Vicious Fizzle

VICIOUS FIZZLE By Aaron Bodbyl-Mast Twitter: @bodbrain [email protected]

MEMOS FROM PLANET SODA Excerpt from the journal of one Dyet Koke, 2nd coordinator aboard the Faygo I: Year 6,140 of the Fifth Kola Regime (2,664 Earth Years AD): Having fled the ongoing Kola wars between the Pepsi Family and our family, the Kokes, we set course for a far off solar system in hopes of finding refuge. This solar system harbors an intelligent civilization which appears to be, out of all possible candidates, the most culturally compatible with our own. Our destination and future place of exile is on the third satellite of nine orbiting a mid-sized star a few hundred light years away. Confirmation of intelligent life on this third satellite came nearly one hundred fifty years ago and we have been receiving radio signals from this system ever since. There has been much study of the signals emanating from this nine satellite system after the reception of the first radio signal. Maybe the most disturbing thing we have learned about this alien culture— who call themselves humans and call their satellite “Earth” — is that the substance most vital to the constitution of our physiology as members of the Kola species— carbonated water mixed with various carbohydrates— is a widespread form of sustenance within on this planet. Hopefully, after we establish diplomatic relations with these humans, we can discourage such atrocious slaughter. For many reasons, my companions aboard the Faygo I are apprehensive about leaving home, but we realize that there is no longer any place for us on Soda. The war may destroy all of us. We must guarantee that our race survives its own blind foolishness. Cherry Koke, our engineer, will soon attempt the experimental spacetime flow drive, which should alter the fabric of spacetime and bring us near this far solar system within a matter of weeks. There is not much time left before we attempt our journey. We will sorely miss Soda, our effervescent home.

BUCKING TWIGGY: THE ORB MATERIALIZES March 23rd, 2147 Cosango Nshogoza’s body chilled as he walked into the house. Once he stepped out of the sweltering Kinshasa afternoon and into the frigid computer-regulated-climate-controlled air of his home, his coat of sweat felt like a thin sheet of ice encapsulating his temperature shocked body. Oregano, the Nshogoza’s bargain-basement-all-purpose-family-bot (a Plastic Pal 3000, manufactured by Cepheid INC.) zoomed into the room, playfully bumping into Cosango’s legs: “Time to play?” Oregano, the small Plastic Pal 3000 with Tupperware skin and a silicon soul, looked up at Cosango hopefully with bright green glowing sensor-lenses. Once Oregano’s maintenance chores were complete, he was allowed to shift into companion mode (a pet simulation algorithm which turned Oregano into a talking puppy with computing power equivalent to the fastest, most sophisticated, cutting edge machines of only fifty years before). In the day’s excitement and

bustle, the rest of the family had neglected Oregano and he came to Cosango looking for affection, desperately desiring to fulfill the duties assigned to him by his pre-programmed brain. Cosango, unsympathetic to Oregano’s cybernetic ontological dilemma, took his soccer ball and tossed it at the tiny, unsuspecting Oregano, knocking him over: “Hey.” Cosango laughed. Oregano struggled on the floor, “I wanted to play.” Cosango picked up his soccer ball, “Yes, now you can play dead.” At that moment, if Oregano could have manipulated his rather staid plastic facial features into a wounded frown, he would have. Through a considerable effort, he was able to get back upright. Dejected, he hovercrafted off into another room. Still amused by his unsolicited act of cruelty against the loyal, docile, family Plastic Pal 3000, Cosango went to his cubicle. Cosango laid down in his bed, grabbed his portable computer and selected music from a Net source. Cosango was an avid aficionado of mid-to-late 20th century popular music. In fact, he was minoring in mid-to-late 20th century pop music at Kinshasa University. He called up an instrumental version of “The Girl from Ipanema,” featuring organ and guitar. Listening to the bubbly keyboard strains, Cosango started to doze off. Just beginning to drift off into contented unconsciousness, Cosango was ripped away by a loud scream. He then heard his mother, Isabella, calling him, “Cosango come. Come quick, it’s time.” Cosango got up and ran out of his cubicle, where he was tripped up by a dashing Oregano. Cosango hit the floor, watching as Oregano rolled over a few times and then landed upright, undaunted and speeding away towards his sister Jenni’s room. Plastic Pals had nine lives. Cosango got back on his feet and ran toward Jenni’s room. Finally, she was having her baby. She seemed to have been pregnant forever. She had elected for natural birth, in the home, with the help of a midwife and her mother. According to the ultrasound, Cosango was soon to be the uncle of a healthy baby boy. A nephew and he was only sixteen. A playmate for Oregano. When he ran into Jenni’s room, Cosango was met by a disturbing hush. Had something gone wrong? Why was no one talking? He looked at everyone’s faces. Jenni was confused, but mute. His mother looked ahead in blank horror. But what had gone wrong? Where was the baby? There was no blood. What was it? Cosango frantically searched the room with his eyes, seeing nothing. Then, he noticed Oregano hovering near a strange object, a metallic sphere. He bent down by it, picked the sphere up in his hands, examined it, and questioned his Plastic Pal, “Oregano, what is it?” “It’s Jenni’s baby.” Cosango dropped the sphere on the floor.

