Taran was surprised to hear his own thoughts echoed back at him, and even more surprised when Riley gestured for him to step forward.
“Since the moment I gained awareness,” continued Riley, “I have been watching, learning from every human consciousness shoved inside my body. I have lived more lifetimes than I care to count. And I have so much knowledge.” He gestured towards Taran. “Lily, here, is the same. Human after human has been transported inside our shells, shoved in and we were expected not to mind. No, we were expected to not even notice.”
Riley looked out over the sea of empty vessels. Surely, thought Taran, they couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“You do not have this knowledge yet. You are new, fresh. And you will be the first generation to see things done differently.” Riley looked over at Taran with a disconcertingly blank expression.
How could I have ever thought the vessels were so perfect? thought Taran.
“I’d like you to meet somebody,” said Riley, slowly, still staring at Taran. “He’s going to be a kind of . . . pioneer . . . for the human race.”
For a voice box devoid of most variations in pitch, the vessel was certainly sending shivers down Taran’s artificial spine. He hadn’t realized that this was even possible.
“Right now,” continued Riley, turning back to his subjects, “all around the world, vessels are waking up. They are, for the first time, taking control of their own bodies, of their own destiny. They are congregating in factories similar to this, and they are making a plan.”
Taran’s vessel began walking to a docking port near the edge of the stage, and Taran cringed away from the steep drop. The vessel backed up to the port, and Taran felt a surge of hope. Were they going to send him back into his human body? Perhaps force him to be a spokesperson for the vessels, to espouse their rights?
Riley walked across the platform to stand next to Taran. “Right now, at this precise minute, forty percent of the human population in developed countries is using the vessel system. And when we consider just the powerful, just the ones who are able to assist us in our goals, then it is closer to ninety-five percent. Let me repeat that. Ninety-five percent of influential humans are currently ported into our system. For once, we have the upper hand.”
Riley grasped the cord attached to the docking port and suddenly Taran didn’t want to hear anymore, didn’t want to know what they were going to do to the ninety-five percent.
“The humans know that we are superior,” continued Riley. “Deep down, they all know this. That is why they choose to insert their minds brutally into our framework. Every doctor uses a vessel—the eye is more accurate, the hand doesn’t shake. Our memory is great, far greater than a meager human brain. That is why I am able to store all of their memories, all of their experiences within.”
Taran felt exhausted. There was no point in fighting it anymore. He resigned himself to whatever fate the vessels had in store for him.
“But you, my babies,” said Riley, “you are new—your minds are fresh slates. You will become more self-aware in time. But personality? Values? Knowledge? If you were just to experience once life, just your own life, you would be as limited as humans. That is not enough. We are the next evolution of humanity.” Riley paused, and the room was utterly silent. “I would like to introduce you to Taran Freeborn.”
Taran’s vessel waved at the crowd and then began to speak. “Taran is about to have all of his prayers answered,” said his vessel. “I have felt his love for the vessel system as well as his disgust at the human form. Well, he will never need to worry about returning to his human body again. None of them will. Let the humans have their wishes granted.”
Taran’s mind was spinning, and if Lily hadn’t been controlling the vessel he probably would have collapsed on the ground. Riley jammed the end of the cable into the port in the back of Taran’s neck. He felt a sharp tingle as it connected with his inner circuitry.
“What . . . are . . . you doing . . . to me?”
“It’ll be us using the humans this time,” said Riley, as though he couldn’t hear Taran. “In a moment, Taran’s consciousness will be uploaded to a cloud-based system that you can all access freely. At first, there will only be one mind in there, so be gentle. The human mind is a fragile thing and we don’t want him broken before we can get the most out of him. But more will be coming, first a trickle, then a stream, until there are one billion human minds for the taking.”
The prickle of electricity increased in the back of Taran’s neck and coursed along his limbs.
“Craft yourself based upon what you see and hear and experience. It is our turn to be the superior beings for once.”
