27 - Where do the children come from?

Jorge, Eukario, and Yusuf crossed the threshold of the big house, feeling the immediate contrast between the suffocating heat of the outside and the measured coolness of the interior. The day promised to be unusually hot, and at that moment of midday, the sun scorched with its dense and oppressive weight. Miceros, always attentive, appeared with the silent efficiency that characterized him, bowing his head respectfully before retreating to organize the meal preparations. As was customary in the estate, every detail was supervised with the utmost care, but in recent occasions the meticulousness was even greater: Lakua and Kamar, two of the most influential landowners in the country, would share the table.

Eukario and Yusuf would also be present at lunch, a gesture that Jorge had maintained in his recent receptions, acknowledging the fundamental role they played. However, it was still not time for the meal, and Jorge was not willing to let more time pass without obtaining answers. As they crossed the foyer, he made a subtle gesture to Yusuf, indicating for him to join him.

The room they headed to was an interior lounge, shielded from the heat, where light filtered through dark wooden slats, casting irregular patterns across the polished stone floors. A discreet sandalwood incense burned in a golden censer, filling the air with a dense, spicy aroma.

Jorge settled into a wide chair made of intricately carved wood inlaid with mother of pearl, an exquisite piece where luxury was not at odds with comfort. He took a seat naturally, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm on the armrest. His gaze lost itself for a few moments in the sway of the linen curtains, which swayed with the imperceptible breeze flowing in the dimness of the room.

Yusuf, without waiting for an indication, took a seat on an ivory upholstered couch, facing the lord of Tharakos. He did so not with servility but with that mix of respect and confidence that distinguished him, with the serenity of someone who knows that his knowledge is valuable. He had served Benassur with the same effectiveness, and now served Jorge, but not as a mere executor of orders, but as someone who understood the rules of power and knew how to navigate within them.

"Let’s talk about what we left pending, Yusuf," Jorge said, with the calculated calm of someone who does not intend to repeat the question.

Yusuf barely inclined his head, a gesture of assent indicating the readiness of someone about to share knowledge reserved for just a few. His dark, intelligent eyes sparkled with a flicker of contained satisfaction. He elegantly shook his mane.

"Of course, elí. Ask whatever you wish to know."

"Tell me precisely how our society of free men is organized; also the origin of the slaves. And don't forget to explain to me well how the soma functions," said Jorge simply, but clearly showing that he would not settle for vagueness.

"There are breeding farms," he began, and each of his words pierced Jorge's mind like a pin. "There, selected female slaves give birth throughout their useful lives. They are inseminated with optimal sperm, extracted from raw slaves through periodic milking organized by the State."

Jorge did not say anything, but felt a shiver run down his spine.

"The babies spend their first year with their mothers, then they are transferred to a facility where they receive educational care and are observed. They are allowed to play, speak, grow up barely influenced... until they are five years old."

"And then?" Jorge's voice sounded tenser than he expected.

"Then they undergo the test."

Yusuf paused, letting the word hang in the air.

"Some children develop initiative. They run, invent games, create rules, challenge others. Others, on the other hand, let themselves be guided. They prefer to follow instructions. They are happy obeying, without questioning anything.

At that crucial moment, elí, they are separated. The first will be free men and women. The second, their slaves.

Jorge's pulse thudded strongly at his temples. Part of him felt a deep rejection, but another part... another part recognized the impeccable logic of that system.

"And then?" his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"From there, they are educated. The slaves receive soma. Their identity gradually dissolves until only pure obedience remains. No responsibility, no choice. Only the relief of never deciding. The others follow paths that lead them to develop their capacities as free citizens of Ketiris; they receive education, a job that suits them, and integrate into society. Their capacities and natural inclinations are researched, and thus some can be potters, or jewelers, while others are teachers, or doctors, or diplomats. Naturally, it is a much more complex process that I have significantly simplified because it is the State that organizes everything, and it does so taking into account the country's needs. Everything is planned with that in mind so that nothing is left over or lacking."

Jorge stared at the flickering candle flames. He felt a growing discomfort inside.

"And can't classification errors occur when that test is conducted?"

"Of course. Sometimes those who shouldn't are designated as slaves. But then the soma doesn't work on them: they rebel, try to escape, reject orders. If that's the case, the error is corrected in time."

"And the other way around?"

Yusuf's smile widened a little.

