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The elixir remained the most pressing item on the agenda.
“I have a different idea,” Segment 18 said. “Why not deprioritize the task all together? With the original specimen gone, the scope is too narrow for the resources it demands. While I can appreciate the thrill of engineering a true elixir for human immortality, I have plenty of other projects in the pipeline.”
The current formula maintains Pantalone for another century, broadly speaking, but the question has never been length - it has always been condition and quality of life. “We should aim to perfect the serum before Pantalone had to deteriorate past the point of no return like the original,” 25 suggested. He was working on the left lateral section and finding it largely consistent with the predicted aging profile.
35 agreed by nodding. There is no guarantee the elixir can revert the aging process. He hovered over the examination table, not dressed in surgical gear. There was no need. 18 and 25, geared and gloved, handled the primary incisions while 45 and 65 observed. 35 remained above it all, lancet in hand, occasionally directing or prodding areas of interest. As the prime segment, it was only natural.
“Pantalone being the only viable long-term subject should be a separate and significant argument for prioritization,” 35 announced it, “not against it.”
18 did not respond. That was its own kind of answer.
8 stood at the periphery of the table, doing something with a sample container that 35 chose not to investigate too closely. When 25 pried loose a molar with less effort than expected, he passed it to 8 without looking up like a reverse tooth fairy. 8 received it with solemn scientific interest.
“The original’s testes have atrophied significantly. The phallus exhibited notable retraction and loss of turgidity entirely consistent with end-stage geriatric decay.” 45 observed in the tone one might use to comment on interesting weather. He glanced up briefly. “Sorry, 65. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” 65 replied, his voice slightly muffled beneath the bird-beak mask, making it slightly harder to discern his mood. “Mine look quite different, I assure you. Completely functional. Pantalone had no complaints. As I recall, he moaned quite wantonly when I fucked and creamed him.”
How sentimental, 35 thought with sharp distaste. Pantalone either the world’s biggest slut or the world’s best liar.
65 must have grown weak, to not see the deception past those pretty purple eyes.
35's mind knew the mewls, the desperate twitch of constrained muscles, the tight, slick heat of Pantalone’s hole clenching and fluttering around his cock as he came undone.
He had not experienced any of it in actuality.
His mind supplied the memory anyway. Pantalone on his knees in the old laboratory, lips stretched obscenely wide around his thick, veiny cock, eyes watering as he gagged and drooled down his chin. The wet, choking sounds. The way his throat bulged with every thrust.
Pantalone, who went by another name by then, tried to curry favor from his master, his commander, his jailer. That was their first time. A political maneuver, nothing more. Il Dottore had always held Pantalone’s life in his hands, no matter how their titles shifted. While the original and the older segments insisted the arrangement later became something else, it must have been simply a function of prolonged proximity, or a sad delusion, proof of their inferiority compare to himself.
You are Zandik and Zandik is you. Pantalone had told him before. Claiming they were all Zandik. Clearly a false statement, born of deceit or ignorance. He would never grow weak and frail like the original had. Dying a meaningless death like the original had.
“It made sense for Pantalone to only maintain sexual activities with the original,” 35 said, mostly to himself. “Those two regarded themselves as somewhat distinct from the rest of the structure.”
45 looked at him for a moment with an unreadable expression, then returned to observing the dissection.
And now that the original died, only one of them remain. Is loudly unspoken.
“Even as the original aged,” 45 said eventually. “Pantalone would still make time for him, reading financial reports.”
“Pantalone would be lonely,” 18 said, then looked faintly surprised at himself.
“Pantalone would found what we are doing disturbing,” 25 corrected, not unkindly. Blood ran along their lancets as they both paused momentarily.
“Please do not pause your current task,” 35 said. He was examining the cardiac muscle now. The chronic stress markers were far more pronounced than anticipated. Years of elevated cortisol. “We are, in any case, neglecting a rather singular opportunity. Self-dissection is not a procedure most researchers ever get to conduct. I would prefer we give it the attention it deserves. Not every day one can examine themselves that thoroughly.”
“And yet you keep talking about Pantalone,” 45 said pleasantly.
35 did not respond. 65, 45 spoke of him with such proprietary fondness, as if those phantom touches were experiences belonged to them.
The thought of Pantalone spreading his legs for the other segments irritated him more than it should.
“If Pantalone does wish to continue some form of the arrangement,” he said after a calculated pause, in the tone of someone returning to a purely practical matter, “the question of continuity is worth addressing. I would be the most logical choice, as I am taking over the primary Harbinger functions. Structural continuity follows naturally. It would be the most efficient outcome.”
“You have no particular interest in doing so, though,” 45 observed. “As you claimed.”
“Correct.”
“You said it quite often, actually.”
“The point warranted emphasis.”
It was Zandik who maintained that relationship. And Zandik died a stupid death on his own birthday because he trusted his own creations to somehow have different priorities than himself. A fundamental misreading of what they were.
"We are not him. We should not repeat his mistakes."
“No,” 65 was still standing calmly, with the unhurried attention of the very old. “Only his feelings.”
The room fell silent for a moment. 8 had found something interesting in a specimen jar and was holding it up to the light. He then retracted his arms, holding the jar tightly against his chest, almost protectively, sensing the tension thickening the air.
As much as 35 despised the other segments, they were still useful tools - and therefore family. He hated it when his family fought. It was inefficient. Disruptive.
Maybe Pantalone will be smart, 35 thought, eyes narrowing. He has always had a talent for slipping out of difficult situations. Perhaps he will spread his efforts evenly among us, maintaining the balance… at least until I find a more permanent solution to handle them all.