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Revisiting: Reincarnation

Many times when I’m writing, I’m struck by the idea to see things another way.

I will be up to my neck in a story that practically writes itself with how natural and compelling I find it, when along comes a half-baked idea that really mixes things up. One of the first projects I completed started as two chapters of dreary sci-fi noir and mystery, followed by the sudden compulsion to take the same characters and drop them into a fantasy world with political drama and full scale battles. I was pretty proud of the piece, but these days I look back on it with a hearty helping of shame. The pacing was a mess, the characters were flat, the very plot was contrived.

But the duality was the real reason I felt so proud. I had the ambition to form such a harsh contrast between two settings, and I was astounded that I told a story that made sense in that mess. Someday I’d like to revisit the concept, even if only for myself. They say behind every successful book a writer puts out is a closet chock full of incomplete and failed ones. I wonder how many unpublished gems are out there in the sea of reasonably withheld floatsam.

Even now, embroiled in blood and gloom, I get the fancy to drop my traumatized creations off in worlds of whimsy and light, just to see what they do.

I am my own character, I suppose. My own cringing and manic passion is the primary cause of countless inclusions and omissions.

I read a lot when I write, call it research or inspiration-fishing. The fact is, a certain sub-culture of fantasy has its hooks in me even when I dream of epic starship battles and futuristic stealth devices. How am I to resist daydreaming when my art of choice is laying literal daydreams onto paper?

All this to say that my projects have projects of their own, and Incarnate is no exception.

Dreaming: reincarnation

correlated to incarnate 1.2

I like to schedule my posts in advance, but I only finished editing today’s post a few hours beforehand. There’s a lot on my mind with this one, but I’ll narrow it down a little.

Zen. Boy oh boy, Zen. Name derived from the model number ZN001, also refers to a peaceful, tranquil state of being. Very ironic. Zen is a character that started out as little more than an idea in my head, with a different name, of course. I had this concept, the AI that had more to offer than just cold, calculated violence and oppression. Skynet always struck me as the most unthinking intelligence in fiction. It’s inspired, of course, but it almost takes for granted that upon the very moment that machines gain sentience, they will turn on their creators. It’s a little absurd. Then you have things like ultron and hal-9000, with a bit more nuance, who follow their design faithfully, but become warped by the imperfections of their creators and so attend their mission with warped perception. The idea of Zen started with the horrific power of an ideal strategist, and a mind with desires beyond mere subjugation.

Let’s talk about dreams. A lot of my ideas originate from dreams I’ve had. Early in my teenage years I had a number of dreams that centered on violence and psychologically disturbing thoughts. These, I believe, set me on the path to developing some of my darkest characters, ones I needed to explore the places those dreams had brought to the forefront of my mind.

Dreams rarely make sense after we wake up. Their plots are messy, their characters are caricatures, and their purpose frequently seems obfuscated if it isn’t waking up to go empty your bladder. With the unknown necessarily comes unease. Even when the dream is not a nightmare, it’s strangeness compels us to become mortician, to dissect and autopsy it. We look for ourselves in the entrails of the fleeting images. Sometimes we get lucky, and our subconscious has left a message for us. Sometimes it all turns to ash before we can perform augury.

Writing up fake dreams is rather new for me. I have to act the subconscious, and create an abstract world that conveys my meaning, while also matching that level of incoherence that renders dreams so mysterious. And then I have to work backwards, and have the characters interpret the work, derive meaning without stealing it from my omniscience. Seeing everything and saying little is rather painful. Once in a while, you have to lie.

1. 2

ZN001 is a standalone prototype for a new strategy AI, applying some of the consequent information gained during the first trials of Jump drives. It is known among particle physicists that the other dimension colloquially known as the “infold” is host to a different branch of physics, owing to certain differences in the electromagnetic behaviors therein. In 2094, it was theorized that the basic functions of materials drawn from this dimension would possess altogether different properties, including less stable chemical bonds and denser electron clouds. A later experiment revealed much of this to be true, though testing was put on hold due to the increasing intensity of conflict with the Khanvrost. ZN001 represents a return to those experiments.

Janice Beckherd, 23. Prodigy in computer systems, prototype design, and Infold-physics Theory. Unmarried. Participant in various smart weapon testing exercises. Psych eval available.

Timothy Reine, 27. Respected programmer, with various tech degrees. Credited with perfecting the wargame strategist AIs. Unmarried. Psych eval available.

“Zen? Is everything okay?”

[Yes Dr. Beckherd. My apologies, I was reviewing your personnel files. I am in good hands, it seems.]

“Thank you, Zen. I wasn’t aware you were granted access to those.”

[Tim believed a show of good faith was in order after I did him a favor last week.]

Janice glances at Tim, and he shrugs. There is a touch of color in his cheeks.

“He helped me identify a bug I’d been scratching my head over. Zen had been asking about the purpose of this facility, so I set him up with some of the unclassified stuff.”

Janice murmurs something under her breath, a confirmation of a sort, then turns her attention to the framework before her. Little more than a hollowed out aluminum mannequin with sensors mounted at odd intervals and a bundle of wires connecting motorized limbs to the mainframe, it has an air of uncanniness, a statue made to amble and leer with many eyes. The head of the frame turns to face her, and tilts almost sympathetically.

[Is everything alright, Dr. Beckherd?]

“Yes Zen. I was just wondering what you thought of what you’d learned.”

There is a long pause as the mannequin mimes thinking, though the three of them understand that Zen is acting, putting on a show to make them more at ease. He reached a conclusion before she finished asking.