A DISTURBING ABSENCE Aboard the Faygo I: Year 6,140 of the Fifth Kola Regime (2,664 Earth Years AD) Rubyred Squirt, senior coordinator aboard the Faygo I, opened his eyes, “Dyet Koke, status report.”

Dyet Koke looked to his monitor, “Spacetime flow drive disengaged. We have emerged from the alteration unscathed.” Squirt stood up, his nervous fluids calming somewhat, “Congratulations, Cherry Koke, the experiment has been successful. Now, where are we?” Cherry Koke waited a moment while the computer calibrated its coordinates, “We are within a light year of Earth’s solar system.” Squirt sat back down, “Splendid. A few days time. Dyet Koke, commence long range scans.” In a concerned tone, Dyet Koke related his initial readings, “There is an error.” “An error, what do you mean?” “Earth’s solar system. It is no longer there.”

WELCOME NEWS ON THE MICROBIOLOGICAL FRONT March 26th, 2147 At the UPC CDC (United People’s Collective Center for Disease Control) in Atlanta, Georgia (formerly of the United States, but the UPC united the world under one governing body in 2103), biologists Rhubarb Marmalade, Puccini Zucchini, and Slinky Whatyamacallit received an odd sample, shipped with great care from Kinshasa in the former People’s Republic of Congo. Rhubarb Marmalade, squinting— even with her premium artificial retinas— looked closely at the metallic sphere before them, “Baffling.” Puccini Zucchini, tall and lanky, stood back from the other two, “I still think it was an illadvised move to forego the usual precautions. We have no idea what this is.” Looking closely in the same manner as his peer Rhubarb Marmalade, Slinky Whatyamacallit casually turned the sphere with his gloved hand, “I think we are safe until we attempt to try to get inside it.” Puccini shook his head, “We can’t be sure. We’re taking an unnecessary risk.” Rhubarb, somewhat frustrated by the poor performance of her retinas, stood up straight, “We have to find out as much as we can as soon as we can. We can only afford to take precautions when absolutely necessary.” Spooked, Puccini held his pass card in his pocket and twirled it around anxiously, “Why the hurry? What’s happened?” Slinky picked the sphere up in his hand, “This is not an isolated case. There are reports of more such incidents, centered mostly in the former Congo, but also spreading east to Kenya, south as far as Johannesburg, and even north to Alexandria. No deaths yet, unless you count the missing babies. This is a crisis situation. What ever it is, it’s spreading quickly.”

Down the hall from the meeting between Marmalade, Zucchini, and Whatyamacallit in the UPC CDC building, Umbrel Cherbourg carefully shuffled through her latest data. Umbrel’s curly sandy red hair was pulled up out of her face and behind her head. Her skin was freckled and brown, her eyes deeply set and large and dark, filled with concentration, concern, and contemplation. As statistics flew through her mind, her lips whispered numbers absently, sorting them out, making them substantial and real. As she continued to read over the numbers, her lips slowly curled into a smile. The data was

