I have reached the age where wraiths of the dearly departed,-siblings, parents, babies lost before birth, partners, friends,- slip unbidden into the monochrome days and restless nights. They dart and hide at vision’s edge, ever eluding the spotlight of full consciousness. Yet as the procedure progresses, notwithstanding this lack of clarity, they appear more substantial, more tangible, than the creature standing beside me on hind legs.
Not all are such willing volunteers as I. The occupant of the neighbouring trolley howls, or more disturbingly, whimpers whenever the ministering attendant touches his fronds. From their signature braiding, I recognise him as a Treputian Rebel, probably captured during the Fundament’s recent expansionist assault on Proxima Centauri b.
Progress to homogeneity is crucial for survival; in that I agree with The Dominance. I willingly made the decision to join their New Life Prototype Programme. My days are in any case nearing their natural endpoint; my clan, The Mediocrity, unable to pay the tithes due to The Dominance, hover at the edge of extinction. Squeezed and sinking into poverty, they have been forced to sell first their daughters then themselves, into bondage in an attempt to survive. Treputians are the new Mediocrity, serving their Dominance overlords in return for protection. Of course there are always subversives. Some fellow clansmen regard me as one for volunteering; that “thing” on the next trolley is certainly one,- no question.
“Sharg.” Taken unawares, my stomach spasms involuntarily at the foul miasma escaping his speech griddle. I had assumed his mewling was that of a timid and broken captive of war. Am I mistaken?
“Sergeant Sharg, Second Treputian Freedom Force” he adds, slithering into a supine position to better address me.
“That’s an impressive spinal fin you have there.” The admiration in his voice is unmistaken.
Never seen one soexquisitely crenelated.”
Is he flirting? “Flaa….”
“No interlocution during the procedure.” With staccato wordless mind imprints, the supervising technician cuts me short before I can reciprocate the introduction, then drops to all fours to adjust the infusion pump. We two specimens, regard the glutinous puce suspension pulsing from the pump through the bifurcated piping into our respective torsos…. and bond in empathetic apprehension.
I must have snoozed and lost track of time. The technician is addressing me. “Welcome to The Dominance. All Hail the United Intergalactic Imperium.” I look at Sharg and he at me; crenelated and braided, a mirror could not tell us apart.
“I didn’t sign up for this”
“ But you did.” The last paragraph of my personal contract flashes up on the ceiling overhead, clear to all of us shackled in repetitive ranks on the warehouse trolleys.
“Notwithstanding the above Special Clauses and Conditions, The Dominance reserves the right to countermand, without recourse to arbitration or compensation, any agreement between itself and a Prototype. Individual privacy and personal bodily integrity will accordingly be deemed voluntarily abrogated by the signatory.”
Identical speech meshes chorus in voiceless unison.
“The Dominance is one.”
