He could have waited centuries for this moment had it been necessary.
But now the waiting is over.
Subdued ultraviolet lighting. Suggestion of pheromone laced with the dry tang of ozone. Dr. Yoshida’s Conservatory combines the steamy humidity of a pre-Cambrian swamp with the fertile putrescence of a ripening dung-heap: the excremental womb whose fermenting warmth nurtures the basilisk’s incubating eggs. So just what is he trying to hatch?
The subtle twang of a single koto. A stunted cherry tree sheds its blossoms in time to the cascading melody; the fragrant shower gently breaking the fragile meniscus of a languid stream, scenting the water with a little of its perfume. Just below the surface large, elaborately-coloured, ornamental carp glide and shimmer silently.
Dr. Yoshida enters the Conservatory, moving across the floor with a dancer’s balletic grace. In his left hand he carries a small, silver bowl containing a species of black sea-cucumber marinated live in the venom of the spiny freshwater manta ray. Mania Red. The brilliant, crimson juice is prized not only for its unique piquancy but also for its powerful psycho tropic and aphrodisiac effects. In anything but the most minute doses pure Manta Red would prove almost instantly lethal to a normal human being. Dr.
Yoshida has been using it daily for many years; his tolerance is such that the quantities he so casually imbibes are sufficient to kill a dozen men. And, besides, he is far from being a normal human being. From time to time he will pluck a specimen of the pungent delicacy from the bowl and pop it whole into his mouth, grinding the ripe meat to pulp between his busy molars.
His fingers are slim, elongated, with prominent joints like the ghostly digits of the Madagascan aye-aye. His eyes – large, oval, remorselessly black – reinforce the illusion. He is dressed in a white, polycarbon-silk kimono, tied at the waist. His hair is long, aromatically-oiled, and tied at the back in an elaborate bun, similar to the style once favoured by the samurai elite. He is barefoot and, beneath the kimono, completely naked. The Conservatory is a large, circular chamber housed beneath a polycarbon dome. The dome functions like a vast cornea surrounding the complex array of surveillance systems and sensory organs that constitutes the retina and optic nerve colonies of the BioHive, Dr. Yoshida’s unique, biological computer. The whole, or individual sections, of the dome’s surface may be rendered transparent – like glass, or unilaterally in the manner of a two way mirror. It also functions as an audio-visual monitoring device, upon which may be projected an overlapping montage of holographic images from every part of Dr. Yoshida’s island estate. As well as being impervious to the elements the dome is capable of withstanding the force of a ten megaton nuclear airburst.
The BioHive itself, whilst dominating the Conservatory, is largely invisible to the naked eye. More than ninety per cent of its considerable bulk remains buried beneath several thousand kilos of gravelly, black, nutrient-enriched plasma-mass: a form of primal soil synthesised by the accelerated putrefaction of living organisms. Protruding above its moist, vaporous surface, palpitating with the steady pulse of aerobic respiration, there are what appears to be a number of large, malformed cantaloupes succumbing to the steady ravages of advanced decay. Glossed with the rancid sweat of corruption, they are, in fact, highly evolved sensory organs.
The plasma-mass also supports a fragrantly wasted undergrowth of emaciated, flesh-coloured shrubs. Their spindly, veinous limbs are precariously laden with wrinkly, sap-heavy fruit, crenellous tumours of moist and pulpy meat. Closer scrutiny reveals this macabre flora to be nothing less than a collection of excised, human nervous systems. Still-living, they have been reduced in size and effectively preserved by a process that combines the exacting disciplines of micro-surgery and genetic engineering with the ancient art of bonsai, The bulbous growths dangling from their sinewy boughs are the active remains of their former, discorporated hosts brains.
Precisely dissected, these pulsating clusters of cortical tissue have been cunningly adapted to perform new functions vital to the BioHive with which they are now metabolically, neurologically linked.
The Conservatory also contains a number of large, transparent aluminium cocoons, lining the inner perimeter of the dome, like a nursery of giant, crystalline eggs. The cocoons are filled with a milky, semi-opaque liquid: the potently fertile, amnio-seminal fluid secreted by the hermaphroditic BioHive. The life-forms contained within these synthetic wombs exist in a state of perpetually-arrested, embryonic development, representing a branch of evolution so highly specialised that they are, in fact, little more than autonomic reproductive organs. These creatures are sexual symbiotes; their sole function to catalyse the procreative union of species so utterly divergent as to be considered, quite literally, alien to one another. The resulting, chimerical pregnancy, Dr. Yoshida anticipates, will yield a hybrid offspring, the first of a new race. A long-held theory, the initial phases of which he has already put into practise.