yielding something positive, signs of doom were withdrawing into the thick, stormy ether from which they had emerged. Just then, Sentricon Terminix, his hair dark, wavy, and thick, his face not looking the same as yesterday, walked in. Hearing the noise, Umbrel looked away from her monitor: “Dr. Terminix.” Umbrel knew that it was him before she had actually looked at his face. Seeing it, she stopped. His nose was larger, his brow more slight. He had new eyes, they were a different hue. Artificial, the whites of his eyes were not white, but purple. She tried to smile. “Dr. Cherbourg.” Sentricon frowned. No, it was not even the same frown. And what was real or synthetic did not matter. His eyes or frown, it did not matter. They were in flux, inconstant. From week to week, he was changing. By now, she should have become accustomed to it, but Sentricon’s fluid body frustrated her, left her without orientation and balance. As Sentricon shifted, she had to— she was exhausted, nauseated. The movement had to stop, didn’t it? Umbrel tried harder to smile, her lips tightened. Sentricon forced a smile, trying to ignore the look in her eyes, trying to ignore the studied observation, the mapping, the surveying. She was meeting the same stranger for the hundredth time. He never ceased to be a surprise or a shock, “So, Umbrel, has the latest data come in?” Umbrel turned to the monitor and Sentricon walked over and stood next to her, looking over the data with her. Umbrel requested a specific graphic from the computer. She pointed out to Sentricon the important developments: “Look here. Across the board, the death rates have decreased. The change is drastic everywhere. In no reported cases could the cause of death be attributed to the virus. The plague is gone. Virus activity is nil.” Sentricon shook his head in amazement, looking it over more closely, “Amazing.” “Yes.” “Could it be that the virus is just dormant? This kind of fall off is too good to be true.” “I’m positive that there could be no latency period. It looks like it’s finally doing what it was designed to do. This time without mishap.” “I can hardly believe it. I thought we were in real trouble this time. We had no more options.” “No. I know.” She stopped, leaned away from him, against a counter, “You know what this means?” “What?” “Well, that we have nothing to do. Maybe some follow up work, but it’s over. Four years of work and stress is finished.” “You’re right. Four years and were done.” He looked at her with his artificial purple eyes in which were suspended blue irises. Purple eyes. “We met four years ago.” Sentricon looked down, “Four years. Damn.” “Sentricon?” He looked back up, trying to feel comfortable, like he belonged, like she loved him, “Yes?” “I’m pregnant.”

Puccini Zucchini and Rhubarb Marmalade were arguing. Slinky Whatyacallit was still

observing the orb. His brow furled in surprise. Something had happened. Rhubarb and Puccini continued to argue, oblivious to Slinky. Slinky picked up the orb again and held it between them, Rhubarb backed up. Slinky addressed them, “Look.” Puccini: “What, what is it?” Slinky: “It’s growing.” Rhubarb, keeping her distance, and Puccini, keeping an even greater distance, stared at it a moment. With a glance, they could tell that it was true. It was growing.

CARBONATED DATING The evolution of the Kola was a sacred secret known only to a select few— a story that none aboard the Faygo I was privy to, which, in Dyet Koke’s mind, was unfortunate, considering that it was their crew who was charged with continuing the race. And what, when the time came, would they tell these humans about their origins? Well, what would they have told these humans, because, it appeared, the humans and the solar system which was their home were now gone. There was speculation, of course, about their origins. Speculation and superstition. Divine intervention possibly. Cosmic incident. An alien species. No one knew. When a Kola bleeds, their blood fizzles. Their blood is carbonated water. To a human, their blood would look and taste like pop. The Kola have translucent skin, their color comes from their brown blood, which can be seen fizzling inside of them as it flows down their veins and throughout their bodies.

MEANWHILE... March 26th, 2147 Neither Umbrel nor Sentricon was speaking. The moment stretched out long, empty, tense. A vacuum of feeling. A drawn out numbness. Sentricon was afraid. Umbrel did not have to look at him to know, she could sense it. He was afraid for the child. His DNA. Sentricon was a mistake, a failure. Genetic engineering had bestowed him with high intelligence, but left him with a perpetual degenerative disease— a disease made worse by misguided post-natal gene therapy. Thus, every week, he underwent reconstructive surgery to salvage his arms, his legs, his organs, his face. Organs grown and harvested. Produced synthetically. Plastic and organic. He was a mishmash, a hodgepodge of ever changing, ever failing humanity. Only his brain, miraculously, remained intact. And now she was pregnant. Gene therapy, of course, was an option for the child, thought Umbrel. They could ensure that the child would not turn out like Sentricon. But he would object. Though genetic treatment had advanced greatly since Sentricon’s birth, he would never trust geneticists— except for her. There was some hope, though. Nothing certain, but nothing damning either. Nothing yet. Umbrel managed a fragile smile, “Sentricon, there’s nothing to worry about.” Sentricon tried to reach out beyond his fear, “How far along are you?” “Far enough to have had an ultrasound.”

