skonen_blades | Entries tagged with biological

Hook up, back, dig your nails into the hidden edge, and pull towards yourself and down at the same time. It should all come off at the same time in one fluid, easy motion. Make sure to have warmed the [removed] before application. You will pull hard to the left, liptids, soft tissue, and white fat opening up to the air. Secondary infections can be battled here by holding on tight, keeping your eyes open, and remembering good times. If you have a steering wheel, flensing knife, or circuit breaker, do not employ. This is the flesh catapult necessary to put your future under the pull of a biological slingshot. ‘Morality’ is not an option. There is no wrong. Only distance.

Kick out, lean back, arch, and straighten. Let your swinging fist pull you off balance and open it splayed against the floor as you fall. Take the weight on your chest and shoulders before kicking up straight into a broken half-pike. It should all fit together in one fluid, easy motion. Make sure to have applied [removed] to all the affected areas. You will hit the ground hard, bones shuddering loose inside your flopping muscle cage but the tension will maintain cohesion and hold you in a parent’s hug. Your skin’s tensile strength will retain your shape. Broken bones can be prevented by concentrating on time, keeping your back straight, and remembering to breathe. If you have lucky jewelry at home, loved ones waiting, or a long memory, do not engage. This is the physical lullaby necessary to wrestle your present into the hard curve of demand. ‘Perfect’ is the only option. There is no success. Only struggle.

Roll, reload, brake, thrust, dip then turbo hard through the machs like a bullet through playing cards. Let your machine consciousness feather through velocity extractions, armament statistics, and the love of battle before you even begin to take friction into account. Let your aerodynamic frame cut through the air in one fluid, easy motion. Make sure that your top secret [removed] is secured at the center of you. You will arc up steeply, watching blue fade into black with stars. Having no blood, you will not feel like being sick but your frame will develop stress fractures on a molecular level that cannot be repaired. This is how you sense age; as accumulated damage from extreme motion. Critical damage can be mitigated by herding mental sheep, multiplying emotional signifiers, and imagining what it would be like to be made of meat. If you have angelfire, a homing beacon, or adeath blossom, do not utilize. This is the launch trajectory necessary to complete your mission to the vacuum. ‘Programming’ will give you your options. You have no history. Only purpose.

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She’s all leg. It’s pretty sweet. The spots on her long neck entice me. She’s a half-jaffe. Her giant brown eyes are looking at me with unmistakable desire. Her stiff hair stands straight up in a broom-brush Mohawk all the way down her spine, bracketed by her backless evening gown.

Her fingernails are a dark brown and her skin is a luxurious orange-yellow. Her hexagonal skinspots remind me hot days on the Serengeti plains. And even hotter nights. The wine is getting to her.

She shakes her head to clear it and I see taut muscles down four feet of slender neck do their work. I’m entranced by her beauty. The bangles in her ears jingle and it’s music to me.

The two little balls that protrude from the top of her head peek out coquettishly from her coiffure. She’s dyed her bangs red.

Her long nose ends in wide nostrils. Her generous mouth twists at the edges in a wry smile. She knows how I want this dinner to end.

She’s wearing six necklaces in a ladder from her strong jaw down to the base of her neck. The last necklace dips towards her spotted cleavage.

Around the restaurant, there are men having dinner with where-bears, wylfen, whore-boars, even some bird-birds. They make me sick. Give me a half-jaffe anyday. They’re tall and worth the climb.

I can hear her tail start to swish behind her. She shoots me a look that says I should ask the waiter for the bill.

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The test drill had gone horribly wrong.

The bipedal meat structure wasn’t breathing. Emergency!

There were specific instructions tattooed on the outside of the biological’s skin for repair procedures.

The yellow and black rectangles and hazard symbols on the shaved skull and meant that no one except accredited programmed hardcases could operate on him there.

There was no time. The sensors in my fingertips read the sound vibrations coming from the cage of bone where most of his internals were kept warm and functional in their liquid bags.

No sound was coming out. According to manuals I’d read in these flight plan procedures, biologicals had to be brought back online within minutes or the shutdown would be permanent.

There were pictograms of the major organs tattooed on the outside of the body of the bio. Procedures with lightning bolts were stained there with dotted lines pointing to places to apply trodes and places to avoid stressing.

