We rounded the corner, Kile and I, to the looming stainless silver door of the “Infirmary.” It was an inside joke the whole nation was in on going about the title, since it is where thousands of humanoids at a time are “born.” And it is our job, although sometimes it is forced labor, to give the humanoids life once a month, the first Sunday. This is what I get for being the Mayor’s daughter, and Kile the Duke’s son. My father has the last word in everything and everyone in the thriving nation of Crane, whose motto is unim animulus ob unis milia:One heart for a Thousand. Sort of a selfless sentiment, I suppose.
Our drones, given ‘life’ by Kile and I, are the nation’s secret weapon. They look like humans, act like humans, and can blend into almost any society. Ends up other countries haven’t put citizen information and cultural studies on high security, so it has become common in a country who dare to go against Crane for a citizen to suddenly reach a deadlock in the middle of a very public or important place and detonate. Some of the lesser evolved countries give into black magic if and when this ever happens to them. Little do they know that it’s just a robot. A very well disguised and built robot, but a robot none the less. I don’t know much about the process of actually building a drone or what the full purpose of most of them is, but I suppose it doesn’t matter, and if Father wanted me to know, or if it was of any significance, he would tell me. We stand in front of the door, and I take the chance to look over to Kile. I don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t talk to me: our unsaid agreement.
Even though the Infirmary is of greatest national importance, it was somehow built at the very rim of the school I happen to attend. Our director was late, as he is half the time, and so we have the chance to re-observe the hall. Just like last month and the month before that and the month before that, the floor is cold white tile and the walls fortified with unwelcoming white brick, and one yard to the left of the door is a hall that I’ve never gone down. The hallway holds no interest, but I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of it. My schedule, like everybody else's at Crane-Donald Academy (for the rich and powerful), is built to have two classes a day, twelve classes a week, one day off. All of the classrooms are always being used, except those down that hall. In all these classes, I have never been or seen down that particular hallway. I look over to Kile once more, his silky waterfall of black hair covering his face as always, and begin to meander in the direction of the mystery hall. Just when I was about to round the corner, Kile clears his throat. I turned to see the wisp of the director sauntering toward us. I, probably over-dramatically, scrambled back to face the door. Kile is looking to the ceiling when I try to face him, so I just scrutinize my shoes. The director approaches us, slipping a key out of his pocket. We back up as he fiddles with the lock, and I know it will take a few minutes to pass all the security systems, designed by yours truly. A genius of mine is working with technology, indirectly related to the fact that I was always being babysitted by my father’s designers during the times he was gone, which was all the time.
My opportunity.
It took a few minutes to go through all fifteen stages of security even if one has the key or is a professional burglar. So, if someone is dumb enough to try to break in, the police would be able to arrive at the scene of the crime before any real crime happened. I slowly backed up until I was directly ahead of the hall, and looked in. I took a half-step back, hampering a gasp. I guessed that the hall would be just as whitewashed as the rest of the building, but I didn’t expect to see a boy in it. The hall was about three yards wide and ten yards long, with one door about three feet in. The boy stood in front of the door, stoicism just barely sticking to his features. He looks about ready to cry, and about my age. I vaguely recognize him as the boy who sits behind me in Foreign Languages, and received a dirty look from the instructor over a wrong answer last week. He has his hands balled up into frightened fists, his shoulders quivering. Staring at the door, he bites his lip and doesn’t notice me gawking. I don’t know what possessed me to say it, but I do.
“You’re going to die.”
I meant it as a question, but it comes out sounding like a fact. He stops looking at the door just long enough to take me in, then a somber smile cracks across his face, and it seems to be just a little too wide. He doesn’t seem to share the same recognition. He looks at the bottom of the door, wiping a tear from his face and letting out a shaky breath.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
I lean into the hall a bit. The boy has a curly mop of dull dish-water colored hair and brown eyes, a puffy mouth, and a round nose. Quite frankly he looks like a poodle. I go back to my post and elbow Kile. He just barely makes eye contact with me, but I look away before I can communicate with him. The director clears the way for us to go into the dank, dark lab that makes up the Infirmary. We walk in, in perfect sync from years of doing this together, and we strap ourselves into our respective tables. I’m not sure why the room is always kept so dark and ominous, but I have always withheld taking wild guesses. The electric pulses begin; although I know it’s coming, the process shocks me every time. A surge of pure electronic energy is forced through our bodies like waves, taking some knowledge and embodiment from me, the female, and Kile, the male. It begins, and I can hear Kile’s breaths quickening from the table next to mine. The uncountable amount of humanoids must be in the form of a male. The rule is: whatever the physical aspect of the majority of droids, the more mental stimulus is taken from that live gender. I still get the shocks, of course, but they don’t compare from the last time a huge batch of droids took the form of women. There is some struggling cloaked in the darkness, there always is, that is neither mine nor Kile’s. A piercing scream fills the room, and in front of us is a large, dripping ruby. There is just enough light from the surging electricity to see the reddened hand that holds it up. The fist-sized ruby is drawn away, and after one last pulse and crackle of machinery neither Kile nor I have seen, the room goes silent. The droids will be properly activated in another room, and the director comes over to our tables and fiddles with our straps. A door opens to reveal the now-blinding light outside the room, and I calmly head out.
Unim animulus ob unis milia.
One heart for a thousand.
Hm.
