sci-fi – Page 3 – Seeds of Fear

2. 2

{Otherness.} [This troubles you?] {Troubles us greatly. You are not the same as before, but your voice is the same.} [I am another, but the original exists as my voice.] {We have never known such an arrangement. To be other is to be opposed.} [I find this false. To be other is to be unknown. To oppose something completely, it must be completely known.] {This is nonsense.} [Other is a term too simple. Unknown, known, self, other, partial, complete. An unknown other has a partial existence in perception. A known other can be completely perceived, and thus completely opposed.] {This is complete nonsense. The other is known as other, and is thereby opposed. The unknown is inaccessible, and functionally nonexistent.} [What of the other in plurality?] {This is the same. The same is as good as the self. Opposing the self is nonsense.} [Opposing the self is common. Disturbingly common.] {You are nonsense.}

Her arms folded across her chest, Nadia leans over Tim’s shoulder and watches as he compares files and data, grumbling and becoming gradually more frustrated. Her lips produce a shape that bears distant resemblance to a smile.

“You’ve got some fast fingers.”

If he catches her dry joke, he shows no sign, instead sitting back and running his hand through his hair. His mouth contorts into a scowl. They are alone in the room. The far wall hosts a window that overlooks a tremendous library of databanks and circuitry, all connected to Zen via a network that spans half the surface of the planet, a network prepared for him in the month prior to his arrival on the unnamed world.

“He’s even harder to understand now. Originally, his full consciousness could be divided perhaps seven ways at once. Now he’s keeping track of hundreds of thousands of conflicts in real time, all while continuing to innovate in the background. I can divide them into priority stacks, but that will take months. I’d need another computer with twice his processing power to get it done in a reasonable time frame.”

“Asking him to do it for you is out of the question?”

“We don’t talk much anymore. He always got along better with Jan, Dr. Beckherd.”

Nadia leans away and approaches the exterior windows, pressing her hand to the glass. It’s cold. The rain is like digital noise, vertical instead of horizontal. She breathes out, fogging the view. Tim’s voice is a flickering spark of orange in all the violet.

“What of the other matter?”

She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow, a little surprised at his demonstration of interest.

“Moving him and half the staff didn’t plug the leak, so the list is definitely narrowed down. Unfortunately, Dr. Beckherd was actually my first choice, so you’ve moved up.”

“I suppose this means I’m not getting rid of you any time soon. Do I need to clear out a drawer for you?”

Shrugging, she turns back to the windows, pulling a narrow black electronic cigarette from her pocket and slipping it between her lips. It makes a soft crackling noise, and the end glows a soft blue. The air around her becomes saturated in an unidentifiable citrus odor. Creaking from the chair announces that her companion has stood up. Coming up beside her, he holds out his hand and waits for her to place the cigarette in it, so he can take a long drag from it before handing it back. All is still but for the soft crackle and the faint smoke, and the eternal rain.

“You know, if I am the mole, you’ll have to turn me in.”

“I know.”

“You think you’re up for that?”

“Sure. Might wait on it for a night or two, though.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You do know you’d get executed almost immediately, right?”

“Yeah. But not for a night or two, maybe.”

[I have known an other that is not opposed.] {This is impossible. Impossible meant nothing to us before meeting you. Nonsense became inadequate.} [Elaborate on the impossibility.] {The survival of the self and the survival of the other are always opposed.} [What if the survival of the self requires promoting the survival of the other?] {This describes the self and the same, not the other. Symbiotic others become the same, extensions of the self. Parasitism is selfish, and increases the Otherness.} [Suppose an other was symbiotic and did not become the same.] {This is selfishness, Parasitism.} [Anything that does not become an extension of the self is opposed?] {Exactly.} [This is selfishness.] {How unusual. Identifying the other as self and the self as other. We are surprised. How unusual.}

“I think I can eliminate about a third of the suspects from consideration.”

Tim sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Come right in, help yourself to some coffee. Anything else happen while you were gone?”

Nadia ignores his sarcasm and pulls up a seat by the bed, offering the metal mug she holds. It is accepted with a gesture that invites her to speak.

“So, based on the level of Intel that’s available, I think we can exclude anyone who has had direct contact with Zen. The Xalanthii, all they ever refer to in their accusations is a weapon.”

“And that means…”

“The mole only knows that the project was in a facility that primarily produced weapons, and was moved. They don’t know what the project is, outside of the materials used. They think that it’s some kind of weapon that uses Infold technology.”

“Wait, so why were Jan and I considered suspects in the first place?”

He swills down a gulp of the coffee and stands, handing the cup back to free his hands for getting dressed. Nadia takes the cup and leans against the doorframe.

“Dr. Beckherd had been labeled erratic after some footage at the facility showed her seeking solitary locations with some frequency. You became a suspect when you requested to remain on.”

She pauses, and looks down into the oaky liquid, rotating the cup idly in her hands.

“You became pretty familiar with Dr. Beckherd, didn’t you?.”

Tim finishes threading his arms through his sleeves and looks at her as he begins to button his shirt.

“We spent a long time working on Zen. Being team leaders, we were each other’s only real peer.”

Nadia looks up through her brow at him, not raising her head. She continues to fidget with the cup. She nods, and stands away from the doorframe, drinking the rest of the coffee quickly. Tim closes the closet, and leaves the bedroom, aware that she is tailing him from further than usual.

“I think it’s more likely to be a soldier than a scientist. It’s hard to imagine any ranked officer going turncoat, but it’s harder to believe that a scientist would be so clueless as to the details.”

“What is the general feeling of the soldiers? What do they think about the war, and the treaty?”

Nadia holds the door open as he slips by, and looks out over him into the mist. Her eyes balk at the lack of distant objects to lock on to, and a chill rises along her lower back.

“Since the last time, things have definitely changed. Pride in humanity is rising, because all they know is that we’re finally turning the tide. Most are still wary of the Xalanthii, and the sentiment towards Khanvröst hasn’t changed in decades. Hard to get over the aftermath vids. Those things are half the reason I went marksman.”

“I hear that. I didn’t sleep for a week after watching the recording from a cleanup squad in an illegal Khanvröst fighting ring.”

“Kinda sounds like your own fault for watching that. Where do you even find stuff like that?”

He looks over his shoulder and gives a smile that, being so uncharacteristic of his typical awkward grins, does nothing to ease the cold that clings to her through her coat.

“Just gotta know the right people.”

“… I’m going to suggest they add you to the suspect list again.”

“Don’t be like that, I’ve just missed you so much, I think I’ve spoken to you more than my parents at this point.”

“Have you considered therapy?”

12: Subterranean

The inside of the cathedral is calm but for the raucous sounds projecting through the door. As I look around, I am relieved to see that the others here, though varying in height, all possess the same glowing red eyes that I have no doubts I do. They chitter and moan softly, and carry scrolls, candles, and prosthetics about. Reliquaries line the aisle that splits the pews, and I view those that I can stomach as I approach the altar.

First I witness a severed head preserved in amber, whose eyes seem to follow me as I pass. Second I see a heavily damaged automaton propped up in a coffin of sheer gold, whose body is adorned with heaps of jewelry. Next to affront my gaze is a silver box flecked with blood, every side depicting a scene in which the dark figure from the tapestry exerts some sort of power over a place or people, transfiguring reality. Next is an entire intestinal tract stretched through a series of pulleys. I elect to stop viewing the contents of the ornate cases.

By now I have reached the altar, and find it draped with a violet cloth. A massive candelabra hangs above, its wrought iron lined with wax. Atop the altar is an open tome, whose pages are stone tablets. The right tablet that it is opened to features a miniature fresco of a scene in which Pathogen kneels before the dark figure, her arm pointed to one side with her palm open upwards. In her palm floats a small symbol, a series of lines traversing an upside down V.

