AfroSFv3

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AfroSFv3 Page 15

by Ivor W Hartmann


  Moving swiftly on...

  I was up and down my climate-controlled apartment unit last night, with about two hours sleep, thinking about what we would see today. Staring out at the red-black night, I tried to imagine the future, my mind racing like a madman through all the different scenarios that might appear in the next few weeks, and even the ‘final’ result. I’m both excited and unnerved by the possibilities. There are so many variables and permutations of how the virus will express itself. Although it’s a fairly exact science, in our experience chaos does reign and reigns supreme. But we set our goal and hold true to the formulae and calculations.

  I do need to get my shit together and not let today’s events affect how I function with something as important as this. After all, things are going to get a lot more intense and a lot more brazen than some petty train theft.

  We’ve got our weekly meeting coming up and I’m sure security (and theft) are conveniently going to be raised, addressed, and workshopped to fucking death. As long as we remain focused on the goal, I’ll take the flack that is due to me.

  Eyes peeled. Skin crawling with anticipation.

  Day Four

  Every twitch and scratch that our ‘subject’ makes sends my pulse racing. An 8-minute ride on the hyperloop ends up being more nerve-wracking than any VR thriller I’ve ever done. Added to the fact that there still aren’t any visible signs that we can identify—again, it is still too early in the projected timeline. I’m spending the entire trip hanging on her every move. And I’ve got to remain inconspicuous.

  Fellow passengers seem to keep even their glances to themselves, but anonymity is the key. I even removed my hair add-ons and donned the most uninspired clothing to blend in with the proverbial wallpaper. Every pore of my body is oozing and squirming in this conformist chamber—like a diver with the bends having to decompress in a dense, soundless vacuum—the air is thick around me and I want to throw-up but know I’ll be left to rot in my own filth if I do.

  Picked up my replacement comm-unit on the way home from the station. We have to deal with the lowest tech concerning these things—cheap and nasty and as far off the system as things will allow. Already ran the serial-wiper to rid the device of its tracking system. The randomiser seems to be running just fine in the event of anyone trying to identify the device on connection—runs a new comm-ID and GPS location each time.

  God, I love having hacks at my fingertips.

  #

  Incoming comm...

  Auto Transcriber Activated...

  Names edited...

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Yes?’

  UNKNOWN: ‘Bro. What the fuck?’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘What you mean, P00102?’

  UNKNOWN: ‘Have to pull you off hyperloop duty for now. Your comm-unit problem.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Fuck, I knew it!’

  UNKNOWN: ‘Exactly, so don’t get pissy when you saw this coming.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Nobody’s pissy, I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s all unconnected.’

  UNKNOWN: ‘Unconnected now, but when we’re looking back in hindsight, we’ve got to make sure that we covered our tracks.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘So why allow this morning’s session?’

  UNKNOWN: ‘There were some back-and-forths over the issue and considering the amount of time we’ve all taken in grooming you and P00104 it was a hard call.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Who’s in tomorrow, then?’

  UNKNOWN: ‘P00108.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘She’s not ready, damnit!’

  UNKNOWN: ‘It took a day, but she’ll be just fine. Besides, we cannot assume that anyone is irreplaceable—no matter where we sit in the food-chain.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Whatever. I’ve got shit to organise, so I’ve got plenty to occupy my time.’

  UNKNOWN: ‘Exactly.’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Send me the updates.’

  UNKNOWN: ‘As always. We still on for the meeting?’

  DNA PIRATE: ‘Naturally.’

  Damnit.

  I’ll find ways to occupy my mornings. Need to gather information from the various broadcasts and news agencies anyway. Plus, P00109 says that he’s nearly through into the security and law enforcement agency systems. Fun when you just tell your code what to hack and it does all the hard work for you. That will, firstly, give us an eagle eye on any future investigations that may arise; and secondly, allow for a few manipulations.

  And then, like a giant digital chessboard, the games will really begin.

