The green bio-liquid drains from the pod.
A thin, fully grown adult human gasps for air, for the first time in his life. His chest heaves, lungs burning as they learn their purpose. To be born, to be hatched, should be a moment of love and joy.
Not here.
Not for him.
His life is already mapped, hard, narrow, cruel. There is no choice. There will be no joy. There will be no love.
Another ragged gasp.
His eyes blink open.
A hand grabs his head and wrenches it back. Harsh white light floods his vision, stabbing deep. He tries to look away, but fingers dig into his skull, holding him still.
A voice, flat and bored, says words he does not yet understand.
“This one doesn’t look good. Abort?”
“It’s worth trying the imprint,” another replies. “If he doesn’t respond, then we abort.”
His vision swims, then sharpens. Shapes resolve into faces, into yellow boiler suits. He looks around like a newborn, mouth opening as a sound tears out of him, raw, desperate.
A cry for a mother he never had.
“Shut up.”
Hands seize his arms and neck. Above him, machinery rattles and clatters. The noise alone sends him into panic. Cold metal clamps down on his head. He thrashes.
“I said hold still.”
A sharp crack across his face. The sound echoes. He goes still, breath hitching, tears spilling without understanding why.
A hand pries his mouth open. Something metallic is forced between his teeth. Straps tighten around his head until his skull feels caged.
“In three. Two. One.”
Agony.
Electric fire explodes through his skull. His body arches, muscles locking as terror floods every nerve. His vision whites out. He bites down hard on the metal, hard enough that, without it, he would have torn his tongue free. His brain burns.
“It’s not holding. He’s a reject.”
“Give it a minute. We can push him to grade one at least. I’m not missing our quota again.”
He screws his eyes shut, trying to escape the pain, but there is nowhere to go. His whole world is burning.
“Done. Grade one.”
“Told you.”
The pain cuts off abruptly, leaving him gasping, shaking. Two quick slaps bring him back when he sags.
“Do you understand me?”
To his surprise, he does. He nods.
“Good.”
The metal is pulled from his mouth. The clamps release. His head throbs as hands withdraw.
“Where… who am I?” he asks, voice hoarse.
“What number are we up to?” one worker asks.
“98456.”
The man grips his head, forcing eye contact. “You are male worker number 98456. Repeat it.”
“98… 4…?”
“For fuck’s sake. 98456.”
“9845…6.”
“Good. You’re grade one. Where are you?”
“Tar… Tarniss.”
“Good.”
The woman pulls a small black box from her pocket. The other worker grabs his head again.
“This will hurt. Don’t move.”
She presses the box to his forehead.
Sharp, brutal pain as thousands of needles punch into his skin. He cries out, flinching despite himself.
“Done,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
“What did you do?” 98456 asks. “Why does everything hurt?”
She shrugs. “Forehead Barcode. Helps us keep track of you. You’re property.”
She pauses, then adds, “Not valuable. But property nonetheless.”
They haul him upright. Thick green bio-liquid pours from his naked body, pooling at his feet. He shivers violently as they wipe him down, scraping every last drop into a container.
The valuable liquid matters.
He does not.
“Follow,” one snaps.
98456 takes his first unsteady steps away from the pod. His legs wobble, feet slapping against cold metal. If he had a mother, this would be a proud moment.
He has no one.
Along the corridor, hundreds of pods line the walls, each one growing more workers for the queen bee… Asha Patel.
A door slides open. Inside is a small, dark room. A single chair sits beneath a harsh spotlight.
“Sit.”
He obeys. The metal seat is icy against his skin. He notices a thin seam in the floor forming a circle beneath the chair.
“All yours,” the worker says into the shadows, then leaves.
Footsteps approach.
A man in a black boiler suit steps into the light.
“Do you know who I am?”
98456 hesitates. “A… liquidator.”
“Good. What’s your designation?”
“98456.”
“Why are you here?”
“To work. For Asha Patel. For Tetrax.”
The liquidator smiles faintly and begins circling him at the edge of the shadow.
“Grade one. What metals do we mine?”
“Lithium. Cobalt.”
“What do cleaners do?”
“Scrub vents. Manifolds.”
“Are you free?”
“No.” His shoulders slump. “I’m work stock.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I think.”
“Stand.”
He stands.
“Jump.”
He jumps.
“Again.”
He jumps again.
“Touch your toes.”
He bends, barely reaching.
The liquidator stops. “You’ve passed, just.”
The room floods with brightness. 98456 squints.
The liquidator selects a brown boiler suit and black boots, tossing them at him.
“Get dressed.”
The fabric is rough, abrasive against his new skin, but he pulls it on quickly.
A door opens. Red light spills in. A guard steps through.
“Take worker 98456 to the housing unit,” the liquidator says. “Grade one. Slow learner. Try not to beat him for it.”
The guard gestures.
98456 walks toward the red light.
That is it. His childhood is already gone. Tomorrow he’ll work until he dies, or until he is liquidated. No care. No love. Only labour. Lumbered with a birth debt he’ll never pay off.
That is what he believes.
But belief is not fate.
And nothing, not even a life grown in a pod, is truly set in stone.