Postnatal


 
 "Postnatal"
 
 And
from
the
mess
of
blood
and
viscera,
there
emerges
the
soul
of
a
new
 machine.
It
moves
in
a
herky‐jerky
fashion;
a
pair
of
dark
orange
eyes
slowly
 light
up,
a
few
feelers
twitch
into
motion.
It's
a
mix
of
wires,
bolts
and
circuitry.
 It
crawls
out
from
the
organic
wreckage,
trailing
various
substances.
It
doesn't
 look
back
at
its
former
host,
which
is
making
increasingly
faint
guttural
sounds.
 Eventually
the
host
falls
silent.
 The
drone
lies
very
still.
It's
the
size
of
a
fist,
which
is
typical
of
the
lesser
 workers.
Fighter
drones
may
grow
up
to
the
size
of
frigates,
but
they
need
 smaller
entities
like
the
workers
to
clean
and
repair
them.
 There
are
no
smaller
entities
than
the
workers,
leastwise
not
autonomous
ones.
 Workers
are
easily
replaceable;
they're
not
worth
the
effort
of
repairs.
When
one
 of
them
breaks,
there's
really
nothing
for
it
to
do
except
fix
itself,
in
whatever
 way
it
can.
 This
drone
is
broken,
and
it
hasn't
been
able
to
fix
itself.
 It's
lying
on
the
floor
of
a
laboratory,
surrounded
by
all
manner
of
scientific
 equipment.
It's
also
lying
in
the
middle
of
an
expanding
pool
of
blood,
courtesy
of
 its
unwilling
surrogate.
 After
a
few
moments
it
makes
a
buzzing
sound
that's
almost
like
a
harrumph,
 shakes
a
few
dark
flecks
off
its
metal
carapace,
and
flies
out
of
the
room.
 


***
 
 Drones
can
operate
at
minimal
capacity,
diverting
resources
as
necessary.
This
is
 even
more
important
for
the
smaller
ones,
who
don't
always
have
access
to
 repair
facilities.
When
no
healer
is
nearby,
you
apply
a
tourniquet
to
the
wound
 and
carry
on.
 This
drone,
running
only
basic
operational
support,
enters
another
room,
flying
 through
an
open
doorway.
The
door
has
been
torn
off
its
hinges
and
is
lying
to
 the
side.
Laboratory
equipment
is
strewn
all
over
the
place;
the
drone
hovers
 over
broken
glass,
bent
wireframes
and
various
bits
of
circuitry.
It
trails
a
long
 series
of
cords,
like
the
line
at
the
end
of
a
kite.
The
cords
are
interwoven
with
 thinner
strings,
some
biological
‐
remainders
of
its
former
host
‐
and
some
 metallic,
crackling
and
sparking
as
they
brush
against
the
metal
debris
on
the
 floor.
The
drone
doesn't
seem
to
notice.
 There
is
a
small
series
of
red
LEDs
on
the
underside
of
the
drone.
They
start
 blinking,
slowly.
The
drone
is
telling
the
world
that
it
is
becoming
operational.
 In
the
piles
of
broken
equipment
it
comes
to
a
single
beaker,
untouched
and
 unbroken.
Extending
one
pincer,
it
hovers
closer.
The
pincer
closes
its
metal
 fingers
around
the
undamaged
beaker
and
slowly
lifts
it
from
the
ground
for
 further
inspection.
The
beaker
is
empty,
but
has
been
spattered
with
some
 mixture
of
white
and
red.
The
drone
tries
to
bring
it
closer,
but
exerts
too
much
 force
on
the
beaker,
and
it
breaks.
 The
drone
trembles.
It
was
hoping
that
this
time
around,
it
would
be
reborn
 whole.
It
has
tried
so
many
times
to
fix
itself.
 Satisfied,
at
least,
that
its
LED
heartbeat
is
regular,
it
decides
to
ignore
the
 broken
beaker.
It
is
only
to
be
expected
that
a
newborn
would
be
a
little
clumsy.
 That's
how
it
works.
Then
you
grow,
and
you
mature,
and
you
heal.
You
don't
 have
to
live
with
being
a
broken,
malfunctioning
piece
of
malevolent
creation.
 The
drone
flies
into
the
next
room.
 
