Born Human

When she awoke, all she could see was red. A rusty red flecked with something brighter–it was caked into her fingernails, crushed into the folds of her eyes, and dusting her dry achy kneecaps. She sat up with a moan, the clay flaking-off in chunks with each movement. She couldn’t remember how she ended up on the floor, but her head was throbbing. She needed to know what had happened–who had attacked? She was bleeding, but where from? She started searching for the source, and felt a small twinge at her ankle. It was a shallow cut–probably one of many. Without acknowledging why, but moving as if by puppet string, she watched her own finger reach down and swirl the edges of bright crimson into the soft, dull clay. She felt the corners of her mouth lift into a smile at the sight of her muddied wound. The sight of her own blood unlocked something like a memory, but the details eluded her.

She needed water. An attempt to swallow produced a dusty hacking cough that ricocheted through her ribs, leaving her feeling woozy and feeble. If she wanted to survive long enough to serve in the next battle, she would need help. She began to walk, but not without difficulty. Her right leg could only unbend so far, her knee was extremely tender to the touch. It would not support the cause.

She unbuckled her tight boot and peeled off the remains of her military-issue crew sock. They were as filthy as everything else, but surprisingly still in good shape. She slashed off the toe of her sock with her combat knife, which, loyal or miraculous, had remained by her side. If only she could remember what had taken her down–then next time she could be prepared.

She slipped the sock back on her right foot, and then tugged it over her calf and onto the injured knee. Now with an opening on each side, the make-shift sleeve would have to be enough to protect her joints for the march ahead. With a snarl she took a second step, closing her mind to pain. Nothing mattered except her destination.

Dust clouds billowed after her every move–swirling into her eyes and tickling her throat. She could not see much, but she knew there had to be others who survived. They would have gathered the leftover supplies by now, hoarding resources for their allies and nursing wounds. She would need them to trust her, but that wouldn’t be hard, not in her condition and not while wearing the rebel colors.

There was no sure way to know where the next camp would be. She had picked her direction at random, but she felt sure it wouldn’t be far–the others would be injured too. She just needed to keep her legs moving, the right foot dragging behind.

The sun had cut through the sky by the time her knee gave out. It happened with a twist, a popping sound, and a gasp–the wave of pain she’d suppressed crashing into her consciousness and forcing her to the ground. She felt the gritty earth in her teeth, the taste of metal when she hit the ground. The blood was rushing to her head. The pain was blinding. It pulsed inside her like blood, rushing up from her leg and through her spine to light up her brain in a white-hot awareness. The constellations of neurons firing transported her into a previous pain…

Blood on the battlefield–there had been so much blood. A swift kick to her shin, hand-to-hand combat, the sharp pain of teeth breaking her skin and then a whimper and fall. The body hit the ground with a dull thud. She retracted the blade and surveyed her work: It was a deep slash to the jugular, a jagged cut from where the blade caught against something small and shiny. She leaned in closer, her Human-Engineered attention span just as lodged in the rusted chain. A small heart-shaped locket dangled from the severed neck, its clasp busted open in the struggle to reveal a small tattered photo of two women embracing. For the first time Corporal PX87 looked at her victim, a young woman prematurely wrinkled by consistent emotional expression. Corporal PX87 subconsciously reached up to trace the ridges in her own face, aware of a pang in her own gut she had never felt before. She swallowed it back–hard. The regime does not have need of this. She had flipped the body upside-down, tucking the locket into her jacket pocket for reasons she could not have voiced aloud.

Back in the present, Corporal PX87 found herself with her fists in the sand, pulling herself handful by handful, dragging herself in the direction of the next dirt pile. She could hear voices on the horizon, a soft dull buzz of human nonsense–a camp had to be close by. They would not recognize her as a threat. They would see her wide, unlined face and torn knee in rebel clothing, and they would forget all other variables–like the knife newly tucked in its sheaf. Born humans were foolish like that. But even if someone recognized her from the onslaught, her death would be nothing: hers was one drop of blood in the tide of better life. She had to suppress a smile as she listened to the voices getting louder. They were coming to rescue her.