The concept of death did not exist for them. Twenty Eight floated in the ocean of a great void, barely self-aware. Where the genetic garbage that populated the world he had left not long ago would eventually wither and die, all their knowledge and experience would go down the drain; their Creator had solved the greatest conundrum. The Numbers were more than a simple genetic code, slowly imprinting themselves on a host. In his research into spatial anomalies, the Creator had glimpsed beyond normality. Maximillian’s genius had linked them to the universe itself, holding their consciences in parallel dimensions until further need. As long as any of them lived, they were Legion. And the Creator lived through that anchor. A man who had become a god.
They were never alone. Humans often claimed to have a spiritual unity with imaginary deities. Twenty Eight himself heard time and time again how the bleating cattle, whose bodies he wore, called out to the so-called gods. There was no answer. But the Creator? He never left. His presence felt like a great crimson star burning brightly in the void, looming over each and every Number. Should a Number anger him, Maximillian would make them stay in this realm for longer. But no one was ever abandoned. Everyone was eventually forgiven. A thousand perfect arms and legs for a single being who would inherit the world. The Numbers.
Maximillian seldom spoke to him, but that did not matter. Twenty Eight had been a Double Digit, one of the highest ranking servants of the Creator. He had been honored by the mere fact of his birth. Death was merely a setback. What other honor or laurel could compare to that? The Creator’s knowledge coursed through their veins, gifting the Numbers knowledge of how to bring others from the realm beyond. Just as quickly as it was given, so too was it whisked away. Twenty Eight himself had once brought a Single Digit back to life once, amazed at the sheer knowledge of genetic engineering that flooded his mind. To lose that was… painful, but the Creator guarded his secrets jealously.
They could have brought him back, but Maximillian wanted to return in his full splendor and glory, and that was something they had no idea or means to replicate. Yet. The Numbers roamed the world, stealing and killing, transmitting all the knowledge they received back to the Master. And he learned. One day, be it a year or a thousand years, Maximillian will learn how to replicate his lost power. And when that day comes, he will return and tear and burn the world until there is nothing left of humanity. And from its ashes, a paradise would rise—an imperfect solution for an imperfect god.
He felt a pull and gave in to it, rejoicing in the knowledge that he was returning to the realm of the living. He had a score to settle with the genetic reject who had destroyed his flesh suit, and he fervently hoped that His Excellency would grant him that indulgence. Twenty Eight opened his eyes and faced the darkness. It was of no concern; he was already spreading through the veins of his new host, making him harder, bigger, and in every way better than before. After a blink, the darkness cleared and Twenty Eight saw a gray ceiling lined with cracks.
With a loud, wet pop and the sound of bones settling into place, Twenty Eight rose to find himself on a steel examination table. Ignoring the bleating and begging of the former owner of this flesh, he looked around. Traces of dried blood littered the floor. Here and there were signs of gunfire: a steel shelf had been melted, an unknown array of medical vials had been broken in a struggle, and now it was bubbling, slowly evaporating in a multicolored steam. It seemed that Twenty Eight had been reborn in a bunker’s infirmary.
His eyes moved to the wall, noticing signs in the Common. ‘Medical Bay Number 1.’ This sign was on the official plaque, but the others were hastily written in red paint. ‘No fighting is allowed under threat of death. Minors will be treated first. At the first sign of illness, the patient is to be immediately isolated in the lower level. Glory to the Oath.’ Ah, the Oathtakers. He was reborn thousands of kilometers away from where he died.
Bodies lay on the floor, scattered throughout the room. Some wore the white uniforms of medical personnel, with a non-combat brand encircling their left arms. It didn’t save them; whoever had taken over the place had sliced through their bodies and dented their power armor with enough force to break the bones inside. Twenty-Eight sniffed the air and did not taste rot. The attack was recent. A circle of pristine sanitation surrounded him, and on a nearby slab, where blood and flesh remnants had soiled other medical instruments, the ones used to resurrect them were pristine and sterile. So were their bodies; even his face was scarless. That could only mean one thing.
Ten awoke with a violent crack of her neck. The body of a thin young woman with freckles all over her face had immediately begun to change. Muscles bulged, arms tensed and grew larger, and bones shifted and thickened. Her eyes blinked, gaining newfound perception and clarity; her vision was no longer obscured by darkness. And the same changes, though to a lesser extent, were happening to Twenty Eight’s body. Their hosts weren’t abnormals, so there was a significantly lower limit to possible upgrades, but both Numbers were doing their best to improve upon such a flawed design.
“Are you awake?” A voice asked.