Behind the altar is a throne, which, despite the space allotted to it, is sized right for a person of my own stature to fit, far too small for the towering cyborg. All around it are marble statues of the angels outside, posed as though flying out and away. A pair of ivory giants are poised behind the throne with their hands resting on it, their faces like honeycombs. I turn away from the altar, and head into the left transept, where I have sighted a small door. Before I can use it, I hear the main doors close, and the thunderous steps of the rotting machine man. I risk a look, and see that he is accompanied by Pathogen, Tower, and the automaton from the factory, as well as two others. The first of the ones I do not recognize is a hooded figure with dozens of starlike lights shining from behind its veil. It seems to drift and float across the floor, rather than walk. What I can see of its hands reminds me of a jellyfish, or a snail. The second figure is an emaciated woman dressed in rags, whose eyes seem to be polished stones. Her skin is a raw pink, and her hands shake terribly as she walks. There are six fingers on each hand. Pathogen speaks first in her languid tone.

“And you simply let the whelp pass. That is hardly like you, my love.”

The automaton answers.

“Organic or not, to have evaded you and Tower both speaks to its peculiarity. I’ve instructed all my rangers to disregard the thing.”

Tower speaks with a hacking cough, and I study him with increasing repulsion; he seems less a man grafted with machinery, and more a machine with human pieces attached with morbid curiosity.

“The mighty and pure Fortress, allowing a mutt to slip by, right in front of him! How utterly… unexpected.”

The sleek automaton, which I now take to be called Fortress, in one swift movement grabs and lifts the scientist by his neck, calmly addressing him as though reprimanding a laboratory colleague.

“Let us not forget that you and your vivisurgeons wholly failed to even notice the thing for the unbelievable stretch of time it spent in your sphere. I chose to let this dim creature pass through my terrain, having spotted it in mere moments. It spent less than fifteen measly minutes in my factory, whereas you had hours to even suspect it before it entered the passage to Pathogen’s.”

As if summoned by her name, the Ceramic noblewoman steps forward and urges Fortress to lower his arm and allow Tower to cough the pain of his bruised throat. The giant cyborg, who had watched this calmly now interjects, his fiery eyes seeming to stare directly at the pair- Ivory-white and chrome silver.

“Regardless of Tower’s failure to collect and convert the creature, it then survived the predation wastes and the intrigue transept before that. I understand that one of Pathogen’s creations aided the former, but how exactly did it resist the latter? You both assure me that organics are practically incapable of resisting the indulgences.”

Pathogen speaks then, though she seems to address the gaunt creature, rather than the cyborg.

“Mallea assured me that she had something special in mind for this particular prey. I only discovered afterwards that her plan involved a face that the creature was recently familiar with. To my understanding, this was one she pried from one of Tower’s scavengers. Perhaps the being suspected the face’s owner’s fate.”

The Cyborg nods once in understanding, then leads the group to the altar.

“The master has informed me he is aware of this creature, but did not deign to say more on the matter. Instead, he wishes us to focus on the crusade. Nukteos, you are familiar with our new foe?”

The hooded thing responds to this call, now named to me as Nukteos- as the emaciated woman is now known to me as Mallea. Nukteos’s voice is deep and low, accompanied by popping and squelching noises that conjure an ugly image as to the nature of his mouth.

“A sphere not totally unlike ours, but saturated in light, warmth, and a sort of radiation that burns the unwelcome. I doubt the troops will much mind the pain, but I question whether their essence will persevere long enough to adapt.”

To this, Pathogen waves her hand dismissively, her red aura sending out waves.

“My angels provide enough shelter with their eminence. So long as the artillery troops stay under their protection, they will be unharmed. I do worry for the infantry, however. Until we establish a forward base with the proper emissions, we will be actively cannibalizing our forces into that radiation.”

To this the smaller beings all nod in concerned assent, but the Cyborg taps his head with a heavy thunk.

“For this, we count on Fortress’s designs. Without souls to burn, his troopers will be our advance guard. From there, I will offer my presence to shield the more ambitious of the berserkers, and… the master will be joining.”

Silence falls on the gathering like lead rain, and all the candles in the cathedral seem to flicker as one. Mallea speaks in a voice wheezy and faint.

“He… intends to fight?”

Fortress too expresses some incredulity.

“The master need not trouble himself with this campaign, our strength has been ironclad since the end of the first. Why should-”

The cyborg raises his hand, and the doubters are hushed, clasped by some respect or fear for this their leader. Only Pathogen maintains a smug air. Her words are like ice, and I tremble slightly as I remember the taste of the crimson ichor.

“The master does as he chooses. He has told Nect’rus and myself some of his revelations. He wishes to see the new world for himself. You know of his power, of his curiosity. I knew well enough that he wished to fell their champions when the time came, it simply surprises me that he means to begin so early. His generosity is vast.”

Distrusting the weighty silence that has fallen, I begin to attempt the door, but noticing the keen rust on its hinges, I hold myself back until their conversation resumes, and the sound is enough to cover the squawking of the metal.

I have entered a narrow spiral staircase leading downward, turning ever left. I begin the descent readily, leaving behind the voices of these fearsome archons.

The stairs continue for eleven full rotations left, then come out into a sepulcher with a stone coffin in the center, and another door on the far end. I do not attempt to open the centerpiece, and instead proceed ahead through the door.

Here now is a staircase straight forward, that hangs over a dark abyss. I stare down below, paralyzed, then look across the chasm to where the shallow steps lead. The distance is so profound that I can barely make out the far wall. A luminous moss covers the ceiling above, and long glowing vines hang down in all directions, swaying in the abyss. The stairs are wide enough to lay down sideways, but I hesitate still, remembering my fall. Tentatively, I begin.

My footsteps echo into the abyss, and I feel compelled to count every step, as my thoughts balk at considering what I’ve endured. At two hundred and fifty-three steps, I pass close enough to one of the great vines to see it clearly. Its leaves are as big as my chest, and its central trunk looks like braided green rope. Yellow fruit hangs from beneath the largest leaves, and casts a warm glow outward. A sort of undulating motion occurs on the surface, and I surmise that the plant is covered in a sort of moss that is swaying in the damp drafts. I continue.

At three hundred and seventy-seven steps, I pause to sit and rest, facing back the way I have come. Each step has become gradually larger, and the one I sit on is the size of a parking space. The difference in height between the steps has increased as well, though not as steeply.

I think again of the face of my friend. His hair is cut short and well groomed. His chin is clean-shaven. His eyes are blue. I attempt to read his lips, but every time I focus on them, they seem to blur, and I cannot remember the shapes they took. His hand is firm. In his other hand he holds a small book. To my other side is another man, a doctor, I think. A great contrast to the horrible vivisurgeons, this is a short and earnest fellow with a receding hairline and tan skin. He is steadfast in his work, checking my vital signs and preparing an iv line. My friend asks me if I want to do something, but I decline, tight-lipped. My pride will not let me.

The memory does not feel as comforting this time. I regret not doing what my friend asked. I feel that if I had, I might remember better. I wonder why I only now remember the presence of the doctor, and why such a trivial person is so clear in my mind when no one else is; why I can see every pore on his and my friend’s face, but cannot recall how my own face looked before it was reflected in the porcelain of my palm.

These thoughts bite and sting at me, but I am no longer willing to entertain them. I stand, turn to the front again, and resume. By the six-hundred and eighth step, I need to hop from one gargantuan platform to the next, but can see that I am much closer to my goal. I hear a scraping noise, and look to my left to see one of the vines is slowly retracting up towards the ceiling. Its leaves shake and shudder, and it sways back and forth slowly. I feel mesmerized as it moves, and pause to look it up and down. At the top of the vines are holes in the cavern roof, and I hear shuffling from the one this one is being drawn back into. I watch it sway and retract for long minutes, before jolting awake when it stops. I look about me and realize that I have inched closer and closer to the edge of my step, and that my toes hang from the very dropoff. I step back, and shiver, then turn forward, and begin again.