  Day Five

  Stumbled on this interesting newscast from a few weeks back: ‘Taking everything that is spewed from the gutters of The Fringe Magnet, this caster has just to mention up front that the following information may be somewhat tainted by their reputation. Nevertheless, an item that seem to be recurring on their casts is the possible infiltration of some sort of technical virus on a DNA-scale. Maybe it comes across on the surface as somewhat sensational, this caster does believe that there is an ounce of truth in the most banal and trite statements that anyone may deliver. But from a journalistic point of view it does smack of the 2075 attempt at distributing what was supposed to be a “planetwide annihilation of the vanity of the human race,” to quote the Anti-Bio-Earthist-Conspirators. We all know how humiliating and self-destructive their little experiment ended up being, but it did give the relevant health and security organisations pause for thought.

  ‘And here we are, present day, with snifflings of another viral campaign of ‘terror’ by the Earthist movement. Yes, I may be over-dramatising. That’s my job. But just to put it out there that maybe someone has been tinkering away at some little nasty virus thingy that, to all intents and purposes, could deliver on the original mandate of the ABEC crazies.

  ‘The Fringe Magnet reports that the settlement city of EFP0023 has what is called a group of individuals that are One in mind. “Their operation is apparently leaps ahead of the current known technology that we the public are aware of (and possibly those so-called leading scientists involved in the most cutting-edge research in the field of DNA manipulation and storage).”

  ‘I don’t want to be one of those post-apocalyptic I-Told-You-So’s, but let’s simply keep our eyes and ears open. One Mars.’

  Where do these crackpots get their info? Nothing to worry about, I’m sure—anyone with half a brain could assume that there are those that refuse to buy into the vanity of the majority. Hopefully there are more like us out there. And if there are, let the best man annihilate!

  Day Six

  I decided to take a walk today. Regular exposure to the Martian climate is vital.

  I walked onto my street as that early morning chill was dissipating like the sleep from my bones. The streets were busying, and the noise of the day had begun.

  I came down the hill, and through the gaps in the low buildings I could see the manmade river—bringer of commerce and trade—snaking like a salesman through the city I’ve come to know and love for the past few years. A feeling of disconnectedness briefly filled me remembering where I’ve come from. But this could be any city, on any planet, but only originating from one Earth.

  I love my birth-planet. I love my origin-planet. I love this city. I love the touch of the red soil and the promise of its dust. But I hate the people. I hate the builders. I hate the government. I hate the rulers. And I hate the mess.

  I stopped at the bridge bending its back over the glowing green river and I looked at the monuments, even the cathedrals, the stubby buildings no more than a few stories high, and the tourist gimmicks for visiting Earthers. But most of all I looked at the masked, faceless people: the people who built them; the people who use them; and most of all: the people who are really oblivious to them. The everyday people who go about their shit totally unaware of the monstrosity that they’ve helped create. The systems and structures and aerial views of their city—their supposed home—their cage that they’ve constructed to fit themselves into, comfortably. A mishmash of lanes and dreams and compromi
se and complacency. Only venturing outside when they absolutely must.

  I long for the fresh air that the industrial digital age can’t breathe into me. To be the rustic, earthbound troglodyte in his primitive cave in awe of his fire and the shadows that dance on his rough wall. He holds more value to me than the feel of my comm-unit in my pocket and the breather on my face: the weight of an age that feels like it’s going to drag me down with it.

  I had to take it out my pocket, so that I could breathe. I looked at the comm-units floating by—attached to faces—grey and dull and totally disconnected. Am I the only one who thinks like this?

  I’m the freak—I think.

  I think.

  I long for the fresh air. I need a trip to Earth. The great outdoors. Fuck! I thought this was the great outdoors. Space. Go figure.

  I had to rest against the thick stone slabs of the bridge. I needed to catch my breath. What am I doing here? What am I doing?