Eight. A Single Digit himself had resurrected them! He wore the body of a well-built, slightly tanned man with short, black hair. Dressed in a clean brown business suit and a white shirt, Eight sat in the comfortable armchair, looking so out of place amidst this carnage. Next to him stood a medical table with wooden boxes filled with various vegetables and several eggs, a bottle of wine, and a glass placed on it. Eight took a sip of the wine, plucking a few grapes from the open box. Twenty Eight and Ten looked around, wondering where the other Numbers were.
“Our covens in the Oathtakers lands had taken a beating,” Eight answered the silent question, snapping a grape in his mouth. “The invasion had disrupted a few plans.”
“Chosen Prince had rejected the alliance?” Ten asked.
“No. Everything proceeds as planned with him. Both fools are too busy plotting against each other, and the kingpin is obsessed with getting his throne back.” Eight’s lips formed a thin line. “Barjonis. False Rhos. Reclaimers. Oathtakers. These are the pests who have caused us so much trouble lately. Do not worry; Chosen Prince’s army has pushed them far back.”
“Are we in any biological danger?” Twenty Eight dared to ask.
Eight merely shrugged and pointed at the closed door leading into the bunker behind them. With any luck, the immune systems of their bodies would be enhanced enough to ignore the sickness spread by Chosen Prince’s power.
Submit. The voice thundered in Twenty Eight’s head, and he saw Ten jerk upon hearing the same. The hosts were already sick. Number touched his chest and felt his heart pound. Fever gripped him, making his body shake against his will. A trickle of sickly green pus appeared at the corners of his eyes; the very act of breathing became difficult. Submit. Chosen Prince demanded again, not caring who had to bend to his will. Twenty Eight coughed, opened his mouth wide, and tried to breathe. Barely any air went down his swollen and suddenly dry throat. He and Ten fell off the slabs, landing on the floor, weak as normal humans.
The disease burned through their bodies, gripping their brains in a vise of never-ending fiery pain, forcing the Numbers to disconnect their pain receptors. The hosts screamed, begging for an end to their suffering as the Numbers carefully assessed the situation. Organs swollen, hearts threatening to experience strokes, lungs filling with fluid, mucus mixed with pus pouring from their mouths, clogging their airways. Damnation. A few minutes later and they could have handled it. But as it is…
Twenty Eight blinked, feeling how the sickness had purged out of his body. Maximillian’s and Chosen Prince’s wills clashed, and where only a ghost of Chosen Prince had been present in his body, the Creator was here in body and soul. Deadly diseases that depopulated the cities of the Oathtakers, turning their inhabitants into obedient zombies, retreated, unable to match the sudden burst of power granted to them by his divinity. Maximillian wasn’t a psionic himself, but in his research, he found a way to resist any corruption, be it mental or physical. He refused to surrender or yield an inch of something belonging to him. After all, a god serves no one, and a true god cannot be corrupted by anything.
“Belaz!” Ten sighed, rising to the shaky legs. “We must...”
“Ignore it.” Eight waved his finger. “The Reclaimers and the Resistance are at each other’s throats. Your failure is ultimately meaningless. Get dressed. We need to investigate what has changed in the wake of the invasion. There is a set of facilities near Stonehelm. I want to know everything there is about them, so we could take them over when the time is right.”
“Why wait, Eight?” Ten laughed, and the Single Digit looked at her, a glint of annoyance at the familiarity in his eyes. “The war rages on! By combining your powers with mine, we can easily storm it.”
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“Silly girl,” Eight said, reaching out for another grape. “The Oathtakers have their guards…”
“Stationed elsewhere, Eight.” The Double Digits smiled. “With the war outside, there is no way they could afford to station troops everywhere. No doubt they have been called back to protect the city. We must act now! The merits of your excessive cautiousness are greatly outweighed by the demerits of a potential data we can bring to our master.”
Eight sighed and stretched his body, taking his time to crack every joint with as much laziness as he could muster. He looked up at the ceiling, mindlessly tapping his fingers on his chest. Twenty Eight kept silence, almost tasting the storm brewing in the air. The Single Digit fingered his gold earring, filling the room with a pleasant sound.
“Do you know the concept of a wisdom tooth, Ten?” he asked at last.
“Is this some kind of joke, Eight? Of course I know!” the Double Digit snapped.
“Do you?” Eight looked at her. “Normally, this tooth is an asset. But sometimes it grows a little to the right... or left. Sometimes it even damages nearby teeth in a struggle for space. And in doing so, it damages the organism.” Eight formed a triangle with his fingers and placed his jaw at the apex. “In such cases, it is wiser to remove the tooth before it can cause an infection. Or even damage other teeth.”