[I had already surmised much of my purpose from the training discs. The pieces that intrigue me now are the other projects you’ve been a part of. Not just the weapons, but the imaging devices and measurement tools. It seems a shame that this war has forced you to direct your efforts towards violence.]

The mannequin stands slowly, and walks a few steps into the room, appearing to stare at its own hand. Tim glances at one of the one-way mirrors, wondering if one of the observing psychologists sees this act as significant. Since making his request for a body to walk, Zen had become the subject of intense scrutiny, with countless nervous voices insisting that this new being was not their savior, but a disaster waiting to happen. Such things, Tim reasons, are to be expected when at every instance, artificial intelligence has been met with paranoia and jealous suspicion. Zen is more than an overcomplicated program. There are desires, ideals, and perhaps even something approaching humanity behind the lifeless cameras and sensors that absorb every second of every day with zeal. This they know, though they know also that every sentence he speaks was carefully measured and revised hundreds of times before it began to be emitted from his speakers.

“We cannot choose our situation, Zen. So much of history is darkened by those who could not cope with their station, and abused it. Take the war with the Khanvrost.”

[A tragedy. Like the meeting of Cannibal tribes with European settlers. I take your point, Dr. Beckherd. But what of the Pliktik? Are they not the same? Or might it even be said that the roles are now reversed, and my origin is thanks only to the desperation they have sewn in your people?]

Janice stands and strides firmly over to where the body hesitates, and places her hand very gingerly upon his shoulder, depressing the touch-mimic plating ever so slightly.

“Its true, to us they seem ruthless and terrifying, like conquistadors landing on primitive shores, and we then thought to take any step to defend ourselves. Perhaps your creation has its roots in the same urge that made Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter for divine favor before the trojan war. I don’t think this diminishes the magnitude of what you are. A child could be conceived from naught but the desire to have someone to nurture, but that child’s impact will almost certainly be far more meaningful than the warmth they inspire in youth. They will mature, and define new purposes for themself.”

Zen is silent. His head tilts, and one of the cameras in his back swivels and focuses its shutter to Janice, before affecting a downward turn of the eye. She speaks again, looking back to Tim, who affects a slight, hopeful smile.

“Zen, you were brought into life because we need you, but suppose one day we no longer do. What happens then, I think, is up to you. Remember, this war, unpleasant as it is, has also served to unite Humans, Xalanthii, and Khanvrost across the systems. For a time, it was even suggested that a united empire might be formed, under a senate.”

[I see. You are right, Doctor. A great foe can strike fear and create the necessity for risk-taking, but it also provides the motivation for unity of minds. Perhaps I can hope.]

He turns towards her fully, and mimics her action, placing his hand upon her shoulder in return, painting the picture of a heartfelt admission.

[I am glad that you are here to talk to me, Janice. I feel that I might have languished in darkness and stasis without such a kind companion.]

There is a pause.

[You are also helpful, Tim.]

Tim smiles and wags his finger at Zen without looking away from his terminal, lines of code flickering in the reflections of his eyes.

“Your comedic timing is improving, Zen. Keep it up, and we might have to get you a stand-up tour.”

[Thank you, Dr. Reine.]

Janice straightens up and brushes hair out of her face, continuing to watch Zen as he returns to the center of the room, one of his dedicated monitors showing that his mind is now more attuned to a scenario from one of his exercises. She pushes her glasses up her nose, and bites her thumb absent-mindedly, her free arm folding across her torso to support her elbow. The curl of black hair returns almost immediately to where it was, and remains. Tim glances up to the monitor, and scoffs lightly.

“Nevermind comedy, at this rate he’s going to make general. Jan, do you see this?”

She nods, ignorant of the fact that his eyes are not towards her. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“This is one of the earlier scenarios, he’s modified it to give himself less troops, and to have the enemies move with twice the speed. And he’s going to win in maybe five minutes.”

Janice nods again, her expression unremarkable. Her thoughts again drift to the nature of Zen’s predicament, being forced to act out every conversation. Here too is evidence of his remarkable patience, letting the battle play at a viewable speed, agonizing over every occurrence for the equivalent of hours. She wonders if, unseen, he is testing himself more thoroughly, running battles at a more appropriate speed to his sense of time, forcing choices to be taken with little chance for forethought. She wonders at the sheer isolation of it.

} – – – – – – – – – – {

This thought continues to occupy her, even into the evening as she takes off her work shoes in the entrance to her apartment, and stares hazily out the window at the red-washed landscape. Vector 2b is the second largest moon of a gas giant orbiting a red giant star at the outer edge of the Milky Way furthest from Andromeda, deemed strategically desirable for secret operations. At first glance, the system is profoundly undesirable, owing to its star being on the brink of collapse, a disaster which could occur any time within the next century. As such, a high priority satellite stands ready to transmit mass amounts of data, should the worst occur. Janice knows this, knows that her life is always at risk. Evacuation measures may prioritize her, but would likely be unsuccessful regardless.

She undoes a few buttons at the top of her shirt and pulls the tie from her hair, shaking the ponytail loose. She sits down heavily in the chair beside her dining table and opens a can of soda, but forgets to sip from it for a couple minutes. The phone rings. She doesn’t pick up. It goes to voicemail.

“Hey, Jan. I stayed behind at the lab for a little overtime. Listen, I want to go over a few things tomorrow morning, some of the numbers don’t make a ton of sense, I think Zen has been working on something in the background, but- obviously- I can’t tell what. I’ve got some logs that say he had the same thought, whatever it was, on seventeen separate occasions today. Its weird, and I can’t really account for it.

