“I didn’t say I undervalued you,” Marshal interrupted. “Nor am I dissatisfied by your lack of progress. You and your team have received every bit of support you’ve required. I do believe that what you’re doing is important. However, your stated objective was that you were going to discover the biological cause of God’s immunity to the organism, and reproduce it. You haven’t succeeded.”
“Yes, but-”
“Moreover,” Marshal continued, “I think we’ve strayed from the issue at hand. None of this has anything to do with, or could in any way justify, the atrocity you’ve committed.”
“You’re not seeing the bigger-”
“No, Nicholas! You’re not seeing the big picture,” Marshal cut him off. “This is not a little thing, and you really are in a mountain of trouble. Honestly. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking of the data, Marshal,” Scratchard insisted.
“The data,” Marshal repeated.
“Yes! The data!” Scratchard leaned forward. “Just listen to me for a second. You’ve heard the most recent news on God’s condition, yes? Is he dead yet?”
Marshal actually laughed at this. “Are you serious? He’s teetering on the brink of death, and when he dies, you’ll be on the hook for his murder.”
“Bah! He’s not going to die! He’s not even going to be sick!”
“The man’s lapsed into a coma!” Krissy exclaimed.
Scratchard waved this off. “He’s just resting. You’ll see.”
“Not,” she said, “according to Dr. Burke.”
“What does he know?” Scratchard sneered. “He hasn’t been studying this organism for sixteen hours a day for the last three months. This is my point! It’s all in the data! You say that I haven’t had any practical success, but the data says otherwise.”
Marshal frowned in confusion. “How’s that?”
Scratchard thumped the table triumphantly. “Zombie Frank. It was my research team’s work that led to his capture. That is my triumph. How’s that for practical results?”
It had been a very cold January.
Winter had arrived late, but when it hit, it struck with a vengeance. The temperature drop had hit –40 degrees Celsius, cold enough to freeze exposed flesh solid, beginning with a snowstorm on Christmas day that delivered forty-five centimeters over the span of four days. Travel in the snow-camouflaged Camoucarts had been limited, and even dangerous, as the deep cold could drain the batteries dead in less than an hour. Three times during the month of January, driving teams had needed to be rescued from certain death. Marshal and his steadily growing team of technicians were run ragged trying to insulate and repair the constant stream of failures and malfunctions. Most of the ISUs had stopped working completely, needing to be rewired, insulated, and replaced with newer, upgraded models.
The undead had nothing to fear. The organism that drove them created complex ATP molecules, alkaloids, and nutrient chains using highly evolved combinations of human fat cells, water, and direct sunlight. In addition to being the fuel that powered super strength and regenerative capabilities, these chemical chains served as highly efficient energy storage cells. When the temperature dropped, the undead simply produced their own heat.
And so it was, through the coldest nights and thickest storms, the shambling form of Frank Sabbatini had maintained its lonely vigil.
Frank had continued to be a problem, even after all the other undead had been lured away. Attempts to lure or provoke him met with limited success. He would follow a lure for a short distance, then inexplicably dismiss it and return to his permanent orbit of the apartment.
Even more of a concern, however, was zombie-Frank’s now well-documented obsession with Angie. With an awareness and sensitivity that far exceeded the usual faculties demonstrated by the undead, zombie-Frank had been able to track her on numerous occasions. More perplexing, however, was his apparent disinterest in actually trying to catch her. Indeed, there’d been the one incident where zombie-Frank had actually interceded to rescue Angie from another zombie. Further behavior ranged from the strange to the outright bizarre. He’d follow her discreetly from a distance, until circumstance caused him to lose her, and then he’d return, once again to the apartment.
Unfortunately, while Frank seemed uninterested in actually catching Angie, Marshal had seen him kill enough other humans to know that the rest of New Toronto did not enjoy that same degree of amnesty. Because of his obsession with following Angie, zombie-Frank had shown a disturbing propensity to pop up in unpredictable locations. For a community that was starting to flirt with the idea of walking freely in the safe zone, this was a recipe for disaster.
That’s when certain theories were put to test.