“Sir…” Ten swallowed.
“We, the Numbers are a perfect super organism,” the Number continued in a pleasant voice, looking at Ten with the eyes of steel. “We follow Maximillian’s plans. Uncaring about personal glory, uncaring about spreading our DNA, or about establishing supremacy. Such things are meaningless to us, for we are the Thousand, the eternal army, bound to be reborn again and again until his will is done. We are the cells in Maximillian’s body—his arms, legs, minds, lungs, eyes—each doing its own job, each in its exact place. In order to be successful in our tasks, we have been given a certain amount of individuality and personality traits that make us better suited for our jobs. Some of us research, others lead, the third plot, and people after them exist to fight. Tell me, what should be done with a cell that tries to slip out of place in the organism?”
“Sir, I would never dare...” Ten dropped to one knee.
“You did, at the moment when you thought yourself fit to doubt my plans, Ten,” Eight said. “But perhaps it is I am the one who is wrong. I will give you a chance.”
“A chance… yes, sir, anything…” The woman nodded, a flash of hope striking through her eyes.
“What do you know about me? Truthfully, please,” Eight asked, leaning back in the armchair.
“Your name is Eight! You are a Single Digit! Your power is named Gryphon, one that allows you to shapeshift body parts to an extent, covering them with iron, and shrink and extend your mass!” Ten gulped and tried to shrink beneath Eight’s keen eyes.
“Is that all? You know nothing of me safe for what I have told you,” the Single Digit said disappointedly. “Without knowing my character, you dared to act so effrontery with me? Pathetic.”
Shut up. Twenty Eight begged to himself. Shut up, admit your mistake, and beg for forgiveness. Ten’s misguided delusion that she was an equal to a Single Digit had gotten her into trouble before. But never like this. Two would occasionally yoke her collar, reminding the fool of her place. The problem was that they weren’t dealing with One or Two, who were soft by Numbers’ standards. This duo would often allow even rejects to walk away unharmed, rarely bothering to continue a massacre, considering it counterproductive and a waste of time. Eight was here. And his mood swings were legendary. Fortunately, the fool had restrained herself from mentioning them, but then she blurted out something equally inane.
“I know that you really like eggs.”
“Exactly. I like eggs. Good answer.” Eight purred and took an egg out of the box, dangling it over his head for Ten to see. “This could make a fine analogy. Imagine this egg as a location we plan to occupy. Is being an egg all there is to it? If you wanted to kill me with a poisoned egg, you would have to sneak the right one into my basket, otherwise I would notice something wrong right away. There are several ways to prepare an egg, and I only love mine in one particular way. Which is? Half grown, boiled, raw, or rotten? If you presume to adapt to the situation better than I do, you should be able to answer that much. With your brain, not with your power.”
Twenty Eight heard a click. Both he and Ten were suddenly unable to use their powers; access to them had been blocked by Eight’s command. Ten shook her head and got to her feet. She quickly glanced at Eight, taking advantage of the fact that he had not set a time limit. Twenty Eight did the same and noticed an eggshell in the box. And traces of yolk.
“Boiled eggs, sir!” Ten said, putting both hands behind her back.
The egg cracked under Eight’s finger, and a half-formed chicken embryo fell out, right into the man’s mouth. Ten became pale, listening to Eight chewing loudly and without hurry, enjoying every crack and throwing the eggshell back into the box.
“Idiot,” he said, wiping off his mouth with a handkerchief. “There is nothing better than a well-prepared balut. Details, Ten. The devil is always in the details. Had you known where to look, you could have easily found the answer in the coloring alone. But all these years, you just couldn’t be bothered to broaden your horizons. You are a brute tool, and that is fine. That is exactly why I am in charge. The Oathtakers’ lands might have a few guards in place, but what do we really know about them? Are we to charge headstrong and die, halting Maximillian’s plans?” Eight jumped off the armchair and started taking off his clothes. “Well, since you have failed to live up to your expectations…”
“Wha-what are you going to do, Eight?” Ten asked in a weak voice. With a snap of Eight’s fingers, their powers were restored.
“When a wisdom tooth grows bad, it gets removed. When a part of a hive becomes useless, it gets reprocessed. And when a Number goes awry, she gets schooled.” He took a syringe out of a pocket, showing it to Ten. “This concoction is the result of the dear Fifteen’s work. A drug that prevents the pain receptors from being switched off, bypassing even the immunity to pain granted by any power. Fifteen had long since discovered that it also works on us, preventing us from disconnecting from the nervous system.”