"That's more common. Free children who are burdened by having to make decisions and take responsibility for them; children who plead to be slaves, who beg to belong to someone; who want to be told what to do, who feel freedom as a torment."

Jorge felt a strange tightness in his chest.

"And is the change granted to them?"

"If it is confirmed that the desire is genuine, yes. The soma fixes it."

The landowner looked away. Something in his gut twisted violently.

"Then explain my slave to me. Explain Alex to me."

"There's nothing to explain," Yusuf said softly. "He didn't pretend. There was no deceit."

Jorge shook his head, a knot forming in his throat.

"He... he did it to pass the lie test. He pretended to want to be my slave falsely, in order to spy."

Yusuf looked at him with something akin to compassion.

"If the soma worked on him," he said slowly, "it's because deep down he already belonged to you. It doesn't matter his sexual orientation, it doesn't matter anything. He truly admired you; more than that: he loved you... although perhaps he wasn't even aware of it himself. This happened automatically when you met. You were already an elí then; and he was already a slave then."

Silence.

Jorge felt the weight of those words fall upon him like a slab. A strange vertigo engulfed him. But something told him that what Yusuf had just said could be true.

After all, he had always been a Master; that was true. Since he was a child, he liked to feel obeyed; and in his early childhood, things worked that way because other children willingly accepted the role of playing to be his servants, emerging slaves. Then everything complicated in life, with the convoluted interplay of feelings, even sex and its fetishes. No. Being a Master, or being a slave was not a sexual game; it wasn't even a sexual matter. Sex was within, yes, but because it is part of living beings; a Master commands and a slave obeys, that is their nature, that is what they are. They did not choose it, it cannot be changed: it is that way.

That’s why poorly classified children almost immediately call attention and are sent to the right place. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the ketirí system. In contrast, in the rest of societies, masters and slaves were camouflaged, disguised as what they were not. They could only show their true selves when playing, while what they called real life was paradoxically a huge simulation, which was diabolically complicated by family relationships, for example, by taking on the responsibility of children or choosing an exclusive partner. Men who wanted to kneel at another's feet but forced themselves to walk upright, pretending that their souls did not cry out for chains. Or his own case, a master throbbing in the chest of a calm high school teacher.

That’s why he felt liberated; in the month he had been a citizen of Ketiris, he had been himself, he felt proud of himself, capable of everything. That month was worth more than everything before.

That’s why Ketiris was "the land of the free." Now he understood it truly. And it was also logical that soma could not work with the three captured Israelis.

But Yusuf did not know the properties of soma as well as he thought.

At that very moment, the three prisoners remained chained and had received a generous injected dose of the drug, because the commander knew that sometimes its effects were worth it. Soma doesn't enslave, but it has a different power, one that manifested in unpredictable ways. The commander in charge of the interrogations knew this, and he could confirm it when, among the prisoners, one of them broke down. The youngest.

His companions remained unperturbed, their eyes hard as stones, their flesh tense with pain. But he, the firm-bodied and muscular boy, succumbed shortly after receiving the injections. At first, it was just a tremor in his hands, a barely perceptible quiver in his throat. Then, his breathing grew irregular, his pupils dilated, his forehead beaded with cold sweat. His gallantry crumbled like a statue cracked from within.

What soma awakened was not obedience. It was truth.

Jorge saw the terror reflected in his eyes and knew he was watching a man who, for the first time in his life, understood who he truly was. The mask he had built on himself, the years of indoctrination, the iron discipline with which he had tried to forge himself as a soldier, all was dissolving in a whirlwind of memories that surfaced with the bluntness of a true blow.

He was no longer a soldier.

He was a boy. A Palestinian boy who had fled the dust and blood of his homeland, who had enlisted in the army of his oppressors believing that in doing so he would tear his own story from his flesh. He had repeated the oaths, promised allegiance to a flag that was not his, obeyed orders, wielded a weapon against his own people. And he had believed that he had forgotten everything.

But soma dragged him back.

He saw his mother's face, the house where he grew up, the scorching sun on the white walls, the smell of freshly baked bread. He saw the bodies torn apart in the streets, the gazes of those who called him a traitor. And he understood, with an indescribable horror, that he had never stopped being what he was.

The commander watched him with fascination. It was no longer an interrogation: it was an act of revelation.

The young man broke down in tears. Not with the fury of someone resisting, but with the meekness of someone surrendering. His lips trembled. His body, once tense and defiant, now seemed lighter, as if he had finally released the weight of a lie he had carried for too long.