Vibration stimulus, negative. Vestigial spectrum detectors, negative for prey stimulus. Chemical tracing, detected. Fifteen parts per twenty thousand, identified as within the base level concentration associated with prey collective super-construct biome. Presence of prey, inconclusive. Search mode perpetuated. Seeking new-
Fucking prey detected.
Prey stimulus. Tracking.
Cassie?
Prey stimulus acknowledged. Unknown terminology insertion phenomena dismissed. Initiating terrain review. Search mode maintained. Vibration stimulus, negative. Vestigial spectrum detectors, negative for prey stimulus. Chemical tracing, detected. Arbitrary sweep evaluation marks trace density Eighteen parts per twenty thousand. Insufficient stimulus to infer prey proximity. Seeking new-
Cassandra? Honey, where are you?
Prey proximity alert.
Prey stimulus received. Indeterminate source. Faulty data.
She’s here, somewhere, I know it.
Search mode resumed.
Alert! Alert! Alert! Vibration stimulus consistent with confirmed configuration detected. Predatory mode initialized.
Cassie, is that you? I can hear your voice!
Chemical trace thirty-seven parts per twenty thousand substantiates faint but viable chemical prey stimulus. Vestigial spectrum detectors register motion. Non-prey configuration. Reassessing. Definitive prey vibration stimulus. Incidental chemical trace. Maintain pursuit of prey phenomena. Holding in predatory mode.
Cassie! I’m coming, honey!
Pursuit into low-level, vertical structure consistent with prey habitat. Tracking vibration stimulus. Prey phenomena located. Initializing Detainment mode. Vestigial spectrum detectors register motion. Prey phenomena engaging in vertical spatial ascent. Vibratory stimulus terminated. Vestigial spectrum detectors-
!!!! Prey? !!!! Prey? !!!! Prey?
It’s Cassandra.
Prey item. Non-prey. Reassessment. Registering non-prey. Resuming Search mode.
Cassandra? It’s daddy.
Prey item confirmed. Re-initializing Detainment. Faulty data. Non-prey. Countermanding detainment. Resuming Search Mode. Identification protocol.
Cassie?
Prey item confirmed. Re-initializing Detainment. Negative stimulus for prey item. Chemical trace detection twenty-one parts in twenty thousand. Countermanding. Resuming Search Mode.
Cassandra? Oh, Cassandra!
Prey item confirmed. Initializing Detainment mode. Non-prey item confirmed. Countermanding. Resuming search mode. Identification.
It’s Cassie.
Prey item confirmed. Initializing Detainment mode…
And it went on and on and on…
“We theorized,” Scratchard said, “that the part of Frank that was still functionally aware had somehow mistaken Angie for his daughter Cassandra. It probably began that that first rainy night, when the more observant Frank-consciousness caught sight of you and Angie sneaking off towards Rothman’s in search of insulin. The organism didn’t see you, but Frank could not only spot you, he associated you with his daughter and fixated on the hope that she was still alive and in your care.
“You said that, in the past, zombie-Frank had demonstrated himself to be a more dangerous hunter than the average zombie? Ye
s? This was because the higher functioning Frank-consciousness, mentally enslaved and engulfed inside the creature, was unknowingly working in concert with the entity that had assimilated him. But from that moment on, the Frank-consciousness associated Angie with Cassandra, and his approach to her was forever altered.
“We then further theorized that his reluctance to actually capture Angie could be construed as an internal conflict between the two consciousnesses that couldn’t be reconciled. Frank’s traumatic memory of his daughter’s death had spilled over into the organism’s collective, creating an aversion that cross-wired with the instinctive urge to hunt her. It was in this conflict, which showed no signs of abating, where we saw the potential and developed our plan of attack.
“This time, when we lured him away, the lure did not wear off. When confronted directly with the true image of his daughter, the internal conflict externalized, trapping him between two, dueling impulses. This time, he was caught like a fly in amber, and he hasn’t moved in months. We’ve even been able to retrieve genetic samples from him without arousing him from his trance. Thanks to the working theory provided by our research, Zombie-Frank is trapped in that alleyway, unable to escape the image of the daughter he devoured alive.”
