by Ethan Cooper
No clue how many satellites are up there these days. If Cyberspace is offline, if nobody can communicate with the satellites, what are they doing up there—just continuing to execute their programming until they run out of fuel and their orbit decays? Without Cyberspace, it’s going to be some time before anybody will be sending rockets into space again. People once thought that relocating people to another planet was viable. They could see humanity’s self-destructive behavior. We were ruining the only habitable planet within our reach, and we weren’t going to change. It wasn’t beyond reason to conclude that moving to another world was the solution. How easily dreams are overwhelmed by reality. What a nightmare. Some people actually tried to live on Mars. Didn’t turn out well for anybody.
We’re not getting off this planet. It’s a dying world, and we’re stuck here.
Humanity has survived numerous catastrophes without having to resort to trying to leave the planet. Cyberspace’s fall is no different. We’ll get through this.
Still, I suppose there is junk floating up there in the heavens—
(angels come from heaven)
—and some of it’s bound to fall down at times.
But this isn’t a satellite; I see that now.
It’s a living thing.
It’s alive, and somebody sent it here. And the reason I know this is that the object just opened up like a flower, and something came out of it, crawling under its own power.
Crawling toward me.
51/Duplication
2195.12.28/Morning
The thing that emerged…it’s…
I lurch backward. Foot comes down in the remains of the tarokk. Cosmically gross.
A bulbous, fleshy body, like some half-inflated, black balloon. I can’t see a head, or eyes—anything to guide and control its direction. What I do see, however, is a twisted conglomeration of legs and tentacles, writhing wetly against each other. The limbs aren’t moving randomly; each twitch is guided, not only for locomotion, but also for discovering its surroundings.
Not a good idea to let this thing discover that I’m part of those surroundings.
Whatever the hell it is, it’s not all flesh. Some of its tentacles and a couple of those legs are made of metal.
Without taking my eyes off the creature, I jump to my feet, amazed that I can actually move that quickly, backing up until I can step out of the crater. I realize that it isn’t moving at me directly. Rather, it looks like it’s just exploring now, and its initial direction happened to be toward me.
Overhead, another object streaks toward the city, winking orange and red like a dying fire as it streaks through the sky.
“Damn,” I say under my breath.
The creature, which had been exploring the far end of the crater, stops moving.
(It
Heard
You)
Okay, why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? I stand still and try not to make any noise. Difficult, because everything feels suddenly itchy. Dust is tickling my nose, and I need to scratch my shoulder.
Must maintain control over that urge.
Its tentacles—some flesh, some spike-tipped, segmented metal tubes—probe the air in all directions. They move in slow, flowing motions, oh so deliberate.
Either it doesn’t detect me, or it doesn’t care, because it moves away, toward the rim of the crater.
I rub my nose and scratch my itches as I continue to see where it’s going.
(runforitwhileit’sdistracted)
The creature begins to rotate in place, its tentacles plunging into the ground. Dust and pebbles fly everywhere. It’s really churning up the dirt below it. As the creature spins, it begins to sink into the ground, descending into the hole it’s preparing for itself.
No. Can’t let it get away. I don’t have a lot of justification for this line of thought, but there it is bold in my mind. It’s the automatic me, and she’s issuing a clear directive that I’m powerless to disregard.
Can’t let it get away—at least without trying to find out where it’s going or what its purpose is.
(why)
It’s not uncommon for me to not have a full explanation for my actions. This is no exception. Guess this is just who I am. I have enough mysteries in my life, and this is one that feels like it’s discoverable.
I cross the crater, careful to avoid the tarokk corpse this time. The creature has stopped burrowing, all of its tentacles and legs buried, but the squishy top of its main body—the balloon part—still above ground. Why did it stop? Is the dirt harder deeper down? Is it broken?
Broken would be good
The bulbous part of its body is just above the top layer of dirt. The ground surrounding it is moving, tentacles and legs still in motion beneath the ground. It’s body rocks side to side, as if it’s finding a more comfortable position. Ridiculous, but it’s the image that comes to mind.
(what’s this?)
(look)
There’s a metal plate, about the size of my hand, on the top of its body, right there in the center. The flesh of the thing seems to flow around the metal, like it’s only barely tolerating it. There’s some sort of inscription on the plate. Still too dark, and I’m too far away to make it out, so I have to get close once again.
Kneeling. Dirty skinsuit to dirt. Filthy hands to ground.
The inscription reads:
BLEED
Lovely. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is that what this thing is? A Bleed? Or is bleed more of a threat? As in I want you to watch you bleed.
A sound to my right interrupts any further pondering. Head swiveling, blue strands swinging. Something is churning up the ground about a meter away, halfway up the edge of the crater wall. At the same time, the creature below me starts to claw its way back out of the dirt. Trying not to think about how hard my heart is pounding, backpedaling again until I’m back across the crater and sure that I’m not going to be immediately attacked. From here, I can see what was causing the disturbance in the ground.
It’s another one.
