It’s funny what you dream about when your mind is truly left alone to wonder…
I remember… yes, that’s the dream… my first interview. Ah, yes, we wanted to delve into the mind of our super soldiers and assess their fitness to serve. Amongst other data… which to me sounded ridiculous. Of course, it did. I was young, wanted to prove myself. I didn’t want a job that made me feel like I was in the surplus. Those who join departments merely because those departments can’t say no, and not because they are needed.
I had dreams then, I wanted to help with the strategy, find enemy weaknesses, point out what was missed by our scout drones! That was a path to becoming a DAVID. My namesake. I wasn’t superstitious, no believer in such primitive assumptions based on star alignment or coincidences. Of course, my name was David. It was an easy name. A lot of Patriarchs from commoner beginnings have easy names. Kevins, Patricks, Jessicas. Simple, mono or two syllable words, no real meaning to them. But some part of me, some part that I’ll never want to admit, is vain.
I wanted to be in the front, leading the army of man to glory. But I can pursue such dreams in my off time, with practice and personal training. Wait my turn to prove myself if the testing slot becomes available for real officer training. But for right now…
I take my place amongst the masses of officers and technicians. All on their way to make a difference. And Samsons. The ARKS weren’t military vessels, they didn’t conform to a unitarian model for space conservation. They were designed to be open things, with large hallways, and decks made for mass crowds, and even the movement of heavy equipment if needed. Only the true nerve centers of the ships were narrow and claustrophobic, which meant the Samsons, and their seven-foot, half as wide bodies, could walk in squad formations through the sea of activity and not bother anyone. Or even look out of place.
At least to the people of N.O.A.H, who know their looks aren’t everything. For Patriarchs from other departments their size, musculature and overall demeanor, leaves them gawking in wonder, and most of the time fear. The uncanny valley effect, but worse. Samsons are only 60% human, any less would make training and indoctrination markedly less predictable. The 40% that is decidedly other, is pulled from the best predators known to man, their genetic history stored for posterity for when we found a planet to colonize. Now used to increase the size, strength, and fear response to the absolute limit while keeping discipline and loyalty. Bears for size and omnivory, big cats for reflexes and fast twitch muscle fibers, and crocodiles for hardened skin, and even hippo DNA for added muscle and bone density. And that’s just the kingdoms I could name. The cocktail is proprietary to the original purpose of N.O.A.H which was focused on biological threats and response. Back before the thought of armed men in armor and battle fatigues was a practical need.
Which again begs the question, what am I really doing?
Samsons are made in a vat for battle, clones of the same genetic blueprint, given to schools for tactics and physical training. Honed for warfare using our extensive library of military history dating back to ancient civilizations like Egypt and China, to pre-Exodus world of the Napoleonic era, the World Wars era, the Cold War era, the Post NATO era. They can fight literally for days and often not want for anything but more ammo for months at a time. Even in the horror of it, they never seem to have any incidents, with each other or in garrison.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
But I was assigned a job.
Within a corridor and behind a conference room that was rated for parties no larger than forty-five, was a special room with a two-way mirror. The mirror itself plexiglass made three inches thicker than normal and the lighting was kept minimal save for two overhead lights for each side of the glass. The room itself had four doors, two for interviewer and interviewee that either fed the guest out where they came or further into the ship. I like it. No distractions at the very least.
On my side I have buttons to control visibility, lighting, sound, and even the doors. On his, he has a button for when he needs my attention. I came early, an old habit from school days when I wanted the best seats in the class (preferably the back). I didn’t expect the Samson to not be on time, for one, proper military training never encourages tardiness. And two, I suspected the Samson might be as eager to get this over with as I was. Which he was, he came in five minutes early and simply sat down, without saying a word. In fact if I wasn’t partially keeping my eye on his side room I would have missed him entirely, I was more engrossed in his file, something I’ve been reading since yesterday.
Well I’m not a slow reader, but the first time was a skim. A product of a little bit of procrastination. I knew I’d give myself at least thirty minutes before he showed up, so I didn’t think too much of it. But now with the prospect of face to face, well-
Damn.
“K1134C.”
He nods.
“Your record speaks for itself… hmm-”
This here, this is where the conversation should stall. I can go over his record, remind him that he serves the greater good, that he should continue showing the enemies of mankind no mercy. Let him nod in agreement while I schedule the next soldier. This scenario played out in my head. I can do this 50 times a week, clear an entire battalion in less than 2 weeks.
Easy work.
“Tell me K1143C, why do you prefer to fight hand to hand. It says here you often give your magazines to your teammates.”
I take a moment to give him a response, a moment he doesn’t take so I continue, “It’s not a big concern but, it has been pointed out as peculiar by your commanding officers (particularly by his Sergeant K1250A but I didn’t mention that) who have stressed the importance of following the Good Book to you before.”
K1143C remains silent, but watchful. His eyes, black pits on a large head, focus on me, on my facial expressions, that, now that I think about it, has to seem alien to him as he is to me. Most people would assume he was being standoffish, not wanting to, or worst, couldn’t express himself. But that’s not what he’s doing. He’s actually wondering what answer is safe.
“I can’t promise you what you say here is between me and you,” I point to the not so hidden cameras just small enough to escape notice but there nonetheless, “but if you can help me understand your preferences, I can ease some of the concerns your officers may have about your tactics.”
For a second it appears that I was wrong but then something clicks, the Samson relaxes, just slightly, but relaxes, which surprised me then because I realize he was nervous, and then he speaks.
Just one word, “Sir-”
And I bolted. I never heard a Samson talk, and no one warned me what their voice sounded like to the untrained ear. It's like a genetic memory of a time when humans were at the bottom of the food chain. Like being reminded all at once that you're in the same room as a tiger. And that little bit of glass isn’t enough to keep 180 kilos of muscle from tearing out your throat.
Synchronization at 99%