  I think I’d see normal people if I went out tonight. Halloween seems so natural now. Let’s celebrate the dead while they’re still alive.

  I noticed something after finishing this entry.

  Everything begins with ‘I’.

  Me.

  Day Seven: Signs and Wonders

  Our subject has started to show signs of the virus. Although pretty arbitrary to the average Joe Shmoe, it’s there and it’s exciting. It’s like watching a baby being born; the crimson sunrise on a brand-new day.

  P00108’s report shows that although not noticeably rundown, she doesn’t look like the perkiest flower in the vase (my words). Every now and again she reaches into her scarf to scratch the tender skin around her neck. Sign number one. Then, with her arms folded, she twists and turns her wrists inside her jacket and gloves. Sign number two. The next few days will expose the raw and vulnerable skin to the elements—further aggravating the surface area.

  Her discomfort is just beginning. In a way, I feel a tingle in my skin imagining what it must feel like, then a shiver, and finally a warm safe feeling envelopes me. After all, P00104’s DNA vaccine was implemented within the entire group a week beforehand, so we’re all safe and snug in our cocoons of wellness. But still, it is very humbling to know how close we are to the full-blown virus. Humbling and empowering.

  But let’s wait and see how it all unfolds. I feel totally exhilarated.

  At midnight, we all meet.

  Day Eight

  Here follows this morning’s midnight meeting:

  DNA Pirate: Before we begin any formal structure here, I’d like to firstly apologise for the comm-unit theft—out of my hands so to speak. But secondly that we need to foresee these kinds of things happening and what’s the point of going to all the trouble of getting serials wiped and randomisers installed if we then get pulled from our assignments when we hit a snag? Right. Let’s begin.

  P00101: Thanks for that. I don’t think we need to get into that debate right now. The reports that P00108 and P00104 have been providing are beneficial to the project and the ongoing work. Thanks guys. We do seem on track for the final stage, but the reports are vital for the various stages and their possible symptoms.

  P00104: I’d like to add that the research, the data collecting, and the technical knowledge of the entire dermasvirus team have created a marvel that should be respected on every level.

  DNA Pirate: Are the symptoms of the subject in any way in line with what you’d projected? I want to know if there’s any deviation from the goal here?

  P00104: So far it is all on track. You can never fully predict, but we’re strong.

  DNA Pirate: Excellent. I’d also like us to consider moving our initiation date forward a week.

  P00109: What?

  P00104: We can’t deviate-

  DNA Pirate: I don’t see how it would change the-

  P00109: This is crazy. We need to know what we’re dealing with here first.

  DNA Pirate: We know what we’re going to be dealing with.

  P00104: 90% sure at this stage. 10% unknown.

  DNA Pirate: I thought you said-

  P00104: There’s always a margin of error or deviation.

  P00109: Deviation from the plan. We agreed!

  P00101: Can we keep it ordered here? The focus remains. The plan remains. There is no deviation. The only deviation allowed for is the dermasvirus itself and any contingency plans that we’ve drafted.

  DNA Pirate: Just a suggestion. It shouldn’t make any difference if we’re going to set it in motion no matter what. It’s just the level of effect that’s going to vary, surely.

  P00109: I still don’t think that we should do anything more than what we’re doing to this subject and her family or colleagues. The message will be clear enough.

  DNA Pirate: People have a low attention span. After a week, it will be in the gutters of the media and a side note in a conspiracy theorist’s networking page.

  P00109: Fuck. Whatever.

  P00101: Again, back to the draft contingency plans. You’ll each receive a copy. I’m not going to go through it tonight. But I want your thoughts and suggestions ASAP.

  DNA Pirate: (the usual points were raised, and tedious admin dealt with).

  P00101: P00108 has her early morning tomorrow so we’re going to adjourn. As always, these meetings are to raise issues—briefly—to address anything that may come up late in the week, and to meet face to face: to remind each of us that we still remain a unified group. The faces before you are those that we trust and respect for what we can bring to this campaign.