52/Dissolution
2195.12.28/Morning
I look around for another crater, but I know there isn’t one.
The second creature looks like the first. Maybe a different ratio of metal to flesh, but it’s the same type of beast—a mass of slithery black tentacles and matted metal whips. A disgusting, twisted marriage of life and lifelessness. My stomach gurgles, not from hunger.
(look angel it’s)
Churning. The second one is churning up the dirt now. It’s digging in the same manner as the first one, fast and violent, spinning as it sinks into the ground, a cloud of dust enveloping its form.
(the second came)
(from the first)
No.
No way in hell.
The second is as big as the first, so it’s not possible that the first could have birthed the second. There’s just not enough matter in one to produce two. Something cannot come from nothing—impossible.
Unless.
Unless the first created the second. Created from what though? Dirt?
It was fast. Too fast. My brain screams at me that nothing so complex could be created that quickly, but I know better. I’ve seen a wirewitch transformation.
The ground over there moves, and a third
[BLEED]
[BLEED]
[BLEED]
pops its bulging body up from the dirt. The new one is almost twice the size of the first two, the bulging blob of its body listing to one side.
I notice that the first has burrowed again, and the second seems to be searching for another suitable location. Small, sloped craters are left where each has burrowed.
The dirt became beast.
No.
Not possible.
I stumble toward the shallow end of the crater. When I’m out, I take a couple of deep breaths, because I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. Breathe deep. Eyes open. The three
[BLEEDS]
[B
LEEDS]
[BLEEDS]
are burrowed over there now. Soon there will be six, then twelve, then…what?
Now this island will bleed. Everybody here will bleed.
More movement. The surviving tarokk. Its squished nose sniffs the air, and its eye darts back and forth as its head swivels from side to side.
The tarokk screeches as it crests the rim of the crater, talons slicing through the air when it slides down the crater wall. It makes a determined course for the nearest Bleed, which is rising from the ground after presumably creating a replica of itself. The tarokk launches itself at the Bleed, slashing at that swollen mass, talons sinking deep into whatever lies within. The Bleed opens like rotted fruit, a silvery black fluid gushing out of the ragged wound. The ground around the Bleed churns for a second, as if it lost control of its limbs. An unnatural, synthesized sigh emanates from within the Bleed, even as its tentacles go limp.
It’s silent, dead.
But there are five others now.
And they are not unaware that one of their own has fallen. The tarokk and the Bleeds rush at each other. Claws swinging and tentacles whipping. One Bleed reaches the tarokk before the others. The tarokk never has a chance to strike because the Bleed jerks violently, spraying a grayish mist into the air. The mist envelops the tarokk. It falls to the ground, its mouth open in silent scream.
Hurts my heart to see it wriggling there, suffering.
Glowing.
It’s a gray light. And as it shines, the tarokk dissolves. Its skin ripples, blisters forming and rupturing, flesh opening to expose the muscles beneath, then bone and organs, all consumed by that gray light. The worst isn’t watching the tarokk’s body being eaten away; it’s the sound as it happens—a pronounced grinding—like millions of bubbles popping.
It’s all over in a minute. The gray light fades, and then there’s nothing. No trace of the tarokk. Not even any residue. Total discorporation. Even some of the ground looks to have been dissolved.
(it’s alive)
(somebody sent it here)
They burrow again. Faster than before, creating another five. The nearby ground is littered with small indentations where the Bleeds have risen. Some indentations are bigger, where multiple Bleeds have emerged.
I should move, run away, but I just stand there.
They multiply again, scattering, taking more ground. Impossible to track them all now, their movements unrelenting, risings overlapping with the burrowing.
Then a cluster of the creatures stops burrowing and moves off away from the area surrounding the crater. They’re moving toward the city. They don’t go far though. They all converge until they appear to be a single entity. The gray mist bursts into the air around their group huddle. As the mist settles, the ground begins to glow. As a single unit, the Bleed sink down, only this time, they’re not burrowing. This time, the ground is disappearing around them, burned in the fire of that gray light. There’s heat—I can feel it from here. The glow expands, eating away at the ground. The area affected by the mist extends at an incredible rate, a circle growing in circumference. The sound is louder—that dreadful popping.
I hear that same sound off to my other side, and I can see that a second group of the Bleed are assembling over there.
The mist descends. The glow rises.
The earth is dissolving—matter converted into pale gray energy light.
Obliteration. That’s what this is.
Now this island will bleed. Everybody here will bleed.
JACK…I need to…
Decision already made, I’m turning toward the city, moving to avoid those patches of disappearing ground that the little clusters of Bleeds are creating. When I’m past those gray glowing patches and clear of the Bleed clusters I run.
And run.
And run.
And run.
How long do I have before those things reach the city? A few days?
As I run, Calamity Carl’s words echo in my ears. He knew this was coming, and my mind’s not going to let me forget that. Doesn’t matter. I can’t change what’s already happened. I need to concentrate on the future and the aspects of it I can control. This island is fucked, and I need to leave it. To do that, I must find some transportation—something that flies or something that floats. The thought of flying is distasteful for some reason, so it will have to be something that floats.
