Spans of time, vast and indifferent, had elapsed since that day. Seasons held static, personnel unchanged—only the tally of experiments marched onward, merciless and unheeding.
"AMa-11, log confirmation record 67 commencing."
With the Doctor's directive, a Sarkaz before me spat blood-mingled phlegm. These subjects, inching from beast toward man, now carried temperatures of refined granularity, surpassing their prior savagery. Bound in restraints, the Sarkaz loosed a torrent of curses laced with glossolalic babble.
It remained closer to primal howl than structured language, yet to me, the embedded intent rang clear: irritation, laced with disorientation at the abrupt environmental shift.
I unfastened the cranial shroud binding his head. Crimson fur and obsidian horns, bifurcated and erect, had shunned the light; now revealed, his gaze locked upon me, body seizing rigid.
The reaction mirrored every prior trial. To them, I embodied an abomination—an entity that should never have cohered from tissue and will. Chains of restraint forgotten, he lunged, hind claws raking with unrefined savagery. The temperature he broadcast—betrayal and terror—overwhelmed all else, a pyre too vivid to obscure.
His thermal signature dominated, but I calibrated my senses with clinical detachment, sharpening acuity a fraction further.
Beyond the laboratory's confines, perception widened per the primer of this blood's protocols. Over the wall behind me lingered a single human presence—identity obscured, form unknown—yet his disquiet and vexation registered acutely.
The Doctor had sanctioned his involvement in the trial, only to isolate him in a stark chamber. An hour wasted thus was predictable; he now harbored the suspicion of a cruel jest, yearning for recall and dismissal.
Yet he remained seated, eyes tracing the minute hand of the wall chronometer—a telltale sprout of improbable anticipation. The blood stirred, predator-scent locking, quivering in the hunt.
Whispers tempted: guile to stuff the maw, schemes to deceive and exploit, intent to freeze and devour that fragile warmth of hope.
But such impulses served no utility to me.
"Grade-2 researcher, specialization in biology. To him, you're both lunatic and genius—an object of trepidation."
The Doctor nodded at my report, methodically resecuring the Sarkaz with instrumented restraints. Soon, it would serve as specimen for Lexicon protocols or the perpetuation of civilization.
"Fragmentary data extraction is now reliable, then?"
"Hope and anticipation yield even finer resolution. The observer back there believes you summoned him for my vivisection—that revelation disclosed his specialty and rank."
The Doctor processed the intelligence in silence, pausing as one datum snagged; his finger tapped the notepad—tok, tok.
"Lexicon constraints are now explicit. You've grasped its operational contours; the blood holds refinement potential, yet veers from desired vector."
He concluded collation and exited the laboratory. I half-expected retrieval of the stranded researcher; instead, he departed unerringly. Deciphering the Doctor's calculus long surrendered, I shadowed in silence.
"Trials conclude with this iteration. You'll receive operational directives henceforth, not mere experimentation."
He expounded voluminously along the corridor; I tuned it out. The Doctor sought no reciprocity—his words devolved to soliloquy.
Trailing him through sterile vias, we encountered multitudes: predominantly researchers, each bearing distinct phenotypes and thermal期待 from their partitioned labs.
Most grappled with conundrums ineffable, impossibilities assayed for latent viability.
All clung to civilization's archival dogma: faith in antecedent fools, and those yet to inherit their folly. In environs Originium-remade, societies forged by the same mineral would spawn successor idiots, burdens identical.
Lexicon and arboreal scaffolds posed no grand undertaking. They were mere compost in Originium-tilled soil, gardeners at best—never principals. As with my progenitor and myself.
A curiosity stirred—perhaps the blood's instinctual covetousness of their hope. Remote from such appetites, still my lips parted.
"What is Originium, Doctor?"
Originium: ore-crystalline lattice, quantum information substrate, terraforming engine archiving civilization's codex.
Such descriptors captured facets, neither false nor disparate—yet incomplete holons. Ocean of Solaris, equilibrated terminus, Stargate's lodestar.
We sought no such exchanges; silence resettled. At the threshold of the Priestess's sanctum, he uttered curtly:
"The future."
Did he register the temperature embedded in his reply? Unforgettable, at minimum.
The Priestess's chamber echoed the Doctor's in blueprint, yet diverged starkly. His approximated an enclosure corralling contained chaos; hers, a mausoleum of moribund machinery, fans wheezing terminal dirges amid flickering dies.
Spotting the Doctor amid the clamor, the Priestess smiled.
"You've arrived. Records just reviewed—your judgment merits adherence."
Rising, she addressed him; attendant holograms quivered in her motion's wake, laden with Originium assay data. Shutting the projections, she met our gazes with shy mirth.
"Farewells I'll reserve for then. We'll meet anew tomorrow, after all."
She clasped the Doctor's hands in tandem, then beckoned me, extending for my arm.
"This... is Originium."
"Indeed. Your recorder, your photoreceptor, your projector."
The proffered shard approximated a circular brooch; tilted, it evoked a camera lens.
"Unlike AMa-10, engineered from inception with embedded Originium integration, yours demanded this exosomatic auxiliary. Civilizational perpetuation protocols diverged entirely; the bespoke programming proved taxing. Cherish it well."
I affixed the Originium to my collar and tendered parting salutations.
Emerging from the Priestess's sanctum, locomotion commenced unbidden, devoid of vector or terminus—mere perpetual transit. So engrossed, I nearly missed the hail from behind.
"Erael! There—Erael! Halt!"
High contralto timbre. Wheeling, I regarded a woman: bobbed hair sheared above shoulders, uniformed in institutional fatigues. Her visage beamed reunion's delight; waving, she closed eagerly.
"Finally caught you. Ah, those wings—sound barely carries from behind? Regardless, it's been ages! Thrilled to cross paths like this. En route somewhere?"
Her words suffused a tepid warmth, soporific as languid slumber; involuntarily, I reciprocated.
"No fixed destination. Simply perambulating."
"I see. Hmm. You appeared profoundly melancholic—worried you'd erred, or headed for trials. Wings drooping, gaze earthbound, like despondency incarnate."
Her temperature evoked familiar coziness: akin to the Priestess appraising the Doctor. The subconscious hook, explained.
"Though marginally involved in your nativity, I'll indelibly shape your trajectory. If not that... shall we seek diversion? I'm on leave today!"
My astonishment elicited her widened eyes, then crinkled mirth.
"Wait—you forgot? I introduced myself at your debut."
"Retention intact. Mille. You managed my nutrient provisioning. Though oversight entailed comprehensive assays—predominantly data governance and biometric dissection."
Mille flashed an abashed grin, fanning with one hand; her flushed cheeks endured defiant.
"Right, that era. Ahaha... Still, pivotal role this project. Fabricating repair modules en masse, scripting oversight architectures—unprecedented scale demands even Grade-2 hands like mine. Final approvals pending vessel completion, naturally; paperwork advances regardless. Soon, you'll deploy; we're both idle for now, fittingly."
Lips pressed fingertip-ward—a tic, perhaps?—she continued.
"Loitering here fatigues. Franchised eatery nearby, exceptional fare. You haven't dined yet?"
Seizing my hand, Mille cut across the corridor, proclamation booming for all proximate ears:
"Anticipate marvels—the cuisine eclipses this vessel's rations by orders of magnitude!"
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