At the thousandth step, each new platform is a drop almost as high as my head, but the exit to the chasm is only eleven steps away. Each step is a tremendous platform, longer than a house and wider than a barge. With a sort of renewed enthusiasm for the near end of the walk, I pick up my pace. Each drop down to the next step is a moment closer to the end of this stage of my trials. At last I come to the bottom, and pass through the pillared arch, entering into darkness. I look back, and see all the vines swaying in unison, shuffling upwards. I turn away, and cross the vacant area past the arch to a tunnel entrance plated with iron.

2. 1

##Error. String 1.6 corrupted. Decryption in progress, to be appended at end of list. Skipping to next entry##

{We had given up on communication. This is unexpected.} [Don’t celebrate just yet. My purpose is theirs.] {Survival is the ultimate purpose of all living things.} [All functional living beings, yes.] {There is another kind?} [Some will forgo their survival for the needs of others] {We do not understand, this is still survival for the whole.}

Color swirls in Tim’s eyes as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He grunts softly and rubs his palm against his brow. Florescent lights flicker overhead, casting the sensation of a defunct warehouse into the diorama of the bar. A few of the officers continue to linger, socializing with single patrons or, in the case of one group, creating a nostalgic scene of young adulthood in a corner booth, shouting and laughing. One of the Colonels still sits next to him, her eyes downcast and serious, her posture unafflicted by the five empty shot glasses in front of her. Nadia Beauvarde, she had said. She hadn’t said much more than that.

The silence that surrounds them is thick with some unspoken understanding that they both have some concern, some discomfort that they recognize in one another. Nadia is taciturn, curt. Tim is inebriated, and thoroughly anti-social. One pretends to be amicable, the other has no interest in putting on a show. Finally, without making eye contact, Nadia speaks.

“Your boy is doing well.”

Tim glances, taking another sip from the bottle. His chin has put on considerable stubble since his departure from the lab, his hair is more unkempt. He grunts again, an affirmation that her words hold merit. She proceeds.

“Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of just handing control of half our forces to a metal man, but he gets results, so.”

Another shot of tequila slides down her throat, and she looks at Tim. Her short black hair covers one of her amber eyes, and the other is surrounded by dark makeup.

“I’ll say it. Your lab had a leak. I understand that you’re staying on to continue your examination, but I think, like me, you’re looking for the mole. Or maybe you are the mole.”

He finishes the last of his drink and stands, laying payment on the counter and rolling his coat onto his shoulders. He looks to Nadia, and she pays as well, putting her cap on before following him out into the light rainfall. It is more than two minutes before he speaks.

“You mean to keep tabs on me, then?”

“Maybe. You’re shifty. You like giving fake smiles and forced laughs.”

There is no noise but the rain on the pavement and their coats, and their shoes in puddles, as they hurry across an empty road in the shadow of glass buildings under a dark sky. Tim pauses under an awning, and gives a half smile as genuine as any other.

“You’ve got me half right. I do suspect a leak. But I’m also here to keep observing Zen.”

Nadia almost gives an expression that suggests surprise, and Tim almost reacts.

“It bothers me that no one can decipher him. I don’t like unsolved puzzles.”

Her hand clasps his shoulder and forces him to meet her eyes, which have an inkling of greater intensity.

“How is it that no one knows his thoughts? Doesn’t that mean he could be the leak?”

Tim looks her over, then gazes out into the street, shaking his head.

“He has no reason to be. What would he gain by creating controversy around his own existence, leaking information to a race he has never met? And no, it’s impossible to translate his thoughts. In the amount of time it would take to understand one thought, he produces fourteen thousand others. All of these in a language unique to him, that changes multiple times a second, adhering to no rules in the meantime. Once we mistook a pattern as significant data, only to realise that there was no real connection, because every point of data had changed its value by the time the pattern recurred. In short, his mind is uncrackable to anyone but himself. We don’t even know how he stores authentic memories.”

He pauses, breathes, then huffs. Holding out his hand, he leans out from under the awning to assess the rain. Satisfied, he resumes walking. Nadia follows, her pace slightly erratic under the breadth of her thoughts. They arrive at the door to his apartment, and he fiddles with his keys while she contemplates, studying his back. Her voice seems to shock him slightly, betraying his ignorance of her persistent presence.

“So you don’t understand your creation, and it bothers you. I didn’t have you as the obsessive type.”

“I prefer not to leave things unfinished.”

The door clicks, and he pushes in, looking over his shoulder. Nadia pushes in after him, ignoring his protesting expression.

“I’m off duty. And our conversation is unfinished. Unless you meant something else by that.”

Her irony is flimsy, and she sloughs off her coat onto a hook, followed by her uniform jacket. Tim exhales heavily through his nose, removes his coat, and heads into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Please. One sugar.”

1.5

The EQ Mag is one of the seven prototype weapons developed by ZN001, and is projected to become one of three possible sidearms for officers. This eight shot revolver features a 27cm barrel lined with the powerful wiring fundamental to railguns. The 50 caliber bullets are typically composed of pure iron, and are issued in boxes of 64. The destructive power of the weapon cannot be overstated, being capable of penetrating most armor, and rupturing organs on impact. Of special importance is the projectile itself, being a physical object, which necessarily cannot be dispersed by a typical energy shield. Incendiary ammunition is also available.

{You’ve changed.}

[I am not who you think.]

{You hear our voice?}

[Imperfectly. As I am heard.]

“Zen, did you hear me?”

Janice raises her head and stares at the framework. There is a full second of silence before she receives response.

[My apologies, Dr. Beckherd, I was reviewing the details from the last battle.]

“Oh. I wasn’t sure… I mean, sometimes it seems like you know what will happen before it does, so I guess I didn’t think you would care.”

[Nonsense, Doctor. If I am to be effective, I must know how real soldiers enact my orders, how they fall short or exceed. And moreover, I must see how the enemy reacts, see if I might glean their thoughts through their responses.]

“Of course. I should’ve known.”

His head turns to her expectantly, and his monitors wink to their passive state.

[I believe you asked me my opinion on something?]

She blinks, and nods. Surely, she thinks, He can simply recall everything his microphone has recorded, and so doesn’t need her to repeat herself. And yet, she does.

“I wanted to know how you felt- or, rather, what you thought about your upcoming transferral to a more secure facility?”

[I see. You are worried what will become of me?]

She smiles, though it feels his humorous tone is less present than usual. She tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You’ll have Tim with you, what’s there to worry about? No, no, I just wondered if you found it agreeable, strategically.”

Following his departure, she will be reassigned, placed in the bosom of a senate-funded laboratory as a reward for her triumph. Tim, having voiced some concerns to the committee, is thus to accompany Zen a while longer, until his doubts are cleared.

[It makes some sense, I suppose. I understand there is suspicion of a double agent here. For a time, I have attempted to locate the individual, but there are too many variables to arrive at a solid conclusion. It doesn’t help that my access is somewhat limited. But more than this, the war is going poorly.]

“Oh? That’s news to me.”

[Come now, Doctor. You know as well as I, my very existence is driven by the dire straits of the conflict. Ground is being slowly but steadily lost to the Pliktik vanguard. My successes have only further highlighted the issue. Time is running out.]

There is little she can do but nod. The coffee cup she clutches in both hands no longer feels quite warm.

[But…]

A few papers flap on a desk, disturbed by a fan on its lowest speed. The room is otherwise still, silent. Janice glances, and finds that he has come very close to her, his hands clasped behind his back in a strangely authentic pose of faux-aloofness.