Dr. Yoshida pauses briefly before one of the cocoons. Its occupant is a large, eel-like creature, its leathery skin slick with a visceral, amphibious quality.
About four feet long, it coils and uncoils languidly, returning Dr. Yoshida’s regard with what appear to be equal measures of curiosity and instinctive menace. The head resembles that of a carnivorous, prehistoric fish. Its eyes – pupilless, colourless disks – swivel ceaselessly on each side of its bony skull, feathery gill-arrangements fluttering rhythmically just below the jaw. Instead of a mouth it possesses a tube-like proboscis, a single coil of gristly tissue spiralling inward on itself, its motion a perverse pun on the normal action of peristalsis. The proboscis functions as a mouth and excretory organ – as well as disseminating the creature’s specialised, symbio-procreative spores.
His senses singing with the erotic vibrancy of Manta Red; taste buds tingling with its dry tang; Dr. Yoshida is overwhelmed by a sudden reverie, its force irresistibly persuasive. His heightened perceptions evoke a visceral high so intoxicating that he seems to literally re-experience the original event rather than merely remembering it... He sees himself – feels himself – once more stepping tentatively into the Gene Pool, gradually immersing his body in the clammy, viscous moisture of the BioHive s amnio-seminal secretion. Dark shapes move beneath its slick, glutinously calm surface, gliding with the silent intent of miniature sharks. Nanornachines saturate the fertile ooze like swamp-dwelling bacteria.
For several, long moments there is stillness, the sticky, super-equatorial humidity unstirred by even the suggestion of breeze. Suddenly, as if sensing imminent danger, a bird of paradise defensively displays the metallic iridescence of its cobalt, turquoise and sun-burnished-gold plumage, its wings fluttering loudly as it flits towards the relative safety of a distant perch.
An orgy ensues.
The sexual symbiotes home in on Dr. Yoshida’s naked body with the ballistic accuracy and velocity of torpedoes. The Gene Pool boils and froths tumultuously, glowing with the critical energy emissions of countless million Nanomachines. Dr. Yoshida vanishes beneath its bubbling, churning surface, a vivid corona of spastically writhing, bio-electrical energy illuminating the heaving swell like St. Elmo’s Fire. Time curves in on itself, a dimensional cyclone warping spatial perspectives; radiant whorls of refracted light; wormcasts of quantum potential and decay. Eventually the tempest exhausts even its own fury. A nebulous mist rises from the surface of the Gene Pool, portentously calm, cooling rapidly.
A bloody hand breaks the turgid meniscus, outer layers of skin comprehensively shed, peeled off like a glove.
The denuded network of fibrous tendons strains against the breathless silence, gleaming brilliantly beneath a gloss of transparent gel. Fingers splayed, quivering, it hovers momentarily. And then it flattens itself out against the edge of the pool, painting the brilliant, white tiles a lush, vivid red. Its partner joins it a few seconds later. The hands make slow, clawing progress along the floor’s slippery surface, dragging themselves millimetre by bloody millimetre, torturously slow – for all the w
orld like a pair of crabs prised from their shells, blinded and flayed.
And when, in the end, Dr. Yoshida finally marshals sufficient strength to haul himself from the Pool, its depleted depths sucking at him like quicksand, he crawls and staggers across the Conservatory, collapsing in a bloody heap in front of the full-length mirror. Blinking away mucus, blood and tears, he stares in wide-eyed fascination at his reflection, fuzzily blurred by the film of condensation that fogs the surface of the glass. A hesitant hand reaches out, wiping away the hazy moisture, smearing on a thin syrup of bright blood.
Dr. Yoshida’s eyes gape in speechless wonder, surveying the appalling, astonishing spectacle of raw bones and glistening, skinless tissue; his teeth bared in a lipless, humourless grin, the rictal leer of apothetical pain. A harsh, clicking sound begins at the back of his throat, reverberating around the hollow cavity of his chest: a grinding death-rattle of a laugh.