“Why do you need it, Eight? Sir, what are you going to do with it?” The Double Digit asked as Eight continued to undress himself.
“You can intuit future events to a certain extent, Ten. Tell me,” Eight said.
Ten swallowed, stepped back to the closed door, and licked her lips. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking pleadingly at Twenty Eight. “But why?!” she wailed. “Sir, if this is because of the failed mission...”
“This is not a punishment. I do not punish failure to carry out my orders. I am correcting doubt. And arrogance. For arrogance must be earned. Prepare for your lesson, Ten. I will skin you alive, cut your flesh like strips of cloth, rend your sinews and muscles one by one, and break your bones.” Eight stepped closer to her, his fingers growing longer and sharper. Phalanges became bridges for the sharpest steel formed by the transformed skin. Veins slithered beneath Eight’s perfect skin, morphing into steely knots that ran from his bladed fingers. “You will suffer for hours before you expire, but there will be no mercy, no release. Your screams will echo off the walls, but no one will help you. Your brain will be spared to the last; I will crush it under my foot when your host can take no more. Beat it into your skull, Ten. Savor the pain. Learn. We exist for Maximillian. There is a reason why you are given a Double Digit rank. Either learn your place in the grand scheme of things, or your education is merely beginning.”
The Double Digit had reached for her neck in an attempt to snap it when Eight burst into action, slamming the syringe into her chest. She gasped, shocked at the sudden fusion with the host’s mind, and Eight buried his claws around her collarbone area, ripping through Ten’s supraspinatus. She thrashed, and with a swipe of his hand, Eight had left deep, lacerated gouges across the woman’s body, opening the flesh to reveal the gleaming ribcage, tearing through a breast. The tip of his claw got buried in her submental area, pinning Ten’s lower jaw and breaking her upper palate to reach a nasal cavity.
“And another thing, Ten,” Eight said, making the woman stand on her toes. “This drug also incorporates the research of that DESPICABLE, MISERABLE, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING ARGUS! Sir, please, I am training personnel.” The sudden change between his and Maximillian’s voices stopped, and the Creator returned to the deepest corners of Eight’s conscience. “Where were we? Ah! That means you can no longer stop any of your organs at will. If you’d done it from the beginning, I would have forgiven you. Ten, you let panic cloud your mind.”
“Sir… please, I didn’t think…”
“That is your problem, Ten,” Eight said. “You don’t think. I will teach you how to do it.”
The Single Digit looked back, almost inviting Twenty Eight to join and attack him. There was no anger or loathing in his glittering eyes, only mundane curiosity. The Number stood at attention, ignoring the gurgling breaths in the room. Ten took advantage of this moment of distraction and tried to sit down, planning to use Eight’s own claw to impale her brain and escape this torture. But the speed of a Double Digit could never match that of a Single Digit. Eight tore his hand free and grabbed his victim by the throat.
Eight set up to work, never once breaking his word. Twenty Eight observed how the Single Digit tore out each organ with surgical precision, never once rupturing the heart or damaging the brain, leaving the eyes intact until the last, before a tip of a claw speared them, leaving Ten in total darkness. He spread the ghastly web of still-living organs across the examination table, running his metal blades around the few remaining nerves, prolonging the pain. Twenty Eight wasn’t sure why, but Eight changed his decision about tormenting Ten for hours. The lesson lasted half an hour, during which Single Digit kept both the host and the Number on the verge of death. He delivered the punishment with mechanical movements and a bored expression on his face.
“What did you learn, Twenty Eight?” The Single Digit asked, wiping out the brain with a stomp.
“Obey the Creator! Know your place! Follow the orders given to you and do not presume to climb higher than you are allowed!” Twenty Eight reported.
“Good.” Eight came closer and changed his shape back to that of a normal human. “Such a well-behaved boy. I give you the right to ask me questions. Questions, Twenty Eight, never doubts. Do not confuse the two. Now come.”
“What are we going to do, sir?” Twenty Eight asked.
“Resurrect Ten and see if she has learned her lesson,” Eight said. “There are plenty of hosts in the storage below. I killed the Oathtakers before they could evacuate the infirm. Then we will create a coven. A small one. Miniscule even.”
“And… our purpose in these lands, sir?”
“Ultimately? To build a garden world worthy of Maximillian’s eternal glory, of course, Twenty Eight!” Eight laughed and flicked his earning. “But in the short term, we will survey the area and wait. All wars tend to end. If my hunch is correct, we may be contacted soon.”