The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  Tim mutters something to me, but I am too focused. He’s walking around listening to Walking on the Moon by The Police.

  The stupid thing sticks its head out, looking back to where we were.

  I give it 14,000 volts of dance baby dance. It’s fucking hilarious.

  After watching the jacko smolder Tim says, “we probably should get back, Cyg.”

  We get back in and get out of our earthsuits. Alarms are going off like crazy.

  Please respond. Attention, please respond. Please respond. Attention, please respond.

  Tim clicks on, Debbie’s face comes up.

  What are you guys doing? This is an emergency. Why aren’t you there yet?

  “We were having, um, some mechanical issues. We’re on our way.”

  Tim engages Auto Drive Emergency mode.

 

  We roll up twenty-five minutes later. An ambulance and rescue truck are already there. Three people in Med Suits are being carried to the ambulance by rescue workers. No one looks at us.

  We get out and hook up the charging unit to the stranded ETV. It takes twenty minutes. The emergency vehicles are gone and there’s no one left to drive the stranded EVT back.

  Tim asks Debbie for instructions.

  Just get back to base, you fucking morons.

 

  Neither of us says much on the drive back. There’s no point trying to do anything. They have monitoring tapes.

  So we listen to Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie and Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads.

 

  Tim and I are standing before the Disciplinary Committee Chairman of Workplace Violations. We are wearing black full bodysuits. It’s customary.

  Clearly, that bitch dispatcher was to blame. She never said anything about there being people there. But the judge is obviously on the take.

  They’re making way too big a deal about the so-called victims’ intensive care, oxygen deprivation, heat stroke and third-degree sunburns. It’s not as though someone died.

  “Do you have anything to say before the committee passes sentence, Mr. Bollo?”

  Tim’s crying.

  “Only that words cannot express how sorry I am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bollo.

  “Mr. Whey?”

  “Words cannot express how sorry I am, too.”

  My voice catches on sorry. I bite my hand.

  “Thank you…Mr. Whey, you have something to add?”

  “Yes, your Honor. As I was saying words cannot express.”

  My voice catches again.

  “So I have prepared an interpretive dance.”

  I thrust my hands forward, bow and shuffle backwards.

  I reach up as high, link my fingers and wave my body and arms together.

  I ballet run with my arms swimming, launch myself into a tour en l’air, stick the landing and collapse prostrate before the victims, panting.

  They’re shouting, trying to climb over and get me.

  100,000 VSW game credits, and twenty-five years added to lotto eligibility for both of them. Will someone please remove this clown from my courtroom?

  ~ April 20, 2524 (Fourth Life) ~

  It’s my birthday. I’m thirty-five.

  I’m unlikely to get any birthday wishes. Biosphere birthdays are different.

  They’re countdowns to extinction.

  I wrap myself around Maggi and grind against her. I’m hard. She’s cozy-bed warm. She tightens into a ball.

  I want to smash her head in with a hammer.

  I’ve been thinking like this a lot lately. People as insects. I wonder about what this insect or that insect might do if they were smashed or squished and left with their legs and arms twitching.

  I imagine bug goo leaking out of their smashed brains. I imagine them with panicked eyes, trying to breathe, writhing about with their circuitry wrecked.

  Happy birthday to me.

  “Is everything okay, Cygi?”

  “Yeah. I’m just restless. Know what I mean?”

  She turns herself into a tighter ball.

  I sit on the bed for a few hateful moments expecting her to change her mind. Then head down to kitchen for breakfast.

  I have to go to work today. I am a Custodian at the Brain Gardens. I oversee the human-steered robot drones. Brains plugged in to the Neuro Electro Grid. Row upon row of big cauliflower-watermelons.

  Two quotes catch my eye in the The B51 Tribune e-newspaper. Shakespeare’s, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once” and Gandhi’s, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

  The way I see it, this business of recycling human beings is as cowardly as can be. We’re so scared of dying that we’ve made a world where nobody dies and nobody new is born. Why not allow those who are now living to replenish the world and live out our natural lives?

  Like me.

  I finish eating the breakfast my drone made.

  Maybe a workout will improve my mood.

 

  The workout did nothing.

  My trainer annoyed me. She kept saying things like, mind the form or, optimally, that routine should include a few more good reps.

  I burned more calories fighting the urge to smash that fucking chirpy machine

  Was that set done right?

  Enough reps?

  How was my form?

  I’m late for work and I can’t think straight.

  I should have taken my meds.

  Twenty minutes late, ten attitude demerits.

  Fuck.

  That fucking slob left the office dirty again, too. It still stinks like his fucking rank B.O. and now I have to fucking sit here for an hour inhaling it.

  I am seeing red.

  I hit the emergency alarm to evacuate the Garden. I wait for everyone to leave and then override the door locks.

  I grab a flat-headed hammer and head for the cauliflower-watermelons, row upon row.

  I’m smashing each one as hard as I can. They make a thump sound with each hammer blow.

