Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #18 – Ministry of Truth

“Look at this mess. This is not hot at all, assistant.”

Zonta’s voice echoed in the small room, bouncing on the white walls, on the white ceiling, shadowing the soft hum of the light bulbs. A long table occupied most of the available space, leaving only scraps of walkable surface for all the people to share. Five researchers, all wearing high-end protective gear, including sealed helmets with visors, air filters, and gloves bigger than their hands could muster, stuffed with precision instruments deployed at the flick of a finger. All hazmat suits were dull gray, except one – bright blue with white accents. That one was worn by none other than head researcher Graham Zonta, of course, and it was a replacement for his previous one, since it was declared against the code of conduct of the precinct just one day after he wore it at work. Zonta, naturally, complained loudly about ‘the lack of chadness’ of his detractors, but, in the end, his appeal to allow his custom hazmat suit (read: completely covered with black and white cartoon porn) in the lab was shunned and thrown into the bin. So, he turned to a more sober and less divisive brand-new blue one, instead of the standard-issue dead-mouse-gray. That way, he could still stick out of the mass of ‘worker bees’ (his words) and be ‘clearly recognized as the top dog’ (his words, again). Despite that, Zonta could not, in fact, feel any solace in his current situation. First, because wearing protective gear sucked. Second, because he had been wearing it for the past two hours without a break. Third, because they were dissecting the burned corpse of what amounted to an overgrown plant organism, one that didn’t meet any of his aesthetic standards. A massive tangle of dead vines, wrapped around human bones and fragments of skulls, without a clear head or any recognizable feature except for a central core and limb-like structure that emerged from that chaos of vines and tendrils. Of course, Zonta had no interest in wasting his time on such an abomination, one that didn’t have either boobs or feet (his words, one more time, if that wasn’t clear enough), but being the world authority on rhizome biology meant that he had no say in the matter – lest Captain Commander Lily decided to suck him dry. That thought was at least mildly exciting for him, though. He found some beauty in the perspective of being wrapped by her vines, while her teeth carved his neck to steal his water, after duly stepping on him with her boots from her one meter ninety-tree height. Every time his mind focused on that picture, his lower body reminded him why he designed her the way he had, causing a dumb smile to take over his face. Yet, working on that creature (for lack of a better term) had the opposite effect, turning him off and deflating his enthusiasm like a punctured balloon.

“This doesn’t make sense…”

That was the assistant’s voice. Of course it was. Zonta didn’t know his name and didn’t even care about it, but, overall, that guy was one of the few of his disposable underlings that didn’t resign after just one week of forced coexistence. Which made Zonta slightly fond of him, if anything, despite his absolute deficiencies in the chadness department. Intrigued by the words of his wannabe personal valet, he glanced at one of the side displays, reading through the parameters retrieved by the first probes. His specs didn’t interact well with the visor, prompting him to chew a couple curse words under his breath, right as he tried to make sense of those numbers. He blinked, twice.

“Huh. I kinda like understand your concerns, assistant.”

That was right. Those values were surprisingly compatible with those of a rhizome. Same composition, same kind of adaptive plant matter, same material in the vines, roots and tendrils. How curious. A rhizome, for sure, but also not a rhizome. That bizarre creature quacked like a rhizome, moved like a rhizome, reacted like a rhizome, but wasn’t a rhizome – just half of it. A rhizome was made of a plant core and a human shell, flesh and bones coexisting with cellulose, bark and lymph. A masterpiece of bioengineering, one that was born because of a bet. Zonta got his position (or his ‘clout’, as he loved to call it) thanks to his vegetal landmines, a practical invention that helped New Netherlands win a massive engagement with the Eastern Coalition. Tubers that reacted to heat, grew out of the ground extremely quickly and exploded using a mixture of chemicals. Cheap to produce, cheap to plant, cheap to grow. One could reap a new minefield in one month, just by planting the seeds and watering them regularly. They were less practical for emergency situations and required setup, but once the field was grown, it was as good as a natural barrier as it could be. At that time, Zonta had an equally chad colleague with whom he often went out drinking together. And, one day, after a few dozen drinks, that discussion triggered everything.

