Unfinal Rest
By Karen Hart
Disclaimer: The Xenosaga series is the property of Monolith Software Inc. and Namco Bandai. I write these fanfictions for love of the game(s) and make no profit off of them.
There was no word at first for the strange, hot pressure he felt. It seemed to be everywhere, grinding into his muscles, into his organs. His body didn't respond to his command to change positions. There was just more burning.
He couldn't see. Or maybe he just couldn't open his eyes. They felt oddly coarse and dry. He tried to reach up to rub them.
He didn't seem to have hands. At least not ones he could feel. The thought of paralysis occurred to him. He tried to thrash. His body remained inert. But what about that hot pressure he felt on waking? So he could feel something.
The heat shifted, becoming a chill that spread throughout his body. He began to spasm uncontrollably. His mouth felt as unpleasant as his eyes. What was wrong with him?
He was so cold now and he wanted to shiver just to generate some warmth, but his body just wouldn't respond, please, please just let something, anything move.
There was a sudden brightness, the color switching behind his eyelids from a dark green-blue to a fierce orange-red. It hurt. He tried to scream but all that came out was a short croak. Pain: that's what that hot-then-cold pressure was called.
He began to notice sounds. There didn't seem to be any pattern, except that there seemed to be a variety of timbres. Voices, he thought. He couldn't tell what they were saying. The confusion that had overtaken him was beginning to mutate into fear.
Something was pushed against his spine. He heard a hiss, and more voice-sounds. What were they saying?
Suddenly it seemed like glass dust was coursing through his veins. He screamed, managing it this time. It went on for a long time. He felt fluid in his mouth. He thought it might be blood, though he wasn't sure. It seemed too thick and strangely oily. His screams became choked gurgles.
He could feel his body now, though there was something wrong with it, aside from the agony. There seemed to be too much of it, to start with. He clenched his right hand and felt something rubbing against his wrist. A restraint. He tried to move his other limbs, though they responded sluggishly. Restrained.
Numbness then, blessed and all-consuming. He managed to turn his head and spit out the strange fluid. Most of it dribbled down his cheek. He didn't care, focusing only on the sudden lack of pain.
Something touched him then—someone. He knew only by sensing their proximity. It seemed like they were opening up his abdominal region. That was impossible—wasn't it? He was too blissfully numb and too disoriented to care much.
They did something to him, and after that he wasn't aware of anything for a long time.
His name was Jan Sauer.
He was Captain of the 1875 Special Ops Command Detachment of the Galaxy Federation Police.
He was married. To a woman named Sharon Rozas. He had a stepson.
It was his job to capture and stop a mass-murderer called Voyager.
No. Joaquin Rozas was dead. Like his mother.
Melisse would make a good commander someday. What happened to her?
There was so much blood. And Erich Weber stood in the middle of it. He wore black robes.
And a smile.
That too.
He'd blown himself away.
Jan had always thought of Erich as a friend. Maybe that had been a mistake.
Erich was Voyager.
He remembered the feel of his service weapon in his hand.
Erich had?
It never occurred to him he'd be a widower so soon.
Maybe friend was the wrong word for Erich. But the man had been more than a subordinate.
No, it had been Jan.
Pulling the trigger hadn't been hard.
He was barely a newlywed.
Erich had asked Jan to join him. As a puppet.
What was that?
Forever.
Go back.
Jan had done that.
He missed Sharon and Joaquin.
Yes, but not that.
He'd blown himself away.
Had he? So how was he thinking this? Dead men didn't think.
Well known fact.
Except these days dead men did think. They thought and they labored and they did the tasks no one else wanted to perform. Jan had pitied them.
No.
Cold spread throughout his gut.
Please, no. Not him.
They'd been some politician's idea. Reanimate the corpses of previously healthy individuals with cybernetic enhancements. They'd do the unpleasant jobs, the dangerous jobs. There was no more need for graveyards.
No one asked what happened when they finally wore down for good.
(But Jan knew about the big incinerators that some major planets had been installed with. The bodies were shipped in massive containers. But at that point they were just failed equipment, not people. And they were aware of it.)
Death was supposed to be rest for the soul. He was sure someone told him that once.
He opened his eyes. They didn't burn this time. What he saw looked like a set of targeting crosshairs and a list of environmental parameters. A head's up display. He blinked. Suddenly he was looking at smears of color, mostly blue and dark green with a thick band of yellow—that was thermal imaging.
He blinked again. No Data flashed in his vision. He thought that might be part of a recording system.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, hoping he'd see nothing but his surroundings. Or nothing at all.
