Submitted for the May 2024 prompt: Gothic Sci-Fi

“22’s ready for rejuv,” a muffled voice barked.

 

Two sets of gloved hands hoisted Sloma out of the stained-glass recombinant tank, placing him onto a hard surface. He recoiled into the fetal position as his blanket of lukewarm liquid was replaced by frigid metal and cool air.

 

Sloma felt something in his throat being yanked from his mouth. He wheezed and flailed clumsily, but was held firm by his handlers.

 

“Breathing tube’s out, bucko. Gotta remember how to pedal on your own.”

 

Sloma felt himself moving, as buzzing machinery and acrid smells grew stronger. A wave of nausea overtook him, and he lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

“Can’t sleep forever, Sloma,” said a deep, feminine voice.

 

Sloma’s leaden eyelids snailed open. He lay on a stretcher, clothed in a plastic medical gown. To his left were ornate cabinets and countertops containing neatly arranged medical implements. A mirror and handrail ran the length of the opposite wall, dotted with sconces radiating warm light.

 

He traced the voice to a holographic figure wearing a creaseless lab coat and old-fashioned spectacles. Her pale face was a patchwork of mottled, desiccated skin.

 

“So much for a warm welcome. And you are?” Sloma eyed her with skepticism.

 

“Lilith, your physical therapist,” she smiled cooly. “Ready to earn your keep?”

 

As Sloma hoisted himself off the gurney and onto a spotless marble floor, the hallway spiraled like a corkscrew.

 

“What the hell have you done to me?” he croaked, catching the handrail just before collapsing.

 

“Nothing you didn't tacitly sign up for; three weeks of gene adaptive therapy. Your body is now resistant to hypoxia — and the mine's radiation.”

 

“The mine?” He winced, feeling sharp pain in his gut.

 

“The one just beyond this complex, owned and operated by Patala Mining, your employer.”

 

Persisting vertigo and sudden stomach pain forced Sloma to the floor. He scoured his memories, eventually locating the missing puzzle piece of his predicament.

 

“Ahh, the fine print; may as well fluff your pillow and start reading.” The recruiter’s genuine smile and easy manner quickly gutted Sloma's reservations.

 

Sloma's cheeks reddened; he flipped to the back of the contract and signed. “Dad always said the devil's in the details, but you’ve sold me on this outfit.”

 

The recruiter leaned forward eagerly. “A healthy dose of skepticism is completely understandable in this day and age. The depression has produced its share of bad actors, but you've unearthed a lucrative, off-world opportunity with Patala Mining. Mars’ Noctis Labyrinthus region is the modern-day Klondike, and you've got a golden ticket.”

 

Sloma hoisted himself up effortlessly, startled by the strength in his upper body. In the adjacent mirror, relief washed over his pale, chiseled face. But that relief quickly became a frown; his eyes were too blue, his teeth too pearly.

 

“What’s with the… technicolor vis–?”

 

Behind Sloma, hinges squeaked. An imposing youth emerged from mahogany doors, locking eyes with Sloma.

 

“We're pinnacles of modern bioengineering. Just give your body time to adjust. You’ll see.” Something about his voice was wrong, like a dubbed recording. He squeezed Sloma's shoulder and kept walking.

 

Lilith cleared her throat indiscreetly. “The minder lenses you're wearing provide enhanced vision, highlight daily objectives and record your work output. After all, we want you to realize your full potential here at Patala.”

 

“This big brother bullshit isn't what I signed up for,” Sloma snapped, sounding unsure of himself.

 

“Oh, but it is. Devil’s in the details.” Lilith waved a hand towards contract language scrolling through midair.

 

"Let’s see what you’re hiding, then.” Sloma scowled and pried open his eyelids with forefinger and thumb.

 

“Kindly refrain from attempting to remove your lenses. Doing so will render your labor contract with Patala null and void.” In a markedly menacing tone, she cautioned, “Continuing on this course of action will be most unpleasant.” An ominous grin replaced her disinterested expression.

 

Ignoring the threat, Sloma plucked out each lens in quick succession. He blinked and looked around, awestruck. Neon lighting flickered erratically, illuminating a series of dangling, ceiling-mounted appendages ending in surgical blades, cauterizers, and manipulators. Rusty cabinets and drawers stood ajar. Used gauze and syringes lay scattered on the blood-streaked concrete floor.

 

Lilith had also disappeared, but her voice continued from some unseen speaker. “Your contract is now null and void, null-and-void, null-and-void-null-and-void-null-and-void…”

 

In the corner of Sloma's vision, something unrecognizable lurked, partially concealed by the poor lighting. But he refused to look into the mirror, to give it life.

 

Clutching his gut, he hobbled through the labyrinthine complex, heeding the frantic chirp of a wall-mounted dosimeter and its red-flashing screen.

 

Ahead, a bald and disfigured man was slumped against the wall, his gown hiked up. A tube extended from a nearby canister, connecting to a port nozzle in his side.

 

He lifted his head, breathing raggedly. “You again, aye? Tried… warning you, but the lenses…distort everything. In time… you’ll see past the lies.” His voice no longer sounded artificial but like that of a man near death. Purple, puckered ridges and knots marked his bare skin, and an oval grate covered his mouth, stitched into place with metal wiring.

 

… null-and-void-null-and-void-null-and-void…

 

Wide-eyed and trembling, Sloma turned towards the mirror and immediately recoiled from the monstrosity staring back. He doubled over and began dry heaving.

 

Feeling an odd sensation, Sloma yanked up his medical gown. Stomach bile trickled out of a nozzle in his distended side.

 

“Your… feeding port. Only way to eat.” He tapped his grate. “Your lungs wouldn’t last a week…without this filtrator. And this procedure,” he lifted a scarred arm, “only delays the inevitable.” He took a final, labored breath and went limp.

 

… null-and-void-null-and-void-null-and-void…

 

Sloma patted his lumpy face, felt Patala’s duplicity threaded through his cheeks and understood how he'd been reduced to a crude tool.

“I'll live and die on my own terms. Not a guinea pig like you, slaving away in this damn death trap,” Sloma screamed at the dead man. He retraced his steps, grabbed one of the scalpel-tipped appendages, and began cutting.