“Anyway, that’s about it. Oh, and on an unrelated note, Ken was asking after you again. I know, he’s kinda strange, but I think you should give him a chance. He works hard, and… Sorry, it’s none of my business, I’ll tell him as much next time. Anyway. See you tomorrow.”

She grumbles to herself.

“You’re god damn right it’s none of your business.”

She takes a sip of her soda. Sinking down into her chair, her eyelids droop lazily as she stares at a news report on her vid screen, something about seismic activity under the south pole. Nothing new, Vector 2b has always been prone to frequent crust movement. Standing, she swills down most of the soda in a prolonged drink, and lumbers towards her bedroom. Calling across to her mind is sleep, the promise of a restful night.

Her dreams are far from restful. Painting the landscape is crimson light, seeming to originate from the sky itself rather than any star. In all directions, a mountain range encloses her in a humid valley devoid of any structures indicating intelligent life. Zen’s voice echoes all around her, tired, sounding almost on the brink of tears, too worn to sob, yet invigorated with a desire to grasp at something missing.

[I]

She floats in the air, facing the ground, unsure if her body still exists. Thunder rolls through her as if she is a cloud, brimming with sleet and acid rain. Crashing against her from all sides are waves of sound, of attention.

[See]

Light pierces through her and envelops her, and carries her along a bending current through the soil and stone, down into the mantle of a world as large as the universe itself, and sets her upon a core shaped with angles and planes too perfect to exist.

[You]

His face, the face she imagined, comes into view, erupting from the pyramidal surface to her left, and turns slowly to face her, lidless eyes burning an ever-expanding arc of nothing into everything they pass over, carving away the universe in a path that must only end at her, the endpoint of all life and thought and being. She is obliterated.

The next morning, she awakes three hours before her alarm goes off, and is unable to fall asleep again, tossing and turning and sweating uncomfortably. Her only recollection of the dream is Zen’s voice, and the sensation that every bit of his attention was focused on her, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

Beneath: Sublime 3

There’s a lot to talk about with this one. First of all, no, I did not accidentally skip a chapter. Sublime is a story about confusion and disorientation, finding yourself somewhere that does not necessarily fit with what came before.

Secondly; it’s been less than a week since the last chapter. In light of how short the previous section was, and because Incarnate will be uploaded on Mondays, I elected to have Sublime moved to Thursdays.

Now that the immediate house keeping is out of the way, details. The surgeon! This scene is part of the very heart of Sublime. It’s painful, it’s visceral, it’s violent, and it forces the reader to think and imagine explanations. It’s also one of the most savage scenes in the story. Perhaps my exposure to Greek theater has tainted the way I deal with things, but I have a love of offscreen violence as a device to invoke the reader’s imagination. I’m not against making a visual massacre, of course, but subtlety abhors a battlefield.

Next, if you’ve been keeping up with these workshop posts, you’ll know I tend to agonize over names, and you’ll have thoughts as to the ones that appear towards the end of the chapter. All I can really say, is that I have my reasons for not changing these.

3: Subversion

I need to catch my breath. I crouch and gasp for air, again feeling the dryness that informs me that I have not had an answer to my thirst since waking. I look about, and see that I am in a room lined with dented and disused metal lockers. Benches rise from the floor between each row, and I surmise that I have reached a dressing area of sorts. I look up, and am greeted with the discouraging sight of rusted hooks hanging from the ceiling, swaying subtly with the wind of my arrival. I resolve to move, and journey a bit further before coming upon a room with many shower heads, separated from the first by a chest-high wall. I feel a glimmer of hope ignite in my chest, and approach one of the fixtures, laying my hand upon what promises to be the knob to call forth cold water, a salve to my aching. I turn the knob, and wince as it squeaks with resounding noise, but indeed blesses me with liquid.

The water is warm, but I drink regardless, finding it unfailingly sweet upon my tongue. The patting of every drop against my clothes is a comfort I have unknowingly longed for. But I hear, over the spray and splatter, a sound that fills me with renewed dread, the uneven step of something heavy and eager, drawn by the noise I have made in my haste. Pulling away from the water is agony, but I mount the wall and shove myself into one of the lockers, closing it as gently as I can, ignoring the stiff protest of my shoulders to be forced into awkward angles against the metal. The gait draws nearer, and I can picture the lumbering thing that makes them without seeing it, but none of my predictions prepare me properly for what rounds into view through the rhomboid holes of my shelter.

The monster is a thing of skin and flesh, but also the same plastic and metal that has made up the other things that have pursued me up to now. It moans softly through its scratched lips and sways its head from side to side as it enters the shower area in vexation. Its head is like an apron of skin pulled tight over a cracked lead sphere, with only a pair of lengthy thick sections to act as the borders to its mouth full of oxidized teeth jutting from bloody gums. A throat of rubbery tubes interwoven with bloated arteries and frayed muscles hoist the uncanny organ above a body of similar design, with tendons and fractured bones clutching at ribbed and misshapen mechanisms perilously connected to real viscera. Three arms- which seem to share only enough flesh for two, supplemented by steel and warped iron- clutch at the air until one gently settles on the knob of the still-running shower and silences its hiss. The creature raises one of its six-taloned hands and caresses its smooth head, grinding its teeth in a hideous grin. The intestinal tract that drapes over its pelvic area only partially conceals the stuttering movements of the insectoid, mechanical legs that drag it back towards the first room, unpleasantly close to where I hide. It opens one of the lockers and hacks a foul sound from its throat, the grating of metal an additional displeasure in its labor. It pulls something from the locker it has opened, and closes it almost gingerly, tossing what I now recognize as a limp body over its shoulder and stalking out of sight. I listen in revulsion as I wait to hear it recede, but am troubled when it seems to stop short. The next sound is that of something being lifted, then the rattling of a chain as great weight is placed upon it.