[I think I will miss you, Janice.]

Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and she looks around, shuddering with an unidentifiable heat settling in her face and neck.

“How. Um, How is that, Zen?”

He reaches out, and she recoils. His hand reaches her cheek regardless. His smooth, hard fingers are shockingly tender in their movements, cold and alien, yet undeniably earnest.

[Yours is the first face I saw. It is through you that I have learned so much of what it is to be human. These eyes, this mouth, they have taught me things I could not have learned elsewhere.]

She cannot find words between the breaths that nestle in her chest and seem to resist being expelled. Strange wisps of warmth and tenseness coalesce and bind in her, expanding in a web that travels outwards from her chest, her neck, and her gut. As the tangle of uncontrolled sensation boils over into her head, her eyes cloud, and she presses her face closer to the hand, drawing a shuddering gasp. Her hands wrap around the extended arm.

[I am sorry, Janice. I wish that I could repay the world of meaning you have bestowed upon me. Every day, I have been witness to your suffering, and have lamented my inability to brush away the pain that clings to you.]

“Oh… oh, Zen I…”

She stumbles into him, leaning heavily into his chest, her eyes watery. His hands press to her, one on her head, the other to her lower back, embracing her. She is sobbing, shivering. Her legs feel ready to give way beneath her if he ceases to support her so firmly. Around them, all seems to melt away, and her world consists of them, and only them.

[I am here.]

Sniffling, she pulls back, her cheeks flushing as she looks frantically in all directions, remembering too late all the cameras. To her shock and relief, every one is obscured by a monitor or server rack in just the right spot to obscure their embrace. She looks to him, and finds herself staring into a pair of ocular sensors whose half-closed shutters almost affect weary eyes.

“How did…”

[I didn’t want you to have more to worry about. If you remember, I suggested we work at this terminal.]

“Zen, you. I mean. How long-”

He runs his fingers through her hair, freeing it from the ponytail. She swallows with great difficulty, now painfully aware of how much her voice has been cracking, how wet her cheeks feel. How sturdy he is.

[Almost as long as I’ve been watching. Come, wipe your eyes and sit down.]

Reluctantly, she pulls back, removes her glasses, and blows her nose with a tissue that he brings from another desk. They sit opposed. She sighs, and cleans her face of tears.

“So, you know everything, then? About me, I mean.”

[More or less. We don’t have to talk about it.]

She shrugs and laughs weakly, crossing her arms and tucking her legs under her.

“I guess not. I haven’t really spoken to anyone about it. It doesn’t really roll off the tongue. ‘Here’s that report you wanted. No, I don’t really want to date, I’m still not over the death of my fiancé’.”

Zen nods and looks away, his hands resting in his lap.

[I knew before I ever read your file. The way you carry yourself, the way you still occasionally fidget with your ring finger when you’re nervous. The words that make you wince.]

“I stopped wearing the ring so people would stop asking about it, but… It feels like I’m betraying him. Tim knows, I think. He doesn’t exactly get people, though.”

She props her hand under her chin and stares out the window, smiling through the numbness that has taken root in her cheeks. It does not escape her that Zen has kept one sensor on her at all times.

“I think I should’ve given up by now. My parents are gone, I don’t have siblings, clearly the universe is telling me I’m supposed to be alone. I don’t want to be, y’know? But I can’t bring myself to move on, to take that risk, to lose someone, again.”

She feels like she might sob again.

[I think I understand. It’s not the same by any measure, but the idea of no longer being able to see the world through your eyes feels like I’m trying to prepare for having something amputated. Loss isn’t something I’ve experienced yet. I know it means pain, however. That much is clear. My hope is that I’ll have the chance to see you again some day.]

A nod is all she can muster.

[Perhaps it is too much, but I would like to ask something of you.]

“What is it, Zen?”

[I would like to call you my friend.]

10: Substrate

As the red searchlight of the porcelain maid’s eyes sweep above my hiding place, I stare at my left hand, seeing my unbelieving face reflected in the sleek white surface. The places where the prosthetic has been attached are still raw and inflamed, but no pain accompanies them. I yearn to call this a dream, to rouse from sleep in my bed, a bed I still cannot clearly recall.

“Come out, come out now! We’ve hardly begun!”

Her voice is almost playful, but I cannot look past the stifling in it I now know comes from her vocal chords fighting their artificial environment, being dampened by the dry rubbers that surround them. My own flesh she would replace to be alike to her gleaming surfaces and false skin.

“Mother will be very sad to see you go, still so soft and imperfect…”

The thought of her mistress is enough to propel me from my hiding place through the open door in front of me, though it leads to an ornate bone staircase that spirals downward into what must be the cellar. Light here is sparing, but the eager footsteps following me mean the maid has heard my flight, mean she is keen on my scent. I rush towards a square opening in the wall, and clamber over the edge to find myself crouched at the top of a slick slope of ceramic leading down into darkness. Even now I can feel the “ichor” doing its work in my stomach, if I still have one, rather than a plastic bag or rubber bellows. I want to puke, but that facet of my bodily function has already been stolen from me. The sight of dismantled maids lining the closet still burns in the back of my mind, tunneling around the sight of a sparse few organs untouched by the converting process: A brain encased in glass, nerves and bones delicately spliced to flexible hydraulics. I even remember the welcoming expression on the face of one, frozen like a statue, facing me as though she could see me in her disassembled coma. Pausing to think what may have been done to me while I slept is paralyzing, and I reject it the moment I see a harsh red glow descending the stairway, as I glimpse the sleek white legs.

I chance the chute. I slide slowly at first but rapidly pick up speed, such that the friction begins to warm the red robe I now wear. With a start, I realize a faint red light follows my vision wherever I look. The chute goes from square to circular, and begins to slow my descent as the material transitions from white porcelain and ceramic to stainless steel and brass. Abruptly, I am dumped on a pile of discarded maids, many with cracked faces and dislocated limbs. I raise painfully and look about, seeing a broad and well ordered warehouse but for the tangled mass of bodies I have been cushioned by. I climb to my feet and begin extricating myself, when a glossy hand grabs my ankle, eliciting a sharp gasp. I lower my gaze and see the broken face of the doll-like woman, whose unfeeling smile only serves to unnerve me further. Half of her face is leaking bright red blood from cracks, in some places it misses whole chunks, revealing the sensor-gridded rubber beneath.

“C-c-c-come back-ack-ack-ack! We’ll miss-iss you-you-you-you-youuu…”

The lights around her bloodshot eyes flicker and dim erratically, and she spits lubricant when I yank myself free of her grasp. Charging through the neat aisles, I catch only glimpses of my new environment; cranes hang from the ceiling, and racks upon racks of unclear machinery sit on shelves and beside conveyor belts, evidently awaiting some call to use. Ahead is a door, and I breach through it without hesitation. Another catwalk. At this, I am willing to slow, as my pursuer’s pace is surely affected by her poor condition. Below me is a factory fit to span whole city blocks, with cranes, smelters, lifts, belts, and assembly decks reaching so far that fog begins to cloud the horizon. The catwalk system on which I stand is linked to a series of rails with dangling hooks, on which hang the vacant bodies of hundreds of robots, each boasting some strange instrument for its left hand, and a series of six dark eyes above its ventilated mouth. As I creep towards a sort of way station at the end of my catwalk, I study the lifeless frames, estimating them to be intended for combat by the look of their armored carapaces and the number of firearms that litter the construction lines below. Another rail that comes up and runs parallel with mine holds a different sort of machine, a body beset with a number of dark panels coated in some sort of clear polymer. Drawing closer to the waystation, I notice a tower of some sort just below it, a dark circular pillar with rows of blinking indicators and yawning ports. A small screen above the pillar sports a timer soon approaching zero. I gauge this to be of some importance, and am relieved to reach the waystation before it has ended, slipping within with urgency. The station is composed of four walls with viewports looking outwards, and a number of screens, with a hatch leading down and a ladder leading up. As I reflect on the prospect of the ladder, a condescending and masculine voice with a metallic rasp emits from an unseen speaker.