Tentatively he touches himself, wincing. First the familiar organs and appendages, jangling with the chaotic fire of decaying neurones, the crackling spit and fizz of a nervous system fused by unendurable sensual overload. And then the budding beginnings of new organs: lumpen protuberances that as yet resemble little more than shapeless knobs of molten fat, steaming and dripping, their ultimate potential and functions unknown.
Dr. Yoshida’s grating, abrasive laughter reaches a harsh crescendo, as unsettling as the sound produced by fingernails scraped across a blackboard’s surface. His body is wracked by sobs of tearless joy that bubble up through a cloying wad of phlegm, clods of curdling blood. He is elevated beyond pain, dread and anticipation to the ultimate plane of euphoric dementia, triumphant. Transformed.... as persuasively as it had gripped him the reverie relinquishes its hold on Dr. Yoshida, its backwash ebbing into the receding tide of memory. As instructed, the others are already here, waiting.
Resplendent in the ancient costume and make-up of the geisha, Aiko sits, cross-legged, on the floor, her delicate fingers expertly plucking the strings of the koto cradled in her lap. In her exquisitely embroidered kimono, and with her ghostly white face; impassive dark eyes and impeccably constructed coiffure; she exudes an air of serenity, grace and modesty which epitomises the traditional virtues of womanhood enshrined for centuries in Japanese culture and philosophy.
Dr. Yoshida is especially proud of Aiko; she appears so very human. At times even he, her creator, forgets that she is little more than an automaton, conceived by the cyber-sexual interface of two, very different species of machines.
Aside from the BioHive, the domed Conservatory houses a cybernetic processor, no less sophisticated than its biological counterpart. The Zen Resonator: Dr. Yoshida’s prototypical adaptation of the latest generation of the Mitsubishi Zen 5000 Series Psimulator System. Its revolutionary logic/anti-logic drive – digital circuitry that simulates the human brain’s complex network of neurological modules and synaptic conduits; conceptual software capable of assimilating qualitative data -generates the Virtuality hyperzone known as the Zen Continuum.
Frequently referred to as the first, genuine artificial consciousness, the system’s designers describe the Zen Continuum as a patented universe, dimension of dreams.
The Zen Resonator is in constant, continuous interface with the BioHive, its cybernetic neural structures colliding with the seething ganglia of meta-cortical tissues that constitute the other s self-replicating, molecular data-colonies. It was this ceaseless fusion of pure, conscious energy – like the blazing, solar furnaces that rage at the hearts of suns – that fuelled Aiko’s genesis, that literally conceived her, BioMech, the term coined by Dr. Yoshida to describe the process, provided the genetic blueprint; the Nanomachines did the rest, literally piecing her together from the necessary raw material. Yes, the good doctor has reason to be proud.
His female captive, previously encountered as an alluring, if insubstantial, hologram, remains unconscious, naked, and securely bound to a chrome stretcher. The stretcher is suspended above the Gene Pool, supported only by deceptively slender cords of high-tensile tungsten.
Freshly secreted, the BioHive’s amnio-seminal secretion fills the pool: every drop teeming with microscopic Nanomachines, inert now, primed for the command that will initiate their inexorable, irrevocable programme.
The woman’s name is Mitsuko Hara. She is twenty four years old, one of the most wealthy and successful exponents of New Tokyo’s multi-billion yen-dollar entertainment industry. Mitsuko Hara is a Virtuality Icon; her digitally-generated, holographic image featured in some of the most successful Virtual Reality interactive software currently available on the market.
Since the demise of cinema, television and literature as the prevalent forms of popular entertainment, Virtual Reality has become the playground where almost all the citizens of the world’s technocracies choose to spend their abundant leisure time. Virtuality Icons inhabit the conceptual hyperzones in much the same way that the movie stars of the past illuminated celluloid stock with their divinely contrived images. In the hi-tech patois of Virtualspeak the word that describes Mitsuko Hara’s role in the pantheon of Virtuality Icons – although there is no precise equivalent in English – translates roughly as the object of desire.
Virtuality Manga and Anime originated in the twentieth century, their roots in Japan’s hugely successful comic-book market. The modern Manga is a hyperreal exploration of the erotic potential of physical mutation; hi-octane hi-tech splatter; a visceral out-of body experience that erases the barrier between passive observer and active participant. Pornography boosted cybernetically to a state of elevated consciousness – alternate planes populated by exotic, alien beings; convulsed with endless, apocalyptic wars; replete with graphic violence, explicit sex, and perverse combinations of the two – scripted, realised and programmed by the highest paid cabal of writers, artists and technicians in New Tokyo. The idealised, female protagonists in many of the most popular scenarios are quite literally incarnated in the holographic image of Mitsuko Hara’s flawless beauty.