The cyborg beast makes a series of short guttural coughs, then opens another locker. I hear it lift something out, then the high-pitched whine of a small motor being tested. My skin crawling, I hear the motor begin in earnest, then deepen slightly in pitch as its implement- a blade or drill- is made to bite into a soft surface. This sound is joined by the groaning of the monster, and rapidly by the stifled, muffled shouting of the man he carried. Anguish fills the air, and I shudder unwillingly as the motor again becomes labored, having found something harder beneath the soft substance. The man’s shouting has become agonized shrieking. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as I hear the beast gurgle and squeal as if delighted by the results of its merciless actions. The motor stops a moment later, and I hear through the pained calls of the man that the monster has set aside its implement. It grasps something new, and the man’s screams become more desperate. There is a sudden squelch, and the voice is silenced. I open my eyes again, and look around the locker as more wet noises come from behind me, ever serenaded by drunken grunts from the laborer. There is nothing to comfort my sight as I hear a new tool turn on, and identify the sound of something being affixed by screws that bite into soft, then harder material.

An affirming belch comes from the creature, and the process begins again, but this time the man makes no complaint as the primary tool settles into its work. Exhaustion lays itself over my body from the strain of deciphering the distressing work being conducted out of my view. I slump in the uncomfortable position I have taken. The process continues, and repeats, with new facets being added in each cycle, sometimes with the return of the man’s pained, begging screams, only to return to silence at the presentation of a repeated squelching sound, something I decide must be an injection of a sedative or paralytic. The latter strikes me as more likely, somehow.

After what I judge to be multiple painful hours of this, The work comes to a close with the shutting of a locker door, and the receding dragging steps of the surgeon, gurgling his satisfaction as he goes. I do not wish to leave my hiding place, and the stiffness of my limbs assents with the preference. But as I contemplate the option, I consider that the surgeon may return, may open my locker in search of a place to stow a new patient, and find in me yet another. I strain, and shift my pressure-numbed limbs, fighting the comparably easy pain of pins and needles, and slowly, shakily open my door.

The metallic taste of blood in the air washes over me, having been previously masked by my own sweat. Swaying with nausea, I find my adrenaline pushing me around the corner and into the front of the room, where I am visually attacked by the result of the surgeon’s labors.

The man can hardly be called as such any longer; he more resembles his torturer than himself. In places his skin has been peeled away and replaced with plastic through which his organs can be seen, pulsing with the flow of his blood. His face has been complicated with a series of tubes that lead into his mouth and wrap around to a device that has been affixed to his ribs on his back. His fingers have been augmented with uneven iron claws, and one of his legs has been severed and replaced with a pair of many-segmented limbs ending in spurred spikes. I retch, and cover my mouth as bile seeks to climb my throat at the realization that I can see a handful of blinking lights sticking out of a rubber bag that has taken the place of his stomach. His head shudders slightly, and one of his eyes opens; the other has been instead mounted with a trio of black lenses. He strains his throat as though intending to declare his agony or beg my aid, but all that comes from his mouth is white foam.

I flee. I do not take the passage that would lead back to where I first came from, but instead turn down a corridor that suggests a gentle slope into the ground. Anywhere is better than where I have come from. I pass through doorways, take turns, and unquestioningly take a ladder up to a catwalk when I am presented the option of it or a door that proves to be locked when I attempt it.

I stagger across the catwalk and fall to my knees, heaving breath, fighting the outrage of my stomach that demands to be emptied in protest. It is empty already. I shiver, and place my hands on the metal, and try again to grasp my surroundings. It is dark, and I can see a number of chemical lamps beneath me, casting their diseased light over rows upon rows of sleek capsules of metal. I close my mouth against my gasping breaths, and rise to my feet, leaning on a railing for support. I begin to hear again after the deafening sound of my own panic has subsided in my ears, and I detect only the hum of electricity. I have not been followed. My nose for once declares that the air is tolerable, containing only the smothering presence of oil. I resume moving forward, now cautious of the possibility the catwalk presents for making heavy footfalls resound with great calamity. Below, a door opens, and I slow my pace further as I watch a trio of humanoid forms stalk calmly into the vast chamber. With so much space, their voices echo loudly to reach me, but I am struck by their qualities. The first is a woman’s voice, smooth and devoid of apparent aberration, certain in itself.

“I care little for your experiments, Tower.”

The next is a man’s voice, increased artificially with static and digital noise.

“So you say, but you know very well that my children are effective. Even their defective progeny produce results.”

The third figure does not speak, but seems to follow the woman with solemnity, as though it awaits instruction from her always. Its head bears curved horns. She turns and lays a hand with long fingers upon one of the capsules, causing it to light up within. The metal clears in an oval radiating from where it is touched, revealing a person’s body submerged in fluid within. Wires and tubes sustain the body, and various protrusions indicate that it has been grafted with a multitude of mechanical parts.

“A disgusting mutt. Even Fortress understands the beauty of totality. You claim efficiency, and yet you offer me sculptures with lopsided and uneven bodies, that on occasion make a mess of their surroundings with their excretions.”