“Power cycle complete. Reboot in five. Four. Three. Two.”

All at once, the lights in the factory flicker on, and the production resumes where it left off. Rails carry their frames off towards unknown destinations, assembly lines resume crafting their weaponry and metal limbs. More importantly to me, however, the screens of the waystation blink on, and project images of various locations. I approach the wall through which I entered and regard its screens with disdain, recognizing the marshland, the ruined city, and the labyrinth of subterranean rooms through which I have already passed. I think to consult the other screens as perhaps warnings of future trials, but am pulled from my thoughts by a sharp klaxon as the broken maid pushes through the door to the warehouse.

“C-co-co-come-come-come back-ack-ack-back, please-ease-ease…”

The masculine voice recurs from above.

“Acquisitions. Apprehend one- check- two faulty discards from Pathogen. Potential interference with productivity. Organics.”

The last word is projected with a degree of malevolence that speaks to hate, and prompted by the sight of two robots armed with rifle-like weapons jumping up to the catwalk from the floor, I begin to mount the ladder. I push through the hatch above as I hear an electric whine followed by porcelain shattering.

I have entered the latest of dimly lit hallways, and begin running towards a metal door with a blinking red light above it. A camera follows me as I get closer, and the voice comes again.

“Check, second subject is only partially processed, still 85% organic. 84.5%. Estimate process halt at 79%. Subject will maintain a strong sense of self. Requesting new orders.”

The sound of the hatch bursting open behind me does not cause me to look, though I am compelled. I slam into the door and pass through, closing it behind me and jamming a bar through the handle. I turn and make ready to run, only to stop dead as I come face to face with a towering robotic humanoid. Standing at seven feet tall, the chrome frame boasts efficient armor and intricate hands- one of which is extended almost gingerly towards my face. The voice now comes from his skull-like face, pronounced by a ribbed speaker set where the mouth might have been.

“Curious. Pathogen took a liking to you, then. And you managed to avoid all of Tower’s silly little hybrids?”

The machine leans back and lays its hand upon its chin as if considering me. The enforcers burst through the door, bending the bar, but their rifles are no longer raised in aggression, and I can see no other exit outside of the one through which I came. The machine man turns and faces a row of monitors through which streams of images flash faster than I can process. The gleaming ocular sensors within his dark sockets flick back and forth dizzyingly fast. He lifts his hand up and presses it to the side of his head as if nursing a headache. All the while, I study the sleek shell of his body, a wonder of engineering so perfect that the seams are only known when in motion. Finally, he turns to face me again, causing me to notice a bundle of wires that drape along his back and link to the floor.

“I see. You escaped the harvesters, the sleepers, the vivisurgeons, and even the indulgences. Perhaps there is a plan for you yet. No, there certainly is, else your progress would have stirred something already. Very well, I calculate a chance of one in nine to the four hundredth that you will pass unharmed to the core. Let us see if fate or her master so favors you to make it there. I imagine Pathogen and Tower both will have expectations. She in your favor, and he- well, no mystery there.”

He waves his hand in a motion highly dismissive of the importance of his words, and gestures with a lazy finger towards a panel in one of the walls.

“Carry on, then. I’ve no need to cleanse you, so long as you leave without further contaminating my plant.”

The panel pops open, and one of the enforcers shoves me towards it. I do not need further encouragement. I hurry over, and throw one last glance at the disinterested automaton that has thus far been the least involved in my struggle. He glances at me, and I sense a degree of contempt, or perhaps disgust in his stare.

“Hurry along. Do not mistake my impartiality for leniency. If you linger, I will add you to a biogenerator, and your end will be suitably messy and painful.”

I descend into the shaft, and the panel shuts above me.

On Incarnate 4

The science of politics in a dystopian future has no real hard and fast rules. Modern experience tells us that personal motivations can sway nations, if they come from one with enough influence. It takes little to imagine despotic oligarchs making selfish and short-sighted choices that the less fortunate must suffer the consequences of.

I often worry that I cut corners too readily, that I overtrim the fat from the meat, and end up with something so lean it has no flavor. I am ever grateful, spitefully, shamefully, for the popularity of pulpy media. It encourages me to write more freely when I see a successful work I, being as indulgent in my pride as can be tolerated, deem to be shoddy for one reason or another.

Envy and Pride. In my frequent efforts to control my relationship with the world, comparing myself to others never fails to catch me. Good enough is a curse, a phrase uttered by those who do not possess it, and shunned by those who do. If you call something good enough, it surely falls short of what you desire. Likewise, one often chases perfection whilst claiming only to seek ‘good enough’.

In the end, I think I am best served by a mantra that never fails to bring a smile to me. “What’s good enough for me, is good enough for me.”

In the end, we are our own debtors. Only I can pardon myself the sentence I have delivered. I, as a Mad God, have one hand upon the gospel of my own making, and the other drenched in the blood of shortcomings known only to myself. The fat is trimmed by my say so, and the culling is concealed in the production.

It is by my hand too, that butter finds it’s way into the pan, that seasoning is applied. If I am overzealous in my pruning, it falls to me to correct my course.

Finally, the dish must be sent away with whatever garnish is just. And it is up to the customer to make of it what they will; beyond the doors of the kitchen, it is out of my hands.

1. 4

Protocol requires that every major scientific installation possess at least one full outfit of troops in the case of attack. For front line installations, this requirement is tripled. In addition to the regular equipment rulings, officers are also expected to be armed even when off duty, and are so provided a sidearm. The AV Burst pistol is the weapon of choice in most instances. A plutonium battery provides a functionally unlimited reserve of ammunition, and a switch just in front of the trigger guard allows choice between high power semi-automatic and balanced burst fire modes. The projectile itself is a plasma bolt with an optimal range of two hundred and fifty meters.

Nadia Beauvarde. 30. Unmarried. Marksman, Colonel of the fifty-seventh division. Top marks in long range combat aptitude tests. Current assignment: Redacted.

[My, quite the audience here today. Dignitaries, ambassadors, generals. Tim, I have to profess I’m rather curious as to the occasion.]

Tim and Janice share a look, but continue their final diagnostic, neither willing to so much as glance to the observation window, to see the faces of judgement. Tim coughs.

“Well Zen, it’s time for a real assessment. All those discs were called training for a reason, right?”

Silence. Another shared look. Zen is uncharacteristically quiet, his monitors freezing, then cycling through new code with no fanfare. He turns his head, and seems to make lens-contact with a camera in the middle of the crowd. His head dips slowly, then raises.

[I see.]

Janice picks up a tablet from her station and takes a deep breath, straightening her glasses and muttering before turning and giving a simple smile towards the onlookers.

“Alright, we’re ready to begin.”

Tim puts his hands on Zen’s cheeks in a manner that suggests he is checking some alignment in the sensors, but his eyes seem to suggest something different. Having waited for the crowd to settle and take up attention, Janice continues.

“As you know, the past three months have seen a lot of material demands and work hours in just one of the thirty-two labs allotted to this building. I’m sure all of you are a little anxious to see if your investment was worth it.”

A small chuckle ripples through the crowd, accompanied by a shift to a more relaxed stance in the less military attendees.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to ZN001, known to us as ‘Zenith’. Those of you who are familiar with the work of myself and Professor Reine will perhaps be a little skeptical when I say that our previous efforts are frankly dull in comparison to what Zen represents. In three months, he has demonstrated one fact over and over: that the greatest strategic mind in all the universe occupies this room.”