The Manga define a new sexuality. In the Arcadia districts of New Tokyo – entire boroughs given over to the Virtuality cult – vast cathedrals of shimmering metal and translucent polycarbon glass iridesce with the energy of constant orgasm. These skyscrapers contain neither rooms, offices or apartments, but thousands of coffin-sized chambers, accessible by narrow catwalks, equipped with Virtuality headsets, gloves and genital collars; bio-monitors and catheters; IV drips. They may be rented by the hour.
Weekly – even monthly – rates are available.
Inside are Manga-addicts, emaciated and bedsore-ridden, hooked up like coma patients, nervous systems frazzled by the endless delirium of pseudo-sensual bombardment, who haven’t had contact with another human being – solid food – for months. Who needs it when you can come a rainbow cascade of diamond hail; smash planets between your fingers; manipulate the very fabric of space and time; blaze like a meteor through a nebulous haze of psycho-erotic abandon?
Dr. Yoshida gazes intently upon Mitsuko’s naked body: the supple perfection of her firm breasts and thighs; her shaved pubis tinged blue like a triangular bruise; the sublime contours of her cheekbones and the delicate curve of her lips. Despite the reptilian inscrutability of her emerald green eyes with their vertically elliptical pupils; the chrome and obsidian blue-black sheen of her hair; the star of Nekrotica, Arcadia Apocalypse and Metal Sushi – she has, in fact, been abducted direct from the set of Metal Sushi II (hence the fetish costume of which she was divested earlier) – resembles a mesmerised child held in captive, unblinking thrall by a fabulous, omnipotent magician. Dr. Yoshida’s face is a bland, unwrinkled mask, innocent of all emotion other than a sort of whimsical curiosity – like a botanist examining a strange and previously unclassified species of exotic flora.
He is standing at the main control console and its bank of monitor screens. His fingers move deftly across the surface of the console. The controls are heat-activated, primed by recognition of Dr. Yoshida’s
individual, bio-plasmic aura and triggered by a specific series of mental commands. There is no need for him to actually touch anything. Hieroglyphic sequences of coloured lights illuminate the smooth, black surface of the console with radiant arabesques. A Kirlian Spectrograph shimmers into life, its purpose to monitor and analyse the slumbering Mitsuko’s aura, glowing with the neon incandescence of a New Tokyo Virtuality arcade display. Another screen displays 3-D CAT-scan pictures of the various quadrants of Mitsuko’s brain, enhanced and augmented to Dr. Yoshida’s precise specifications, transmitted from a thumbnail-sized, silicon module implanted into the base of her skull.
The western hemisphere of the Conservatory’s dome is as clear as glass, looking out onto the glittering, crystal expanse of the Pacific. The blood-red, nuclear sun sinks slowly beyond the distant horizon, its violent hues oozing into the placid waters of the silver sea. A cruiser-class jetfoil clipper scythes its way across the waves in the evenings dying embers. A matter of leagues beyond the range of the island’s security systems, the vessel does not excite Dr. Yoshid’s interest.
A silent, verbal command renders the Western quadrant of the dome abruptly opaque. Its opposite seems almost to liquefy and is suddenly transparent. Across a narrow strait there lies the mainland and several thousand kilometres of uninterrupted desert, serene and sublimely barren. The darkening, Eastern sky is predominantly an impossible shade of indigo; the transient topography of shifting dunes beneath it delicate hues of coral pink and magenta. Between the teeming ocean and the arid sands Dr. Yoshida’s estate seems to be most aptly situated, occupying the twilit realm of evolution and extinction, the eternal equinox.
Aware of a feeble stirring, Dr. Yoshida is pleased to find consciousness rapidly reclaiming Mitsuko Kara. Due to the after-effects of the bio-mace that had been used to subdue her there is a certain rigidity to her facial muscles that dissipates quickly as she wakes, Another of the bio-mace’s after-effects is temporary paralysis of the larynx, rendering the subject mute for several hours.
The Starry Wisdom Page 26