It was the HUD again. He tried to ignore it and focus on what was in front of him. At first he thought it was a wall, then realized his head was angled upwards. A ceiling, then. It looked like steel. There was a single rectangular band of light. It brightened. To his right and left he saw plain steel walls. He thought they were probably reinforced. Ahead of him was what looked like a screen, set directly into the wall. It filled most of the surface area.
He tried lifting his head and realized he was attached to some kind of support structure.
His limbs and torso were held in place by heavy clamps.
There was a loud thump and a crackle of static.
"Systems check on new-model humanoid cybernetic device is now complete. Device shows signs of independent cognition. Orientation is taking longer than that observed in Type 6 and Type 7 models. Within acceptable parameters. Device showing signs of environmental awareness."
Device. Cybernetic device. Please God, no.
The clamps were released and he staggered forward. His body had more bulk than he remembered and he went tumbling to the floor. He tried to get his legs under him so he could stand but it was like trying to move cinderblocks. Why were his legs suddenly so heavy? He looked down at himself.
Oh God. His legs.
They were a grotesque parody of human limbs, the thighs too thick around, the shins little more than a metal tube. His calves appeared to be some sort of pressurization system that he didn't understand.
It didn't end there. One of his arms had been replaced as well, though it was better camouflaged than his legs, for all that it was a burnished gunmetal gray. His torso was the same, with an approximation of human musculature molded on. It seemed like a sick joke. The rest of him was still flesh.
He stood up.
There was another thump, but without the static this time.
"Ziggurat Industries type 8 combat cyborg. Respond." It was a woman's voice this time, where the last had been male. She sounded young.
She sounded like Sharon.
His throat tightened. "Ziggurat?" It was all he could manage. Even his voice sounded wrong, deeper than it used to be.
"Correct. You are a combat cyborg currently running both hardware and software developed by Ziggurat Industries. Your operating system is the new Version 8 which was recently completed. Your full designation is Ziggurat Industries type 8 combat cyborg. You will be referred to as, and respond to, Ziggurat 8. Is that understood, Ziggurat 8?"
"Yes." The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"We will be monitoring the integration of the new OS with your components over a period of several weeks. Once the results are determined favorable we will begin the auctioning process."
No, Sharon's voice had never been that clipped, that uncaring.
Jan stared at his reflection in the screen. He might be forced to reply when they referred to him as Ziggurat 8 but he'd be damned if he thought of himself that way. His reflection stared back at him, equally at a loss. Both of them were monstrous now.
He stepped forward, touching his right hand to the screen. "My name is Jan Sauer." His voice was low, barely audible even to himself.
But not to whomever was observing him. "That is incorrect, Ziggurat 8. Your organic components were salvaged two years ago from Federation Police Captain Jan Sauer, whose registration as a Class B organ donor allowed his remains to be collected by this corporation. Aside from that you have no connection, either personal or legal, to Jan Sauer. You are Ziggurat 8. For the time being, you belong to Ziggurat Industries. Do you understand, Ziggurat 8?"
Again the "Yes" was pulled from his throat unbidden. No, he didn't understand. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was meant to be dead. When he'd registered as an organ donor he hadn't intended this. But no one was asking what he'd intended, not now.
He was still, and very, very quiet as he studied the reflection of his own face. A youngish face, not much past thirty. It seemed somehow worn, though. Did death do that to him? Or did that come later?
He remembered his old life. And it was his, no matter what they said.
And there was something else wrong.
Why wasn't he angrier? Had he been like this before? So broken?
No.
He'd thought it was an act of defiance, but maybe he'd just given up. He'd failed, when all was said and done.
Increase detected in cortisol levels.
Maybe this was inevitable.
Being in this empty room. Hearing a voice telling him he was nothing more than a piece of equipment.
It wasn't.
Activating emotional suppression system.
Who was he to argue, anymore? That man was dead. He'd killed him.
And for what?
It didn't matter.
ESS insufficient to suppress cortisol increase. Transferring data to internal records.
Sharon was dead. Joaquin was dead. He was dead.
And it just—
—did not—
—matter.
He was only dimly aware of his left hand balling into a fist, his arm lifting and his shoulder drawing back.
His fist hit the screen with a crunch that made him shiver though he couldn't feel it. Once again it had all gone wrong. He knew even before he looked.
It was his arm that had taken the brunt of the damage, the forearm mangled all the way to the elbow, the hand dangling from the wrist. The shoulder joint still seemed to be functioning.
The screen was barely cracked.
They'd stolen even this much satisfaction from him as well. He couldn't even have this. He clenched his jaw, but he didn't feel any tightening in his throat or burning behind his eyes.
They wouldn't even let him cry.
Another thump. Static.
"Shut down."