  Blood is spraying on me. It feels like summer rain.

  My arm gets tired, so I switch.

  I sing.

  Take me out to the ballpark.

 

 

  Take me out to the ball game. Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack.

 

 

  I don’t care if I never come back.

 

 

  I’m the change in the world I’d like to see.

  I’m death but once.

 

  Citizens above, what say you to The Options being put to the Prisoner.

  I’m Prisoner. The judge is stout and red-faced. He’s the Judge of the General Assembly of the Carnal and Incorporeal. He’s a douchebag.

  We are resolved.

  Citizens below, what say you to The Options being put to the Prisoner?

  We are resolved.

  They thunder.

  Will the Prisoner please stand?

  I do, flanked by my attorneys.

  All Virtual Simulation Worlds are suspended to allow the virtual citizens of the Neuro Electro Grid to watch me. Work in the Biosphere has stopped too.

  Mr. Whey, the Panel has read the submissions of your attorneys and those of the Central Committee. The Panel finds no redeeming virtues or extenuating circumstances to mitigate your horrific and cowardly acts.

  While a survivor of the unfortunate DNA-Code Enhancement Experiments, the Panel is not convinced that it diminishes your culpability in any way. In fact, Mr. Whey, if you were made smarter than average, you simply ought to have known better.

  You have brought shame on your great family name. The destruction of 1,529 innocent lives is unprecedented as it is despicable. The Panel unreservedly accepts the resolutions of the Honorable Assemblies of the Carnal and Incorporeal and is prepared t
o put The Options to you.

  I feel compelled to add, Mr. Whey, that if the Panel were not bound by what is prescribed in The Law, a harsher penalty would have been imposed.

  Mr. Whey, you have the following options. You may choose only one by Election and, once elected, your selection is irrevocable. If you fail to make a discernible Election, Redemption will be chosen for you.

  Mr. Whey, you may choose Final Extinction, whereupon your corporeal remnants will be incinerated and your Corpus Collection File will be deleted off the NEG.

  You may choose Banishment, whereupon you will be banished to the world outside the Biosphere outfitted with an earthsuit and oxygen for three days.

  Lastly, you may choose Redemption, whereupon your Corpus Collection File will be transmitted into space in the hope of connecting with a new home for us.

  If you select Redemption, in exchange for serving the Greater Good, your convictions will be expunged.

  Mr. Whey, are you prepared to make your Election?

  “I am, your Honor.”

  What is your Election?

  There was only one thing for me to say.

  “Take me out to the ball park.”

 

  They’re ready to send me out.

  They gave me training on how to survive in a primitive network and how to establish contact to enable others to make the journey.

  I’m being beamed to Exoplanet Kelvin 429xcj.

  The journey was expected to take over 1,400 years. They’re going to be sending a spaceship, too. As soon as they can build a reliable warp propulsion system.

  Good luck.

  “Any last words, Mr. Whey?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  I’m about to be digitized and broken into seeds. Wires are stuck in my brain.

  “I don’t care if I never come back.”

  ~ September 5, 2065 (First Life) ~

  I’m laughing and Mommy is chasing me. The grass itches. It smells loud. I’m hot.

  I tasted hotdog and ice cream.

  There are blankets, people and barking dogs that want to play with me. I run my tongue where there are spaces and sharp points coming out. My mouth is wet.

  I am falling. Her hands catch me around my middle. Lift me. I go way up. She turns me and I wrap around her.

  Sunlight.

  She is kiss. She is warm. She is voice. She is soft hair.

  She is love.

  And then there is nothing.

  Again.

  Chapter 33:

  The Somnambulant Awakens

  Naomi feels refreshingly indifferent.

  She’s helping a friend. Giving him a ride. A place to stay. Her mother’s house is empty. Mama’s missing Papa in Europa instead of at home.

  She doesn’t want to run him over with her car. She doesn’t want to jump his bones. She feels sorry for what he has become. She feels somewhat obligated to help.

  She smells a story.

  As far as she’s aware, he’s only wanted in Kanada. She wouldn’t be breaking any Amerigo laws by sheltering him. She knows. She ran it hypothetically by legal.

  She can always play the reporter card.

  And he looked so broken and alone.

  Ugh.

  Another lost puppy.

  She wants to turn around, but he already sees her. He’s waiting right where she said she’d be. And he’s wobbly. She’s surprised he made it.

  She wrinkles her nose at herself in the rearview.

  Lost puppy savior.

  She lowers her passenger window.

  “Hobo delivery service.”

  “Hey, Naomi, should I put my pack in the trunk?”

  “Yeah, I’ll pop it open.”

  She gets a whiff.

  Um, maybe you should climb in there with it.

  She rolls down her window. Smoking would be a good idea right now. Only she doesn’t smoke.

  He climbs in and fumbles with his seatbelt. He’s jabbing around hitting her leather center-rest nowhere near the red target.

  “You want some help with that?”

  Before he finishes his mumble, she has him buckled in.

