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skonen_bladesI created warriors.
I don’t mean that I trained them.
We had the bridge between the meat and the metal sussed out perfectly. Generals and violent criminals, psychos and teachers. High-functioning savants and self-medicating geniuses. We researched them all.
We grew the brains. We fed them the dreams. We had them controlled and merciless.
We also gave every tiny piece of the whole its own brain in case it got separated. These glittering jewels, designed for their separate purposes, would snap like wet lego onto appendages and become weapons, scanners, or communication equipment as they reordered themselves.
In the end, my warriors looked like marbles, tic tacs, glow sticks and light tubes all bundled together and studded with armoured vacuum tubes.
We gave them a rudimentary human shape at first that they could deviate from if they wished. They could even dissipate. Thousands of components would drop to the floor and use their little means of propulsion to crawl under doors and between cracks.
It was magnificent. Like watching stained glass shatter and reassemble itself.
Like a group of insects taking on the form of a soldier. Highest achievement, really.
A little too late, though.
This lab is armoured and very far underground. The strikes didn’t penetrate down here. That was six years ago.
These warriors are trained to never harm me. They’re also trained to keep me fed and taken care of in just this instance. They leave for days at a time on a constant rotation, finding dogs or deer or meat that I don't recognize from outside the danger zone. They must look like army ants coming back to that navel of a manhole on the top level.
They’ve done a great job. I'm in great shape and show no signs of radiation poisoning. I talk to them but they never talk back. I get the feeling that they might hear me but they don’t respond. They’re taught only to respond to orders, asking only for clarification.
We didn’t install a way for them to just talk. I see now that we should have. Soldiers need banter. My hair and beard are long. I have long since stopped wearing clothes.
Sometimes I scream and try to hurt them. They always gently keep me from doing it.
Sometimes I scream and try to hurt myself. They always gently keep me from doing it.
The strikes knocked out the above-ground cameras and the doors are on autolock until the half-lives dissipate enough for brief trips.
It could be a while. If I had an Eve, I could have a doomed little family down here.
Just me, though, and the odds are actually quite high against that happening. I scream into the microphone a lot but I have no idea if it’s broadcasting topside.
The silent, green, nubbled warriors watch me. I send them through training exercises that are more and more complicated that I can follow.
Nothing breaks them. They're perfect.
tags
I don’t mean that I trained them.
We had the bridge between the meat and the metal sussed out perfectly. Generals and violent criminals, psychos and teachers. High-functioning savants and self-medicating geniuses. We researched them all.
We grew the brains. We fed them the dreams. We had them controlled and merciless.
We also gave every tiny piece of the whole its own brain in case it got separated. These glittering jewels, designed for their separate purposes, would snap like wet lego onto appendages and become weapons, scanners, or communication equipment as they reordered themselves.
In the end, my warriors looked like marbles, tic tacs, glow sticks and light tubes all bundled together and studded with armoured vacuum tubes.
We gave them a rudimentary human shape at first that they could deviate from if they wished. They could even dissipate. Thousands of components would drop to the floor and use their little means of propulsion to crawl under doors and between cracks.
It was magnificent. Like watching stained glass shatter and reassemble itself.
Like a group of insects taking on the form of a soldier. Highest achievement, really.
A little too late, though.
This lab is armoured and very far underground. The strikes didn’t penetrate down here. That was six years ago.
These warriors are trained to never harm me. They’re also trained to keep me fed and taken care of in just this instance. They leave for days at a time on a constant rotation, finding dogs or deer or meat that I don't recognize from outside the danger zone. They must look like army ants coming back to that navel of a manhole on the top level.
They’ve done a great job. I'm in great shape and show no signs of radiation poisoning. I talk to them but they never talk back. I get the feeling that they might hear me but they don’t respond. They’re taught only to respond to orders, asking only for clarification.
We didn’t install a way for them to just talk. I see now that we should have. Soldiers need banter. My hair and beard are long. I have long since stopped wearing clothes.
Sometimes I scream and try to hurt them. They always gently keep me from doing it.
Sometimes I scream and try to hurt myself. They always gently keep me from doing it.
The strikes knocked out the above-ground cameras and the doors are on autolock until the half-lives dissipate enough for brief trips.
It could be a while. If I had an Eve, I could have a doomed little family down here.
Just me, though, and the odds are actually quite high against that happening. I scream into the microphone a lot but I have no idea if it’s broadcasting topside.
The silent, green, nubbled warriors watch me. I send them through training exercises that are more and more complicated that I can follow.
Nothing breaks them. They're perfect.
tags