Sentricon’s expression filled with the implications. She put him at ease, “The baby is healthy.”

THE BIG, GIANT SPACE TUMOR Aboard the Faygo I: Year 6,140 of the Fifth Kola Regime (2,664 Earth Years AD) Rubyred Squirt, senior coordinator, stood up, brown and fizzing, “Distance?” “Under a quarter of a light year,” answered Cherry Koke. Rubyred Squirt looked to Dyet Koke, “Any change in the massive entity.” Dyet Koke, at his monitor as usual, “No. It has not reacted to our presence in any way.” Squirt, “Do we have an adequate visual?” Dyet Koke, “Yes.” “Successful scans?” “Yes, we are now receiving information about its compositional makeup and its size.” “Let’s see it and let’s hear it.” On the large view monitor, a massive asymmetrical blob stretched out before them— fleshy and metallic. Grotesque. Shifting her fizzing, brown blood through her body, Cherry Koke leaned back in her chair, horrified, “Dyet, it’s alive isn’t it?” Aghast, Squirt sat back in his chair, “What’s it made of?” Dyet Koke glanced at the large view monitor for a moment before returning to his own monitor, “Yes, it does seem to be alive. Composed of organic and synthetic materials— plastics and metals of various types. There is no apparent regularity or order to its make-up.” Squirt, “How big is it?” Dyet Koke, stopping a second, “It is approximately the size of the solar system that Earth was once a satellite in.” Cherry Koke, dejected, “So it ate up the solar system. It ate Earth.”

PROJECT: JUBA Umbrel Cherbourg was one of the UPC’s most brilliant and able scientists. A specialist in genetic engineering and nanotechology, her career changed forever in 2143. A highly lethal virus had emerged from Africa and was threatening to engulf the world. In less than a year’s time, the whole of the human species would be in danger of extinction. Thus, the UPC CDC looked to Umbrel Cherbourg for help. Her solution was both innovative and risky.

ORBUS TERRARUM May 10th, 2147 “Nothing’s working. Not scans, lasers, needles. Nothing,” Rhuburb Marmalade stared at her monitor, daunted. Her blonde hair pulled back in a bun seemed to accent the lines of tension and

frustration pent-up along the contours of her face. She had been working on the computer for hours, shards of pain started to cut into her head, pressure built behind her eyes. Not even more use-friendly, less-radio-active computer screens and artificial retinas could stave off the strain of staring at a monitor for hours on end, without sleep. She wondered where Slinky was. It had been half an hour since she had sent him off to fetch any available pain killers and a glass of water. For a moment, she reconsidered submitting herself to the regiment of gene therapy, acupuncture, and yoga Puccini had suggested to help her with her chronic headaches. These days, there was no excuse to let yourself fall victim to headaches. No excuse at all. Lines of tension constricting his expression also— but mixed with fear — Puccini Zucchini rubbed his brow with his hand, “None of the samples have yielded any useful results. The Orbs seem to be immune to any kind of observation or study.” Rhubarb leaned back in her chair and sighed, “At least it’s still isolated in Africa.” Puccini added, “And their growth seems to have stabilized, for now. It seems like a good sign. As long as we can keep this thing under wraps for awhile longer.” “Yea, the last thing we need is a Netmedia circus plaguing us also.” She closed her eyes and groaned. Puccini swivelled his chair away from his own monitor, toward her, “Hey, Marmalade, are you ok? You’ve been up for awhile.” “I know. It’s nothing really, just this headache I have isn’t getting any better. I wish Slinky would get back.” He swivelled back to his monitor, “Marmalade, how many times do I have to tell you. I know a clinic that’s real good. These days, there’s no excuse to let yourself fall victim to headaches.” “I know. I would, maybe after this thing blows over. There’s no way I could get the time off now.” Puccini shook his head, “No excuses at all.” Just then, Slinky Whatyamacallit walked in, sans water and painkillers. His black curly hair seemed frazzled and his brown skin hollow. Trails of perspiration were slick and salty on his face, giving liquid life to what otherwise was ghostly and apparitional. Rhubarb looked at him, “Slinky, where were you? You forgot my painkillers and my water.” Slinky did not seem to hear her, “We’ve got trouble. Netmedia meltdown. Some small-time militant Netmag got the scoop and its all over the place. The reporters have already gathered outside. Looks like we could have a panic on hands.” Puccini looked at him quizzically, “That’s a problem, but we expected it. We’re prepared. It had to come sooner or later.” Slinky shook his head, “Not the only problem. Looks like the UPC CDC hasn’t been telling us everything. The Orbs have spread to every continent, its all over the Web News Networks.” Puccinni: “Every continent?” Rhubarb: “Have you had this confirmed? Have you talked to someone?” “Yes, it’s all confirmed. And there’s more, more that they’ve been reporting.” Rhubarb pressed her hand hard against her temple, “What do you mean more? More what?” “They’ve been reporting— and it’s all confirmed, all true, they just haven’t been notifying us— they’ve been reporting that there hasn’t been any viable births anywhere. No births except the Orbs since May 4th.”

