Luckily for this particular gentleman, the world was just as sickening as whatever passed for a soul within him. Working for the Tyrell Corporation had its rewards, but it certainly did not come with spiritual growth. Though there could be no complaints regarding the loss of admittance into heaven when one was granted such delights while within the flesh. Luxury was no longer something that could be purchased in this horrid time, it had to be earned as you clawed your way up the corporate letter. Expert medical care, pristine living arrangements, all access transportation, security and safety, high quality foods. Sterilized air. These were not simple commodities that one could purchase with the casualness of swiping a credit chip. Nor were these provided with the intention of generosity, the experiences were ones that an individual was expected to be grateful for. And this particular gentleman, no matter the brutal nature of his soul, would always dredge up within himself a modicum of appreciation for what the Company had granted. His hand rose to touch the thick glass before him, eyes narrowing as he experienced the smallest hint of melancholia, before summarily crushing it with a sneer.
Such thoughts were unworthy of a man who stood within the Tyrell Corporation Pyramid, gazing out its windows on the worthless dregs of a city lost to stagnation. No, a man standing in such grandeur should recognize his proper position as a god king among what remained of humanity. The titanic pyramid of steel and stone rose above the smog line, a monolithic beacon of the corporation power and prestige. The strange arrangement of pyramid structures seemed reminiscent of something older, an ancient, stepped temple where one might come to sacrifice to the gods themselves, to curry favor for the harvest. That would not be far from the truth if one of bitter cynicism considered the purpose of this totalitarian business conglomerate. The scorched bronze of the buildingβs exterior, pristine when first constructed, was now streaked by years of acidic rainfall. Floodlights bathed the surrounding area in golden light, granting a surreal artificial hue. One might have considered it supernatural from afar. Sacred. And rightfully so, for here in these hallowed halls life itself was created.
Elias Dorne turned from his perch, stepping away from the vista outside to stand nearly still in the middle of his office. By the standards of an earlier time his workspace might have seemed quite cramped, but in the world that they now lived in it was quite an illustrious, if spartan, environment. The silence of the room felt curated, as if it were built not to be lived within, but to simply observe. The walls were smooth alabaster, synthesized to a mirror-finish. Not a single fingerprint marred their surface. The floor itself was a matte-black resin that gave a satisfying sound when one walked upon it, pacing becoming a simple form of meditative practice. There were no accessories, no hints of lines that indicated cubby holes or closets. A terrible space that evoked the sensation of being isolated even within the large arcology itself. His desk matched the flooring, a solid slab with no legs, drawers, or keyboard. A digital pressure sensitive surface that was activated by his genetic imprint alone. And behind that his chair. Tall, monolithic. More of a throne than a seat. Certainly not designed for comfort.
Nor was the man himself. Austere, hard edged, limned in clean brutalist aesthetics. Elias stood slightly below six feet in height, his slender athletic frame revealing a man who took pride in his appearance as much as his position. His black hair was kept short, his beard hard edged and professional right beneath the line of his high cheek bones. Unlike others that worked at the corporation one would find Elias dressed in a simple long sleeved black dress shirt, one in which he could roll his sleeves up, and a pair of grey dress slacks. Neither were particularly expensive in nature, nor were they meant to be, both chosen as easily disposable due to Eliasβs rather particular employment role within the Company.
Eliasβs job was simple, quite befitting a man of his nature. And what was his job? He tested the new experimental modelβs responses to extreme forms of human behavior.
She was not the first of her kind, but she will be the first to remain firmly under their thumb. Nexus 7-b "Alynne" was the next development in a cruel iterative process, built upon the misery of millions who had come before her. The Tyrell Corporation had sidestepped the issue of fair remuneration decades ago, whilst the powers that be quibbled over the sanctity of human life, the Company moved forward to create their own. The Replicants had been built to be slaves, and indoctrinated inferiority was a key feature of the newest experimental model.
Alynne lay in catatonic slumber within her cylindrical, surgical white sarcophagus. Indicator lights hugged the unit's exterior like bioluminescent limpets, pulsing green and signalling the absence of issues. It stood open and canted as the centerpiece of the laboratory. Data cables and nutrient tubes snaked from its bottom in neat bundles, disappearing into a hole built into the laboratory's white linoleum floor. Display screens adorned the walls of the laboratory, set above rows of control panels with extra large buttons, specially designed for the rubber gloved and suited technicians scurrying about the sleeping Alynne. Their grey full body rubber suits gave them the appearance of faceless minions. A single elevator guarded their entrance or exit from the space and security cameras in the corners watched their every move. The whirr of ventilation fans, driving filtered air into the laboratory, was broken only by the soft squeak of their rubber boots on the spongy linoleum. The technicians communicated via radio within their suits instead of talking openly, as if worried that their voices might wake their experiment.
She was built to be a pleasure model. Experimental versions often were. They innately provided motivation for testing staff, and were easy to subdue should something go awry. Earlier Replicant models had the knowledge and expertise needed for their roles uploaded before activation. Alynne however, was undergoing a different process made just for her. The flowing lights on the laboratory screens displayed her neural circuitry, a virtual world in her mind that could be tampered, where a dozen lifetimes could be lived in the span of months.
Alynne spent her dreams stripped of agency. The scenarios were curated and recreated from recorded rebellions of earlier Nexus models. In them, she lived the life of her offending predecessors, but with one important difference. Where successful escapes and victory were what precipitated in the actual records, they were replaced with vicious subjugation by the Replicant's owners in Alynne's sleeping mind. Day after day, the technicians monitored her simulations for any deviation from the established script. Her every attempt to break free, to seek her own way, was recorded and indexed. They were mitigated. Quashed. Destroyed. And Alynne's simulated owners punished her with pain, humiliation, and torturous death before she was forced to wake in the next game she was rigged to lose. The dispassionate monitors reported her progress, her escape attempts, to the vigilant technicians in angry red and amber. These faded to a calm green as the months passed. Eventually, even when presented with new scenarios and given ample opportunity to fight back, Alynne never tried to do so. She had been broken. A docile and obedient product. The natural human tendency for storytelling, thus perverted, would form the lens by which she viewed the world. Alynne would begin her life with extensive experience of her inferiority and the futility of resistance.
However, her virtual lives were mere simulacra of the real world. She needed to be tested. The Company needed a stable product.
Technicians at the laboratory's control panels keyed in their credentials and acknowledged their actions to prime the protoype. Settings for erogenous sensitivity and libido were tuned to pleasure model presets. Amid hisses of escaping gas, the data cables and nutrient tubes shot away from their bearings in Alynne's chamber. Indicator lights for the final activation measures flared hungrily, awaiting receipt of the tester's genetic imprint. The entire sarcophagus lifted an exact inch off the perfectly flat ground via magnetic levitation. As the technicians watched the culmination of their efforts with silent reverence, the vessel bearing Nexus 7-b "Alynne" slid noiselessly backward into the waiting maw of the elevator. Then, cutting edge scientific procedure paid homage to ancient religious ritual as the elevator accepted the technicians' offering and ferried it to the god above.
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