by J G Smith
Reuben planted his hand flat on his face. “From almost not happening, to actually happening,” he muttered, blunt and dissatisfied.
“The general populous, however, doesn’t seem to approve of the Artificial life project. They stand picketing, day in and day out, around the facility with their signposts and laborious chants. Apparently ‘the herald’ will save them. So, what? We just sit around doing nothing until this ‘herald’ shows up?” It was evident that Dr Albatross was having a bad day. “The foetuses should be mature enough to survive without incubation in a couple of days. This is Dr ZK Albatross. More to come.”
Reuben had a puzzled look on his face. “The herald?”
Amé shrugged.
“You haven’t heard about it before?” asked Reuben. “Because I saw something similar on one of the computers downstairs.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Amé. “When people still believed in religion, they’d throw that phrase around in answer to any so-called problem. That, and something about an arcane messenger at the end of days.” He shrugged once more, clearly oblivious on the matter.
It took some time for Reuben to process this, before selecting the next file.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number six. It has been three-hundred-and-sixty-one days since the project began. The human population is down to one point nine billion and the estimated number of species continues to decline; about seven-hundred-and-fifty thousand. That includes the new Artificial human species, which is maturing at a rapid rate. We have seventy-two of them, fully functional, with the appearance and intellect of six-year-old Organic humans. Though, with considerable dwarfism. The council has increased my team to six-hundred-and-fifty, comprising of a number of specialties; teachers and caretakers included.” His voice sounded heavy, as if he was concerned—no, disappointed… maybe.
“Many of them are struggling to accept my role as team leader,” he mumbled, “…on account of my age. They say I’m too young.” There was a lull.
“He was twenty-three, right?” asked Reuben, now finished with his sandwich and the last of its crumbs.
Amé nodded.
“The facility continues to expand, though,” continued Dr Albatross, “reaching eighty-nine floors, and a concern has risen over the functionality of our equipment the higher we get. We’re picking up a strange frequency in the space above us—really strange. That, and the protesting never stops. We need to employ more resources into educating citizens of Alpha Irrilium Prime. I refuse to have our race end because of stupidity.”
Reuben was somewhat bewildered. This wasn’t the Dr Albatross he’d been taught about and a number of the details included came as news to him. He selected the next file with eagerness, but was quickly disappointed. It started out with a scratchy noise. Dr Albatross was speaking, but neither Reuben nor Amé could make out what he was saying.
“You can skip this one,” said Amé. “It doesn’t get any better.”
The tape that followed that tape, however, was just as bad.
“This one too,” added Amé. “There are a few of them, including some that are just plain silent.” He reached over, closer to Reuben. “I think it’s this one,” he said, selecting the eleventh recording.
“This is Dr,” it began, clearly, but was interrupted by the same white noise. It seemed to drown out what sounded like quite the raucous in the background and, then, went quiet.
“Just check the next one,” pushed Amé.
The twelfth recording stuttered as well, but something about a portal and a translator was noted. If I remember correctly, the exact words were “…people on the other side. We’re working on a translator, but their…” and “…rantings about another world. The protesters…the herald…the arcane messenger…” It was fragmented, but gripping.
“It’s the next one,” said Amé, confidently.
Reuben shot him a dirty look, as if to ask, “This doesn’t faze you?” But he quickly remembered that Amé had heard these recordings before. Probably more than once. He selected the thirteenth file, pressed play and listened intently.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number thirteen. It appears that even my voice recordings were affected near the portal but, now that it’s closed off, everything should be fine.”
“The same portal?” asked Reuben, looking up towards the monitor he saw the light-wielder and Aht—her walk through.
Amé nodded as the recording continued. “In the previous recordings, I reported the renaming of the facility in my honour, it reaching one-hundred-and-seventy-four floors, one-thousand-six-hundred Artificial life team members, as well as our interactions with people on the other side of the portal.” His voice went soft. “It’s best that we keep that part secret, for now. Only select few members of my team have been briefed.”
Reuben glowered, “How many secrets have you kept from us?”
Amé did not answer, remaining apathetic.
“It’s been nine-hundred-and-eighty-seven days since the project began,” continued the recording. “And I haven’t left the facility in over six-hundred. The protests outside have turned to riots and even more so at the prospect of richer families purchasing Artificials to aid them in day-to-day tasks. The focus is still on survival, though, but I fear many are veering off track – quickly. We have sixty-five fully grown Artificials aiding us in the laboratories and eighty-seven juveniles, but they’re both just as fragile as Organics outside the facility. The human population is down to one point six billion and the number of eukaryotic species is at an estimated three-hundred-and-sixteen thousand. We need to push ourselves. A new member of the team, Dr Heldrain has aided in adjustments to the Artificial life formulae, resulting in one-hundred-and-fifty—what we call—type two Artificial embryos. They’re supposed to be bigger, better, stronger. I don’t know. Dr Heldrain seems impatient. He wants results and he wants them now.”
