Man-Kzin Wars XII by Larry Niven (books you have to read .TXT) 📕

“Fall back. Two lines. 13, you are upfront with me.” I step toward the direction of the barracks, and all of the Integers fall in line.

“Impressive.” 13 bumps my shoulder.

I smile at him and step forward. Two clear lines of soldiers follow behind me. As we march through the barracks' center path, the drones that are outside stop to look at us. The game of Breekbal in the center field even stops. They all look at us.

“80?” 13 whispers. He's more concerned than I am.

“Not now,” I whisper back. They are less interested in the destruction of the recent attack than they are our appearances. We look different. We are faulty. Me with my eye patch and 13 with his hairless head and scar. However, the markings on the rest of the Integers' necks hopefully will not cause anyone to think twice.

When we reach our quarters, all but 13 and I disperse to find bunks. I hold off by the door as they run in, and 13 peels off to stand by me. He leans in. “So, what now, boss?”

I take in my surroundings to see how much has changed. I'm relieved to see that aside from the debris and rubble from the recent attacks, not much else is different. “I need to find Farouk. You keep an eye on everyone here. Remind them that they need to keep up appearances and shouldn't talk to anyone but you and me.”

“Got it,” 13 answers.

I'm about to walk away when a thought crosses my head. 13 was one of the original drones. The first batch. The only one I have ever met of his kind and the only one left as far as I know. I look at him—his body is still fit, but battle-tested. “Do you remember anything about this place?”

He looks at me, perplexed. Thrown off by the unexpected question but also unsure of the answer. “I don't. Remember, we weren't programmed to have memories, especially long-term. At least not before we turned.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” I suppose that is a good thing. To not remember all the horrible things that have happened, that you've done.

We share a smile, and I walk away. My legs carry me back through the center field among the barracks. A few drones extend their looks, but most pay no attention. Though all the faces are replicas of one another, I don't recognize anyone from when I was here before. It amazes me that I could do that before, but the recognition came from more of an instinctual feeling than appearances. Besides, I remind myself, most of the drones that I fraternized with are, I'm sure, dead and replaced.

Once clear of the barracks, I find myself in the field where the Flyz landed. I'm not sure where to find Farouk, so I choose one of the blasted open walls and walk toward it.

“Well, look at you.” The voice startles me. It's old, but still, I jump back. “Settle down, 80.”

“Dr. Anfang?” I respond. He's aged twice as much as everyone else. His frail body begs for help, but I remember that he is the reason for the Ragnarok. He is why all of this is happening. I hold back the anger I have toward him, but I can't help to think about how killing him might put an end to his horrible plan.

Before I can think further on my actions, we are distracted by a doctor standing at the open wall. He's waving at Dr. Anfang to come over.

“Wonderful.” The doctor smiles and starts his slow trek to the opening. “Come 80, walk with me.”

I don't have a choice, so I oblige and shuffle my feet in pace with his.

“You are quite a fascinating specimen.” Dr. Anfang smiles at me. “I do wish we had more time to see how you'd develop. To perhaps create more like you and study you.”

“You have as much time as you want. It's your choice.” I press my luck.

He stops and looks me dead in the eye, studying my face and processing my words. Before any hopes of changing his mind grace mine, he laughs. “Incredible. Farouk was right. Your mental development has grown quite a bit. Come, there is someone I'm sure would like to see you.”

He rambles at a faster pace than before and climbs through the blown-out wall. I follow close behind. Machines decorate the room. As my eyes adjust to my new surroundings, I recognize the room. I am in the medical ward.

Dr. Anfang walks over to the doctor that waved at us from afar. I recognize him from when I recovered in here so many weeks ago. It's Dr. Peters. His sharp jaw and well-groomed hair are hard to forget. I can't quite make out their conversation, but I can tell that they are talking about the patient on the farthest table.

I step forward and see a familiar face lying on the same bed that I once did, with the same glass cover that I once had. It's Atom.

“What happened?” I rush to the hyperbaric table.

“He's fine.” Dr. Peters spits back.

Dr. Anfang mediates between us. “He's about to wake him up. 80, you should stay. I'm sure Atom would be delighted to see you.”

“Yes, sir,” I respond. I have missed Atom's friendship.

Dr. Peters and Dr. Anfang step outside the room, and I can see them through the glass exchanging a few choice words with each other. They settle after seeming to agree on something, and Dr. Anfang walks off as Dr. Peters reenters the room.

“Don't touch anything.” Dr. Peters orders.

I wasn't planning on it, but I sit back in a chair nonetheless. Dr. Peters taps various instructions on the glass, and it opens with a zhoosh. The fresh air hits Atom in the face. I remember that sensation.

“What happened?” Atom asks.

“You are good to go,” Dr. Peters responds.

“I thought you said it would be a couple of days?” Atom presses. I can tell he