As if pushing through a heavy curtain of oil and blood, I stagger forward, trying to focus on a less oppressive darkness than the brief blackness of death.
The deep thrumming of power in the room deafens me as my newly formed ear bones adjust, then fluctuates in volume before settling, and I retch as the smell of freshly engineered DNA mixed with ancient decay fills my nostrils and coats my throat. For a moment my head throbs and my lungs ache. Mech-cells make their final alterations to my nervous system, and with a quick twist of my neck and clenching of my fists to test my muscles, strength returns as the nausea fades.
Cellular generation complete.
Circulatory systems stimulated.
Neural transfer complete.
Subject 9.98768E+14 resurrection successful.
I am alive again. But how? I made sure all the genoplants were shut down before the Consortium entered the Singularity. With the next breath I realize this isn’t any of the genoplants within the Consortium spheres; it’s cold and dark in here, the ground is uneven with sharp objects cutting into my feet, and the stench is almost as unbearable as the pain I endured a few moments ago before I resurrected. If not the Soul Consortium, there is only one other place this could be, and the reek confirms it—the genoplant within the abbey on Castor’s World. Vieta must have left it on, and the Consortium must have dropped into range just before I died.
Fumbling through the dust and bone remains of a thousand corpses, I try to find the door. It was a long time ago I lived Soome’s life, but I remember the layout of this room; the awful last scene of his life is still clearly etched into my synapses.
Eventually I find the cold metal of the handle and open the door, struggling against the thick detritus that has held it shut for so long. The familiar blood light of Castor’s World, filtering through the smashed windows of an abandoned abbey, ebbs through the gap in the door. I wish I was unable to see my surroundings; I need to keep my nerve for the meeting that awaits me, and this room is a painful reminder of the power I am about to face.
My rebirth seems to have been the first one in a very long time here. The mindless bodies of the monks who perpetuated a continuous cycle of resurrection and death must have been released in the distant past. There is no evidence of any recent deaths in here, but the sobering remains of mummified corpses carpet the floor. Across the room are the circuits that power the genoplant booths. In order for my trap to work I have to sever these. There must be no resurrection for me, otherwise that empty slot waiting for me in the Soul Consortium will never be filled and there will be no bait for Vieta.
Stepping over the corpses, I pause. Do I really want to go through with this? I thought about suicide so many times before, but in the past it was only my interests at stake. This time the fate of future humanity depends on my success. And there is just a slim chance it will work. If I push Vieta too hard he may kill me before I’m able to do it myself. I have to convince him that the knowledge in my head is crucial to his needs—the key to his success.
I nod decisively to myself, then strip the power fibers.
The genoplant is dead. It’s time to face Vieta.