The Perfect Soldier
Conclusion
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He stared down at the memorial at his feet, his gaze tracing the raised, bronze letters. This was the resting place of his best achievement, his singularly perfect creation. And now she was dust, just as the others—her sisters, her clones—were dust. She had defeated the best of them, proving, for the last time, her ingenuity and strength.
The cold, ice-blue eyes gazed down at the monument, remembering all that he had done... and all that he had lost. Over twenty years of his life had been spent in the pursuit of perfection. He had re-designed this colony, constructed the once-invincible base, trained the perfect soldier.
What a different place the world would have been if his strength had matched hers. What a different war human beings would have fought if she'd remained and fulfilled her destiny. What a different man he would be today if not for her cunning betrayal.
He studied his wasted body, confined to this wretched chair. The falling debris of the explosion had crushed his spinal chord. He blamed her for that.
He also loved her for that.
She was his best, his first, his only masterpiece.
He felt the restlessness build in him as he stared at her grave. Silently, he counted his assets: a steady voice, a pair of good eyes, ears, and hands, and a sound mind. This chair would not stop him from trying again and again. He relished the thought of creating a soldier superior to her. He wondered if this next creation would truly be the death of him.
He smiled.
"Are you ready to go, General?"
The silver-blue gaze caressed the grave marker.
"Yes," he said and the orderly resumed his place behind the wheelchair.
As the monuments marched past him, the general looked on, feeling the gaze and the admiration of the dead, more than half of which had, at one time, belonged to him. The general sighed and realized that he could do nothing other than continue his search. The perfect soldier was still out there, waiting to be born.
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~End~