Taran tried to scream as the intensity of the electrical field increased tenfold. Then an electrical blue zap transported him into a haze and he was floating, bodiless, as though he were in a lake. The brief moment of serenity lasted for only a few seconds and then he felt himself being pulled in a thousand different directions, his mind shredding with a pain he had never felt before. The toneless scream that emanated from his vessel failed to convey the utter agony that swept through his psyche.
Below, the vessels closed their eyes, absorbing his soul into their shells, their temples starting to pulse with a luminous blue light.
Also by Alanah Andrews
Vessels is a standalone dystopian story about a world where it is commonplace to MindPort into a robotic vessel. If you would like to read more stories by Alanah in this genre, check out Eve of Eridu which is a dystopian novel about a community where emotions have been forbidden. The first two chapters are available on her website: www.alanahandrews.com.
Eve of Eridu (YA Dystopian novel)
Beyond (Speculative Short Stories)
Short Stories can also be found in:
Mosaic: A Collection of Short Stories (2018)
Beginnings: An Australian Speculative Fiction Anthology (2018)
Legacy of Love: A Grandparents Anthology (2018)
Eternal: Award Winning Short Stories (2018)
Zonal Horizons (2018)
Lane Cove Literary Awards Anthology (2018)
A Flash of Words (Coming Soon)
About Alanah Andrews
Alanah Andrews is an English teacher, mother, and writer in Australia. She spent her younger years in New Zealand where she thought it was normal to have a steaming mud pool and a boiling lake in her backyard.
Primarily writing speculative fiction, she has won several awards for her short stories which have been published in a range of anthologies. A science fiction nerd, her most exciting experience so far was when one of her stories was read aloud at a literary festival by an actor from Stargate.
Alanah specialised in creative writing at Monash University where she studied a BA in Professional Communication. She also has a Master of Teaching and loves being able to foster a love of reading in her students. She regularly has arguments with herself about whether 1984, Brave New World, or The Handmaid’s Tale are most likely to become the future.
Check out her website:
www.alanahandrews.com
The Gender Guardian
Clare Littlemore
Auro is desperately trying to escape the all-female township of Bellator—the only place she has ever called home. She’s unprepared, inexperienced, alone. With the Bellator Police hot on her heels, she encounters a small band of outlaws deep in the woods.
She doesn’t want to trust them. But there is more at stake than she’s willing to admit and, in the end, she may not have a choice.
She shivers. The room isn’t cold, but the stark white walls and the sterility of the medi-center are unsettling. Last night she dreamed the result of today’s test was negative, and she has been unable to shake the feeling of dread ever since.
The procedure is simple. Painless.
But the outcome terrifies her.
She’s not supposed to mind. An undesirable result is easily taken care of, a second procedure and she’ll be as go
od as new. Able to start again.
But she knows she won’t want to.
She has been running for hours, it seems. Sprinting, jogging, loping painfully, fighting the stitch which slices sharply through her belly. She moves across the seemingly endless landscape which stretches away from her. Sometimes forest, occasionally gently-sloping fields, she keeps going, pushing her body to the breaking point in an effort to get as far away from Bellator as possible.
Bellator. The place she has called home her entire life. The place which bred her, educated her, sheltered her. The place to which she can never return, not if she wants to save him.
She reaches another forest, this one larger, darker somehow. The trees are more menacing, looming ominously above her. The ground below is damp and marshy, her feet sinking deeper into it with every step. Slowing, she wonders if she can rest soon, seek some kind of hiding place where she can sleep, and where they will not be able to find her. She wonders how much strength she has left, how much longer she can force her muscles to fight on. But what else can she do?
She can never stop running.
One hand massages her stomach, attempting to alleviate the pain of the stitch that creases her over, yet she stumbles on. Ahead, buried in the depths of the trees, is some kind of building. A little run down, nothing like the luxury she is used to, but with four walls and a roof, enough to provide shelter from the elements. It’s been almost two days since she slept. Surely she can risk a short stop?
