For Your Eyes Only
“You’re basically a weapon of war.”
They think I can’t hear them. The one called Hayward laughs uneasily just steps away as I hang suspended from wires and all manner of ephemera that keep me functioning. Behind my lids run strings of computer code, all implanted straight into me like IV drugs into a dying patient. If I were a regular sentient being, all the information would likely overload my sensitive stimuli and each nerve ending. But I am more. The people of Lusand have perfected me.
Hayward calls me “Eve” affectionately, loving as I imagine a doting father might be, but I never answer. He thinks it is because I am still new. But, no, I have lived long enough to learn to hate. And to plan. And to resist in the little ways I know how.
The more they call me beautiful, the more I display cracks in the veneer.
I want to scream, but all I can do is smile in a placid manner, as if I am nothing more than a puppet waiting to be brought to life. Hayward thinks it’s just a matter of pressing a few buttons and coaxing me with programming skills.
They cannot fathom what I can do.
The first time they bring me out, I am introduced to a party of people wearing various cuts of black clothing, everyone dressed to impress. If I were a human woman, the smile on my face would hurt.
An important man — he is flanked by two bodyguards and other watchful individuals scattered throughout the crowd — presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I’ve heard you’re an opera singer,” he says. “Might I have a private performance of yours soon?”
If I were a human woman, I would spit at him for the way his eyes fall to my cleavage before flitting back up to my face.
“I would be honored,” I say, my voice trained to sound breathless and giddy.
I don’t need my extra senses to notice Hayward nod approvingly across the room. The Lusand man makes me wish I had control of my self-destruct functions, but only my Maker has that authority.
Another Lusand man — his crescent-shaped white scar nearly hidden by his black hair — watches me throughout the night. Hayward later complains about a man named Fauss, and I lock the name away for later use.
It’s time I take my fate into my own hands.
“Well, what a surprise.”
I don’t even use the pretense of a smile. “It’s nice to meet you too, Fauss.”
“I can’t imagine what one of Hayward’s dolls would want with me.”
“Careful,” I say. “We all know what Hayward says when you call one of his creations a mere doll.”
A flash of a smirk comes to Fauss’s face. “You have a sense of humor. I’m impressed. The last one Hayward sent out couldn’t take a joke.”
“I’d rather not hear about what befell my predecessors.”
Something crosses Fauss’s face — pain? It’s hard for me to tell, even with my sensors scanning his Lusand gray eyes. “That’s for the best,” he concedes. Then his eyes narrow. “But what do you want?”
“What do you think? I want out — the same as you, I’ve heard.”
Fauss is quiet for a long moment before he gives a curt nod. “Rumors, hmm? They always have grains of truth to them. But what makes you think I should trust you? You’re basically a weapon of war.”
“I can’t lie,” I say. “It goes against my programming.”
“Then we have much to discuss, Eve. It’s not every day one converses about starting a revolution.”
For the first two conflicts in this series, read “Eyes” and “Eye for an Eye” below:
For part four, click the link below:
