More Than a Machine

L'othaim's Rebellion

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"Sir, I really think this is doable," Dr. L'othaim stated confidently. "We would need more resources, I think, but it's not hard. This army can be improved."

  "Have you tested your theory?" The general asked sternly. He was not on board with the doctor's idea, and the two of them had been at a back-and-forth for almost thirty minutes so far.

  "Well... no." Dr. L'othaim paused. "I need permission to do so. This is why I came to you. Just grant me permission to test on a handful of the clones. I won't let you down."

  The general shook his head. He let out a heavy sigh. "Doctor, doctor." He sat forward in his seat. "We both know the real reason you want this. It could mean a name for yourself," he stared the old man in the eye, "a chance at fame. Is it not? But you are too old. It would be a waste to lend you even one of my clones. You may even kill them in the process. Can you afford the mistake? I cannot."

  The old doctor's heart sank. The general's words stung him. What more could he say? It was useless to continue. He tried, and he failed to get support for his idea.

  "Thank you, General, for your time." he finally said, voice more unsteady than he had cared for it to be. He straightened and turned to the door.

  The general did not reply to him.

  Dr. L'othaim left the room and walked down the hall in silence.

  The general's words rang in his mind, cutting deeper than they should. Why? Because they were true? Yes, they were true.

  L'othaim craved respect. He craved acknowledgment. As any brilliant man would.

  So why shouldn't I have it? The thought struck him suddenly. A surge of rebellion rose within him.

  Why shouldn't I make a name for myself? It is about time.

  His work had been copied more times than he could count. His ideas given to other, much younger scientists. L'othaim was a cheated man. But not anymore.

   I have never broken a rule in my life. But now...

  He made the journey through the corridor, up to the Production Floor where a new batch of clones had just been created.

  Now I will break many.

  He reached the Production Floor and surveyed the room. The room was empty. The other scientists had retired for the day. It was evening, and work was done.

  Rows upon rows of tanks lined the room. Each tank contained a small life form inside, suspended in fluids and attached to cords and wires. By tomorrow morning these life forms would resemble infant humans. By tomorrow afternoon they would be born.

  I just need one.

  He walked down the rows of tanks. He knew them well; he worked on them daily.

  This one will do. No, wait. The cameras. He looked towards the security cameras on the ceiling.

  I must stay out of view. Farther on then.

  He continued walking. At last, on the other end of the room, he stopped in front of a tank. No security cameras would catch this tank. It was the last in the row, and almost hidden in the corner.

  The life form inside numbered six-hundred forty-two. This number was posted on the side of the tank. The life form sat still and peaceful, completely unaware of L'othaim's plans for it.

  Perhaps I shouldn't.

  A moment of hesitation hit him.

  No, I should. I deserve this victory.

  He would make the ultimate soldier. These clones were already enhanced. But L'othaim had the knowledge, the skill. He would make this one better.

  "Alright," he said aloud. He checked the number attached to the tank. "6-4-2, is it? Well, 642, you will be the greatest soldier this galaxy has ever seen. Let's get started."