So that's how they made my name up?
Dumar was relaxing in a chair in the seating area outside the room he had slept in.
He had finally managed to get a little time to himself to study what he found on the tablet after Dawa had mentioned it.
His initial look the previous day had not revealed much as he had barely enough time to look through a couple of the files. Today, however, he was determined to examine as many of the files stored on the device as he could.
To begin with he scrolled all the way out until he reached the little machine's default files and programs. There were a few programs on the main screen; word-processor, music player, some game called Flippin' Disks and a program that logged all the activities the tablet had been used for.
Opening the SysLog file brought up a comprehensive spreadsheet with logs split into days, weeks, months and years. Dumar saw this particular unit had records that went back only two years but reasoned the owner might have upgraded a couple of years ago and transferred the data across.
Typing "Dumar Project Origins" into the search box brought up a list of files in order of most used first. He scrolled down the page, going from file to file until he almost reached the end of the list where he found a file called "Overview."
Tapping on this opened the word-processor and a five page document appeared.
Entitled "D-series Unification of Mammal, Amphibian and Reptile – Overview" the file revealed the acronym Dumar had been known by for as long as he could recall. Its contents, however, were even more shocking.
They put animal DNA in me? What kind? What for?
The main thrust of this file was the Company's proposed forecast for the Dumar Project, outlining the aims and goals they wanted to achieve.
They expected an emotionless killer. I wasn't supposed to feel anything at all? No wonder McCabe thought I was a disappointment.
Dumar tapped on the 'Open File' icon, bringing up a massive list of folders and sub-folders with various headings. Rather than trying to read each one, Dumar started trying to guess as to what kinds of things he was looking for.
If I'm the D-series of the project, what happened to A, B and C?
The big man started typing in A-series when a file-name popped out of the list.
Similar to the D-series file, the aims and goals were nearly identical, with the Company outlining what they wanted from the Project and some of the proposed steps they would take.
What shocked Dumar further was the amount of miscarriages and aborted pregnancies there had been until one of the A-series babies had actually been born.
Of thirty embryos produced, fifteen had been rejected by the mother and died, a further seven had miscarried before their third month of gestation while five had been terminated as they had such severe developmental problems they would never have lived.
Of the remaining three, one had successfully been carried to term while the other two were presumably still in storage. At the end of the file, Dumar's eyes flicked across the words "PROJECT TERMINATED"
So they killed him? He was my brother.
A pang of loss cut into Dumar over his unknown sibling.
Not only did they keep it from me, but they murdered him too.
Typing "Aumar termination" led him to another set of files that looked to detail the fate of his other three brothers. With a heavy heart Dumar began to read, discovering his oldest brother, Aumar, had been born so horrifically disfigured he had died after only sixteen hours of life outside his mother's womb.
So they didn't kill that one, what about the others?
Bumar had become increasingly less controllable as he grew, leading to his execution not too long after puberty had set in.
According to the files Dumar read, Bumar had been progressing as expected but started getting violent, attacking staff with anything to hand. After he had managed to kill three members of staff, the decision had been made to end the uncontrollably violent youth.
They had flooded the room he was in with carbon dioxide until all life had left his body.
Flicking his finger from left to right across the screen brought up the image of Bumar.
His head was down, shoulders hunched in a pose of ultimate rage. Dumar could just make out slits of white where his eyes had looked up as the image had been taken.
He could clearly see the madness and violent intent in his eyes. Flicking again brought up a video file that Dumar opened.
High resolution pictures from a security camera in one corner of the room played as Dumar watched.
Bumar sat in a chair in the middle of the room, chains holding his arms to the floor while further chains held his ankles to the front legs of the chair. There was barely a twitch of movement from the youth as two men entered the room.
Dumar did not know either of them.
One of the men covered Bumar with an automatic shotgun while the other, some kind of doctor or scientist, approached Bumar with an array of tools on a trolley.
Trained as he had been, Dumar spotted the problem as soon as it arose, the doctor knelt next to Bumar in order to take a blood sample, obscuring the gunman's view of Bumar's other hand. At the same time as the gunman noticed his sight line was blocked, the younger version of Dumar had managed to wrench his arm free, snapping the chain from its fastenings in the floor.
The doctor found himself abruptly choking as Bumar wrapped the chain around his throat and dragged the man across him as a shield. Dumar watched the doctor clawing at his throat, eyes bulging and feet kicking, as the man who held the automatic shotgun shouted at Bumar to let him go.
As this was going on, the young killing machine had snapped the chain on his other arm and grabbed the tray the doctor had brought his instruments in upon.
The gunman still shouted orders at Bumar who was grinning insanely as he brought his arm round, hurling the tray with impossible force at the gunman.
He dodged but was nowhere near fast enough to avoid the tray that slammed into his knee, felling him. Bumar stood, ankles still chained to the chair, taking the doctor with him.
In a feat of unbelievable strength, the young man lifted the doctor and smashed his body down on top of the other man. The doctor's head slammed down into the gunman's crotch, smashing his testicles and making him curl up in agony.
Apparently unaffected by pain, Bumar leaned forward and Dumar watched as his legs bent at unnatural angles against the chains and chair that was attached to the floor.
The young man then grabbed the doctor again and dragged his body towards himself. Using the doctor's limp body to draw the gunman towards him as well.
Dumar watched in surprise as Bumar ignored the shotgun entirely. Gripping the gunman by one leg and dragging him, screaming in pain, towards himself. Bumar strained and pushed himself back up so he was standing, the gunman's leg held in one hand.
As the fallen man tried to swing the shotgun round, Bumar knocked it aside contemptuously with his hand. In a flash of pure viciousness Bumar wrenched at the man's leg, snapping and grinding the bones.
Dumar could hear the downed man's screams – tinny from the small speakers – as Bumar carried on dragging him in and snapping his bones. Like a man breaking sticks for a fire, Bumar broke the gunman's femur over his knee, grinning and laughing the entire time.
The gunman thrashed his arms feebly as Bumar smashed his fingers into his abdomen time and again until the flesh broke and his hand sank inside ripping and tearing the other man's innards.
Bumar wrenched his arm back, pulling a streamer of the fallen man's intestines out. In a vile display, Bumar grabbed the tube of the man's guts in both hands and tore it in two, splashing the contents on himself and the floor.
Whether the downed man had died or just passed out, Dumar could not tell but Bumar took the precaution of snapping his neck anyway.
Turning his attention back to the doctor, the young man reached down and picked him up again, shaking him so violently the man's head snapped backwards and forwards as if his neck had been shattered.
Dumar watched in horror as what amounted to his younger brother mauled the body of the doctor, repeatedly slamming his head against the metal floor until his skull fractured.
Even then he did not stop but carried on smashing and smashing the man's head against the floor until it split completely at the back, spilling blood and brain matter across the floor.
Finally spent, Bumar sat back in the chair, chest heaving, and surveyed the mangled bodies of the two people he had just slaughtered with an expression of deep satisfaction on his blood splattered face.
Holy Christ! They did a number on you didn't they? No wonder they gassed you, you were fucking nuts, mate.