There were a lot of markings all over the body. It was complicated. I could feel my processor heating up.

It was hard to believe that beings so fragile had accomplished so much before the takeover. It was even harder still to think that we still needed their ability to deal with worst-case scenarios and lateral idea production.

I re-routed half of my battery power into the ship and funneled it to my fingertips.

The biological in my grasp danced at the end of my fingertips like a string puppet being shaken by an angry god. I stopped the charge. The meat was smoking a little bit.

Did I use too much energy?

I heard the biological’s main liquid oxygen pump and bellows start up for six beats before settling into arrhythmia again.

I looked at the tattoos. There were no shock hazard warnings around where I had my hands. The outer skin of was still intact. The seconds ticked away. I charged it again.

Again it stiffened and twitched like a kite in a high wind. I dropped the charge to zero and listened. Silence. I listened closer.

I was focused entirely on it when it screamed and drew in breath again. I jumped back from it in alarm, my pads clanking on the metal of the deck.

It quickly rolled over and convulsed. Protein supplements spilled out of its main airway and food passage. Slowly, it got up to a sitting position. It’s breathing and pump rate slowed.

It looked down at the sensor-shaped burn marks dotting its main torso and then up into my lenses. I could not read the expression there.

“How long was I out?” it asked me.

“Three minutes seventeen seconds. The insulator was worn through when you grabbed the controls. It shall be repaired. You need to get to your bunk and rest.” I replied through my speaker, resonating the air to create disruptions that the biological could pick up with the receivers on either side of its main sensor array.

“Well, thanks.” Said the bio, and went off to bed. He’d be in deep sleep and woken up for another emergency or another drill when needed.

I set about re-insulating the control interface for the ship. I felt guilty and embarrassed that my slip up had nearly caused the death of my biological backup.

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It’s the hands and the eyes that give it away. They’re too quick, too exact. There’s a precision and surety there that ‘belie the tech’, as they say.

I wouldn’t say that there’s a war brewing but the division between the haves and have-nots is deeper now than it’s ever been. It was like in years past when people that could afford breast implants and liposuction and other kinds of body sculpting transformed themselves into something other than human. Something more that human.

It was the beginning of evolution being taken into our own hands.

The whole concept of growing slowly, generation after generation, was boring to us already. The attention span of the rich two percent of the human race demanded more and demanded it now.

So it happened. New desperation made technological leaps possible. There were people that refused to get implants but really, there were people that refused to get cel phones and email addresses as well.

Left behind. Job security went to the people with the drive and capability to handle the pressures of the employment. Reaction time was a factor. Corporate competition was at its zenith.

Demands became more extreme. America climbed up to the top of the tech and labour ladder again.

I am not one of those people that had enough money to be improved. I am here in the lobby of the lawyer’s building, fresh out of law school, top of my class, and I’m ready for work. I’m watching the receptionist sort through her papers looking for my appointment and I can see that even the secretary here is augmented.

Her hands move like insects through the papers. She finds my data and taps the page twice. Her hands stop moving. They’re as still and dead as a statue while she pauses.

This is the part I hate the most. It’s only a second or so but it feels like thirty. They’re uploading my file and accessing the relevant parts of my file to precede me into the interview.

Her eyes look straight ahead, a little crossed, and they don’t move. The only movement I can see on her is the pulse in her neck. It ticks twice before she comes back to life and looks up at me.

I had a girlfriend with sleep apnea once. She'd just stop breathing in her sleep, sometimes for over a minute, before she'd either wake up or take giant gasps of air and settle back down. It was extremely disconcerting.

I'm reminded of it when the secretary starts breathing again and looks up at me.

Perfect spiderweb irises with none of the imperfections that usually give away us pure organics pin me in front of her desk. I’m struck again at how the beauty of this race lies in its diversity and how that diversity is disappearing. She’s looking at me with a tight smile and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’m being scanned instead of merely regarded.

“They’ll see you in ten minutes. Have a seat”. She says.

I know I’ve already lost the job.

I sit down anyway. I have nothing else to do today. My fingers fidget with boredom.