The next few recordings explained an increase in the population of the Artificials – type one and type two. It was noted that the second breed took longer to mature than the first, but that they were larger, stronger, more intelligent and more adaptable.
Type two Artificials rapidly acquainted themselves with projects from other teams and helped stabilise Alpha Irrilium Prime’s electromagnetic field. The human population and the number of eukaryotic species stabilised at one point four billion and seventy thousand, respectively. “The riots have calmed down and headlines are revering the Artificials to be the heroes of our day,” said Dr Albatross. But his tone suggested suspicion from his end. “The headlines are praising their aid in ending the extinction prognoses, but something doesn’t feel right.”
“Wait,” said Reuben abruptly, pausing the recordings. “The Artificials helped us?”
Amé nodded.
“But Dr Albatross seems suspicious,” continued Reuben. “It was probably to trick us, or for their own benefit.”
“Keep listening,” prompted Amé.
“There seems to be peculiar interaction between the Artificials,” observed Dr Albatross, worriedly. “The first type seems to prioritise orders from the second over orders from Organics.”
The recordings even explained how type one Artificials had become a popular trophy for richer families and organisations.
“And then they turned on us?” asked Reuben.
“Keep listening,” repeated Amé.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number nineteen. It’s been two thousand three hundred and nine days since the Artificial life project began and type two Artificials are becoming more and more difficult to handle. An incident with one of the teachers and a juvenile Artificial resulted in the death of three Organics, as well as the injury of seven others. I’ve expressed my concerns and desire to end the project, but Dr Heldrain keeps pushing. He has a strong following. I shouldn’t have made him second in charge.”
Reuben was on the edge of his seat, figuratively. He wanted to cheer Dr Albatross on to stick with his gut and fight ha
rder. “There’s still time!” exclaimed Reuben.
“There wasn’t,” stated Amé. He selected the next file and pressed play. Reuben listened.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross,” began the twentieth recording, with a stutter. Dr Albatross was breathing deeply and speaking softly. “Today, two thousand five hundred and four days since the Artificial life project began, six thousand two hundred and twenty Organics—give or take—died. The type one Artificials assigned to Organic families and organisations have poisoned their hosts. The members of our team that confronted them were killed by type two Artificials. Their necks were snapped by bare Artificial hands.” His voice quivered right at the end.
Staring at Amé bewilderedly, Reuben selected the next file.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number twenty-one. It’s been two thousand eight hundred and twenty days since the Artificial life project began—three hundred and sixteen days since the start of the war. The Artificials found more interest in the world outside the facility, after much bloodshed. We’ve managed to secure a number of areas without any Artificials but, even so, we don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep them. The human population is down to one point three billion and the extinction prognoses has been reinstated. It seems we’ll end up dying by our hands.”
“That wasn’t much of a report,” commented Reuben. “It sounds like he’s given up.”
There was no answer from Amé.
“Is this around the time militant matriarchy took over?” asked Reuben.
Amé nodded. “Men started the war; women wanted to end it.”
Reuben stared at the tablet, not knowing what to think. “And is this where I come in?”
Amé nodded, again.
“This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number twenty-two. Dr Heldrain and much of the team keep pushing for us to continue our research in Artificial life. They argue that type two Artificials were the problem and not type one. If we perfect the formulae, we may have a way to fight back. A suggestion also rose to ask the people on the other side of the portal for help – after all, we have created a working translator. But I think there is a better way.”
Reuben pressed play on the following recording. “This is Dr ZK Albatross. Report number twenty-three. It’s been seven hundred and thirteen days since the war began and the human population is down to about nine hundred and fifty thousand. We’ve perfected the formulae with a small team – hush, hush. And a number of our psychologists have suggested prolonged inculcation to instil Organic morals and favour. I agree, but Dr Heldrain does not. Impatient. Fortunately, most of the team agrees with me.”
The next recording started with yet another introduction; nine hundred and forty days after the war began. “The first embryo has been successfully implanted into an Organic mother. She’ll remain in the laboratory, away from the war. The second will be raised by Professor Charles Price as an Organic human. And the third, we’ve asked the people on the other side of the portal to help. We’ve given them our research and the formulae. Three different environments, all under Organic inculcation – well observed Organic inculcation for the first. Now, we wait and see.”
“So, he knew?” hissed Reuben.
Amé twisted his face in confusion.
“Charles,” stated Reuben, bluntly. “All this time, he knew I was an Artificial and said nothing. Each time I asked why my readings were different, I was ignored or told not to worry about it.”
“It had to be that way,” shot Amé. “If either of you knew what you were, growing up, the experiment would have failed. You had to believe you were normal. The first batches turned on us, because they saw themselves as better. They had no need to keep us. They still have no need to keep us. But you—Robert—Reichen… you see value in Organic life. The Artificials… they’ll see value in you.” Amé’s tone changed. It became more delicate. “Like that girl. She’s Organic, and your sister—”
“My sister is dead,” interrupted Reuben.