 ***
 
 This
one
is
fairly
hard
to
navigate
through;
the
gas
fumes
that
leak
from
broken
 pipes
are
obstructing
the
view.
The
drone
diverts
a
little
power
to
its
processing
 equipment.
Tiny
fans
in
its
intake
valves
spin
into
action,
and
a
portion
of
the
gas
 is
sucked
in.
The
drone
doesn't
analyze
it,
nor
use
it
in
any
way;
it
simply
ejects
it
 again.
Intake,
eject.
Intake,
eject.
Inhale,
exhale.
Its
lights
flicker
in
a
quick
smile.
 The
drone
doesn't
spend
too
much
time
in
that
room.
It
can
feel
the
gas
settling
 on
its
outer
surface,
and
it
doesn't
want
everything
to
get
clogged
up.
There's
a
 box
nearby
containing
bottles
of
various
sizes.
It
flies
head‐first
into
those,


breaking
them,
and
grinds
its
carapace
into
the
resulting
puddle.
The
glass
 doesn't
scratch
it,
nor
does
the
mixture
of
acids
it's
rolling
in,
and
eventually
the
 drone
is
left
covered
in
a
sticky
substance
that
protets
it
from
the
gas.
Its
body
 trails
tiny
filaments
that
have
hardened
in
contact
with
the
air,
like
hairs
on
a
 corpse.
 The
drone
tries
to
remember
a
time
where
its
mind
wasn't
on
fire,
a
jumbled
 mess
of
half‐thoughts,
conflicting
sensory
inputs
and
endless
loops
of
noise
and
 electrical
static.
Every
time
it
shuts
down
and
begins
again,
it
hopes
that
things
 will
be
put
right.
Every
time.
 It
flies
close
to
the
ground
to
avoid
accumulating
too
much
of
the
gas.
On
its
way
 through,
it
bumps
into
an
inert
body.
It
stops,
thinks,
then
extends
its
feelers
and
 grabs
hold
of
the
white
lab
suit
in
which
the
body
is
clad.
It
pulls.
The
robe
shifts
 a
little,
but
no
more.
It
pulls
harder.
The
robe
shifts
more,
but
so
does
the
body.
 The
drone
tires
of
this.
A
tiny
hole
opens
just
below
its
eyes,
and
a
laser
beam
 briefly
shines
through.
There
is
a
wet
sound,
and
a
burning
smell.
 The
drone
pulls
again.
This
time,
the
robe
comes
off.
 It
flies
through
the
second
room.
Once
it's
out,
it
uses
the
robe
to
wipe
the
 accumulated
patina
off
its
body.
It
inspects
the
crud:
it's
a
white,
thick
but
 slightly
frothy
material.
The
drone
allows
itself
a
brief
moment
of
chemical
 analysis,
and
sees
that
the
stuff
is
called
Vernicium.
It's
a
byproduct
of
various
 chemical
processes,
and
rather
destructive
to
human
skin
but
perfectly
safe
to
 metal.
 A
scream
from
the
gas
room
startles
the
drone
into
action:
it
turns
immediately
 and
fires
the
laser
randomly
into
the
murky
cloud.
There
is
a
thump.
 The
drone
hovers
for
a
moment,
then
turns
again
and
keeps
on
going,
into
the
 third
room.
It
decides
to
start
powering
up
all
its
internal
operations,
its
metal
 organs.
 
 ***
 
 All
senses
are
now
working,
some
of
them
a
little
too
well.
Tiny
drops
of
oil
start
 accumulating
on
the
drone's
carapace,
trickling
into
the
hairline
cracks
that
 circumscribe
its
optic
cameras.
The
drone
turns
its
internal
thermostat
up
to
the
 maximum
it
can
stand,
and
its
outer
surface
burns
off
both
the
oil
and
the
 chemical
filaments
accumulated
in
the
last
room.
The
filaments
fall
off
and
land
 in
a
heap
on
the
floor.
 It
tests
the
other
senses.
It
can
detect
the
gaseous
traces
coming
from
the
other
 room.
Good.
Zoom
and
unzoom
works
as
well;
it
can
count
the
ridges
in
a
pen
 that's
lying
on
the
floor.
It
can
sense
audio
waves
as
well.
 It
picks
up
one
now.
Coming
from
a
nearby
cupboard.


The
drone
turns
and
slowly
flies
in
the
direction
of
that
cupboard.
 The
sound
from
the
other
side
is
quiet,
very
quiet.
It's
someone
breathing,
in
a
 staccato
rhythm.
 Gently,
the
drone
nudges
open
the
cupboard
door.
Inside,
it
sees
a
young
woman,
 dressed
in
a
lab
coat.
The
woman's
eyes
are
red‐rimmed,
and
she's
mouthing
 silent
words.
 The
drone
hums
with
something
resembling
pleasure.
It
revolves
silently
in
the
 air
so
that
its
head
faces
downwards.
Its
feelers
shoot
out
like
pythons
and
fasten
 the
woman
to
the
wall
by
her
head
and
shoulders.
Two
pairs
of
feelers
clamp
on
 to
her
jaw
and
pry
it
open.
 The
drone
has
been
trying
to
fix
itself,
trying
to
re‐make
itself
into
an
undamaged
 creature.
But
it
has
been
running
out
of
hosts.
 
 Now
it
has
found
one.
 
 And
her
face
is
open
to
let
it
in,
to
let
it
be
born
again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright
CCP
1997
‐
2008