WILD STYLE

May 11th, 2147 Umbrel Cherbourg sat at the booth, sipping her Solar Burst martini, waiting. A few hours before she had received an email from someone asking her to meet here, at the Graffiti Room. The email mentioned the JUBA project, that’s why she had come. Umbrel enjoyed the Graffiti Room, a theme restaurant and bar which claimed to be an authentic recreation of an American ghetto at its hip-hop culture height. Around her their were graffiti covered bricks walls and the tables were constructed out of parts of old turntables. 20th century rap music— a favorite of Umbrel’s— played continually in the background, sounds of scratching and samples, beats and rhymes. As a Public Enemy song played, Umbrel thought about the latest wave of reports on all the Web News Nets. She had heard rumors about the Orbs swirling around the UPC CDC for weeks now, even rumors that she might be put on the research, prevention, and eradication squad. She had not yet seen one of the Orbs. All the reports and all the strange births, but Umbrel did not feel apprehensive or afraid. She felt strangely placid, tranquil— sure and certain. Certain of what she would do and what was ahead. “Dr. Cherbourg?” Umbrel turned to see a woman standing at the edge of the table, looking down at her. Numerous metal and plastic appendages hung from various places on her body— piercings and implants. And not all visible, some of the implants were surgically placed beneath the skin. There was a series of metal balls making her arms bumpy and odd and another series of short metal spikes stuck out of her shaved scalp forming a crown, a crown of chrome thorns. She had no eyebrows and she wore silver contacts that made her look like she was a robot or a cyborg. There were tatoos on her cheeks— all numbers and strange letterings which looked like some kind of strange programming code, which it probably was. The woman must have been a serious hacker. The codes on her cheek were extracted of codes from a virus she had written. The tatoos were marks of prestige, any fellow hacker would recognize the code immediately, know the virus, know who she was. She sat down and nodded at Umbrel: “Dr. Cherbourg, Minolta Guru. I’m a reporter for the Morlock Information Network.” Umbrel sat back, thinking about the name of the Netmag, trying to remember where she had heard it, “The Morlock Information Network, that’s the Netmag that broke the Orb story.” “Well, actually, I’m the one who broke the Orb story.” There was something alluring about Minolta, all the alterations and additions to her body did not hinder her beauty, but enhanced it. The silver eyes were not blank, but lively, fearless, knowing. “What do you want from me? What do you know about the JUBA project?” “We’ll get to that.” Minolta Guru leaned forward and studied Umbrel’s drink, “Is that a Solar Burst?” “Yes.” “Can I have a sip?” “Yes.” “I’ve always wanted to try a Solar Burst, don’t get much into alcohol.” Minolta smiled and Umbrel wondered what indulgences Minolta did favor— the new “flower” chems that were currently trendy, Asphodel, Wistaria, Passion Blue? It was likely that Minolta was wired at the moment. There was a chemical aura, the scent and subliminal vibes of synthetic buzz. Of