  Day Nine

  I still don’t get it: P00109 still insists on raising his concern for the level at which we are distributing the DNAvirus. For some reason, he thinks that a ‘firm message’ needs to be sent rather than the destruction that we plan.

  ‘Oh, please Joe Shmoe, please don’t manipulate your DNA to make you a better person. Please don’t warp what evolution has taken billions of years to perfect. Please don’t turn yourself into an egocentric megalomaniac.’

  We’ve been harping on these issues for over a decade. We’ve protested. We’ve boycotted. We’ve terrorised. Now is the time to pull the pin on the grenade that they are willingly holding in their hands; the grenade that they’ve been daring nature to fight back with. Well, nature’s about to get a friendly hand. And like the grenade, it’s all going to blow up in their faces and there’s bugger-all they can do about it. Blow their noses off to spite their faces.

  Killing one person for the cause is a smudge on the tarmac. Killing a group of people causes a traffic jam—questions, answers, contingency plans, and paranoia. Kill a city and there’s global awareness in half a day. Kill a planet and the worlds go mental. That’s a message! Not a couple of post-it notes slapped onto the foreheads of passers-by. Small-time wastes Time. Time with a capital T-N-T!

  The 1st Martian War is about to be declared and it’s not between legacy countries from off-world. It’s between the people that think they hold the power and the ones that really hold the power. There’s no one to retaliate against. There’s no one to aim their missiles at. And best of all, there’s no borders to invade. Who do they stop when it’s all begun?

  They’ve said long ago that the death of the human race will not come from within, but from without. Viruses evolve. Viruses get stronger. Viruses come back at ya.

  We’ve just put our own two cents worth into the mix for good measure.

  Let’s see what brews.

  Day Ten

  Been prepping for the next phase.

  Although not being implemented just yet, the necessary plans need to be carefully laid out, locations confirmed, and contacts double-checked.

  I’ll be crossing zones, meeting new, like-minded people. A few planet-wide hyperloop rides, and a bicycle or two, will enable the safe dispersion of the global dermasvirus—the final strain! Once that has been successfully completed it’s just a matter of waiting for the date to arrive. The greatest event that anyone has ever witnessed on
such a scale. Millions of people will be watching it unfold across the planet. Possibly even those on Earth. No one will be immune. No class, no race. Just a select few.

  Those select few will bring the stability that the world so dearly craves. Subconsciously man is yearning for this rebirth. They just don’t know it.

  It will be like the dawning of the Iron Age. All the tools will be available to us, but we will set the standards up front. For the betterment of the species and quality of life on Mars—the wholeness of the planet considered. Not a prettier species, or the massaging of a superiority complex.

  Down to Earth. Up with the planet.

  Day Eleven

  We’re nearly at the stage of buying the various transportation tickets and hire-cars. I’ve gone over my checklist of personal items, clothing, and other travel necessities that I’m going to need.

  Feeling somewhat detached from the group as I mentally prepare for this part of the journey. Being from another part of the planet I’m seen as the foreigner, the roamer. They’re all attached to their city, their homes, and their safe environments. I left that long ago and escaped to a new life. I arrived here with minimal baggage—a small backpack and personal ghosts. They’ve got their lives weighing them down and they don’t even know it. I wonder how easy it’s going to be for them when the time comes and there’s no turning back. Are they going to snivel and whimper at fate’s feet? Is there going to be guilt and remorse flying around? Or are they going to step up and drop the shit?

  In a way, it’s like they are using me to distance themselves from the mission. Distance themselves from the very human emotion that genocide brings up in the pit of your stomach.

  Nobody else rose to the occasion. I felt the stares and looks of judgment when I took the task. As if they all thought I was the callous one, the heartless freak.

  Only a week or so of traveling and then I’m back. Back to reality and back to the group. They can all envy me as I tell them of the final days of each city; one of the last of our group to go where the virus will soon wreak havoc.

 

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