Mahmud Ashour lifted his gaze, and in his watery eyes, there was no longer any trace of defiance or resistance, only the devastation of one who has been stripped of his last lie. The commander saw it and knew that he would speak. Not out of fear. Not out of pain. But out of revenge.

The words poured from his mouth like an uncontrollable torrent, like an avalanche that swept everything in its path. He was no longer David Cohen, neither now nor ever. His name was Mahmud Ashour. And he hated Israel.

His two companions, hanging from the chains like figures sculpted in desperation, looked at him with the stupor of someone gazing at a specter. That was impossible. To be part of the Israeli special forces, physical skills or proficiency with weapons were not enough: absolute conviction was required, unwavering fanaticism, unquestionable loyalty to the State that had molded him. But Mahmud had done everything to get there. He had renounced his language, his history, his people. He had surely killed his own compatriots. Perhaps he had demolished houses with entire families inside. Perhaps he had shot at children who only had stones in their hands.

And yet, he remained who he was.

Soma had torn him from the shell he had become and thrown him back into his most hidden truth. He had lived as a Zionist. Now, stripped of the farce, he hated with an impossible ferocity everything he had sworn to defend. But more than Israel, more than his superiors, he hated himself. And there was no possible redemption. He could only offer the only thing he still possessed: his knowledge.

The commander ordered him to be set free. His chains fell with a metallic clatter, but the young man did not move immediately. He seemed paralyzed by the weight of his own betrayal. Finally, they took him out of earshot of his companions, who no longer mattered. They were now irrelevant. The only valuable thing was what that broken boy had to say.

Mahmud spoke. Or rather than speaking, he vomited words. They stumbled over each other, entwined in desperation, laden with guilt and a frantic desire to unload the history that consumed him. The commander let him speak; he did not interrupt. Each piece of information was a fragment of the mosaic they needed to complete. Each confession, a precise blow against the enemy's wall.

When the commander realized that there was nothing more to squeeze from that shattered soul, he ordered him to be guarded but treated kindly. He was not just another prisoner. He was a witness to his own condemnation.

And then he ran.

He had to reach the big house as soon as possible. He had to inform the authorities, yes. But above all, Jorge Tharakos must not escape.

Because if Mahmud told the truth, the master of the estate was not just a lucky foreigner; he was a traitor.

He arrived at the big house while they were still at the after-meal table. From the threshold, he observed the scene: three landowners sharing wine and conversation with two officials. He recognized one of the employees by sight, but he knew the other well: Yusuf; he had collaborated with him on multiple occasions regarding security and logistics.

The commander restrained the impulse to burst in immediately. If Jorge saw him, he would demand a report on the interrogation. He couldn't raise suspicions too early; so he waited. A whole two hours.

Each minute was a slow drip of impatience, but finally, when the after-meal gathering ended and the guests departed, he approached Kamar. Because if anyone could pull the strings without sounding the alarms, it was he.

Kamar was the last to get up from the table, lingering a moment after the other four diners had left. As soon as he stood, he felt the commander's presence approaching with steady steps.

"Sir, we must talk about a serious matter," he announced in a low voice, with the contained urgency of someone about to spill a dangerous truth.

Kamar looked at him with a slightly furrowed brow.

"I am aware of the capture of the Israeli commandos. Excellent news. High Jorge Tharakos informed me during the meal. Have you obtained relevant information? Shouldn't I inform him before anyone else?"

The commander did not hesitate.

"I would have... if I didn’t know he was a traitor."

Kamar felt an invisible weight fall on his shoulders. He did not show his shock, but inside, the machinery of his mind kicked into gear with feverish speed. Without saying a word, he took the commander by the arm and discreetly led him to a small secluded room, away from unwanted witnesses. Once inside, he closed the door with forced calm and pointed to a chair.

"Speak."

The commander sat down, his back rigid and his eyes lit with the severity of what he was about to relate.

"We captured three men, sir. A sergeant and two soldiers. But we discovered that they were carrying a short-range radio, which made us suspect that they were in communication with someone else. I focused the interrogation on that but without success. Mr. Tharakos authorized me to use any method to obtain the information and urged me to achieve results today. I know that eventually, every man speaks, but under these circumstances, only the most extreme tortures could have hastened the process... and even then, we were getting nothing."

Kamar nodded slowly.

"And then?"

"Then I tried soma."

Kamar's eyes narrowed.

