DEVIATION
THE NINTH

“YOU ARE fortunate,” Galath said as his scientists prodded at Jori’s limp body. “He is not quite gone. His Q.I.P. can still be associated with this form.”

Uriel knelt beside the table. “You’re going to destroy the world.”

“The world will destroy itself,” Galath said. “It does this periodically. I simply intend to ride that wave of destruction, to shape what develops next.”

The room was dense with monitors, beeping equipment, and metallic surfaces. Galath had built one of his bunkers beneath the offices where Uriel had worked each day.

Uriel felt tired, drained completely, soaking wet. Was that really . . . really his son, there? That pale body, not breathing, even though the scientists spoke of him as if he were alive.

“Sir,” one of the scientists said. “We are ready. But . . .”

Galath glanced to them. “Speak.”

“A youth?” the scientist said. “Not even through puberty yet? Will this really aid our empire?”

“A youth,” Galath said. “With no preconceptions. Yes, this will be good. And I am not to be questioned.”

“Yes . . . Yes, sir.”

“You will make him a king,” Uriel said, still kneeling beside the table. He rested his hand on his son’s arm.

“Those who survive will all be kings,” Galath said. “And more. But I will not give it to him. Each will find his or her way.” He nodded to his people.

Uriel stepped back as the process began. Injections. Organ scans. Tissue embedding. Radiation. All made by devices he did not recognize and probably could not comprehend. And yet, despite the wonder of it all, he thought he heard Galath whisper, “So primitive . . .” as they worked.

At the end of it, the scientists withdrew, congratulating themselves. Galath moved to leave as well. Jori remained on the cold metal table. He still seemed dead to Uriel.

“I will not repeat the process for you,” Galath noted from the door. “His father living into immortality would only serve to hinder him. I will not have the gods of the new world running at the whims of their daddies.”

“I don’t care,” Uriel whispered. “Project Omega. It’s about much more than just the teleportation devices, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Galath said. “Now say goodbye. I want you out of my bunker in five minutes.” He closed the door, leaving them alone in the sterile room.

Jori stirred.

His breath catching, Uriel stepped up to the table. He took the boy’s hand in his own, and felt tears well up as Jori took a deep breath.

Jori opened his eyes. “Father?” the youth asked. Barely thirteen. How would he survive in a world of gods?

He will survive, Uriel thought. That is enough.

“Why are you crying?” Jori asked.

“Son, I am . . . sending you to glory.”

The boy started to look panicked. “Father?”

“The world is a broken, ruined place,” Uriel said. “I want you to make it better. Stop them from fighting, son. Take away their guns and their bombs. They don’t deserve what they’ve been given. Mankind had a chance to reach the stars—but all they did was use that abilty to cast down fire upon one another. Eyes always downward, never toward the lights above . . .”

“I’m scared,” Jori said.

“I know.” Uriel kissed him on the forehead. The only beautiful thing left in the world.

Uriel took off his wristwatch, including the datachips. “Take this. Look at the numbers. Understand them. Read what I have written. It is all you’ll have of me. Be a king, son. Be a king.”

“Father!” Jori said, taking the watch but reaching for him. He was still tied down, however, on the table.

Uriel walked from the room.

“Father!” Jori was weeping. So was Uriel. He passed Galath in the hall outside, speaking with one of the scientists. One of the guards moved to open the door for Uriel and escort him out.

“Where will you go?” Galath called after him, sounding genuinely curious.

Uriel looked back. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Galath said. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Uriel stepped out into the metallic hallway, rode the elevator up to the main floor, and let the guard shove him out into the rain again. He started walking.

And did not stop.