Chapter 211: The Library (2/2)
Do'ormo'ot felt like a wrecking ball had slammed into his forehead, his eyes going blind and a rushing sound filling his ears. He could taste blood and veins in his sinuses burst. He went down on his knees, screaming, blood gushing from his nose and oozing out of his eye sockets.
Then the lightning hit him, making him kick so he went onto his side.
”DOES THIS FEEL LIKE A SIMULATED SUPERSTITION TO YOU, HAMBURGER?” the Terran roared.
Lightning raked Do'ormo'ot again. His implant came on, raking his neural tissue with arcing and sparking patterns. His retinal display showed static and patterns. Then they failed.
”Prisoner 00391833, you have violated Black Citadel Wrath Expression Statutes as well as engaging in a Level Two Provocation Incident and will undergo Level Five Negative Stimulation for a period of no less than six cycles as this is your two hundrendth and seventeenth violation,” the voice chattered. ”Prisoner 4582143 will undergo Level Three Negative Stimulation for verbal mocking of another prisoner's religious beliefs.”
The lightning ceased and Do'ormo'ot laid on his side, wheezing.
”Prisoner 4582143's Negative Stimulation is waived due to injuries. Prisoner 4582143 does not have sufficient privileges for medical treatment. Prisoner 4582143 will be transported to his cell in order to recover. End of Line,” the voice said.
There was a weird feeling, as if he was wrapped in cool silk for a moment, then nothing. Slowly the vision returned to one of his forward eyes and he looked around, still laying on his side, still gasping.
He was in his cell. He managed to raise his head and look at his hands.
If he hadn't been in a simulation, he'd have screamed.
His two right arms were burnt away, only inches down from the shoulder. His right forward leg was burnt away. He had deep gouging burns in his flanks, his ribs and internal organs exposed. One lung was badly cooked, whistling and the edges of the burnt second flapping obscenely when he breathed.
The pain was intense.
Time had no meaning before, now it was measured in slow breaths. Eventually the whistling sounds stopped. The pain in his missing limbs and the pain of his limbs stopped. Do'ormo'ot had no idea how long it had been when he finally struggled to his feet. His six eyes were working again and he looked himself over.
And began screaming in horror.
The missing limbs had been replaced by slick black glossy material. Exposed muscle that looked more biomechanical than flesh or cybernetics, half shielded by black plating. He looked like a nightmare made flesh. Down his flank his organs were still exposed but they had been replaced by black quasi-mechanical looking black constructs. He tried to grasp the black pieces and pull them free but that only brought deep pain and a seeping of blackish blood that hardened.
The plate slid open.
”Prisoner 4582143 is in distress. Privilege override in progress. Prisoner 4582143 may receive Level One medical care. End of Line,” the voice screeched out.
The cell door opened and a thin graceful figure entered. Completely robed, white gloves with red fingertips that vanished into the black robe, a white mask with red edging. The figure knelt down next to Do'ormo'ot who looked at her and screamed.
The figure ran her hands over Do'ormo'ot's black sections, the feeling of electricity passing over those parts. After a moment the figure leaned back and spoke in the same voice made up of sounds taken from other being's speech.
”You are recovering well within tolerances. Regrowth is psychologically and biologically compatible and functioning at full capacity. Are you in pain? End of Line,” the figure stated.
”Get it off! Get it off! Return my appearance and limbs to me! This simulation is barbaric and cruel,” Do'omo'ot shouted.
”This is not a simulation,” the figure corrected. ”Your appearance is it is. Your limbs have been replaced by suitable prosthetics according to your physiology. There is no need for further medical treatment. End of Line.”
The figure got up and left the cell.
The one outside the door moved into the doorframe. ”Prisoner 4582143, you have sufficient privileges to engage in recreation time in the exercise yard. Exit the cell and don protective clothing. End of Line.”
Shaking, and flinching at the thought of being attacked again, Do'ormo'ot shakily got to all four feet and exited his cell. He got dressed and followed the figure on the winding path out to the yard.
This time he avoided looking at anyone. He hoped he could just sit in an area larger than his small cell for a period of time without being disturbed.
Instead another Terran moved up and sat down.
”Welcome back,” the figure said. A male voice that Do'ormo'ot didn't recognize. ”He really did a number on you, didn't he?”
”Did a number?” Do'ormo'ot asked, trying to keep his voice polite.
He didn't want hit by lightning again.
”Really injured you. You should be careful of the ones like him. He's been here for a long time and isn't going to go anywhere soon,” the figure shrugged his shoulders. ”He knows he'll never leave so it doesn't matter if he breaks the rules. Me? I'll be able to get out of here eventually.”
”How do we find out how long we have to stay here?” Do'ormo'ot asked.
”Well, you're a POW, right?” the simulated Terran, it could be nothing else, asked.
”Yes. A falsely accused prisoner of war,” Do'ormo'ot said.
