You are smart, Hans. It is not so much as that, but close enough.” He shoveled in another bite, then tried to comment on the human.

“What was that?” Hans said. “Can you slow down, Jann? We are in no hurry.”

Jann swallowed impatiently and reiterated: “The quality of human fighters seems to improve. Meanwhile, ours worsen.” He gave Hans a pointed look.

“A good segway into an important conversation,” Hans said seriously.

“Concerning what,” Jann said.

“Fighting. Military matters, and all that.”

“I take it back. I am in no mood for another argument.”

Hans sighed and put his cutlery down. “You are to be drafted, Jann,” he said simply.

Despite having no need for air, Jann nearly choked on his food. “What?”

“I always said you should pay more attention to politics. Though, seeing it coming has not helped me one bit, I admit. I am to be drafted as well.”

“Surely you joke. We are Patricians.”

“It is the latest mandate, Jann. The mob cried for justice at the unfair distribution of conscription notices. Many Patricians agreed, and have championed this cause. It has been a popular topic for some time now. I am amazed even you somehow missed hearing of it.”

“You speak of equity, but I only hear someone powerful discovers a new convenient tool to wield in disposal of their enemies.”

“Yes, this is the reality, ultimately. The new Patrician-tier lottery has ‘randomly’ chosen a surprising number from the regime’s political opposition. Since there are not many in that category left still living, the next most chosen are all politically unimportant outsiders. Namely, you and I.”

“This happens when?”

“Our service numbers will be drawn and announced later today. But we are not due to report for enrollment for months still. A lady owing me favors informed me my number had come up, so I inquired after yours as well.”

“Why the delay?” Jann asked bitterly.

“The aim is to get us to ‘volunteer’, I presume. Allow the government to make a good public show of the Patrician class’s sudden embrace of patriotism. We will have more control over how we serve if we join willingly. Otherwise, when the date comes, it will lead to a compulsory position deadlier and less glamorous.”

“Do not sign any papers yet, Hans,” Jann promised. “I will look into this.”

Hans retrieved his fork and stabbed up a piece of steak to wave at Jann. “Do not take too long, friend. I rather like it here, and I have enjoyed one too many close encounters with a human already.”

Hans took a bite, swallowed, and continued: “I see no way out of it, myself. Maybe we can think of something. Otherwise, we at least have a few months to prepare. We possess enough wealth to purchase and outfit a sizeable private unit. And perhaps we have time to develop a few new technologies to give us an edge. Or perhaps we liquidate the firm. The service commitment is twenty years; without us the firm might run low on credit.”

Jann nodded thoughtfully, then took and chewed another bite. He did not have the slightest idea how to contest this. But something must come. Certainly, this could not be what destiny had in store for him.

---

30 years later…

The armored flying transport shuddered with turbulence. Its metal hide creaked and pinged as its hull bled reentry heat.

Jann flexed his fingers, his 95-ton Pyroknight imitating him, testing the warbot’s grip on its multi-ton axe. The war machine served as an extension of Jann’s body, rattling in a heavy containment claw as it sped at the ground in an orbital combat drop.

“T-minus 90 seconds,” Section Mentor Hark’s deadpan voice announced.

Past reentry distortion now, Jann, his voice still a rumbling whisper, addressed the near 3,000 warriors under his command: “Remember. Stick close, land as one, lock shields, and charge. We engage immediately. Do not give the enemy time to bring their guns to bear, and you may survive.”

The nine members of First Spear in Jann’s transport replied in unison: “Yes, praefect.”

Centurion Hans’ voice came static-laced through a private tight beam cast: “You waste your breath. Uplifting speeches have no effect on the Slaves. This new generation of mental constructs care not if they live or perish. They barely live to begin with.”

“Old habits die hard,” Jann said. “And if I wish for a centurion’s opinion, I will ask him.”

Hans, commanding a spear riding a neighboring transport, ignored his superior’s tease. “They are stupid, but at least they excel at following orders. Gone is the objectionable blubbering of the peons we used to send to early graves.”

“You always underestimate our charges. Then and now. Section Mentor Hark grows. He is almost aware. I can sense it.”

“I would love to hear him say it himself, should he survive.”

“We are many years, and even more lightyears, from our days of arguing in a lab, Hans. Maintain cast discipline.”

“Task and glory.” Hans said. A brief beep and click signaled an end to the old colleague’s private cast.

“T-minus 30 seconds,” Hark intoned.

The transport’s bottom bay doors rattled open, pushing strenuously against a furious wind current. A sea appeared below, quickly transforming to a beach, then shrubland, then desert, and finally a burning cityscape. The vistas all lasted barely the span of one artificially drawn breath.

“Task and glory,” Jann muttered automatically. It had been two mandatory service extensions, a few promotions, several campaigns, and dozens of years since he had last made real progress on his destined work. Opportunities to engage in research came few and far between out here on the front lines of an existential war.

“Prepare for drop,” Hark shouted on external audio. A slight tinge of excitement entered the veteran’s voice.

Jann’s skyhook unlatched and his Pyroknight dropped into howling air barely a kilometer over the surface. He pressed his arms in and spread his legs out, the Pyroknight copying him, hugging axe and shield close to its chest. Rocket exhaust flared at angles from his machine’s back and heels, arresting the speed of their descent.

15 seconds later, The Pyroknight’s broad feet slammed down through a multistory building, toppling it, one more ruin amidst a dying city. Within moments his subordinates likewise landed and ran forth to ring their leader in a protective wall.

Jann Sorenson, the humanist, now known simply as Praefect Sor, beheld the kicked up dust and burning skies of Vaeshi 3, a planet already half-conquered.

He gave the command: “Advance!”

Fate, it seemed, could take long and winding roads.

---

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