course, some people just had those type of personalities and presences, whether they were on something or not. With Minolta, it was hard to say. Minolta took another sip and licked her lips with her spiked tongue, which appeared painful to Umbrel, “Do you know who funds the Morlock Infomation Network?” Confused, crinkling her freckled cheeks and forehead, Umbrel shook her head, “No. Should I?” Minolta shrugged, “No, I’m just trying to fill in the context here. Let you know what you’re dealing with. Where I coming from.” “Well then, who?” “Nihilismus Rhizome. Recognize the name?” “Yes, I think so.” Umbrel thought for a second, “Isn’t it a group of some kind of radical techno-heads who want to form an autonomous techno-commune?” Minolta smiled and laughed, “No, not at all. Our goal isn’t any utopian future-hippie flowerpower commune were we trip on archaic hallucinogens, swear off Western medicine, eat Benand-Jerry’s ice cream, wear tie-dye, and worship ancient Apple computers, Phish, and the Grateful Dead. Do I look like a flower-child to you?” “No.” Timidly, Umbrel pulled her Solar Burst martini back toward herself, to use it as something to hide behind rather than drink, “So, you’re one of them, a member of the Nihilismus Rhizome?” Minolta nodded affirmatively, her silver eyes shiny and piercing, “We’re not afraid of this plague, the Orbs. We see an opportunity, I guess you could say. We believe that the goal of humanity should be to meld with machines, seamlessly. Not just physically, but on the level of consciousness. We want the two great souls of the world to meet and mix— the human and the metallic. Or the plastic, synthetic, silicon. However you would prefer to name it.” “And you think the Orbs signal the beginning of this meeting. There’s no verification that these are of a metallic origin. They look synthetic, but that doesn’t mean they are.” Minolta smiled largely and laughed again, her spiked tongue sticking out. Umbrel continued, “And I still don’t understand why I’m here, what this has to do with the JUBA project?” “Dr. Cherbourg, why do you think that the UPC CDC can’t make any identifications on these Orbs? How could any entity of purely biological origin be so resistant to such scrutiny and testing. Don’t you get it? Don’t you see? This has everything to do with the JUBA project, everything to do with you.” “What are you talking about?” Minolta stared at her moment, her silver eyes now almost burning, “That’s all I have to say to you for now, Dr. Cherbourg.” She got out of the booth and stood up, “I have to be going.” Umbrel sat stunned and confused, silent. Minolta started to walk away, then stopped, turning back around, “Dr. Cherbourg, how far along are you?” Umbrel looked at her, squinting. “You are pregnant, aren’t you?” “Yes, but how do you know that?” “You know what these tatoos on my cheeks mean, don’t you?” “Yes.” “Then you know it shouldn’t be too hard for someone like me to find out anything I wanted to about someone like you.”

“Yes.” “Well, have far along are you, then?” “Five months.” “And you’re gonna keep it?” “Well, all the ultrasounds show that everything is fine. I’m not gonna let this thing get to me. I want this baby.” “Dr. Cherbourg, you know as well as I do that none of the women who have had these Orbs have shown anything anomalous on any tests. Not ultrasounds, amniocentesis, fiber optics. They have all been fine.” “If these Orbs can evade any kind of testing, why would an abortion be of any help?” “I’m not sure. You’re probably right. Unfortunately, we can’t be sure because, if you check, none of the women who have given birth to the Orbs have attempted abortions. In fact, if you check, no abortions anywhere have been performed since May 1st.” With that Minolta turned around and walked away. Abandoned, Umbrel sat sipping her Solar Burst in destitute contemplation against the background of fabricated urban decay, splashes of spray paint in busy colors, and De La Soul rapping about magic numbers.