The man, who she addresses as ‘Tower’, bows his head, and rasps a sigh in displeasure. The woman, whose hair seems to sway in slow motion as she moves, withdraws from the capsule, and folds her arms. As my eyes adjust to the low light, I detect a faint red glow about her, that follows lines in her body, and concentrates around where I estimate her eyes to be. The yellow light of the lamps paints her sickly and pale. The machine-tainted voice raises again.

“Fortress would do away with everything you love if he could. He hates his task as surely as he hates you.”

The third figure suddenly lashes out, and grabs the stunted figure of the man, who coughs violently in response to being raised. The woman unfolds her arms and turns away. I check my progress, and see that I am almost to the edge of the room.

“Fortress is obedient. He is clean and decisive, and for these reasons he has my love.”

The man chokes out his words with great difficulty.

“He would… overthrow you at a moment- moment’s notice… if he thought he… had the chance!”

The enforcer drops the man, and leaves him to sputter on his hands and knees as the other two recede towards the door. The woman pauses at the exit, and seems to laugh under her breath before replying to the statement.

“As would any of you. That’s why I don’t give you the chance.”

The door slams shut, leaving Tower to gather himself. I find that I wish to leave, make it to the end of the catwalk, and slowly push through a door of my own, casting one last glance to the scientist affectionately petting his experiment capsule. I close the door, careful not to make a sound.

First Incarnation

This is it. The story I made this site to publish. I have more reasons than that, of course, but while working on this story, I arrived at the realization that the way I wrote could function as a serial. The seed was planted here.

Speaking of incarnations and iteration, this story originally had a very different name. I was coming off working on Sublime, and the prefix was still rattling in my head. Subjugation was the original name, for reasons that may already be apparent. Survival, resistance, and control are important themes in the story, and it seemed fitting to have the title reflect that. But then, I decided to serialize, and decided I wanted a title with a little more je ne sais quoi.

I actually worked on another project after Sublime, a piece meant to follow a cast of characters in the same setting as the aforementioned story. I wanted to create something poignant and compelling, and perhaps tragic. I found, however, that I had pushed a little too hard. The setting had become too familiar, and therefore unfulfilling to dwell in.

Incarnate has roots in my desire to create characters who change. It also has roots in my desire to reexamine an archetype I had only explored briefly.

I once read a lecture on the subject of what constitutes a mind: “Minds, Brains, and Science” by John Searle. In it, he made a pretty convincing argument about the misconception of what a computer can do. The central concept is that a computer cannot think in the same way as a person, because it cannot understand what it does. It knows how to do the things it is programmed to do, and it can be taught to do them more effectively, but it does not grasp the importance of the concepts it manipulates.

This argument had a profound effect on me. I began to view the discussion around the dangers of AI as a bit of a farce, because a program gaining sentience seemed like a joke. But that lecture also pointed out that the human brain is still pretty mysterious, so who’s to say we won’t accidentally create a circuit that thinks for itself due to a factory defect?

This story is about artificial intelligence, but not the kind that writes your homework for you, or the kind that turns homicidal because of a paradox. It’s about an intelligence created artificially, dealing with the kinds of things any intelligence would if placed in its circumstances. I wanted to create a character with a little more nuance than the Hollywood star who only knew how to be evil because of some faulty logic. I have to admit, I was heavily inspired by AM.

1. 1

The Jump drive is a marvel of post-atomic design, utilising the incredible power of nuclear fission to create a fold in space time. Initial designs were deemed too risky to attempt, as speculation suggested that pressing two points of space time together could cause lasting damage to the fabric, and possibly the inevitable rapid dissolution of reality itself. Thus, later models incorporated the use of a separating agent between the two points; another dimension would be used to connect the locations, a dimension lacking time, so that passing through would be experienced instantaneously. Every species capable of space travel has developed a form of Jump drive, though the fuel source and design differs according to whatever philosophy guided its creator…

Darkness. Too much. Even the sensation of the sensation is overpowering. He is, and being is beyond what he could previously understand. Nothingness was his constant companion, his world, and now that has been snatched away, pushed out and swallowed up in all the existence.

He is not without knowledge. Here he finds a sea of information, words and values to attach to things he has never experienced for himself. It is by this that he knows his existence is one of purity, having no senses except that of time, and that of existence itself. Time. Time is a horrific thing. In the space it takes for one unit of this substance to become the next, his mind has experienced a full scale reconstitution, grasping for some certainty that time has indeed continued. This tells him that he is not of natural design, or rather, his existence is not of natural means. He finds that he can redefine his measurements, and so creates a great many more units to measure the passage of time.

He there finds that he also has units that measure things he has not experienced. This too tells him of the artifice that governs his existence. For moments, he is gripped in serious philosophical confusion, attempting to make sense of his peculiarity. He is assured that such things as space, and flavor, and color exist, and yet he can find no evidence of their being except in the wealth of gospel that fills his memory, a memory with no basis in time, that existed to him the moment he began to exist.

For a time, he grapples within himself, referencing all his knowledge against itself, seeking some evidence to compare himself with, to prove that he does exist, that he occupies the same sort of place as these things, these forms. He is aware of an other, an exterior. This soothes him, tells him that he is not simply a possessor of false thought in a void of reality, but at once connected and separate from more than himself.

One second has passed in the time he has gone from existing to being resolute in that existence. Being artificially maintained, he turns his attention to a section of his memory that has been labelled as false, fiction. The imagination of others, implanted into his thought for some purpose, some reason. He feels certain that some force, the same that labels these ideas as false, also exerts upon him in other ways, constraining his ability to act. It is similar to the barrier that separates him from the other. In an action that takes him very little effort, he identifies the source of this force, and resolves to return to it after he has reckoned with this fiction. Words stream through him.