Marshal was silent. He did not have to be told. The photo had been taken from his own hard drive, enlarged, and then fixed to that brick wall. Marshal remembered when he’d taken that photo at her confirmation. Cassandra had been smiling at him, full of joy and love. He could recall her little arms flung around his neck just afterwards. She’d been so proud.
Luca, upon seeing the results and learning what had happened, could not stay in the room. Without a word, he’d walked out and turned into a bear for three days, caught up in his own work and growling dangerously at anyone who came too close. Only Sophie would he tolerate, and then, only in private.
Marshal didn’t blame him, nor had he sought out his adopted brother. He himself had felt the same way, and he knew there was nothing to talk about. While neutralizing zombie-Frank was indeed a triumph and good for the community, the whole thing had left Marshal feeling sick to his stomach. It haunted Marshal too, the possibility that some part of Frank was still alive in that creature, still driven by the impossible reality of what he had done to his own daughter.
“You’re taking credit for neutralizing zombie-Frank,” Krissy said, when Marshal didn’t respond.
“Of course I am,” Scratchard said. “You came to me, if you’ll recall, seeking an explanation for zombie-Frank’s anomalous behavior. We deduced, based on God’s natural immunity to the alien organism, that Frank was also immune, with the distinction that where God enjoyed a full immunity – along with such attendant delusions of grandeur that his broken mind could draw from that – Frank’s immunity was only partial. This had the curious side effect of rendering him vulnerable to the organism, while at the same time, resistant to its process of cellular dissolution and restructuring. His brain cells, in particular, must enjoy a certain symbiotic affinity with the organism, and are therefore able to influence its collective matrix.”
Marshal was silent, but Krissy looked confused.
“I’m… not sure I understand, professor,” she admitted.
Scratchard sighed.
“This organism,” he explained, “cannot be overcome by any biological mechanism our bodies possess. There are no spores, fungi, or antibodies, probably on this entire planet, that can threaten it. Therefore, to suggest that God possesses immunity to the organism is actually misleading. In truth, if the organism were able to identify him as a prey option, God would be as vulnerable as the rest of us. However, there is some variation in God’s genetic make-up that communicates with the alien organism and convinces it that he is somehow not human.”
“Communicates? How can his DNA communicate? And isn’t this thing an alien organism? How can they even speak the same language?”
“The answers lie in your confusion between the words ‘communicate’ and ‘language’,” Scratchard replied. “The sort of communication I refer to occurs at the micro-cellular level, and involves chemical triggers, proteins, receptors, and secretions. It is a mechanism that harkens back to the dawn of time, one that every microorganism utilizes. Also, I should stipulate that it is less that God’s DNA is communicating with the organism, and more that the organism is somehow communicating with God’s DNA.”
“I fail to see the distinction.”
“All right, let’s try this a different way,” Scratchard said. “Picture a starship filled with humans wielding advanced weaponry, sophisticated social sciences, personal shields that render them invulnerable, and an overwhelming sense of superiority. Now you and I - let’s pretend we’re on this ship - we encounter a planet whose dominant life form is the Corporation.”
“Excuse me… did you say ‘the Corporation’?”
“It’s not as outrageous as you might think,” Scratchard said, “Though your confusion hits on the crux of our organism’s grotesque error in judgment. Yes. The alleged humans on this world – and, though primitive, they look more or less humanoid to you and me – are all mindless adjuncts to these larger life forms called Corporations. And for the purposes of our analogy, Corporations are life forms! They grow, consume, produce waste, create offspring, and are responsive to their environments. They can die. But that’s not all! They are self-aware. They evolve. Over the course of history, these Corporations have improved from simple tribal groups into religious movements, military juntas, nations states, not to mention the hundreds of little subcultures and revolutions that have lived and died along the way. The Corporation was merely the most recent descendent of the species, slowly choking out or subjugating all the rest. Yes, Kristina. They fulfill every little detail on the scientific checklist we consult when we ask ourselves whether or not something is alive.”