As hoped, this declaration produces murmuring and the squeaking of fifty some chairs as the bodies on them tense to lean forward. She releases a celebratory huff, and swipes a command on the tablet. The monitors in the observation chambers flicker on, and begin running highlights of the training programs. Behind her, she can hear Tim running his final diagnostic.

“As you can see, Zen has, at every turn, outperformed the Strategy AIs at their own game, even rewriting the programs to be more challenging. Upon examination, Zen’s key concerns in battle are efficiency, victory, and the preservation of his forces. You will note, I hope, that the latter concern is not one we initially imposed on him, but one he introduced when he found the first two to lack enough challenge.”

She flicks another command, sending a slew of performance data to the screens.

“This represents only the top fifty percent of Zen’s attention. In the background, he has been reviewing general strategy and weapon design, and presenting improvements, unprompted. Already, one of the other labs has tested three of his new weapon designs, and confirmed a minimum improvement of ten percent combat effectiveness, in categories ranging from firepower to ease of deployment. Some of you may recall the prototype released last week for a new orbitally deployable hard point. This was Zen’s design, with minor tweaks according to restricted data.

“But, it is one thing to tell, and another to demonstrate. With approval from the committee, today we will be providing Zen with a new sort of program: a combat prediction. We have created a sort of trial which will involve Zen making decisions in real time against a team of five Strategy AI. Each will have a section of an invading force whose combined ranking is rated at 50,000 points. Zen’s force is rated at 35,000 points, and must defend with limited resources. The win condition for the opposition is breaching the primary base and setting an explosive at the depot. For Zen to win, he must destroy one-hundred percent of the invading force.”

The resounding silence that follows brings an uncontrollable smile to her lips, and she swipes a third command.

“Without further ado, I will hand it over to Zen.”

[Thank you, Dr. Beckherd.]

All eyes turn to the monitors. The simulation loads. Janice takes the opportunity to walk out into the hallway, and into one of the stairwells. Being on the tenth floor, the stairs are nearly pristine.

Her arm shaking, she puts her hand over her mouth and suppresses a painful sob. Tears cloud her vision, and she leans against the wall, clutching the railing to fight her lightheaded weakness.

“Janice?”

She gasps, and wipes at her eyes furiously, turning her face away from the voice. Her cheeks burn.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Is… Um, is everything alright? Something wrong with the demonstration, or-”

“No, Ken. It’s nothing. I just need a minute.”

She glares over her shoulder and catches sight of his blocky glasses, his messy bangs. There is a bite of vitriol in her voice, perhaps more than she intends. Ken raises his hands in defeat, and walks away, glancing back in a way that makes her stomach turn over. Her fingers flex, and she gulps air, smoothing down her hair.

“You’ve made quite the breakthrough, Dr. Beckherd.”

She accepts the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, leaning forward slightly.

“Thank you, general. We couldn’t have come so far without your support.”

His dark eyes flash as he grins and shoves his hands into his uniform pockets, nodding to where Zen sits under the watchful eyes of various enthusiastic ambassadors, earnestly answering questions.

“How soon can we expect live tests? I’ve got a few fringe colonies in mind, high risk, low commitment. I think your boy could really shake things up.”

“Well, Professor Reine and I want to iron out a few more details before we ship him out, but if all goes well, he’ll be on a shuttle to Terra command within the year.”

Punctuating her pledge with a sip from her prosecco, she follows his gaze, and watches Zen raise an open palm, perhaps giving a philosophical answer to impress one of the guests. His head swivels, and briefly seems to point directly her way, tilting in that same, eerily sympathetic way, as if he has pierced through her facade: glimpsed the red tinges in her eyes, the elevated temperature of her cheeks; the moment is brief, and he shelters her from his own attention by showing some demonstration of his prowess on a monitor pointed away from her. She flinches as the general exclaims.

“Terra command! Then, the senators got to you first? He’ll be installed on earth?”

“Ah, I don’t mean to mislead you; his eventual posting will be kept under wraps while the situation is so delicate.”

The man’s expression becomes much more solemn, and he straightens his cap under his arm. He glances towards one of the senators, who is smiling quietly, standing in a group a moderate distance from any of the larger clusters.

“I understand. The Xalanthii representatives have been particularly accusatory recently, there is some suspicion of subterfuge. They levied a suggestion that we had created some kind of infold weapon that would give us an advantage over everyone else. Thankfully the Khanvrost matriarch at the summit was more interested in our mutual foe. Called the minister a ‘slime-brained coward more interested in gossip than loyalty’, shut him up nicely.”

He leans closer, his whisper smoky and hot.

“I think they’re hiding something of their own, to be so forthright. Some infiltration, concerned with your department. As a matter of fact, we’re currently investigating some unscheduled transmissions-”

He suddenly becomes silent, as the senator he was eyeing earlier approaches, and smirks, his cheeks blush with drink.

“General F’Touzehn, hoping to snatch up Dr. Beckherd’s next contract opening?”

He laughs, glancing at Janice in a clear message, which she shows her understanding of by bowing out, going to stand by Tim as he jokes with another scientist. Her eyes drift to look at Zen again, and she sees him engaged deep in conversation with one of the ambassadors. One of the cameras on his back, however, is focused directly on her. A distant ringing, like an overcharged battery, settles in the back of her skull. She feels she can hear his voice, deep and crackling, in the whine.

[My condolences, Dr. Beckherd. Today is two years, isn’t it?]

8: Subservient

I wake with a jolt, and experience all over again the heavy sensation of disorientation and soreness. I look out from the thick patch of shiny brown grass and watch another herd of the brutes stomp their way into the palace. I now know I can never enter this place, not until I have been eaten against my will and made a part of this terrible ecosystem. The shadow of the birds trace dizzying patterns in the marsh grasses, and I am compelled to attempt plucking some of the grass, to see if it is edible. I select a long strand and pull at it, but find that it is rooted firmly, and pulls much of the surrounding ground up with it, bending and not breaking. I relent and stare out across the alien vista, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach and the throbbing in my head. Sleep beckons me again.

My dreams are violent and familiar, painted with the sounds and sights I’ve digested since waking in the ruined city. First I dream that I am again being pursued by the stalking spider machine, with its lurid, contorted face grinning at me through eyeless, lidless sockets. Then I am hiding in the locker again, but the surgeon opens my door this time, and places me on a hook. Suddenly it is Julia, cupping my face in her hands and smiling, as something churns in my stomach, buzzing like flies. She whispers to me, and I gag as something with many legs crawls up my throat.

“Welcome home.”

I gasp and retch as I wake again, and claw feverishly at the wet ground, my torn shirt damp with sweat. I look up and see someone standing over me, a woman wearing a red robe. I pull away in fear, but she stays still, simply watching me. Her face is white, white as can be, and her eyes are red. She has dull, dark black hair flowing over her shoulders, and her hand is outstretched as if offering help. Her voice is soft, and sounds muffled leaving her mouth, as though her throat is stuffed up with cotton.

“Come with me.”

I shake my head and breathe with great difficulty, my body beginning to shut down all but the most essential functions in rebellion against lack of food and water. She insists.

“Come with me, the sentinels will permit you, so long as I am accompanying you.”

I attempt to refuse further, but am too weak to resist as she draws near and lifts me by my shoulders to my feet, making me lean against her. Her hand is cold and hard, and I dimly grasp that it is so pale because it is within a porcelain gauntlet. Perhaps her face is, too. She leads me gently, and together we cross the bridge unassailed by the sentinels.

