Death’s Dimensions a psychotic space opera

by Victor Koman

  Again. Something pushes me back. Blackness all around before me, punctured by stars.

  “Prepare to transfer.”

  Virgil pushed the button once more.

  In control over death, I can sit while my blood freezes in its motion, while air stops in my throat, while darkness and then light smear together, wrap around me and twist and push and shove until I feel pushed into-

  The body I need to survive.

  – the door, but I slam it just in time. Something howls after it shuts and I run down the corridor, the door bending in toward me stretching to almost bursting and I run and run and-

  The kick of the engine array thundering into power shoved against Virgil’s back.

  Back again! Nightsheet, I’ll keep winning-

  “Beacon information shows that my calculations were accurate to seventeen hours in twenty-four years. Prepare to rendezvous with cloning tank. Telemetry reports all systems functioning; the clone is healthy.”

  Virgil let go a sigh and sank back in the acceleration padding. I’m a father.

  Chapter Twelve

  2199

  The lifeship eased into the starboard docking bay under Virgil’s guidance. He shut the engines down and turned off the scrim that offered him a cockpit’s-eye view of the docking. When the air had cycled, he stepped into the bay to examine the small craft. Twenty-four years had done little to its exterior.

  He shoved off from the bulkhead and clambered for the cargo hatch, unlocking it and pulling it open.

  Somewhere in that black tank she lies, blank slate ready for RNA and picotechs to draw thought designs. Straps undo in my hands and I push so gently, easing Death Angel’s new hideout toward the medical bay. The plan goes so easily, I wish I…

  I wish I knew what-the plan-was. Is.

  “Medical bay ready for further operation.”

  He took the machine to the medical bay and disconnected the cloning tank from its peripheral equipment. The computer talked him through the birthing procedure.

  “The machine will puncture the neoamnion and drain the support fluid. Disconnect the anatrophant collars first so she doesn’t break any bones.”

  Virgil opened the tank and watched the clear, viscous liquid drain from the sack surrounding the human form.

  Death Angel! Hair so long and black, skin so pale pink, the pain of years nowhere on you. He turned the dial that unlocked the rings connected to her arms and legs. Her muscle tone had been electrically stimulated to that of someone her own age. She jerked all over from the induced exercise.

  “Quickly, Virgil. Remove the neoamnion and administer oxygen.”

  The sack slipped around in his fingers, covering the surgical gloves with glistening neoamniotic fluid. He ripped it apart and reached for the oxygen mask. Brushing wet hair from her face, he placed the mask over her nose and mouth.

  “She’s not breathing,” he said.

  “Turn her over and apply pressure to the back to allow the neoamniote to drain from her lungs.”

  Your body so soft and light in my arms, your back so smooth-

  “No, Virgil. Hit her on the back, do not press.”

  She coughed after the first hit, the fluid splashing into the curve of the tank where a small fan drew it out of the air. Despite the machine’s effort, bits of fluid floated around the medical bay. She continued to cough.

  “She’s breathing.” He put the mask on between coughs. “Can’t we have some gravity here?”

  “Not until we are certain of her bone strength and heart capacity. She will require extensive tests to-”

  The clone screamed. Her voice wailed inhumanly, unlike even the cry of a baby. It was a shriek of bestial madness.

  Feral Death Angel, fear all things new. So many years in warm floating and now air instead of water, light instead of dark.

  “All vital signs positive,” the computer stated flatly over the howl. “Administering ten ccs of DuoTranq to depress excessive heart activity and hyperventilation.”

  Virgil looked at the syringe moving toward her arm. Duodrugs! So now I serve the Master Snoop. Death Angel you brought this on yourself when you tried to play Snoop against Nightsheet for Wizard’s sake. So many games you’ve been playing but I’m still in control. Sleep, Death Angel, and awaken renewed, reglued.

  “You may remove the monitoring contacts-I have remotes on her. Then detach the primary and secondary umbilical tubes and units, initiate the cleansing cycle in the unit, and remove her to the recovery room. Make certain no direct light gets in her eyes.”

  “She hasn’t opened them yet.”

  “I can see that.” The computer was beginning to sound impatient to Virgil, almost annoyed.

  Virgil carefully moved Delia’s clone into the recovery room and sealed the hatch, then returned to the bay to prepare the boxdoc.

  “Is she ready?” he asked.

  “You mean, is the original Delia Trine ready for RNA leeching?”

  Virgil almost said something, then swallowed the comment. “Yes. That’s what I mean.” He leaned over the stainless steel container to observe Delia’s torn body.

  I can’t have you like this, Death Angel. And you don’t want this. I know, I’ve cracked your code. You don’t want this. You wanted to die but picked the wrong way. I’ll throw the rebirth in for you, this time, gratis. Died satisfied, didn’t you? No, you didn’t. Death Angel.

  A wheel whirred into action. The computer told him that process C1204 stood by for his order.

  “Begin process See-One-Two-Oh-Four,” he said.

  The disc moved from its housing above her head, all life support tubing and electrodes withdrew from her body. It quivered several times, then stopped moving. A red globule from the hole in her chest grew, shaking like jelly.

  Virgil watched the spinning disc approach the hairless skull. The abrader hummed even through the thick, insulated walls of the boxdoc. It edged closer, eroding the first few layers of epidermis on her scalp. It backed off for moment, then moved on its path toward the other end of the tank.

  The first spatter of brain and blood against the glasteel startled him. He looked away.

  Death Angel this magic box makes you disappear and you’ll reappear in the other room the same as you were, please, be the same Delia so cold and thinking with that brain lying in pieces all through the box.

  He forced a look inside. A pale, thin liquid filled the tank, holding the grindings in suspension. The disc reached the top of her eyes. The upper half of their orbits missing, their lids ripped away, the eyes shook and twisted madly about. Then the disc bit into them.

  Virgil kicked away from the machine and covered his face. His shoulders thudded against the other side of the room, but he did not notice.

  Death Angel, it will work. Trust me. I haven’t killed you. You’re alive. First your body, then your soul. I’ll take your mind and soul and everything that’s you and carry it in a bag to the next room and you’ll be you again. I promise.

  The computer tried chimes to get his attention, then a buzzer. He floated unhearing near the hatch to the recovery room, his back to the boxdoc, watching the door.

  “Virgil, the memory RNA and picotechs have been completely leeched, recovered, and are ready for injection into the clone. Immediate assistance is necessary.”

  Virgil watched the teardrops hanging before his eyes, watched them pulsate dreamily to the actions of air motion and drift slowly toward the air grills, until the computer added, “The RNA degenerates quickly at room temperature.”

  His feet rotated, kicked against the bulkhead and twisted around to ease him to a stop beside the boxdoc. The inside had been washed out. The light on the waste tank at the foot of the machine glowed yellow, indicating matter awaiting disposal. On the side of the machine, a three liter sack floated, filled with a gray liquid and connected to the suction pump. Virgil disconnected it, grasped the intricate zero-gee transfusion tubing next to it, and entered the recovery room.

  She floats so cal
mly, her long black hair stiff and dry in frozen sweeps and curves. She breathes lightly, her chest rising and falling. A look so like a child I almost regret the adult I hold in the sack. Like a bottled djinn Delia, djinn and spirits to dribble inside you, an instant loss of innocence.

  He fastened the needle collar to her neck and aligned the crosshairs of the device over her interior carotid artery. He activated the pressurizer in the bag, adjusted the valves in the tube, and let the device do the rest. The needle slowly jabbed into the white flesh of her throat and stopped. Some blood pumped into the tubing, past a photocell. With gentle pressure, the blood and fluid began trickling into her bloodstream.

  “How long?”

  “Less than fifteen minutes,” replied the computer. “Then, the period of integration will take an indeterminate amount of time.”

  “Don’t you have medical files? What’s the picotech integration period for cases like this?” Fast, Delia, make it fast.

  “I know of no experiment in transferring RNA to a clone. Few people could both think twelve to twenty years in advance and afford the equipment for growing and maintaining a full clone. On brainwipes, the integration period is just under a week. Since we are dealing with a clone, the time factor may be lower. It may, on the other hand, take longer. That depends on whether it is easier for the picotechs to patch the RNA onto established neural paths or to create new neural paths on a blank slate.”

  “What you mean is, you don’t know.”

  “Correct.”

  “Should’ve said so.” Virgil left the recovery room, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute. Keep an eye on her.” The computer said nothing, but its other vidcams in the bay switched on and focused in. Virgil returned with a package of bulk protein and two bags of glucose solution and a zero-gee pump. Connecting the tube of the first bag to his wrist port, he wedged into one padded corner of the room and started nibbling at one of the protein bars. Except for an occasional trip to the head, he hovered watchfully above Delia’s clone.

  The bag emptied, transfusing Delia’s persona into her clone. Virgil pulled over to disconnect it. The needle collar sealed the hole in her artery with microlasers.

  No longer coral skinned, she turns to pale white. She’s been born.

  He smiled. Born again.

  He washed her decades-long hair and tenderly combed it out while it dried.

  Hair so long that it could wrap ten times around your throat. Would you dare such a tempting of Nightsheet? How much do you remember? Me, I hope.

  He trimmed her soft, corkscrewed nails, then used a microfile to shape them.

  He washed her taut, muscled flesh and rubbed her with emollients.

  So smooth, no traumas of youth or ravages of age. Undamaged and pristine as a marble goddess. Death Angel this is your true aspect made real.

  On the second day, she moaned. He extended the water spigot to her again and she sucked slowly at it, then stopped.

  “Eat,” she muttered. Virgil ripped open a package of bulk protein and held it to her lips.

  Yes eat.

  “Eat,” he said aloud. Her lips parted and he held the food closer. She opened her mouth wider and took a small bite, swallowing it without chewing. He continued to feed her, floating close to her, feeling the warmth from her skin. When she finished the bar, he let her wash it down with water.

  He just as lovingly cleaned her whenever she soiled herself.

  On the third day, after feeding her and cleaning up afterward, he sat in his corner and gazed down on her.

  Death Angel don’t just lie there. “Eat” and “Drink” are all you’ve said. Don’t sleep forever. I have no magic kiss.

  “Wake up, Death Angel,” he softly said.

  Her eyes opened instantly and she gasped, shutting her sensitive eyes against the low lighting. She lay there, breathing rapidly.

  “Virgil?” she asked through trembling lips.

  “Complete integration,” the computer said.

  Virgil straightened out and looked at her. “Up here,” he whispered.

  Through half-closed lids she looked above her. He smiled- half in awe, half in joy. Then she screamed.

  “No!” Her arms thrashed about. She strained to kick. Suspended in the middle of the room, she had nothing to flail against and merely twisted about until her energy depleted. She began to sob and curled into a ball.

  “Delia. You’re alive and safe-”

  “I am not Delia.”

  No, not you too. Don’t start. Don’t.

  “You are Delia. Delia Trine.” What sort of deal you trying with Nightsheet? “I know. I carried you in. I took you apart. I built you again and I put you back in. You’re Delia.”

  “I’m not Delia!” Her teeth clenched as she glared at him, animalistic rage and terror in her gaze. “Delia’s dead. I saw it happen. I felt it. Then I saw you tear me apart in that-thing- and now I’m here.”

  “That’s why you’re Delia.” He moved closer to her, ducked to avoid the swing of a fist, and stayed back.

  “You don’t understand. I’m not alone. This isn’t mine. This is”-she made a sound like bubbles churning. Her hair swirled around her as she spoke. “It belongs to her. I am she. Not Delia.”

  “Whose body? I cloned you. This is you at twenty-four, untouched by all the ills.” Flesh is art, too. I made you what I want. “I want Delia!”

  “She’s gone. Dead.” She threw her arms about, then pulled into a ball and whimpered, “You don’t understand, you don’t understand.”

  “Apparently,” the computer interjected, “the clone developed a rudimentary consciousness in those years its brain was growing normally. The original Delia’s memory seems to be at odds with the clone’s partial self-awareness. And not as neatly compartmentalized as you and Jord.”

