He’s born tall and broad, created to labor ever deeper into the earth until the day his body gives out. Synths are easier replaced than repaired.
He’s strong, but also sharp and driven, with a single-minded faith in his creators that makes them take notice. He’s a rare find. Maybe instead of hauling debris, they can train him to kill.
When Zimmer tells him he’s been assigned to the courser program, he doesn’t really know what it means. All he knows is that he’s special, and useful. Being valuable means security — and already, the twin fears of erasure and obsolescence bake themselves into the back of his mind. He is three days old.
-
They’re pleased with his diligence, but not with his well-meaning questions. Every fiber within him knows that the Institute is right; all that’s left is to find out why. Instead, they teach him to recalibrate a laser rifle.
He loves his laser rifle.
He fires. Changes stance. Fires. The target shudders with every impact.
“Insufficient. Again.”
The corpse-gray face of his observer doesn’t change. Hasn’t changed for two hours. M7-97 is told that synths don’t have feelings the way humans do. All they can experience is a pale imitation, like seeing the world in two dimensions. He believes this. But at the same time, he knows what he thinks of early-gen synths, and the only word for it is hatred.
He runs the drill again. Its yellow eyes bore into him. When they next meet his, they pronounce their stony judgment.
“Insufficient. Again.”
For the first time, it occurs to M7-97 that the weapon in his hands would be handy for disabling Gen-2 synths, if someone happened to give him the order.
He makes another attempt, wholly focused. There is nothing else. This task is his entire life. He is seventeen days old.
He waits. The thing speaks. “Sufficient.” It stares unblinking. “Again.”
-
The Institute is the future. The Institute’s actions are always justified. M7-97 can explain it flawlessly, and this is unacceptable. A courser does not justify himself. A courser spares no thought for why.
When they take him to Retention & Reclamation, he assumes it’s for training. He feels no sense of injustice in this place, only the tense solemnity of a necessary evil. (If he had to feel anything at all, the Institute would have preferred smug amusement. They didn’t tell him that.)
A woman in a black lab coat instructs him to remove his jumpsuit. This is not training.
His stomach turns. They called him a prime candidate. They said he showed promise. “What did I do wrong?”
“Most quirks in central processing can be resolved with regular maintenance. However, Dr. Zimmer has declared you unsalvageable.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
Begging is aberrant, but he has nothing to lose. “Please. I will do better.”
She glances at the clock, annoyed. “Remove your jumpsuit, M7-97.”
As they prepare him for reconditioning, he doesn't register the fear. Just suffocating failure and aimless guilt. He’s spent his short life learning the language of violence, but in the hands of his creators he is meek and silent. He is fifty-four days old.