“Say, you good with plants, Graham?”

“You’ve seen my kabooms, yes?”

“Yeah, I get it, but… ain’t yer talent wasted? Could you, I dunno, make something better than a land mine? I dunno, something more like a plant super soldier…”

“That sounds boring.”

“…wait, lemme finish. Make a plant super soldier… and make it hot? Like, smoking hot? The kind who’d you like to be stepped on by?”

“You have my attention.”

Easier said than done. How do you make a walking grove hot (phytophiles needn’t apply)? Well, add boobs, buttocks and feet, of course. Yet, that made them look like glorified skinwalkers – plants wearing an approximate woman’s shape. That’s when genius struck. Combine them with real human embryos. Eugenics. Cloning. Selective breeding. It took him seven long years and several wrong turns, plus a cadre of protocol violations, cases of medical malpractice and contacts with underground suppliers straight out of the darkest corners of the BM, but, in the end, he did it. He created the first functional rhizome. A work of art, one that made him hard down where it mattered, but still too unrefined, rough and not hot enough. That caused him to shed tears (manly chad tears), which also guided his choice of a name for his firstborn. Good, but no perfect. Full of small defects, imperfections, and a flawed lymph vascular system that often went into overproduction without any need to. It was a real waste to dispose of her, but she wasn’t a good look for his research either. So, he did what he did best, went back to the drawing board and put her in cold storage. Worst case scenario, if the miracle didn’t happen a second time, he could simply thaw her. But Zonta’s confidence was high and he was absolutely, positively sure he wouldn’t have to deal with that inferior debut work. Then, he finely tuned the parameters so that her successor-slash-clone could be at least thirty centimeters taller, have larger breasts (high-end B) and have a toned down lymph production rate. That line of research was what resulted in Captain Commander Lily – truly his most perfect specimen, one that had to remain unique. Which is why watching that mini-Lily walking around New Babylon made him unreasonably annoyed. First, because mini-Lily wasn’t hot enough compared to her more developed counterpart. Second, because mini-Lily being out of containment meant that the automatic contingency plan was put in action – or that his machines in the old shuttered lab failed spectacularly. The latter felt like the best explanation, since the alternative sounded way scarier.

Zonta glanced at the values again. The mysterious creature was unmistakably the spawn of a rhizome – or, rather, the vegetable part of one, without any of the flesh. But why was it there, inside a mass grave? How did it develop from a bunch of rotting corpses? And why did it react to being probed by another rhizome? Okay, that last one was easy – having its water sucked out was definitely not pleasant and finding out there was water above it must have triggered its predatory instincts. All of that was logical, if anything. Still, he couldn’t make heads or tails of that overgrown plant that posed as one of his daughters without the grace, hotness, boobness and footness of any of them. Downright heresy. Zonta turned around to check on the four other people in the room, still intent on sampling the corpse and going through their own analysis protocols. He cleared his throat, addressed all of them at once.

“To be absolutely clear with you, my precious minimum wage slaves: I’m stumped. This… thing should not exist. It’s downright hideous, has a very basic neural system that didn’t even evolve into a full brain, can’t talk, can’t hear in the proper sense of the term, can only detect vibrations, but can suck a person dry in seconds. This isn’t something I’d ever design willfully, even when drunk – or especially when drunk.”

Silence fell into the room, broken only by the low frequency hum of the instruments. Hearing Zonta admit his ignorance felt like a bolt from the blue. Zonta saw the panic in their eyes, the uncertainty piling up, but also the excitement. They were, after all, working on a complete mystery. If they solved it they could get famous for being even more capable than Graham Zonta himself. Which, admittedly, was what Zonta was aiming at. Motivating his cronies to become true chads and take the reins of the situation in their not-so-capable hands.

“And, with that, I bid you good work. I have official business with a brown-nosed pen-pusher. Can’t be late, or someone will have my ass served for breakfast. Please, take care of our guest. When I’m back, I want results. Become the chads you aspire to be, alright?”

He left the room, following all the decontamination protocols to the letter, before throwing his custom hazmat gear into the sterilizer unit and slowly walking over the aisle, straight to the strategy control center of HQ. There, said brown-nosed old hag was waiting for him. The Minister of Technology herself – Muriel van Perens – was sitting on a sofa, deeply absorbed by the book she was reading. Zonta caught a glimpse of its title, just out of sheer curiosity. Apparently, it was called ‘The paradox of the praying mantis’. He got wind of it somewhere on the comnet – it seemed to be a pretty popular novel as of late. Surely, though, it didn’t deal with any of the topics he found interesting, otherwise his comnet acquaintances would have already sent him the best (read: spiciest and most explicit) excerpts. His sight moved to the rest of the room – a somewhat cozy environment for being the operative core of the precinct, full of desks, displays, padded office chairs and even having the luxury of an own coffee machine and a fridge in the corner. As he scanned his surrounding, he noticed that, contrary to his expectation, he wasn’t alone with that sly fox of a politician. In front of him stood four other people. One was completely forgettable, the only guy aside from him. Dark skin, black curly hair, green eyes. Male. So, automatically not hot for Zonta. What was hot, though, was the other three gals. Rhizomes. Two were standard models, although that Whip specimen there had a brown complexion, despite being clearly born white. That deviation from his original design annoyed him to no end. He took a mental note to work on a way to prevent rhizomes from getting tanned, something he could work on for the next generation to preserve his ideal of hotness. The last one in the room was, of course, Captain Commander Lily. And, of course, she was staring at him with an eye full of evident disgust.

“I was wondering where this rancid stench came from. Hi, Zonta.”

“My apologies, Captain Commander but, as you might know, I was in the lab dissecting a monster not even five minutes ago. Please, give me a break, I’ve already showered this morning.”

“It’s amazing to think you shower at all.”

“Men who don’t shower are subhumans, my dear. True chads take care of their hygiene.”

A fit of cough. Minister Van Perens turned her attention to the warring duo, put away her book, heaved a sigh.

“So, Zonta. I’ll be blunt: you are the last living being on this planet I’d like to be meeting right now. Even that old Eastcol bastard Shao would be more pleasant company than you. But I need answers. The Turn of the Millennium falls in three days. Political leaders from all the continents, even from the countries we are at odds with, are traveling to New Babylon as we speak. The security expenses have gone through the roof. We have been rerouting rhizomes from the whole country to the capital for this event. We will be fielding something like fifty thousand Peacekeepers and three thousand rhizomes around the Lagash inner perimeter alone.”

“Oh? And what does it have to do with me?”

“It has a lot to do with you. And with the other people in this room too.”

She crossed her hands under her chin, stared deep into Zonta’s specced eyes.

“This incident has never officially happened. The victims of… that thing? Sent to the hospital after a failure of the ventilation system of the mall. They will die in five days due to complications, but, until then, they are alive for what concerns the outside world. The Peacekeeper involved? He’s alive too, just relocated to Atropos for a special task. We’ve already destroyed the tapes and tracked all witnesses. There’s no evidence that thing even existed. And, if there is, it won’t come out of the BM till after the Turn. You five here and your entourages are the only ones who know about this. I’d like it to stay this way, unless you want to face unpleasant consequences. Now that this is settled, let’s get to the crux of the question, Zonta: what is that thing and what are the chances there are others of its kind around?”

Zonta joined his index fingers in front of his nose, raised his elbows like makeshift wings.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t…?”

“Look, I’m a genius and a chad, but two hours ain’t it. You can’t expect me or my minimum wage slaves to identify a never before seen pseudorhizome in such a short time.”

“I can field more researchers.”

“It’s not a question of money or human resources, it’s simply not possible, Minister. You can’t have a woman give birth in one month by having nine men knock her up together, can you? These things require time. Time. Not money. Not people. Time. And if you don’t give me time, I can’t give you answers. Simple as that.”

Van Perens’s gaze would have killed him on the spot, if it could.