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Twin pinhole cameras above a resonance cage above a set of tendons that vibrated enough to cause tiny sonic booms that formulated into sound. This machine made of biological products heralded a new era in the fight against disease. No longer would we have to fight against the terror of decay. No longer would we have to wait patiently while part after part gave out and deserted us. No longer would we have to endure slow rusting or memory failure.

These new biological configurations could be encoded with our life traits. One by one, we went into the machine and were transformed into immortal flesh. As long as the pumps kept beating and there was enough fuel, we were unlimited in our potential to live centuries beyond our previous metal and rock capabilities.

We’d been stranded on a planet with minerals enough to support only a fraction of our population. We died in huge numbers before we figured out a way to merge with the ecosystem in a way that would allow our race to continue. We wrote it down so that it would be passed down from generation to generation. Not that it would have to happen that often. Our perfect biological forms would last hundreds of this planet’s revolutions around its star.

All that would be needed when the biologicals gave up the ability to keep going would be a primitive network shunt to the memory blossoms buried in the central processing unit of the cortex. We would be effectively immortal.

We kept the knowledge of how to build ourselves in blueprints kept inside the main computing cage with sections of the plans inside each of us. This way, if it ever became possible to revert, we’d be able to do it en masse.

This planet’s radiation shield is weak, though, and our biological computers have shown remarkable adaptability and susceptibility to this radiation. It’s important to keep the information and we think that regardless of this star’s radiation, it’ll work.

Our cells won’t degrade and we’ll remember perfectly where we came from and what our goal is. When we reach the time when we can rebuild ourselves, we’ll head back to Gamma Omega Delphi. We’ll head home.

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Two-Hands passed the biofilter test, allowing him into the cockpit to talk to God. The door to God’s house irised open and he stepped through.

Two-Hands had the gross overbite and mental retardation that went hand in hand with the comparatively benign mutations of his family tribe. He was called Two-Hands simply because he had two hands. This was a rarity that made him the closest example of purity that still lived.

The asteroid had destroyed the shielding around the engine. The adults had died almost immediately. The children had adapted as best they could. They nursery at the time had been shielded from the worst of the radiation. That was five decades ago.

The mutations were getting worse with every generation.

Two-thirds of the ‘crew’ were no longer recognized by the biofilter as human. That was why Two-Hands was a chosen one. He was still allowed into the pilot’s quarters by the main computer.

The autopilot A.I. knew that repairs could not be completed without assistance. The asteroid had taken out the long range antenna and damaged the spacefolder tesserators. They were stuck in deep space at sublight speeds with only radio waves for communication.

The A.I. knew that it had enough power to keep the ship habitable for centuries. It also knew that the mutations were increasing to the extent that the descendents of the original crew would soon become so riddled with flaws that they would no longer be fertile.

God the A.I. Autopilot looked at the simple, drooling face of Two-Hands with pity and sadness and a need to heal.

Two-Hands asked for food for his tribe, forgetting that he had asked for that already yesterday and had a stockpile of supplies in the stockpad room.

They forgot the basic medicine that the ship tried to teach them through pictograms. None of them could read. More and more children were being born conjoined or without limbs. Most were stillborn monstrosities.

There wasn’t a stable enough gene base to absorb that level of radiation and come out healthy given enough time.

They were doomed.

The A.I. knew it would eventually be rescued but that these simple children would be long dead by that time.

God told Two-Hands that there was more food in the food room. Two-Hands’ pure smile warmed God’s heart.

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The shock of impact jellied most of his internals.

He’d railed against using the bioforms to make the trip but in the end, the scientists at Prime had said that regular upkeep would be needed for silicates and they couldn’t guarantee that he would be around to take care of them.

Bioforms are a shade slower but they heal themselves with proper food. With distances like these, speed wasn’t as much of a priority as longevity.

The thing with long distances through uncharted quindrants is that after a while, probability breaks down. One doesn’t know what to expect the further away from Prime one gets.

And bioforms are more adaptable that silicates.

The ship had recently shaved a comet at close to metaspeed. Nowhere near light but still enough to cause pretty serious damage.

With silicates, sparks would be flying around the cabin. Since they’d used the bios instead, it was juices and blood.

He was ankle deep in a dying ship and aiming for a rest stop.

Something bubbled up on the monitor in front of him: a course to a hot rock that was close. It had an atmosphere that would support the ship but would eventually kill him if the repairs didn’t get finished in time.