  She spoke without moving, though her grip loosened on her legs. “Jord? He’s dead, too. We’re both dead. It’s just you and”- she made the gurgling sound again. “I hate you for what you did. I’ve got words for what I feel, now. Now that Delia’s given them to me. I was warm and com-comfortable for so long and you came and now I hurt-hunger, and now I’m thirsty. Sometimes I’m cold. And I’m dry.” She unraveled her arms and legs and stared at him.

  Hate burns in her eyes like acid. I’m doing it all wrong.

  He reached out for her. “I’ll comfort you, Delia. Please.”

  She snarled and grabbed at his hands. With a spasmodic jerk, she propelled past him toward the hatch and yanked it open. Her clumsy movements slowed her enough for Virgil to seize her ankle. She scratched him with her nails, now dry, hard, and sharp.

  “Delia!” he shouted, watching her fly away from him. The welts on his cheek burned like streaks of flame. He followed her down a curving corridor and trapped her near an axial tube. Her hair rippled and fluttered in the wind of her speed. He grabbed it and yanked.

  “Killer!” she cried, turning about. They drifted together until they touched a bulkhead. She kicked off and drove her head into his stomach.

  “Why, Delia?” he asked through lost breath.

  “I’m not Delia!” She pounded against his chest. “Delia wants to die and I want to live. This is my body, my mind that she’s in.” Taking a double fistful of hair, she wrapped the ebon rope around his throat and snapped it tight.

  Death Angel I brought you back so you could send me away? Then send me. I tried to do right and it’s wrong. Wrong. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out as his body went suddenly tense, then limp. Teeth clenched and eyes glazed, he stared at some point far beyond her. She loosened the loop of hair from his neck. He floated stiff and still.

  She wondered if she had actually killed him. Part of her strove to laugh and something deeper yearned to weep. She wanted to dance, she wanted to die. So she merely observed, silently.

  Suddenly his eyes swiveled to gaze upon her. He looked mystified, then said, “Dee? Is that you? What happened to- No, wait-I can almost remembe
r what I saw.”

  “Jord?” The hank of hair drifted from her grasp.

  “Dee-I need you to help me.” He grasped her shoulders and held her. “When I took you from Mercury I didn’t know whether you were alive or… I got you back and Kinney must’ve revived you. It’s-”

  “I’m not Delia!”

  “-as if the freezing rejuvenated you. I need your help, though. Now, while I’m in control.”

  “Jord-I want to help you, but I’m”-she gagged and jerked her head back-“not Delia!”

  “Dee, listen to me.” He shook her gently. “I’m here. I’m inside Kinney’s body. I need your help to submerge his personality completely. I want to live and I don’t know how long this split can go on. He has the better chance of winning out and I need your help.” Don’t stare at me like that, Dee. Why such hate? I died to save you.

  Her lips twisted like bending steel. “And when she’s done destroying Kinney, she’ll destroy me, too? Then the barbarians will steal the temples of the masters? I won’t permit it! I’ll kill her!”

  Her eyes lost their wild glare for a moment and she said, “She means it, Jord. I can feel it. I don’t want to die now that you’re back!” Her jaws clenched shut, driving her teeth into her tongue. Red stained her mouth.

  Baker eased his grip on her. “Dee-what’re you-what’s happened?”

  “She’s the clone’s mind, Jord. She hates me the way Virgil must hate you.” The two selves fought for control in a battle that became physical, with knotting muscles, tensing flesh, and visible tugs back and forth.

  “I’m going to kill her,” she said. “Kill Delia.”

  She broke away from him and pushed off down the tunnel. He hesitated for an instant, then grabbed a handhold and followed her.

  “Seal the hatches,” he shouted to a speaker grill in passing.

  “Sealed but not locked,” the computer’s voice replied. “She has found weapons cache seven, one level below you.”

  He bulleted down an access tube. The sharp sound of a laser hissing twice into flesh reached his ears. When he rounded the corner, he first saw her grimacing smile fade. Her pallor grew even whiter as blood pulsed from the blackened cavities on the insides of her thighs.