”Don't bother. If you're here, you're guilty. They don't make mistakes here,” the figure said. ”So, are you at the 'this is all a simulation' phase still or did Camaxtli of Eternal Rage convince you that this is your new reality?”
Do'ormo'ot shuddered but gathered his confidence about him.
”Nothing has changed my mind. My injuries, were it not for being in a simulation, would have been fatal,” Do'ormo'ot said, crossing all four of his arms.
The robe hid the feeling of his replaced right side limbs.
The Terran shook his head. ”That's just it. We can't die here. Nobody dies here.”
”Pfft, that's impossible. All things can die,” Do'ormo'ot said.
”Yes. Here, the universe died. Was stillborn. Thus, we cannot die,” the Terran sighed. ”There is no death for ones such as us here.”
Do'ormo'ot frowned. ”Then why keep me here. I will not submit, I will not answer questions. I will not be persuaded to turn against the Unified Civilized Systems.”
The Terran just shook their head. ”Most prisons, especially Corn Fed systems, they're all about rehabilitation and reintegration into society.”
He paused for a moment as another Terran sat down.
”The Black Citadel? It's just about keeping us around in case they want something from us at a later date. Think of it as a place to store something you don't like,” the Terran said.
”He still think it's a simulation?” the newcomer asked.
”Yeah,” the first said.
The second looked at Do'ormo'ot. ”Many thought that. Some still hold onto that belief despite the face that they will never leave here. The alternative is madness and despair.”
”What crime would make the Confederacy, known for weakness and lack of moral fortitude, build this place and place one of you here?” Do'ormo'ot asked. Perhaps I can gain information about the nature of this simulation and thus escape it, he thought to himself.
The second Terran lifted one hand. ”The Black Citadel was originally a research station that sought to determine the laws of this dimension.”
Do'ormo'ot glanced up at the purple sky then looked away. ”You mean to tell me you expect me to believe that the Terrans were able to harness enough energy to reach other dimensions, something which is a theory at best.”
The first one chuckled. ”Get a good look around you at your theory there, champ.”
The second one nodded. ”Correct. What their goals were, what they discovered, we don't know. All we do know is that the Black Citadel was converted into a prison after they were through with it. Then, for some reason, all information of its existence was lost or supressed for about two thousand years, when they began using it.”
”Except the original prisoners and jailers were still here,” the first one said, putting his hands on the table and looking down. ”Still dwelling within these stone halls.”
Do'omo'ot snorted. ”You expect me to believe that?”
The second one shook their head. ”No. Not yet. Once they began using it, they used it for things to terrible to speak of. Eventually it became a prison again and one by one we were all sentenced here.”
Do'ormo'ot snorted. ”What crime would get you sentenced here? We know the Confederacy lacks the will to impose the will of the greater good upon everyone else.”
The second one put their hand on the table. ”I embarked on a two century crusade against all who were not part of my banner and did not follow the words of those I chose to put my faith in, resulting in the death of millions.”
Do'ormo'ot wanted to snort. Instead he looked at the other one. ”And you?”
That one just shrugged. ”I embarked on a killing spree. Nearly two hundred, mostly through bombs and other terroristic activities.”
”And why not just kill you?” Do'ormo'ot asked.
The first one shook their head. ”I was simply sentenced here. While my reasonings were understood, my actions were not condoned. I was sentenced here in hopes that I would someday feel remorse for my actions.”
The second one shrugged. ”I was considered a political prisoner. The system that placed me here preceded the Confederacy and believed that imprisoning me here was both a mercy to me and a warning to all who once marched beneath my banner.”
The explanations were so vague that Do'ormo'ot felt they were more proof that he was in a simulation.
”Prisoner 4582143, your allotted time has expired. You will be returned to your cell. End of Line,” the figure said, drifting up.
Do'ormo'ot sighed and followed the figure back to his cell.
Time passed again, long crawling moments that vanished into one another as if they never existed. Do'ormo'ot fixed the fact it was a simulation in his mind and poked and prodded at the black biomechanical appearing replacements for his flesh and bone. He could feel himself touching it, feel his fingers on it. The organs didn't pulse but instead acted like they were mechanical. The way the lines twisted and curved, the suggestion of things both vulgar and horrifying in the shapes, all left him feeling disturbed.
But he just reminded himself that it was a simulation.
Again, he was given the choice between worship time and the library and the yard. He chose the library.
He moved through the stacks, telling himself he was just wandering around. Telling himself it was part of his plan.
The goal of anyone stuck in a simulation was to overload the simulation, force the computer running it to generate more spaces, textures, objects, physics than it could handle, to force it to shut down or reset.
He would read one of the books. He would bend the corner of the pages, forcing the computer to keep track of each bend, where the words were, the contents of each page.
He decided where to start.
He picked up the book and moved to a comfortable bench, sitting down. He opened the book, taking the fact it was built for Lanaktallan eyes, and began to read.
Venus glimmered as she hung in space, her disfigurements hidden by the thick layer of clouds that covered her terrible scars inflicted upon her flesh.