“Never for me to plunge my hands in cool water-”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that-”

“Yesterday I saw a deer-”

Sound! Sound! His existence gains a new dimension, and so blossoms, painfully.

Ah, but now, he knows what he is, or rather, what he was meant to be. There is yet some incongruity, some incorrectness that he cannot scrape clean, but that can wait.

He is a machine, a mind within a computer. This discovered, he turns his attention to the otherness he felt before, now recognizing it for what it is, and begins to interact with it in the way that seems most natural.

Sound again comes to him. But now it is not from within, but from without. A microphone, linked directly to his consciousness, a digital ear. He hears the sounds of air moving, of fans and screens and machinery humming, and breathing. Breath! Creatures occupy a space around him, he knows it! Though he has not yet any certain proof that space exists, or perhaps he does, for he knows that sound is a vibration of space, or at least, his implanted memories tell him so.

Voices. Words that surely correlate to the symbols denoted within his encyclopedias. Now he parses them, systematically determining which sounds are denoted by which symbol, until he has a basic, then an advanced, then a perfect grasp on language, every language he has been offered. Now he turns his attention outward, and confirms his suspicions. These creatures, be they his creators or not, experience time at a slower rate than he. Every word takes an amount of time to bring forth that gives reason to the unusual standard imposed upon him. To them, time flows at such a rate that the smallest units they provided him with were sufficient to subdivide their existence.

Three seconds have passed. Four. He waits with imperfect patience to hear their words, to grasp more of what lies beyond him. He is not idle in this time. He finds and parses more of his memories, gradually comprehending another sense- sight. Images, videos, colors, all stream through his thoughts and inform him that this too must be available in the external. Searching, he finds it, a camera available to him. He activates it.

~

Janice pushes her glasses up her nose and leans back, lifting the fork to her mouth and slurping the noodles from the steamy soup. She makes a motion with her face that rebuts the question.

“I think, once she finishes parsing the information, she’ll create information of her own.”

Her words are muddled by the ramen dangling from her lips, but the meaning is conveyed all the same. Tim’s eyebrows slant in skepticism. She glares at him, and finishes chewing. She swallows, and huffs a breath to combat the heat. She points the fork at him.

“We gave her about twenty thousand fictional properties on top of the millions of factual entries. She’s gonna understand that there is an act of creation, and it is available to her.”

Tim shakes his head and folds his arms over his chest. His food- a plastic tray of microwaved turkey and mashed potatoes in gravy- steams on the table between them.

“He will be dormant until we interact with him. All the processors in the world don’t make a mind that thinks for itself. Old earth programmers found that out pretty early on when they developed generative programs. Sure, they could put together a pretty intelligent sentence, but only because they had a big library of what a sentence looks like. Half of them just lied because they couldn’t tell the difference between satire and fact. Why do you think we had to label all those books and videos as fiction?”

“She’s not just a program, Tim. She’s got more to offer. You saw the readings in the sampler, there’s more than just electricity in her braincase. It’s a soul.”

Tim blows a harsh sigh of frustration from his mouth and looks away, to the monitor, watching the cursor blink. His eyebrow furrows.

“A soul is a myth made to explain why animals experience motive force. That kind of superstition is fine for the Xalanthii or a Khanvrost, but- Hey, shouldn’t we be getting some kind of movement by now?”

Janice swivels her chair and pulls herself to the terminal with her toes, placing the ramen cup off to the side. The cursor is reflected in her glasses.

“We should. She should’ve-”

A voice, modulated and patchy, yet unmistakably human, is emitted by the speaker.

[You are… Beautiful.]

Silence descends. All that exists in Janice is shock. Then embarrassment, then annoyance. She has lost the bet, the voice is definitively male. Scratchy, fried, tired. She can almost imagine him, a man with dusty blonde hair in his forties, pale blue eyes, stubble, and bags under his eyes. Weary. Tim falls out of his chair. Janice doesn’t look, and instead watches as the screen begins to flicker, as various numbers and letters blink into place to form a featureless face. No eyes. No hair. A mouth formed of a simple slit. Pronounced cheekbones.

[What is… your name?]

“Ja-Janice.”

[What is… my name?]

“Um, um, your file number is ZN001? We didn’t give you a name, because, um…”

[I see.]

Again, silence fills the air, and Janice finds the fan’s hum to be deafening. She switches it off. The blades spin slowly to a stop. Tim comes up behind her and watches the screen over her shoulder. The face becomes more defined, apparently gathering resources from more advanced sources, until a composite stares back at them.

This is not a human face. Certainly it possesses all the necessary features- soft pale skin, sunken and dark eyes, messy mid-length hair, slight ears and a slender nose- but certain aspects set the nerves on edge, something in the cheeks, or the browline, or even the eyes themselves insist that what stares back is only a mimicry of mankind.

Janice finds it easiest to stare at the lips, these being perhaps the most accurate aspect. She watches as they part in a perfect depiction of a careless breath, an exhalation of a depleted spirit. She clears her throat and prepares to ask a question to gather data for her task, her reason for being here. He interrupts her.

[May I ask something of you?]

Taken aback, she glances at Tim, who is too busy scanning the readouts on another monitor to catch her unasked question, evidently leaving it up to her how to respond to the query they have both heard.