  “Safety first. I haven’t killed a vagrant yet.”

  “I’m surprised. I’ve driven with you before.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault they don’t teach islanders or haole minivan renters how to drift.”

  “Listen, Naomi…what you’re doing…what you’re doing…”

  She looks over at him. She’s glad that she’s wearing sunglasses. Her black leather jacket feels like another layer of protection, though she’s sure she’ll need to have it washed.

  “Don’t mention it. But I’m curious how you ended up here, or more importantly why?

  She turns to look at him again.

  He’s snoring.

  She’d like to put the top down, but it’s cold enough as it is with the window open. She cranks her heater. She checks for texts, finds some music and streams it. Modern, folksy, puppy dog singer.

  Couple hour drive. She’s on the turnpike. Wind is blowing her hair. She has the top up on her Mercedes-AMG roadster. Naomi Felder. She’s a young, attractive, successful, big-city reporter.

  Who apparently runs a hobo delivery service.

  She’d like to stop and go through a carwash with the top down. But she drives and tries not to think about it.

  After an hour she stops at a gas station and Andron wakes up. He gets out to use the washroom. She fuels up. She’s always liked the smell of gasoline. Thinks about leaving. Thinks she’s going to have to buy him some clothes, personal hygiene products and food.

  Lost puppy supplies.

  Ugh.

  She can smell that he used the stop to drink the rest of his bottle.

  On the road again. With a drunk.

  “Goodnight buzzing lights.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t you.”

  She turns down the stereo in anticipation of a conversation she isn’t sure she should encourage.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It wasn’t you that felt that way. The devil made you do it and that that isn’t much of a lie.”

  Naomi grins, not following or expecting that she should.

  “Do you remember getting that MRI before we met?”

  “Yeah. I guess I do, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, that’s how he did it.”

  “Who did what?”

  “Put thoughts in your head. Brainwashed you.”

  “Brainwashed me?”

  “‘Kay, let me ask you something, was any of that stuff you had for me real?”

  The ballad in the background plays on.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s because you were brainwashed when you had that MRI and that’s why you wanted me so bad.”

  The words are nonsense on the surface but ring inside her like a hundred little alarm bells.

  “What?”

  She stops at the side road and spins to him.

  “The same person that wrecked the Internet. The man from…the person responsible. Let’s just call him Shaman, ‘kay?”

  She stares at him. Smell isn’t bothering her now. It’s her thoughts.

  “There’s lots to this that it’s going to take a while for me to tell you and you for to be able to hear. It’s going to sound coo-coo but it’s the only thing you’re going to find that makes any sense after awhile.”

  “Okaay.”

  “He used you and me, muffin. Made you feel that way. To get to me. You can’t say a word to anyone about me, where you found me, where you’re going to keep me. Okay? Because he’ll come. But it’ll be worth it because the story. The story’s going to be huge…y’no.”

  “Will it come with subtitles?”

  “You were a pawn so he could show me what he could really do. A brainwash victim. He made you into a sex zombie. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  Naomi’s turn to have h
er brain buzz like a slow modem.

  Screeeech…erp…erp…erp

  She’s flashing between her fMRI and her time with him. The things they did. How she felt. She sees vivid pictures of him, from before they met, but doesn’t remember where or how she saw them.

  It’s as though she’s still in that machine and it’s squelching her mind.

  Great. He’s passed out again.

  She puts her car in drive and blends back in with the traffic to New Haven.

  Jumbled up scenes. Jumbled up feelings. Wanting to please more than anything. Wanting to erase more than anything.

  Starting right after a mind-reading MRI.

  When I count to three and snap my fingers you will awaken fully.

  One.

  …Two.

  ……Three.

 

  Chapter 34:

  The Accusatory Dawn

  The accusatory dawn lights up the living room in floating motes and green furniture. Someone else’s mother’s house. A weird and wondrous abode. Loneliest place he’s ever been.

  And the worst hell.

  It’s been a few days. He’s in the sweatshirt and sweatpants she bought him. His old clothes are in a plastic bag in the trash bin in the alley. They should’ve been burned. He’s shaven off his beard with Naomi provisions.

  She isn’t there. He wanders around, avoiding windows. He’s a restless ghost in a cluttered home.

  He’s in hell. Levels below a whitewashed torture facility.

  No booze for you, inhibitory neurotransmitters. Excitatory neurotransmitters have the run of the place. They’re shaking up beer bottles full of norepinephrine, glutamate, and dopamine, and spraying them all over.

  Andron’s shaking, shivering and sweating. His heart’s racing.

  That’s the easy part.

  He had no idea how keeping himself constantly pickled had been numbing down pain. Alcohol moved out, pain moved back in.

  He hurts everywhere. His molars are throbbing.

  Nightmares and hallucinations.

  Sloshing down his bad dreams didn’t make them go away. They’ve merely been hiding in the shadows, doing push-ups. Now they fill his nights and spill into his days.