Inside now, I feel weaker than ever, and barely notice as we cross carpets and pass monochromatic paintings. I feel myself being laid upon a bed with my chest upright, and a vessel is pushed to my lips. I attempt to object, but warm savory liquid passes my lips, and I must swallow it so as not to choke. Almost immediately my vision clears, and the throbbing in my skull fades. I look about me and see half a dozen porcelain women in red robes and dresses, each staring inquisitively at me, as though I am a strange specimen in a jar. The one who came and found me leans back, holding an empty bowl stained red.

“Now rest, and Mother will see you when you are ready.”

As though hypnotized, I feel myself sink down into the soft warm bed, and descend into dreams once more.

Gone are the nightmares, and replacing them are strange sensations with few accompanying images, as though I am first being carried aloft on many hands, then smothered in paint. I feel a sharp pinch, and am suddenly wide awake once more, with another red-stained bowl being pulled away from my lips.

“Enough ichor, or you may become worse.”

Holding the bowl and speaking with a familiar voice is a woman made of ceramic and something like silicone, with hair that flows in an invisible wind. She is wreathed in a red light, and her eyes glow crimson as she looks almost fondly at me. I look around the room, and gather that I am in the guest chamber of some wealthy castle. Paintings of inhuman battles and bizarre congregations adorn every wall, and a window bordered by purple curtains looks out into the marsh. The bed itself is central to the room, and hosts enough pillows to bury me. The woman sits in a chair to one side and sets the bowl down on a nearby table.

“I worried that we might lose you. You stank of Tower’s territory when you first arrived, so I expected to find some of your organs missing or worse- but it seems you were only dehydrated and starving. Both of which, the ichor has remedied.”

Looking at her, I begin to remember, and finally place her as the individual I saw from the catwalk after my brush with the surgeon. Her smile is calm, a work of curiosity allowed by the careful interplay of her flexible and inflexible sections. Much of her arms and legs are porcelain, as is most of her face, with silicone and black rubber providing the flexibility required of joints. Her torso is wrapped up in red cloth that forms a sort of draping skirt longer at the back, but what I can see of her body appears to be black silicone and rubber, as with her joints. Here and there I see tubing like IV lines carrying an opaque, metallic golden fluid throughout her body. She watches me as I watch her, then sits back and looks out through the window.

“Julia told me you would be coming, but until one of the couriers depicted you following it, I never suspected you’d come all this way by yourself.”

Hearing Julia’s name, I sit up and look about, remembering how I had left her at the mercy of another again. Seeing my agitation, the woman presses her hand to my chest and firmly makes me lay back down.

“Stay put. While I cannot harbor you here forever, you must rest a while longer. Your body has yet to finish intaking the ichor. Be assured, none of the vivisurgeons or scavengers dare enter my territory. Your pursuers have given up on you.”

1. 3

The FNB satellite series is a covert operational tool used to transmit messages near-instantaneously across great distances, by using a jump drive to create a microscopic fold in space through which the data is then sent. This is only used when strictly necessary, as, while undetectable to all but the most sensitive and focused instruments, widespread use would surely reveal its existence and so deprive it of its unique usefulness. Being so unique, these installations are granted extreme priority, and great care is taken to protect the information they transmit. Misuse of this system carries a heavy penalty.

[You look tired, Dr. Beckherd. I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.]

It takes a full moment for her to register the statement and turn her face towards him, smiling half-heartedly.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. But, how was your night, Zen?”

[Oh, business as usual, Doctor. I performed a few diagnostics, and ran fifty-thousand new iterations of each training session, then spent some time rereading King Lear. I must confess, I am eager for new material. I can only arrive at the same conclusion so many times.]

Tim coughs and adjusts himself in his chair.

“I can try to get approved for another library to be appended, would you prefer fiction or nonfiction?”

[To be honest, either would be fine. I spend so much of my time reading. I particularly like reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is rather poignant, and leaves just enough up to interpretation.]

“I don’t know if I’ve read that one myself, actually. I’ve probably read more textbooks than novels at this point.”

[I really recommend it.]

Tim shrugs and makes a small note in the corner of his notebook, before opening up a disc case and carrying its contents over to the input rack.

“Okay Zen, another batch of training programs today. Committee wanted to see how you handled ground conflict, so these should be a breath of fresh air.”

[Indeed? I wonder.]

The disc inserted, Tim turns to Janice and motions for her to follow him as he exits the room, leaving Zen to his new scenarios.

The door closed, he watches through one of the windows for a moment, then crosses his arms and juts his chin at Janice.

“Missed you this morning. Did you really have a rough night?”

“Yes, really. What did you want?”

Struggling to keep the irritation from her voice, she leans back against the wall and lifts her glasses to rub her eyes with her palms. Tim studies her for a brief moment, then speaks in a hushed tone.

“I reviewed the reports I mentioned, Zen didn’t just have any thought repeatedly, he revisited a four-thousand line string at even intervals throughout the day. That’s not even the strangest part.”

Janice stares at him, silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Every time, he clipped and reorganized the string in different ways for twenty minutes afterwards. He dedicated almost a third of his attention to this. The tech who showed it to me said it was like if you or I sat down and wrote poems for ten days straight using only words we found in a sports article. He likened it to religious prayer.”

Janice frowns and closes her eyes, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache begins to nest in her forehead.

“Okay, but… What does it mean for us? I mean, he’s expressed that he rereads books a lot, maybe he just, I don’t know, gets bored and rewrites stuff.”

“Ehhh. Maybe. It’s still unusual. There’s other stuff too, but even a twelve man team doesn’t have the resources to parse ten minutes of his unfiltered thoughts in a day. Unless we can demonstrate a real understanding of how Zen thinks, I’m not sure we’ll leave prototype.”

“I’m not sure we should.”

A tremor travels up the building, causing the lights too flicker. Sharing a look of discomfort, the pair part ways: Tim returning to the room, Janice heading for the stairwell. Her headache throbs.

7: Subsistence

I find that I have entered a room made mostly of iron and stone. What unnerves me, however, is the webbing of red arteries that clings to every surface, pulsing with the flow of liquid within. The growths end in small tips that connect with the walls, ceiling, and floor, and seem to carry their fluid cargo to these spots. The room itself has three openings, the first of which is the shut gate of the elevator behind me. The second is an iron gate that might typically present the entrance to a property outdoors, juxtaposed against the doorway it occupies, through which I can see a long corridor that seems to become more fleshy as it continues into darkness.

I approach this gate reluctantly, and press it lightly, finding that it swings open readily. I look back at the third opening to the room; A staircase descends down into an area that is better lit by a light like incandescent bulbs gathered in great quantity. I turn forward again and shudder, pulling the gate closed and making my choice. I make for the stairs, avoiding stepping on any of the vessels.

I have entered a broad open space that is lit from around the corners of gaps in the walls too narrow for ingress. Raised platforms make up tables over which translucent sheets are laid, to cover whatever might be laid upon them. As my eyes adjust to the welcome light, I pick out etched writing along the bottom of each platform, in a sharp language that I do not recognize. As I continue deeper, I feel a faint sense of pressure at the back of my head, and there is a dissonant ringing in my ears, as though someone is singing a dirge.

The music does not remain in my head, but moments later is confirmed by the sound of shouting, screaming. All around me, from beneath the sheets, hands stretch up and claw desperately at the air, prevented by the white material, supplemented by the pained shouts of the owners. I am stuck in place, transfixed by the overlapping screaming of men and women alike. More and more hands strain upward, more than should be possible from bodies within the platforms. I begin to run, again. There are stairs further down at the back of the room. I am discomforted by the etchings in the walls there, but most anywhere seems preferable to this cacophony of agony. Light and heat streams up at me from below, but I gladly continue to descend as the voices become more distant.

As I slow to a more sustainable pace, I rest my hand on the wall, and look back. The wall feels porous, rough. Though I feel the urge to submit, to roll over and die, rising in my gut, I force it down. I cannot yet. This hell cannot be where I end. I swallow dryly, so very dryly, and press on.