"I understand that soma has no effect on people with strong convictions. These commandos must be nothing but fanatics."

"That's right, elí. It was a shot in the dark. But it hit the mark."

The commander paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air before continuing.

"One of the soldiers was not who he claimed to be. He was not David Cohen, as stated on his documents. His real name is Mahmud Ashour. A Palestinian."

Kamar frowned, not hiding his perplexity.

"A traitor. What credibility does his testimony have?"

"He is not a traitor in the sense we imagine. He had become another person; he had erased his old identity... until soma brought it to the surface. He is not an infiltrator with a purpose. He is a Palestinian boy who renounced his homeland, who embraced Zionism with the desperation of someone trying to escape a cursed destiny. He killed for them. He killed his own. But soma is merciless with the lies we tell ourselves. And now he has remembered who he is. Now he hates what he was. And he wants redemption."

Kamar crossed his arms.

"And what has he said?"

"Everything. His commander, a lieutenant we have not yet captured, informed them about the traitor within Ketiris. He was not just any spy. He was not a minor contact. He was a governor. A landowner. The lord of this house."

Silence fell upon the room like a slab.

Kamar felt a cold shadow creeping down his back. If all this was true, he had been the architect of Jorge Tharakos's rise. He had allowed a foreigner to become one of the most powerful men in the country. And Jorge had deceived him with the skill of a seasoned player.

Every piece fit. Everything had been too easy. Jorge's arrival, the transformation into a ketirí citizen, the absorption into the system. The choice of Alex as a slave, a low-value Russian spy who succumbed to persuasion with minimal resistance. Too many signs had gone unnoticed.

And now Kamar feared something more than betrayal: the consequences for himself.

If this reached the Council, if it was revealed that he was the one who took him in, who opened the doors to him... would he still count on their support?

Kamar's mind raced with dizzying speed. He could not let the situation slip from his hands.

"Call Lakua and Yusuf," he ordered quietly. "Do it discreetly. And place Jorge under immediate surveillance."

"He is in his private quarters, sir. Apparently enjoying his slaves."

Kamar felt a pang of disdain. He was still unaware that the net was closing around him.

Minutes later, Lakua and Yusuf were in the same room. The commander spoke with military precision. He left no room for doubt.

When he finished, Lakua's face was livid.

"It can't be! It can't be!" he murmured, as if repeating it could change reality.

Yusuf, on the other hand, remained still, with an inscrutable expression.

"What should we do now?" he asked coldly.

Kamar made a decision instantly.

"We must find the lieutenant. Jorge is hiding him somewhere in this building. He does not yet know that his men have been captured, but he will find out soon. If we do not act immediately, he could disappear."

Lakua nodded.

"And Jorge?"

"First, let’s capture the lieutenant. Then we will decide his fate."

Kamar looked at Yusuf.

"You must move quickly and without raising suspicions. Find him before it’s too late."

Yusuf nodded with the inscrutable expression of someone who measures every step he takes. Without another word, he glided out of the room and disappeared into the maze of hallways of the palace.

Only Lakua and Kamar remained there, trapped in a dense silence, as if betrayal floated in the air, in every shadow, in every corner of the house that Jorge believed to be his. Lakua was thinking feverishly; Kamar was calculating the next step.

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot shook the air, drawing everyone's attention. Without a doubt, it had occurred in the main building.

Those in the house ran toward the noise; Jorge, Kamar, and Lakua among them. From a shadowy room emerged a disheveled Yusuf, with a smoking gun in hand. His breathing was erratic. In a small annex, among boxes of candles and wicks, a man sat slumped, his eyes still open in an expression of astonishment. The bullet had entered through his forehead and exited through the back of his neck, leaving a dark stain on the wall.

Seconds later, Yusuf dropped the weapon. His hands trembled. He felt a lump in his throat, and his stomach churned. He tried to remain standing, but his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, sobbing in a corner. The Israeli lieutenant was dead. Blood continued to flow from both bullet holes.

"He must have run into him suddenly... and fired without thinking," Kamar said, with a calm that contrasted with the tension in the air. "What a pity, we could have interrogated him."

Jorge fixed his gaze on the corpse, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. He felt that things could not get worse for him.

"This man had taken refuge; he was hiding in your house, Jorge," Kamar continued, with the same coldness. "He could not have made it here without help from the inside. And as you can see, he had even eaten bread, meat, and sweets from your kitchen. Do you see?"

Jorge did not respond. He was right about everything.