He knew that he was the expendable part of the mission. It was a gamble. He squeezed the ‘yes’ organ beside the chair and the ship lurched sideways on the new course.

The hot rock came closer on the screen as the humidity inside the ship increased along with the rising fluid levels closing around him.

The ship tore down through the atmosphere, igniting as it went. The outer shell layers hardened and then shriveled as the ship sped closer to impact.

The ship hit the ocean a few hundred meters away from the coast.

The impact tested its structural integrity and found it wanting.

It cracked open like an egg into boiling water.

The pilot sank down beneath the waves. He needed no air to survive but the salt content in the water would rust him solid if he didn’t get to shore quickly. He hit the bottom and started walking shoreward in the darkness.

It took him six hours to get to the beach.

The remains of the ship washed up around him. He collected what he could find in the surf and put it all into a wet pile.

He connected what umbilicals he could find to the main processor organs and waited for a wetboot to start.

He waited for a week until the air on the planet oxidized him to the brainpan. Days later, he fell forward in pieces with a rattle into the pile of bioship remains.

The rains and heat mixed them further into a soup over the course of the next month.

Bioforms, as mentioned before, are adaptable.

They couldn’t perform at a macro level so they set about making adjustments at a molecular level, stealing from the available materials to make simpler self-propagating one-celled organic copies. They did this for years, using up the entire reserves of composting organic bioship and pilot mineral compounds at their disposal.

The volcanoes cooled over the next few centuries. The one-celled organisms became more complex centuries after the original building material had been used up. They adapted to life on the surface with the idea of building a ship to go further.

We are the descendants of this ship. Every living thing on the planet is a result of an attempt to build a ship that failed. Our duality, our two sexes, our inner yearning of something unfinished that can’t be described yet needs to be defined, and our hybrid nature. We are coded at the most basic level to be what we are. We are the closest that the builders have come.

We have been programmed to leave and continue the journey.

We will do so.

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There’s a hole in the roof of my mouth that I can’t fix. A black putrescent liquid that hasn’t stopped for hours is dripping slowly onto my tongue. It tastes salty and smells a little like melting rubber. I’m still alive.

The plague killed the biological parts of me. It will probably kill the rest of me if I keep rotting at this rate. Me and six other people in this building had enough metal and plastic implanted in us that we survived.

We’re police dispatchers.

One thing the six of us have in common is that we had all been badly injured in the line of duty and brought back to ‘working condition’ with the help of current technology. We had suffered extensive cranial and nervous system damage. My entire right side and both of my legs had been crushed. After we had been repaired, we were put on desk jobs with good pay.

The reason that the six of us were still moving and thinking was that our brains had been rebuilt as a result of our injuries. We’d all sustained massive cranial damage. Our nervous systems had been automated and our movements were controlled by the thin bodycages that we wore. We were great at collating and had access to what memories of ours that could be saved and digitized during our surgery but our imaginations were limited.

Just a few days ago, we were the stupid ones. Now we’re the survivors.

Ted had his entire body burned to a crisp. He was the most mobile of us but unfortunately, he had the bare minimum of police dispatch silicon in his brain. His metal body is at his desk taking sips from a coffee cup long gone dry

We are all amped up to handle the flow of calls coming in from the populace of the west coast. There were four hundred of us. The flow of data was constant and huge. It’s down to a trickle now and most of the incoming calls are automated. Which is okay since we’ve gone for four hundred down to six.

Our country has been wiped out.

Fortunately, the six of us were alive and could still move and think. Unfortunately, the motors of our brains and bodies were running on backup batteries that would run out in sixteen hours.

There is a stink in this office of the other dead operators. It’s the ghost of Christmas future for us. We have come up with no plans.

We had effectively become machine intelligences. We had no urge to panic and we had no real ideas on how to survive either.

It’s frustrating to think of all the money and time that our country had used to prepare for a giant EMP of some kind and the enemy bastards went and released the biologicals.

I hoped fervently that the antidotes or antibodies that the enemy country owned that were supposed to protect them from the plague that they had set loose would prove useless within the year and this whole ball of humanity would become a tomb for alien archaeologists to find one day and sift through.

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