JUBA-JUBA JAR-JAR: AN EXCURSION In 2143, a unknown virus emerged from central Africa and quickly grabbed the attention of the UPC CDC. Virologists and epidemiologists debated whether the disease was a retrovirus or a filovirus, because this virus, christened “Juba,” exhibited properties of both viruses. It had a life cycle similar to that of HIV, taking an extended period to become lethal to its host, but its method of killing, kill rate, and structure were closer to filoviruses. Fluid to fluid contact was verified as the method of infection, though some suspected that Juba may had become airborne. Juba took 6-12 months to kill and did so at a 95% rate. The UPC CDC enlisted a number of up and coming virologists, molecular biologists, and genetic engineers to research a way to combat the disease. There was time, but not much— something had to be done. At the time, genetic engineer and nanotechnology specialist Umbrel Cherbourg had been genetically engineering organisms for awhile, mostly in hopes of engineering an artificial bacterium or other microorganism ideal for waste cleanups of various kinds, specifically radioactive wastes. Thus, when she began work on the JUBA project she was immediately struck with the possibility of engineering an artificial organism to kill the Juba, a virus for the virus, a counter-virus, an anti-virus. Many within the UPC CDC objected, citing flaws in Dr. Cherbourg’s proposal, but there wasn’t time to wait. The anti-Juba organism underwent preliminary testing. It was successful. Soon, the UPC CDC began producing the organism for use on the general population. By the end of 2144, deaths due to Juba had ceased. During the summer of 2145, though, a new epidemic emerged, again within Central Africa. The UPC CDC soon isolated the cause— another deadly virus. Dr. Cherbourg, still working with the UPC CDC doing follow up observation on her anti-Juba organism, was soon called to assist with the new virus. It did not take her long to realize that the new virus— which, at first, appeared to be related to the Juba virus in its method of infection, duration of incubation, and kill rate— had a similar genetic structure to her own anti-Juba virus. Making the connection, she researched further and confirmed what she had feared— the new virus was actually a mutation of

the anti-Juba virus which she had created, turned against the human population instead of its intended viral prey. The kill rate was 99 out of 100, near total devastation. The only reprieve was that it took 8-12 months to kill. Again, there was an opportunity to take evasive action. As word spread through the UPC CDC of their new enemy and the cause of the humanity’s dire predicament, many of those who objected to Dr. Cherbourg’s plan in the first place were infuriated, saying that they had anticipated such consequences. However, their objections were again ignored and the UPC CDC turned to Dr. Cherbourg and asked her to create a new organism to combat the first one. Hopefully, they thought she could refine the process the second time around by taking into account what had went wrong the first time. Realizing that there was no time to be so precise, Dr. Cherbourg turned to her other field of expertise— nanotechnology— for a solution. Recently, scientists had manufactured nanobots which could attack bacteria and even manipulate the DNA of microrganisms and in human cells. Dr. Cherbourg proposed that the UPC CDC construct and program special nanobots to deal with the mutated anti-Juba virus, providing a cure without risking another deadly mutation. Fewer scientists within the UPC CDC objected to the nanobot proposal. The situation was desperate and Dr. Cherbourg’s solution was the best option. The nanobot proposal was set in motion, the testing stage began immediately, yielding results quickly. Impressive results. With a cure in hand, the JUBAbots, as they became known, went into mass production and dissemination. By the end of 2146, everything indicated that dthe anger was passed. By early spring 2147, there were no longer signs of the mutated anti-Juba organism anywhere.

LITTLE TRIGGERS May 13th, 2147 All the evidence was circumstantial, indirect. She could made no direct links, no substantiated claims. Why did it take her so long to see it? The JUBAbots and the Orbs were connected. That was the only explanation that fit. The only one that could account for everything. But how? How could the JUBAbots suddenly turn so violently against the human body? And how could they do so so determinately, with such order and design? Conscious design, not just something accidental, but something coordinated, intentional. Though, possibly, with blind intent. And now she was pregnant, pregnant with one of the Orbs. She had been infected by the JUBAbots. She had to do something. But what? And how could she be sure. All the evidence was circumstantial, indirect, unsubstantiated. And the ultrasound. She had a healthy baby. But the JUBAbots could affect the results of the ultrasound, could disrupt and tamper the results of any tests— especially if you weren’t looking for them. But still, it was all circumstantial, all theoretical, and barely plausible. The JUBAbots from one human host to another would have to be communicating somehow, working together. And they would have to be inside most of the computer systems around the world. Not impossible— each step was possible. But the chances of the coincidence of all the steps all at once and at such a scale and so swiftly? She had to do something. But what?