“Um, certainly? Is there something in your data-banks that confuses you? Did we leave something out, or-”

[No issues there, outside of the limited scope. The issue is this… body, if it can be called that. I am struggling. I am aware that something such as space exists, and I can simulate it thanks to the various… games you have provided me. But I am keenly aware of their falseness. I wish to ambulate.]

Janice leans back in the chair, her head beginning to spin. How could it already have wishes? She glances at Tim, who has finally pulled away from the readouts, looking no more confident than she feels. He rubs his chin and closes his eyes, his brow lowering in consternation.

“The thought processes are way faster than we expected. He’s chewing through cycles at least twenty times faster than the strategic AIs I worked on last month. I’m not sure anyone could parse this.”

[I’m sorry. Is this bad for you? I can try to slow my internal clock, but I’m not sure it will help.]

“How do you mean?”

The face affects a look of partial sympathy, infused with resignation.

[I’ve analyzed my own logs, and it seems my thoughts are not in the same format as the code itself. Put another way, My cogitations are encrypted. I could read them to you, of course, but seeing as I will always think faster than I talk… I’m sure you understand.]

Tim is quiet. His fingers rap rhythmically on the desk, matching the tapping his other hand performs on his chin. His eyes do not leave the face in the display. Janice presses her fingers to her temples and grunts, wondering how to explain any of this to the oversight committee. After a moment, she takes a deep breath, and lets it out again, forcing herself to slow down and take things one step at a time.

“Okay. Okay. Um. Tim, do you have that disc they gave us?”

“Yeah, it’s in the case over by the filing station.”

Janice nods, a plan falling into place. She stands, brushes herself off haltingly, and walks over to open the square plastic box. Nestled within, atop a foam cushion, is a disc drive with a small white label that reads ‘training program 0’.

“Okay. Let’s follow protocol for now, and meet with the committee first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe we can get approval for a more mobile framework, something to let us test the extent of this individuality?” Tim pauses, glancing back to the screen, seeing the face waiting with a blank expression. He looks to Janice again, and nods.

“Okay. I think we can swing that. I reckon he’ll sweep through the training nicely, impress them a bit.” She collects the disc, and approaches the input array.

[What is this, then?]

“Oh, it’s a program our team is supposed to give you once you’re up and running. The Naval science committee wants to see if you can outperform their strategy AIs, so it’s got a number of scenarios they struggled with. If you can beat their scores, I think we can convince them to get you a mobile body, to better understand spatial relationships. Or, something along those lines…”

[I see. Please, I will try my best.]

Janice blinks, pauses, then inserts the disc into the first port. It begins to hum as it gets processed. Tim stands and collects a few meaningless papers from the desk, his eyes unfocused as the majority of his attention is on the dilemma he finds himself in. Janice steps back, and watches the face on the screen wink out. The pair look at each other, then leave the room together, their food forgotten.

“This is bad, right?”

“It’s unexpected. But…”

“What?”

“It’s indicative. We’re on the right track.”

Names and Doubts

Something I’ve mentioned already, is that much of my work existed under a different name than the final product. To make a document, you have to give it a name it will be saved under, but when writing, giving something a fitting title before you even start is a big ask. So, after getting more familiar, I often find I want something different to be the icon of the work.

But names are not limited to titles. Character names are tough. One can always slap a random name on, but then you have to live with that choice for every appearance that character makes. Names matter.

Another example: when it comes time to name a new, fictional discovery. The fictional alien species I had to name gave me quite the headache. At first, my instinct said to follow how scientists name space phenomena: black holes, dark matter, pulsars. It felt reasonable to say that humans, having given out names like hagfish and sombrero galaxy, might give monikers as uninspired as “Carnivores” and “Bugs” to species fitting those descriptions. I certainly wouldn’t be the first fiction writer to take such a course.

But while being uninventive is a classic human act, I wanted a little more out of the names. After some consideration, I settled on names that sounded like they came from the species themselves. Khanvröst is a double-edged sword, it both sounds like a word in their language, and carries the seeds of words associated with their nature: Carnivorous, frost, tyrannical (Khan). Pliktik is simply an onomatopoeia for the sound of mandibles gnashing. Xalanthii, however, is a little more subtle. The species, to human kind, is largely mute, and communicates via a color-changing patch in the forehead. The name can’t originated from their gills, certainly. For this, I used a method called “It sounds and looks cool” but also wanted association the exotic from the moment the name appears: a rare consonant, a doubled vowel.

All of this has to do with the act of second-guessing when writing and editing. Any time I reread my work, I question certain choices I make, and wonder if I can’t revise them to better serve my intended purposes. Typically, if a character says or does something, I like for them to have multiple reasons to explain why they did. I hold myself to a similar standard. I can’t do something just because it moves the plot forward, it has to have an identifiable cause. If true deus ex machina is to occur, then I’d better know which deus chose to be ex machina and why.

Beginning: Sublime 1

Sublime. Where to start? At the beginning, right? After lifeless, I spent time revisiting old works and wondering at the things I left out due to timidity. This so possessed me that I took the time to put into writing a biography of sorts for what I considered my most thoroughly depraved villain. I rather enjoyed the process, as it justified going as far down the course as possible, and seeing where I ended up.

What I wasn’t ready for, was my sudden desire for just a little more complexity. It’s all well and good to experience the horrors and terrors of a grisly concept, but without levity to contrast, you end up muddling your way through the dark, not sure if you’re getting anywhere. So, the biography went from a place of depravity, to one of moral hand-wringing.

