“You volunteered because you are a loyalist, a patriot.” She looks into my eyes, and I feel like I’m falling into her gaze. “You and others like you agreed to allow yourselves to be transformed into stronger, better soldiers to win this war.”
Every word she speaks flows through my ears like music. The tone calms me, reassures me, and placates me. I have questions—many, many questions—but the answers seem less important than just hearing the sound of her voice.
“What war?”
“That’s going to take a little time to explain,” she says. “Your vitals are higher than they should be, probably due to your regaining consciousness before expected. I don’t want to overwhelm you any more right now.”
“I’m not overwhelmed.” There’s no mistruth in my words. I feel calm, especially while she’s looking at me. Maybe it’s because of her presence. I don’t know, and I don’t really care.
“You made quite a mess earlier for someone who isn’t overwhelmed.”
I don’t know how to respond. She’s perturbed, and I wonder if she had to clean up my mess or if someone else came while I was unconscious and did it for her. I feel ashamed of my actions, and I don’t know how to justify them.
I am locked in a room. I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing here. I don’t even know my own name.
There’s a sense of terror deep in my gut. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as I try to come to terms with what’s going on inside of me. The touch of her fingers on my arm brings me back.
“Why don’t I remember my name?” I look up at her, drowning in her eyes.
“It’s all part of the transformation process,” she tells me. “Your memories have been wiped out and replaced with the information you will need to perform your duties. For now, you’ve only received the most basic information. More data will be added in time, and you’ll have a better understanding.”
“Who are you?” This question is important to me. I want to know her.
“My name is Dr. Riley Grace,” she says. “You may call me Riley.”
“Riley.” I let the word roll around in my mouth as the sound enters my ears. “You’re my doctor? Am I in a hospital?”
“I am your doctor, yes,” she says. “There is a lot more to it than that though. We’ll get to that in time.”
She doesn’t answer my question about a hospital, but I don’t push it.
“What is my name?” I ask.
“Your designation is specimen seventy-two of eighty-nine.”
“That’s my name?”
“That is your designation.”
“But what’s my name?”
Riley smiles gently again as she touches my arm.
“You don’t have a name per se,” she says. “You are specimen number
seventy-two of a group of eighty-nine. I plan on referring to you as Sten.”
“Sten?”
“Seven. Two. Eight. Nine. S-T-E-N—Sten.” She glances away. I see a brief change in her cheeks as she blushes slightly. She rubs my arm gently with her fingers. “It’s just something I made up, really. I can’t just call you Specimen, can I?”
I continue to stare as I think about the name, roll it around in my mind, and try to determine if I like it or not. I can’t seem to form an opinion one way or another.
“Why a group of eighty-nine?”
“Because eleven of the specimens didn’t survive the transformation process. There are eighty-nine of you left.”
“Where are the others?”