“You don’t know that.”
“The chances are very high.”
“Regardless, dead or alive, you care about her. Your dad—”
“He’s not my father. He lied to me.”
“I already see so much Organic in you,” said Amé. “I believe this project has been a success – that the three of you can stop the Artificials. Heck, you may even be the once declared herald.”
There was a dragged-out pause – an uncomfortable silence – before Reuben asked, “What does the final recording say?”
Reuben wasn’t going to listen to another one. He was done; on his feet, with the tablet on the floor, and ready to move on.
“It reports that the three of you grew at normal Organic rates,” began Amé. “You looked Organic. You read as Organic. Except for when you began displaying peculiar abilities. That was new.”
“My formulapathy?” asked Reuben.
“Yes,” agreed Amé. “And Robert’s electrokinesis.”
A thought came to Reuben – a dark thought. “If I can see the Artificials’ termination frequency and Robert can generate it…”
“That’s where Reichen comes in.”
Reuben kept umming and ahhing, but finally agreed, “I’ll do it.” He was briefed on a head scientist and a business woman – both of which sounded strangely familiar. He was told to mention Dr Albatross and the Artificial life project specifically and that it was time. “This is what she saw,” muttered Reuben, to himself.
§
On the one-hundred-and-third floor, Reuben stood before the transversal anomaly. It didn’t look like much through his normal eyes, except for warped and out of place, but through his formulapathy he saw so much. Formulae he never dreamed existed.
He placed his hands near his pockets and felt the small pulse gun. The scientists hadn’t even realised.
“I need to find her,” he muttered. “And Robert.”
The space around him shone bright white as he walked through the transversal anomaly. There was a momentary loss of breath, disorientation and cold – icy cold.
With his arms now wrapped around him, he noticed himself in a white laboratory. Test tubes and beakers were all around him on tables and alongside sinks. There were scientists staring at him from all angles, shocked, and an older scientist that seemed to smile.
“I wondered how long it’d be before one of you returned,” said the older scientist. Reuben understood the language, but was mostly concerned about how cold it was – and how no one else seemed to be affected.
“I’m here on behalf of Dr Albatross,” said Reuben, shivering. “It’s about the Artificial life project.” Reuben’s teeth clangored as he spoke.
The older man approached Reuben and, at the same time, called out for a “Tiffany!” He placed his hand on Reuben’s shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this!” he called again. “And bring us a jacket while you’re at it.”
Reuben rubbed his arms and shoulders together and stated, bluntly, “It’s time.”
The man’s face lit up with a sense of urgency, seeming to know his next step. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment to happen. “Tiffany!” he called out, once more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A FRIEND INDEED
Reuben sat awkwardly in an office of the laboratory—in the new world—he had just recently entered. His arms were hugging to his chest. And a few of the scientists, outside the office, stopped to stare at him through the window – like an animal on display.
He was struggling against the cold, as well as the atmosphere which was a lot thinner than he was used to. The red and grey jacket he’d been given didn’t do much besides cause him to itch – terribly. And, instead of scratching, he shuffled around in his seat, not wanting to move his arms.
The suited woman (Tiffany) and the confident scientist (Desmond) paced the laboratory with phones against their ears. To Reuben, the scene was archaic – even more so than the technology he saw at the Albatross Neuron Facility.
He
even wondered, while ignoring the scientists’ peering eyes, if the tablet he had left behind would work in this universe; seeing as the formulae for the phone signals appeared different.
“The Peters are on vacation for their anniversary,” reported Tiffany as she and Desmond walked into the office. “We had to contact them on one of their private lines.”
“Robert is with his friends at Phantom Forest Incorporated,” said Desmond, following on after Tiffany rather eloquently. “It’s also a vacation site,” he added, for Reuben.
“His parents will meet us there,” continued Tiffany, “but they aren’t very happy.” She looked at Desmond with a forced smile, which he returned, as if to say we expected this.
There was a bit of a pause before Desmond spoke again, with the intent of breaking the uneasy silence. “We’ll drive there with my car, but it will take some time.”
“How long?” asked Reuben, feeling light-headed and looking pale.
“About two and a half hours,” answered Desmond. “Give or take.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” asked Tiffany. “You don’t look very well. How are you adjusting to our atmosphere? Is the jacket enough?” It was a lot of mothering, which made Reuben feel more than a little uncomfortable.
“The anomaly does emit quite a bit of heat from your planet,” snickered Desmond. To which Tiffany responded with a dirty look.
“I’ll be fine,” stated Reuben. “The air is a bit thin, but I have about a day at normal breathing rate before…”
“Before?” queried Tiffany.