JACK, find me and let’s find a boat. The thought runs through my mind, a litany that becomes more prayer-like with every repetition.
The sun finally peeks above the horizon, casting the land in a red so deep I can imagine that I’m running across the surface of a different planet.
Now this island will bleed.
Overhead, it looks like the end of the world, hundreds of orange fireballs burning their way toward the island.
Everybody here will bleed.
I let the automatic me take over, letting her push me through the pain in my chest, the aching in my legs and arms.
JACK, find me, I plead as I run. Don’t let me die on this island.
Don’t let me die alone.
I run toward the city as the sky descends in streaks of amber and blood and the ground disappears around me in flashes of gray, glowing heat. The sense of finality is overwhelming. Isn’t this the way everybody thinks the world will end? In fire?
I think of the Bleed and that gray glow, and how everything it touches just…goes away. It’s not fire, but something else.
It’s obliteration.
And nothing can save us from it.
OBLITERATION
53/A Train In The Sky [T-minus 7]
2195.12.29/Morning
BLINK.
The only reason I’m still alive is because she’s been in control since the moment I set foot back in this damned city. She’s me, of course, but she’s a subconscious part—raw muscle memory from what I have to assume is years of training. It feels good when she’s in control, as if I have a peek into the person I was before and what that person could do. It’s comforting, which is good, because stepping back into a city that’s rushing toward its own death is one of the most frightening thing I’ve ever intentionally done.
BLINK.
The street itself is on fire. I’m forced to climb over a pile of bodies. Not all of them are all the way dead, and the pile shifts under me.
BLINK.
Above, a cluster of orange fireballs slam into the building to my left, about ten stories up. Glass and metal rain down into the street ahead. A little girl holding hands with a little boy—her brother from the look of him—screams, unable to escape the debris. They both go down and don’t get back up. I don’t even need to look up to know that ten floors up there’s a pulsing gray light.
BLINK.
I slash with the pulse dagger. The cut is deep, almost taking my attacker’s entire arm off at the elbow. Her blood is black—no wait, that’s lubricant—spurting out in thin streams from two severed tubes. Her fingers go limp, the knife in her hand tumbling away. I’m ducking, spinning, catching her weapon, sending it across the backs of her ankles. She’s barefoot, so the knife passes through both of her Achilles tendons. I’m close enough that the sound of lubricant gushing is a wet hiss in my ears.
BLINK.
Running, a flash of light illuminates the buildings in front of me, the rumble of an explosion behind me. A glance over my shoulder tells me all I need to know—that a skyscraper several blocks behind me is toppling, the base of it disappearing in dark, angry clouds of dust.
BLINK.
I tried to stick to the coast, but the automatic me had other ideas, taking me deep into the center of the city, where the fires burned the hottest, where the riots took on a ferocity I could never have imagined.
No direction.
No purpose.
Total madness.
I’ve seen humanity at its most unspeakable.
BLINK.
bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!
BLINK.
&n
bsp; As the stars fall in countless streaks of orange and red, I see an object floating above the city. It emerges from the smoke like some alien vessel preparing to make first contact with Earth. It’s a segmented thing, writhing like a snake as it passes over. It’s a…
A train.
It’s one of those high-speed trains that travel the circuitstreams of the city. They usually hover about fifteen meters off the ground, and this one has to be at least fifty meters up. Not sure how I can make out the detail from this distance, but I can: there’s movement above the train. At least two figures are up there—one has wings and seems to fly above the train. It’s unwise to stand here transfixed in the midst of the violence and the screams, but here I am, strangely calm in the chaos. One of the figures—the one with the wings—begins to emit a cold blue light. It crackles like lightning, as if it’s being contained—but just barely—engulfing him, then reaching out toward the other one. Connected by a jagged, jittering bolt of energy, the two are encompassed by a globe of blinding blue light.
I realize I’m running, following them, and I’m not sure why. It’s the automatic me again. Maybe she saw something.
(the wings)
I run through fire. I dodge rioters. I use the pulse dagger on anybody who tries to stop me.
(don’t think about it just)
(survive)
Up above, the train continues its course through the city. It’s moving fast enough that I’m going to lose track of it soon. Just before it’s about to pass out of sight, the globe of light around the two figures contracts, taking on a different hue—blue laced with purple—then flares like the sun, expanding rapidly.
I get my arms up and my eyes closed, but I’m unable to stay on my feet. Falling backward, arms pinwheeling, feet slipping in a pool of something slick. Grunting, my breath comes out of me in one big whoosh when the backpack takes the brunt of my collision with the street. I roll to one side as the crack of thunder fills the city. The air sparkles with shards of glass as windows are torn from their mounts. On some of the buildings that have sustained severe damage from fire or other violence, chunks of wall—neoplastic plates, intricate stonework, ornate metal grating—are torn away, plummeting onto the crowds below.