by Nick Ryder
“There’s something else on your mind,” I said to Ego.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to take the larger rat form for your own body.”
“That’s why I’m waiting for a human body.”
“Humanoid body,” corrected Ego.
“Yes, of course. Let’s not forget about how illogical your programmers were. Anyway, at the rate of conserved energy consumption, it will take three weeks for the embryo to grow and mature into a working specimen. And there should be several tests before the humanoid form is viable for habitation.” Ego paused, a miraculous feat for a supercomputer. “And…”
I imagined as Ego stopped there was an unneeded ellipsis trailing the end of his word. “What is it?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
It was out, and there was no way Ego could take it back. He could probably perform a memory wipe of my brain through advanced nanorobotic surgical procedures, but I was sure he didn’t have the heart to wipe all we’d accomplished. It was actually kind of touching in a bizarre way.
“Why, you sentimental old... wait, what are they doing?” I tried to make systematic observations of what I saw as the three large rat creatures rolled together on the floor.
“It appears they’ve discovered each other’s sex organs.”
“I thought we decided to make them sexless.”
“It was the basic idea. However, one thing I’ve learned over the years observing mammals: they tend to find a way when it comes to sex. Humans are particularly deft at sexual activities.” Ego felt inclined to elaborate. “Once, early in my life, I found it particularly curious how one of the programmers in the department used a cantaloupe, a vacuum hose, and a sock to—”
“Are we able to break up this ménage à trois?” I asked quickly.
“Strange thing about that,” Ego said with trepidation. “Since we used available automaton intelligence, we collected the memories from three units that spent a lot of time together whenever they didn’t have activities. I assume this is just their way of getting reacquainted. I’m guessing once they are... sated, it is just a matter of—”
“I get it, Ego. Thanks.” My attention was on the still developing larger rat. The nanobots within the beast continually performed maintenance inside the animals. If the creation was wounded, the nanorobots rushed to the wound and closed it from the inside out, sterilizing the area, killing bacteria before infection.
The nanobots were efficient, and someone had perfected their design so precisely that it didn’t need evolution. If the creatures had a hive consciousness, they sought to protect their host. But if the host died, they would leak out of the body, likely riding red blood cells like surfboards, only to find residence in other places or other life forms.
At the rate of replication, I wondered if they were confined to the base, or had multiplied to reach their lot across the entire planet. And if that was the case, what if—and it bothered my brain when I thought about it—what if they suddenly woke up? What if they decided there was more to accomplish than mending scraped knees or keeping circuitry clean of dust? How would we fare as a land of opportunity with microscopic invaders?
“They’re all done now,” Ego pointed out. The creatures turned in small circles and napped in a furry pile.
“What are we going to feed them?”
They will have portions of nutrigel daily,” Ego said. “It is good for them and the nanobots.”
“Why not just allow them to catch and kill the rat infestation?”
“I believe that would be like asking you to chase down, kill, and devour your grandparents. In their social mentality, the rats are distant cousins.”
“What about cloning—”
There was a series of klaxon alarms chirping and buzzing. The creatures leaped up from their heap to look around the room, startled.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Cloning is forbidden. It was unsanctioned long before the project started within the facility. Cloning was not true replication. Stunted evolutionary laziness didn’t make for better soldiers, only walking body parts that got in the way.”
“But the nanobots are clones of themselves.”
“Are they?” Ego said. There was a robotic theology that I was beginning to understand the longer we were together. While religion had plainly been unceremoniously eradicated from the system, Ego believed in a creator.
He understood the limitations of humans, but I could detect his personal feelings for the programmers who created his consciousness, that they were more than the average nerds. He cared for them. He kept the traits the programmers unintentionally intermingled with Ego’s vast intelligence. Ego kept the pornography files, not because of gratification, but because his creators had kept them.
“You may not see it, but each of the nanobots is not a clone. There are differences on a subatomic level. And subatomic space is gigantic.”
I may have gotten the nanobots wrong. They were evolving. We just hadn’t noticed. Yet. “So, no cloning—got it.”
“Communication with the rats is a simple WiFi connection. Unfortunately, if they venture from the facility, we’ll lose contact with them.”
“That’s why I wanted to have my brain in that big Master Splinter body. They’d follow my lead, right?”
“Well, yes, but… Does it have to be your brain?” Ego mused. “Why not take advantage of the other brains we’ve stored.”
“There were only females who survived, right?”
“Correct,” Ego said slowly. “Are you suggesting female humans are inferior to—”
“No, that’s not—let’s not get into that.”
The health bars on all the viable creatures were operating within the green zone, the levels at the very top according to the console I saw from the camera lens. Even the last animal that survived after napping over twenty years had a health bar that climbed progressively higher. It was in small increments, but it gained strength.
“I just wanted to be the first.”