“We don’t have time, Zonta. The Turn is too important, we can’t jeopardize it. Lagash take me, even canceling the ceremony now would be basically impossible! So I need answers. I need to be sure we can host it in absolute safety. If President Shao was sucked dry by a… how have you called it, pseudorhizome? Well, if that happened, the Eastcol would bomb us all in no time. We would have war on our soil, Zonta. We’re risking everything here and I don’t like it.”

“Well, sucks to be you, then.”

Van Perens held her breath, barely controlled her impulse to smash that clown’s face. She fell into uncomfortable silence, tried to reason on what her options were and in how many slices to ask Zonta to be cut. That’s when she heard another voice.

“If I may, Minister, this is a non-issue.”

Captain Commander Lily. Chiming in on the topic.

“As the acting captain of the New Babylon rhizome unit, I’ll be personally responsible for the safety of all foreign political leaders – according to the plans your government penned. And, if I may, a worthless beast like that wouldn’t even be a match for me: if two mass-produced rhizomes could best one of them without any standard-issue equipment and against the element of surprise, I’m fully confident that any armed member of our unit could.”

She glanced at Primula and Felce, gauged their reactions, before going on, not waiting for their comments.

“Nevertheless, I must commend your readiness. Dealing with that creature in your situation is a feat worthy of recognition, especially for rhizomes of the Spear and Whip classes. You did well, above what was expected from you.”

Lily’s attention returned to Van Perens. She bent her head a little to the left, rested her only hand on her hip.

“Any other issues, Minister?”

“Well, the Kryzalid situation…”

“You’re giving her too much importance. She’s just a small fish: if she showed up the day of the Turn, there’s no way she could defeat three thousand rhizomes in battle formation and ready for her arrival.”

“…but she could make the heads of our political leaders explode, like… like in that video, right?”

“Her skills are, if I may, vastly overrated. We have evidence her weapon does not work like that.”

“Can I see this evidence, then?”

“Sorry, but that’s classified. Not even you have the clearance to access it, Minister. But know that it’s a question of range. To be able to harm our guests, she would need to be within ten meters of distance from them. Our safety ring will expand to a hundred meters outside of the seedship, with additional checkpoints at fifty, thirty and fifteen meters. No way to get that close without being noticed and terminated. As a reminder, Minister, Kryzalid’s weapon has been confirmed to be ineffective on us rhizomes too. And, thanks to the Minister of Defense’s quick approval, we are now allowed to wear standard equipment without the controlled destruction mechanism that she exploited. So, I can’t see her being more than a nuisance.”

Van Perens looked down, her thumbs moving all over her crossed hands.

“Alright, I suppose that’s fine for now. I’ll report to Prime Minister Herz. He won’t be completely satisfied, but it’s surely better than nothing. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Van Perens proffered her hand to the rhizome, staring at her from down to up, to make up for the difference in size. Lily, though, didn’t reciprocate. She simply nodded, before tapping a button on her wristband instead. As soon as she did that, a beeping sound filled the air, coming from her belt. Her communicator, ringing, vibrating. She grabbed it, pushed a green button, brought the device to her ear.

“Captain Commander Lily here. My comms were in silent mode for a meeting. What’s up?”

As the words reached her ear, her eye went wide open. She gritted her teeth, a groan escaped her lips, her face went suddenly pale.

“…one second, please.”

Her attention returned to the people in the room, her eye looked for Primula, still silently waiting in the corner.

“Commander Primula? Please, escort the minister out of the precinct, then remain available for further questioning. My presence is required elsewhere.”

Then, she turned towards Zonta, grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up with her vines, almost making him leave the ground.

“You are required to join too, Zonta.”

“Oh, Lagash, yes!”

“Shut up, idiot.”

Primula got one last glance of Lily, before the Captain Commander dragged Zonta behind her, exiting the room with heavy steps. Primula held her breath, blinked twice, doubted the image impressed on her retina. For an instant, it seemed to her that Captain Commander Lily was leaking water out of her eye.