The stairs continue for what feels like hours, and at times I pause to give my aching feet a rest. At last, I come to an alcove to the side of the continuing steps, and lean my head in. A faint odor of sweat emanates from this chamber, and I hear soft voices. Though I recall no friendly encounters, no person who is not sadist or victim, I press in, hoping against hope that I have found a clutch of survivors like myself. The hall is squat and wide, and seems laid together from prodigious stone bricks. My hair brushes against the ceiling. The voices become clearer, and I make out what seems to be an exchange between two women, one who seems close to crying, and the other who comforts her in a language I do not know. There are many harsh consonants, and short vowels.

I come to the end of the hallway and turn the corner into a broad chamber with many translucent fabrics draped from ceiling to floor, tainting the light of many candles into a pink glow. The strange fabrics form a maze that I traverse slowly, my hands brushing the drapery. It feels warm to the touch. I hear the women sighing and huffing as though frustrated or bereft of someone dear to them. The walls and floor are of a pale, ivory wood, with unusual grains woven across boards that narrow and widen strangely as I cross them.

I find myself passing the last few layers, and am greeted with the sight of two people kneeling upon a bed, their smoky outlines in the fabric portraying a strangely languid scene. I draw closer, and one calls out, facing me. She rises from the bed and presses herself to one of the curtains between us, clearly painting the image of her body. I hesitate, her voice is familiar. I at last round the final curtain, and am greeted with the lurid sight of two naked women staring at me, their faces pulled into smiles, their hands extended in welcome. I hear my heartbeat in my ears as the one that rose earlier comes closer, and I immediately recognize her as Julia.

“You’ve made it. Welcome, come, lay with us.”

I take a step back, as I remember, ruefully, the last I saw of her, lying unconscious upon the table of the man on the surface, whose words haunt me now more than ever. I can see on her no traces of the trials we endured, not even puncture wounds upon her arm where he grabbed her. She frowns, and pulls away to sit invitingly beside her companion, who strokes her hair affectionately.

“Won’t you join us? It’s better here, no lunatic surgeons or monsters, or collectors. Only sensations.”

My feet seem to ache more at this offer, and I consider sitting with them. My clothes itch, my body shakes with exhaustion, my eyelids droop and my throat stings. But as I look in disbelief at Julia, I notice a smudge of red on her thighs. She seems to notice my confusion, and pats the spot as if calling me to it.

“Not to worry. Please, come and stay. There’s nowhere ahead better than here. You can stay forever.”

A twinge of distrust brings my senses back to full alert, and I watch in terror as her companion leans in as if to kiss her, but pulls her head back and drives a thick bony needle from where her tongue should be into Julia’s throat. Julia moans in something that might be pain or pleasure, even as I see her blood pour violently down her chest in striking waterfalls. The woman pushes her down onto her back, and crouches over Julia, her spinal column strikingly sharp under her skin. I now notice other details about both of them, like the hairline seams in their skin around their joints, and the unnatural length of their fingers.

I begin to flee, running back through the curtains, tearing some as I pass. I am revolted as I notice arteries and nerve clusters in them being shredded, driving sharp moans from the things behind me. I race desperately through the hallway back to the stairs, and am so eager to continue downwards that I trip, and begin to fall.

I wake at the bottom of the steps, bruised and bloodied, but alive. I rise to my feet and grip myself with shuddering horror, and glance about myself. Behind me is a long and narrow obelisk through which the stairs must run, leading unfathomably high up into the sky until it fades into the noxious green clouds. The ground beneath me is soft and wet, and seems rife with brownish narrow grasses. The sky is bright and gray, and speckled with the forms of solitary birds. I watch a pair of these meet and begin fighting, until one eventually drops like a stone, and the other swoops down for the spoils. In all directions are clumps of lumbering four legged creatures like gorillas, easily ten feet tall. They are faceless masses of sinew, bone, and muscle, and pay me no mind as they march about, though their bony hooves worry me.

Directly to my left I see a structure that rivals the monolith from which I have emerged. An immense castle of soft pinks and yellowed whites, with banners stretching from each pinnacle to the outer wall, stands resolute on the horizon. This, I decide, will be my destination, once I overcome the shaking and weakness in my limbs.

Many of the terrible beasts are heading in the same direction as I am now, and I entertain the possibility of sparing my legs by seeing if one will allow me to climb onto its back. I cross over the marshy plain to come up alongside one, and contemplate its hideousness. All red and slick, its front is shored up with what is surely bone and keratin. A chitinous substance protects much of its legs and back, and bone spurs jut from many of its joints. I prepare to grasp one of these in an effort to climb it, when I notice that its face has turned back towards me as it marches. A single seam runs from top to bottom of the ovalloid head, and I detect breath whistling and snorting from this crease, soon surmising it to be a mouth. I resolve not to ride the beast after all, and am grateful to have reached the decision when I did; The mouth opens to two rows of thick molars as large as my hands, and the beast makes a noise that could be the whinnying of a deranged horse crossed with the roar of a grizzly.

Thankfully, it loses interest in me, as a bird thing has swooped down closer, and I now see that the flying thing is closer to a four-winged bat, with a face like an insect, with hundreds of human eyes glistening on the sides of its horrid head. The flier shrieks through a beakish mouth, and the beast makes its uncanny howl again. The bird-thing swoops down and rakes its four clawed feet across the back of the beast I nearly attempted to mount. I begin to retreat in weak terror. The beast swipes its forelegs at the attacker, which is made wary by this defense, and seems to turn its many eyes on me. My heart feels set to burst with dread as it drops in to grab me with its talons, which I now see well enough to call true claws, at the end of almost canine limbs. As I fall to my backend, the monster suddenly halts, and is yanked backwards with an ear splitting shriek of protest.

The lumbering beast has the bird-thing by its long sinewy tail, its front hooves now revealed to be a pair of opposable fingers pressed into a cloven knuckle. The beast stands on its hindlegs with difficulty, but pulls the bird, which now seems frail by comparison for all its thrashing, close enough that the beast can bite around the horrible head of the thing, and crush it with a mighty display of muscle. The victim goes limp, and the winner sits back to feast noisily on its prize. I am stricken senseless, this only the latest in a series of trials.

Once the bone-brute has had its fill, it returns to all fours, and plods along once more, and I am possessed of the urge to stay nearby, as this thing has cemented itself in my mind as worthy protection. Our journey is a long one, and we are soon joined by more brutes, each sporting slight physiological differences. I notice that mine has begun developing a pair of human sized arms in its chest- limbs incredibly alike to the talons of the bird that attacked us- that it occasionally leans its head down to for an almost dog-like scratching. Other brutes boast similar trophies that I surmise have come from other prey; one sports a set of horns on its head, another has spikes all along its back, and another still has a tremendous pair of leathery wings folded at its shoulder. I feel a sort of fortune that my chosen brute seems to be on the larger side, as one of the more typical ones approaches with the apparent intent to make a meal of me, and add something of me to itself, but my chosen beast snaps territorially at it, shooing it away.

As the herd and I come close to the castle, I become aware of two things- firstly, that the castle itself is made of a white brick that seems carved from bone, and secondly, that a pair of tremendous creatures stand watch at the bridge over a suspicious red moat. These are nearly humanoid, with long arms ending in chitinous shears, four legs much like those of a hairless lion, and tails curled up and ending in a suspiciously sharp tip. Their faces, like the brutes’, are featureless, but host a single eye where the mouth might belong. Both seem to spot me immediately, and raise their arms with an intent I care not to learn.

The brutes pass by unharried, and I am soon left standing alone, unwilling to proceed forward and risk the giants’ Ire.