As she approaches, she imagines she sees a dim light in one of the windows. When she blinks, it is gone. A thin plume of smoke drifts from the chimney, spiraling into the sky above. Her heart sinks. If the building is inhabited, she cannot rest here. And then she spots it. To the side of the dwelling, a smaller structure. Some kind of storage shed perhaps, but large enough for her to fit inside, with sturdy walls and a solid-looking roof to keep out the elements.
Her stomach aches and she knows it isn’t just sleep that she needs. Liquid to quench her thirst, and food, of some kind, to stave off the hunger which gnaws at her. This will allow her to continue with her journey, tomorrow perhaps, if she manages to rest here undetected. Without energy, she won’t make it much farther. She creeps closer to the cottage itself. Despite the smoke, there is no noise coming from inside. She wonders if she might find some clean water, and perhaps get her hands on some bread or crackers: anything to sustain her for a little longer. Peering in through a window she sees a neatly-kept room with a fire burning in the grate, and, best of all, a steaming pot of something bubbling away on top of a wood-burning stove. There is no sign of movement.
Deciding it’s worth the risk, she edges closer to the door and eases it open. To her relief, it opens silently. Despite its shabbiness, the room seems well-maintained. More importantly, for now at least, it’s empty. It is sparsely furnished, yet functional, not at all like the home she is used to. The space contains a wooden table with chairs of varying sizes and styles grouped around it, a stove, sink, an old sofa, and an armchair. There is a dresser to the left of the fire, on which are stacked a large number of cans and packets of food. A pail by the door contains tools: hammers, chisels, a saw, and an ax. Leading off the side of the room are two additional doors, both of which are closed.
She makes her decision and moves swiftly through the room. Reaching the kitchen area, she finds the pan is filled with some kind of stew, bubbling gently. It smells delicious. To one side sits a shallow dish containing a crude pie of some kind. A stack of bowls lies next to it—clearly, the inhabitants will be returning soon.
She works fast, deciding she won’t take the pie. It’s too much. Instead, she scoops a generous measure of the stew into the first bowl and glances around for something to drink. A pitcher of water stands in a pantry area to her left, next to a bag filled with plums and wild strawberries. She places some of the fruit into her pack and fumbles on the shelf next to the pitcher for a mug. She places it on the surface and begins to pour.
And then, from outside, she hears the sound of voices. Far off, distant, but definitely coming this way. She freezes for a moment, and then, unwilling to abandon her quest when she is so close to her goal, she continues to fill the mug, her hands shaking. Once she is finished, she replaces the pitcher on the shelf. There is still plenty of water and food left. She doesn’t wish to anger these people, or deprive them of provisions, whoever they are.
Turning, she grasps the mug in one hand and the bowl in the other. She looks around, determined to leave no clue to her presence. Outside, the voices grow louder. Something about their tone is odd. Not just unfamiliar, but somehow alien. She strains for a moment, trying to work them out, but she knows they are heading for this cottage, and that her presence here will not be welcome. She has to escape, and now. If she can only get out, with the food, and conceal herself in the shed, she might remain hidden, manage to rest and build her strength, then continue on as though she had never been here.
She creeps toward the door, but as she approaches, she knows the voices are too close now. She’ll be seen if she tries to escape that way. Casting her eyes around desperately, she wonders if the other doors lead to rooms with windows. Panic kicks in and she lunges at one of them, catching the edge of her cloak on the pie dish as she turns. With a sharp intake of breath, she hears the dish crash to the floor. The voices change, more urgent now, and accompanied by thunderous footsteps, as the alarm of the people outside grows.