“Georgi Dobrovolski, Viktor Patsayev, Vladislav Volkov, 1971” Ego listed off. “Laika, November 1957, Thomas Selfridge, 1908.”
“I don’t understand.” Had Ego lost its function to articulate appropriately?
“They were first in their professions to terminate.” Ego had a way to drive home a point. “Sometimes it is not the best to be the first.”
“I see.” And I thought for a moment. “Laika?” I noticed, though familiar, that person didn’t have a last name.
“Laika was a mixed breed dog the Soviet Union launched into orbit during the Sputnik 2 mission.” There was a hint of disdain in Ego’s voice modulator.
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to change the subject. “How do we choose a subject when you gave me a list of possible failures?”
“That is the responsibility of humans.” And Ego went dark for a long moment. In computer time, Ego was away for a few centuries.
“Ego?” I called. It was as if I was suddenly alone. While the rat experiments were napping in the laboratory, it wasn’t the same. There needed to be a more complex interaction there. Rats were well-suited as pets, but they didn’t talk or share insights.
“There is movement outside the facility.” Ego weirdly sounded out of breath. “I made the best use of my short-range scanners. I think I have some rust on a few of my antennae,” Ego added sheepishly.
“Are they able to get into the base? And what are they?”
“Unknown.”
“To which question?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so how soon might one of our other brains take to interface with the body?”
“According to specification, approximately 45 hours,” Ego pointed out.
“Then pick one and let’s get started.” Necessity created shortcuts.
“Unable to comply,” Ego said, its voice modulator stale.
“Because only humans can choose stuff like this,” I guessed. “Okay, Ego, b
uddy. I pick that one.” My CCTV zeroed in on a container. There was a small label with a serial number. No names. I assumed, while I couldn’t see where my own physical brain was stored, that it looked very similar to that container. Floating in juices, it looked pretty gross in person. I tried not to think too hard about how that was the same as the sum total of me right now. It was too freaky to dwell on for too long, though I was sure I’d get used to it.
The automatons immediately removed the large container and transported to the laboratory.
“While that’s going on,” I said, “I think it would be a good idea to test the battle capability of the three rats we have currently. We can’t use the other three generating now, but at least we can use the first batch for added protection.”
“Correct.”
There was a sense sparking somewhere deep in my processors. That intense pride I felt when I rallied the troops and took command. While I was used to receiving orders and filtering necessary commands to my soldiers, it was another thing entirely when it came to giving orders off the cuff. While I didn’t have sleeves for cuffs, I had a head for security. If any of the base was compromised because something needed to get inside, it was anyone’s guess what happened once the stored brains became playthings. If I knew anything, I wanted to protect my soldiers at all costs. But priority came with safeguarding the Forward Operations Base. That happened at the expense of sacrificing soldiers.
“We’ll be able to get a good idea of what’s been going on outside base if these things get inside.”
The chirp at the laboratory door signaled to the rats they had access to the corridors. While the assigned automaton inside the laboratory handled the animals’ waste disposal; and I thought it did so begrudgingly, I didn’t want to consider the waste product was probably on its way to processing and reclamation. Organic material was the lifeblood of the organic life within the base. I watched from the CCTV as the last long gray tail slipped from the laboratory, as the giant rats patrolled the hallways.
Chapter Six
The mountain had caught on fire. The blazing rock face shone across the dead valley like a beacon. Cara was the first to see it from the security of the hut as the rising sun shone against the faraway mountain range. Since she was the first to see it, it was her find. That meant she was in charge of the scavenging. Whoever saw something, it was theirs to keep or share.
Cara felt that, in her twenty years alive, this was the first critical step to becoming a leader. She wanted the rest of the village to know the daughter of a blacksmith was just as important as the son of the chieftain. But municipal politics were not her greatest asset.
“You will not go out there alone,” her father scolded again. She’d already dressed in the leather tartan.
There were thick leather boots with heavy soles that allowed for scrambling over any territory. The boots were hot, laced with straps up to her knees; Cara didn’t want to wear them. But the landscape hid many dangers, including the biting kind with nasty venom, thriving where humans were no longer able to beat them back.
“I will choose one other to join me,” Cara said, tightening the cords around the boots. The rest of her clothes were hand-me-downs. No one in the village was adept at sewing. Not enough materials, and no one happened to have any experience in tailoring.
“You need to take someone strong, too,” Sampson reminded her. He’d been in construction before the Great Fall; his body wasn’t a mass of muscle and strength anymore. He still had power, in Cara’s eyes, but he’d lost body mass. Everyone went to bed a little hungry every night.
She had been an infant when the world ended, and he had sheltered her as the sky rained hot twisted metal, and the monsters tore each other apart. One of those creatures had once been her mother, but it had died too, protecting Sampson and Cara. At least, that’s how the story always went when her father told it.
“I’m not talking about Maurice either,” Sampson said quickly. He watched Cara straighten her tartan. It was heavy enough to shield a direct attack, but he hoped she’d never had to experience it.