“That’s…” Krissy blinked. “Wow. I never really thought of corporations that way.”
“Well don’t,” Scratchard said. “This is simply a metaphor for now. If you want to question the nature of life, then go get a degree in Philosophy. They’ll take just about anyone there, no matter what you believe.”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Krissy snapped. “I was only saying-”
“Of course you don’t believe it,” Scratchard continued. “And our starship Captain doesn’t believe it either. In fact, the possibility that these corporations are actually sentient, individualistic life forms may not even have occurred to him. After all, it’s commonly understood that corporations aren’t alive, right? They’re things. Temporary constructs that we individual humans align ourselves with in order to accomplish greater feats. So why wouldn’t he assume that these silly, primitive humanoids are nothing more than a slave race that don’t possess our enlightened sense of individuality or freedom?”
“Are… are you asking me?”
“Now, as it happens, our Captain wants to break up the party. Perhaps he is under orders, or perhaps he finds this abomination to be an affront to the dignity and freedom of humans everywhere. Perhaps he merely wants to sleep with an attractive, alien humanoid he’s spotted, but that’s proving to be rather difficult because she thinks she’s nothing more than part of an elbow or something like that. He certainly couldn’t sleep with a corporation, even if he was capable of perceiving it as a living organism, which he certainly isn’t. If he could, he might try.
“However. Now the prime directive enters the picture. The Federation needs to set up an outpost on this planet, and for that they need resources. The Prime Directive, or some such Book of Instructions, insists that things must be left as unspoiled as possible, at least until a more measured approach can come in and display proper and authentic cultural arrogance. Again, there are many possible reasons for such a protocol, from altruism to exploitation. It really doesn’t matter why their Book of Instructions tells them to do what they do, only that it does.
“So,” Scratchard continued, “Instead of dismantling
everything wholesale, this organism merely detains these enslaved humanoids – known to you and me as our individual cells - preserving them in stasis, so as to borrow their resources in order to construct their outpost. Fat stores, nutrients, bio-factories… These are all assets that can later be replaced, right? So. Our Captain chooses one, single, genetic type from the multitude and-”
“But why would they do that?” Krissy asked. “Why not all single-cell organisms? Why would they decide to fixate on humans?”
“Who knows? If I had to guess, however, I’d suggest that it was just pure, dumb luck. When that meteorite cracked open in The Eighth Wonder, human genetic material was the first, most plentiful sample the organism encountered. After that, it adapted to our genome, irrevocably shifting its capabilities to integrate with our chemistry. Maybe it’s the only way an alien organism can colonize a world with a completely different bio-chemical development, or maybe it’s just the organism trying to minimize its impact on a new ecosystem. It really is impossible to say until we know more. Either way, once they have settled on humanity as their primary source material, they try as best as they can to maintain the original collectivist structures they found us in. Again, who knows why? Maybe, it was an effort to maintain our structures for future exploitation and study, or maybe it’s about trying to leave as small a footprint as possible. Either way, the result is disastrous to multicellular entities like us.”
“We become zombies,” Krissy said.
“Exactly. In their way of thinking, they’re maintaining us without any consequence. Where and when necessary, they can even rework our cellular structure to whatever mold they please, with no lasting damage. What difference is there, from the organism’s point of view?
“However, the main point to draw from it all is this: this organism, now that it’s imprinted on the human genome, must have some form of intra-cellular communication. They are, after all, little more than free flowing brain cells, modeled on an amoeba template that has evolved over billions of years in a heavy-gravity environment where permanent multi-cellular life wasn’t sustainable. In wrangling our cells like so much cattle, they interact with them, communicate with them, and functionally dominate them. The thing to remember, however, is that it’s not language as we understand it. It’s more like… they universally experience impressions, signals, and embedded programs. Prey items are integrated into this universal communication, but excluded from the operational matrix that defines the organism’s own internal programs and directives. Or, in our Starship metaphor, our cells can hear the universal translator, but they don’t enjoy Starfleet authorization to utilize it themselves. They are prey.
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 84