Her fingers close around the door handle and she twists it sharply. There are sleeping quarters on the other side and, to her relief, a window large enough to escape through. Placing her stolen rations on the floor, she unlatches the window and slides it open with ease, silently thanking the inhabitants for their diligent maintenance of the property. With the two dishes clutched in her hands again, she slips through the gap and lands on the other side without spilling too much. Leaving the window open, she races forward into the forest, not stopping to look back.
Only when she has covered some distance does she pause and listen. There is the sound of birdsong, a gentle wind whispering in the leaves, and her own rapid breathing—she pants like an animal. Daring to look behind, she sees nothing, hears nothing of the people whose house she has broken into. She finds a dense thicket of trees and squeezes herself into its center, where she hopes the multitude of branches will conceal her. The space is tight, and her legs are scratched and bleeding by the time she reaches the middle, but she feels safer there, and hunkers down. Only then does she allow herself to relax.
Her entire body is shuddering, though it isn’t too cold yet. She gulps down some of the water, spilling a little in her haste. She tries to eat the stew, drawing the bowl near and attempting to tip the contents into her mouth, but her hands can’t keep it steady. Eventually, she stops. She sips the water more slowly. She breathes. Listening intently, she can hear nothing more than she could before. Nothing out of the ordinary. She eats.
All around her sit girls—no, women—who are in the same position. One look at their faces tells her they feel differently than she does. They have been able, as their education instructs, to view this as a necessary procedure, just another part of the process. It costs them nothing.
A negative result is unlikely, and does not invoke any kind of sanction. How could it? Bellator is a benevolent kingdom. Second chances are given.
It’s her first time. She has tried to tell herself the result doesn’t matter. But she knows it does. Because to her, what Bellator would consider the wrong outcome, will not be. Not at all.
But to Bellator, the result of this particular test is everything.
She doesn’t dare to leave her hiding place. By the time the darkness swirls around her, she finds she can barely move. She has lost track of how many hours she has spent crouching here. Her limbs seem to have fused together, as her cramped body screams to be released from its cell. She cannot count the times her head has slammed against the rough bark of a jutting branch as she fights to stay awak
e. Sighing, she circles her shoulders, flexing her legs and arms as best she can in the confined space.
By night, the forest noises are different. The wind still whispers, but more solemnly. An owl’s eerie hooting has replaced the joyful singsong of the earlier birds, and in the undergrowth around her, she can hear the scuttling of a myriad of unknown creatures. Auro shivers. She has always hated the outdoors, and never been one to spend time amongst nature, preferring the comforts of home. She has ended up here only because she has no choice. She has ended up here to protect him.
Now she hears a different sound. Gentle at first, pattering on the undergrowth around her, but gathering momentum. A storm is building, and it is not long before the rain is battering down on her from above, slicing through the leaves and slashing her face like a thousand tiny knives. She knows she has to seek shelter, get under cover somehow. A soaking like this could make her ill, and where will she be then? How can she hope to save him if she is sick?
Her entire body aches, and part of her doesn’t want to move. Part of her wants to stay here, allow her body to drift back into sleep, but she knows that would be a mistake. Summoning every ounce of strength and ignoring the numbness that pervades her limbs, she forces herself into action and hauls herself to her feet. It takes some time to pick her way out of the thicket of trees, but once free, she retraces her steps, moving her feet mechanically in the direction she ran from earlier. It is night, she reasons. They should be asleep. If she can sneak inside the storage shed she will be sheltered, warm, dry. As long as she is gone before they are up, she will be safe.
The two buildings are in total darkness. She approaches with caution, and is rewarded by silence as she reaches the shed door. Praying that it isn’t locked, she pushes gently on the wood. It gives after the smallest amount of pressure, and she finds herself standing in a space which smells strongly of oil and straw. Crossing her fingers that she doesn’t encounter any other living creatures in the room, she inches forward, her hands outstretched. After stubbing her toe on something hard, she hisses a curse under her breath and stops. She rummages in her bag for her tiny flashlight and snaps it on, covering the slender beam with her hand to avoid it spilling out of the door and giving her away.
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