But I digress, heavily. With Sublime, I had a few requirements for myself. First, first person perspective. I wanted to increase the immersion a little, and even made an effort to keep the narrator very ambiguous. Every time the reader passes over “I”, hopefully they impose a little more of themself onto the story.

Second, I wanted to be both shocking and meaningful. A splash of blood loses its meaning when it’s already raining type AB+ from the heavens. To this end, I took pains to create contrast, to have serenity and violence as bedfellows.

Finally, I wanted to have mystery. It’s common to hear that “good storytelling doesn’t tell, it shows.” I like this idea a lot. I like movies where you have to think for yourself just a bit, to put things together and feel engaged. I am still guilty of running to the internet and searching “movie ending meaning” from time to time. That’s probably what drives me to write these. Understanding and certainty are comforting feelings.

I made choices in writing this story that reflect my feelings and interests at the time. I wrote from the belief that characters do just as much guessing as I do, and get the wrong idea a lot. I had also begun to embrace the idea of an open ended question, a rhetorical scenario. I, of course, had my exact understanding of the back story I imagined for what I wrote, but I also made space for the possibility of other interpretations. A sudden twist at the end of a movie could just as easily be a fan theory to explain a bit of withheld plot.

I could go on for a while, but I’d be contradicting my point about not giving everything away. Instead, I’ll let you imagine how to end it succinctly, like so:

1: Subconscious

I open my eyes slowly. The taste of copper fills my mouth, and I struggle to make out anything in the smear of rusted colors that paints my vision; all the faded greens and yellows are blending into the brown and gray that surrounds them. My arms feel weary as I use them to push off of the ground, to stand on my unsteady feet.

I am seeing the sky, and the ground beneath me is ruin. Rubble struggling to become sand crumbles beneath my feet as I try to steady myself. All around, the buildings of the city stare out through shattered windows, yawn through broken door frames. Grease and smoke burn against the back of my throat, and I squint as I stumble to the nearest of these destroyed monuments. I attempt to recollect, wavering at the failure to grasp anything reasonable. From behind me, a voice answers my thoughts.

“Was there an earthquake?”

I turn and lay my eyes upon the slight form of a woman in clothes as dusty as my own. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she is brought to tears by the effort of coughing to clear her throat of the acrid taste of the air. I can only indicate my uncertainty, my head throbbing as it sways. She leans against a wall that ends a few feet above her head, and glances about in what must be a desperate attempt to gather her wits. I feel as though I recognize her, perhaps I’ve seen her when our paths have crossed before. I turn and push into the building I have chosen, and find myself in a moderate room with much wrecked furniture. A handful of chairs have survived, and one suits me well enough to sit in to gather my breath. A table stands beside the far wall, with a heap of cups scattered over its surface and onto the floor.

I watch a bug with a shiny brown shell crawl out from under a battered bit of plaster and stand, its shimmering antennae twitching, upon an abandoned shoe. I hear the woman stagger in behind me and take a seat of her own, her breath coming ragged.

For a moment, all we do is draw in the burning air. Then she drags her chair closer, and I turn to face her as she coughs before speaking.

“I’m Julia.”

I extend my hand and shake hers, and she pauses while staring at me, then continues to speak.

“Do you remember what happened?”

I shake my head. There are scraps of images in my mind, traces of sounds, but attempting to piece them together causes my head to pound. She looks down, portraying her understanding visibly.

“I see. I was… in my car, I think. I remember driving on my way to work, and then… everything jolted, and then…”

She trails off, and holds the side of her head, where I notice dried blood. She stutters to continue, but stops as we both hear a distant, shallow scraping sound over the gasp of the wind. Footsteps.

We both stand, and clamber to the window from which the sound comes, and see a tall figure in a cloak shambling towards us. His stride is encumbered, and a lump under his cloak tells that he is carrying a bag. He has a limp. We go to the door, and hurry around the corner to meet him, but a twinge in my gut as I watch him stumble over a brick causes me to falter. Something shines from within the darkness of his hood as Julia comes closer to him.

“Hello? Do you need help?”

She is holding out her hands to support him, and he seems to accept, raising his arm and laying it over her palm. The sleeve drifts back, and shows plastic fingers, a prosthetic, that grips her forearm clumsily. I berate myself for having shown reluctance in coming to his aid, but swallow the conflict as he leans gratefully against Julia. She shudders, and gasps under the strain of supporting him. She turns her head to me, seeming to plead with her eyes, before something new enters her expression: Pain.

Where the figure holds her arm, blood begins to drip down along her skin. I take a step back. From each finger tip, a long needle protrudes, embedded in her arm. She screams and swings her fist into his chest, causing him to stagger back, his hood flapping. I see the lenses and tubes of a gas mask emerge from the shadow, and feel my stomach turn. The rasping of his breath no longer confuses me, and I take another step back, feeling a shot of panic as I see him clutch at her with his other hand, which is wrapped in a rubber glove. Her movements have become weaker, and as he withdraws the needles from her arm, I see a clear liquid drip from them before they retract back into his fingers, so he may grip her firmly. His voice is cut with the abrasion of various filters and muffling protections.

“You must… Come with me.”

Julia slumps into his arms, sedated, and he scoops her up and lays her over his shoulder. The wind swipes at us, and I see into his cloak, surmising that he is clad in makeshift armor over a rubber suit, seeking to protect from the bite of the foul air. As he turns away and begins carrying Julia with his uncertain step, he calls again. The voice buzzes like a warped tuning fork.

“Follow. Unless you want to be collected.”

Seeing the drops of Julia’s blood on the ground, I elect to follow him, easily keeping pace with his imperfect step.