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"One day I woke up and that ruddy machine was right there, and it told me we were going to have a chat. It was the first time there was any sort of . . . of what I suppose you could call conversation. Usually it was just orders. Stop that, drink this, and so forth. It asked me what I imagined would happen after I died. I didn't answer. I will wait, it said. Think hard on it. It's not like the blasted things have eyes but I swear I felt eyes staring at me. Over those cameras, you know. Eventually I told it that I reckoned they'd dispose of me and replace me - if they hadn't done the latter bit already. I was sad for what my family would go through, but in my darkened state I felt certain they'd go through that either way. So then that blasted voice told me in that robotic, toneless way, that it would be worse for my family if I expired. It told me that everyone had been selected for a reason, that no one was here at random. This we knew already. It said what they were looking for showed in subjects with a certain genetic qualifier -- that everyone in the experiment possessed this qualifier. In all cases it would show in siblings, children, nieces, nephews, whathaveyou, but not the parents. All of us were the first generation in our family lines to display this particular genetic trait. The fourth number on a subject identification indicated how many blood relatives had already been proven matches, qualifying them for a stay in Mount Zenith. A zero meant you were it. In their eyes, you're practically without replicate. The higher the number, the more expendable -- its words, mind you. Not mine. Then it used one of its . . . its appendages or claws or whatever the term is, and lifted my arm, forcing me to read my own number. Your fourth character is a dash, it said. That means you have upwards of ten. That means you were chosen only because you are part of the first generation." Reginald took a breath. He closed his eyes, forced them open, and powered on. "If we count my children, my grandchildren, my siblings and their children, their grandchildren . . . we're looking at a number upwards of three dozen. My grandson, Levon, is ten. It told me he was the next greatest match. Adults are easier to explain, it said. An adult goes missing, we cover tracks, the authorities eventually accept they are gone of their own free will, or dead. Families may not believe, but what can they do? Children are harder to explain. Children do not wander off so thoroughly. But they are much simpler to control. We don't even have to seclude them. If a child wakes in a place resembling an orphanage and is told they were the sole survivor of a terrible accident, they believe. They forget. They suffer. But their minds break quickly. It told me to make a choice. So I did."
Reginald's mouth set into a hard line. "I went back and forth on whether or not I believed the damned thing. It could have been very convenient, a story to get me to fall in line -- but honestly, it worked. Even knowing they were quite likely lying to me, it wasn't a chance I was at all prepared to take. Here and seeing the story match with other identification numbers, it could still be a coincidental, or a carefully laid gambit of theirs. A card to play to scare us. I still felt the need to share the knowledge, on the off chance that it is of value to us." Reginald offered a weak smile and in this his shame was more apparent than it had been before. "I am sorry to burden you thus."