Johnny Winger and the Great Rift Zone

by Philip Bosshardt

  ***All data seems clean and within expected variations, Dr. Falkland. I have finished all check routines and variations are minimal. There was some dropout in data collected from Zones 41 through 45, but I have activated interpolation routines to make up for the loss…I don’t think the subject will be affected***

  “Zones 41 through 45--“ Falkland consulted a handwritten list he had taped to the console. “We’ve seen that before…the hind leg muscles…not sure what’s happening with that. Hope Simon doesn’t come back walking with a limp. Well, here goes--“ He stabbed a button and the system monitor beeped and flashed warnings: MEMORY FIELD OPERATING….KEEP CLEAR…

  He looked inside the chamber.

  For a few moments, the mist continued to swirl, speckling and twinkling and popping like a miniature thunderstorm. Falkland knew the bots were slamming atoms as fast as they could, using the memory field as a blueprint, re-building Simon molecule by molecule. At least, he hoped that’s what was happening.

  Then, slowly, the swarm mist began to clear. The first shape to appear was a nose, then a mouth. Falkland peered into the chamber closely, checking for texture, patterns, evidence that the memory field had worked.

  The mist began to thin out and that’s when Falkland’s heart sank. It was Simon, all right, at least something recognizable as Simon. All the parts seemed to be there: a face, four legs, a squat little furry body…it was black and tan in coloration, that seemed normal…a tail that wagged.

  But Simon was transparent. Structure wasn’t filling in properly. Falkland realized he could see right through the structure.

  “I’m adjusting the field to compensate--“ he announced. Falkland fiddled with some dials on the console, trying to bring a stronger memory field to bear, to override the structure that was being formed. Trying to force the atoms and molecules that made up Simon back into normal position, normal geometry. The overall look seemed right, but there weren’t enough molecules.

  Simon was little more than a cloud.

  In the end, Falkland couldn’t get Simon’s structure to fill in. The mist that was the swarm rebuilding the little dog stubbornly refused to coalesce into something more substantial. The basic pattern was there but memory field integrity was being lost somewhere in the process.