She had hair the color of the limbo that lay between red and blonde. It was as if every other strand of hair didn’t quite match up to the next on her scalp. Her father had had to fit her tartan in a manner that allowed extra room for her breasts. He didn’t want to think about it, but she had a chest that drew a lot of attention from many of the males in the village. But Cara pushed attention away. Her tastes in men ran parallel to her friendship with women. Maurice was a product of divine intervention. He had the shape of a man and the idiosyncrasies of a woman.
“Maurice is capable,” Cara said again in defense of her friend since diapers. “You just never give him a chance.”
She regarded herself in the full-length mirror. She was 5’6, pushing 7”, and since Sampson made her boots, he’d added another good 2 inches. Height demanded respect. Cara was nimble and athletic. She had strong arms and steel gauntlets. She demanded to wear shorts instead of leggings because she complained of the heat constantly. The area of flesh between her visible upper thighs and the boots was golden from years of sun exposure. The tartan covered her front and back, but Cara didn’t wear the typical top half either. She wore something that secured her breasts a little more. This meant most of her torso was exposed and as golden as the space between boots and skirts.
She did nothing to fix her hair. It was long and quickly wrapped in a hair band made of leather or plastic or rubber, whatever she found lying around to secure it away from her face.
Cara had her mother’s eyes; at least that’s what her father told her—green with gold flecks, surrounded by a circle of black. Her eyebrows were robust black hash marks above those beautiful eyes. A thin nose with a small round, tip above a full cupid bow top lip and dewy bottom lip. Gorgeous.
It was impossible to ignore Cara when she entered a space; the room itself seemed to gravitate toward her, filtering everything in like the pull of an exquisite spatial anomaly where men wanted to die, crushed into molecules, either by her bite, her lips, or thighs.
And Cara didn’t see it. She thought beauty was the shimmer of the translucent scales of the lizards sunning on rocks. Or the squiggly lines left by the rattlesnakes that shifted over the hot sands of the valley floor. The slick exoskeleton of the abnormally large blue scorpions, or the color of the sky when moisture was in the air between the setting sun and the observer; these were things of beauty in Cara’s eye. Not her body or eyes, or lips. She didn’t see the sense of trying to be attractive when any moment beyond the safety of the village walls might be the last. Death didn’t care if you were pretty when it munched on your skull.
“I haven’t decided who to take,” she lied to her father. Her gloved hand found the hilt of her dagger, tucked in the sheath. She wore a utility belt that had essentials for a hostile environment. The double-edged knife had blades so sharp they cut moonlight, as she liked to think of it.
Sampson was one of the most respected people in the village. Without his experienced hands and ingenuity, most of the villagers would have died. It took the balance of people with specialized skills to keep the town going. He had the education and experience to make shields, weapons, and fortifications. There were people suited for security. Others had the sense for agriculture. There were born leaders who accounted for organizing tasks and trade if they met others in the wastelands. But without the strength and understanding of materials for good weapons, it was only a matter of time before survival skills weren’t enough to keep the monsters at bay.
What people learned after the Great Fall was the fact it wasn’t just some humans affected by the Change. Other animals experienced the evolutionary kick and survival of the fittest meant overcoming impossible odds that weighed hundreds of pounds, had gnashing teeth the length of Cara’s dagger, or maybe claws as long as her legs.
In the beginning, when people were fighting to stay alive in a world that no longer communicated globally, and manufacturing came to
an abrupt halt, it wasn’t only people who experienced the Change you had to worry about. There were people without superhuman powers who wanted to keep everything from the have-nots. Finding a place to stay and defending it became the strategy not of the weak, but of intelligent men and women.
Grocery stores were the places to be, with access to home improvement stores. Some nested at government sites, using up ammunition for defense, but manic shooters quickly ran out of food.
The younger population tended to survive the best. The millennials who had secretly been thinking about how they would deal with an impossible apocalyptic event for as long as they could remember. The older generations would more often crumble, either physically or mentally unable to cope with the new way of the world. The very youngest also tended to find it harder to survive, leaving that sweet spot of 14–29-year-olds who were not only physically able to fight for their lives… they also enjoyed it.
It was the Seer who had first started calling them gamers. He’d created a new lexicon, talking about earning points, forming Guilds and striving to find loot. The Seer was long dead at this point, but his terminology and way of life had stuck around. Survival had become a competition, and somehow, that made live easier to deal with. It added a layer of unreality to let people distance themselves from the very harsh reality.
Some moved together as one with varying degrees of efficiency, taking over other’s bases, using up ammo to collect rations, and maybe adding others to their teams. Not everyone wanted to play the same game, and there were battles between well-matched, two or more, teams that lasted until the last one standing.
Unlike most games, this game of survival involved non-negotiable permadeath.
Seemed like there was no superpower granted to any human on Earth that could get around that one law of the universe.