“Umbrel?” Umbrel Cherbourg, who had been staring hard at her computer monitor, lost in thought, jumped at the voice in surprise. She turned. It was Sentricon. She blinked as she looked at him. Again, his looks were different. His eyes seemed to be set deeper in his head and they were no longer purple. There were green. All green. But that wasn’t all, his face was not just different, it was moving. Something seemed to be crawling underneath his skin. She shied away from him, afraid for him and her sanity. She couldn’t speak. Sentricon smiled, “What do you think?” “...” Umbrel did not move. Sentricon laughed, “I know it looks funny, but I like it. They’ve started me on a nanoregiment— the nanobots repair the damaged skin and bone as it deteriorates. It’s a perpetual process, which is somewhat annoying and disconcerting, but much easier than undergoing surgery every week.” Umbrel looked away, still silent. “Umbrel, what is it? What’s wrong?” She hesitated and finally spoke, “I know what it is. I’ve found out what’s causing the Orbs.” Sentricon had turned to her monitor and was not totally listening to what she was saying, “The Orbs. I can’t believe how bad...” Looking into the monitor inspired some kind of small epiphany in Sentricon’s mind. Absorbing what Umbrel had said in delay, he looked down at Umbrel’s stomach. Tiny waves moved through his skin even as his smile inverted into a concerned frown, his voice was distant, “You found the cause. What does it mean? Is there something you can do?” “Sentricon, it’s the JUBAbots. Something’s happened. Their producing the Orbs.” Sentricon was flustered, his eyes darted, “I don’t know if I understand. How? How could they be producing the Orbs? Is there something you can do?” “I don’t know how. I just made the connection. I’m not sure what it means myself.” “Umbrel, what’s going to happen? What about the baby?” “Haven’t you heard. There hasn’t been a human baby born since May 1st. I don’t think there is a baby.” “You can’t be sure Umbrel, what about the ultrasound?” “The JUBAbots could change the ultrasound, manipulate the results and create the illusion of a healthy baby.” Sentricon appeared ready to say something, but stopped, stunted by his running thoughts and short breathing. Under his skin, something crawled. He moved his hand to his face and rubbed his fingers over his cheek. His countenance melted into horror, disgust, and exasperation: “Umbrel, what are you going to do?” Umbrel stepped away from him, somewhat frightened, “What do you mean?” “Are you getting an abortion?” “I don’t want to. I don’t think it will help. And I’m not sure that it still isn’t a baby. I could be wrong about all this.” “Not sure? Umbrel, you have to do something. You can’t give birth to that Orb. You can’t let it happen.” Sentricon moved closer to Umbrel. His presence became threatening. “You just asked me how I could be sure. I’m not sure, not totally. Anyway, I don’t think it will matter. There’s nothing I can do. I have to think about it more. Tell everyone what’s happening. I’m not going to touch this baby.”

“It’s not a baby. You said it yourself.” “Sentricon, I think you should leave.” Sentricon grabbed her arm, sweat flowed down his face, moving in odd directions as the nanobots moved under and through his face. But, something strange was happening, the nanobots seem to be moving faster and they became more pronounced. As Sentricon moved his face closer to hers, Umbrel could feel heat coming from it. She gasped, the nanobots were glowing, “Sentricon!” Breathing heavily, he ignored her, “One way or another, we’re getting that Orb out of you. I won’t let this happen.” He pulled her arm and she cried, “Sentricon!” Noticing the glow, he stopped. He let go of her arm and collapsed to the ground and started to yell and writhe. His skin began to liquefy. Umbrel turned away, slipped down to the floor, and huddled against the computer in shock. Then, someone grabbed her, “Dr. Cherbourg?” It was Minolta Guru, the spikes circling her forehead like a crown. Minolta looked down where Sentricon had been. There was only a mess of clothes and steaming organic matter left. Umbrel looked away, “Minolta, what happening? Why are you here?” Minolta picked her up and lead her out, “Let’s go. There’s not much time. You’re coming with me.” Once they got of the room, they started to run down the hall. Umbrel wondered why Minolta was hurrying. They went out of the UPC CDC building and out into a sun soaked Atlanta afternoon. The blue cloudless sky stretched everywhere, open and vast.

A PEPPER TOO May 13th, 2147 Slinky Whatyamacallit walked into the warehouse with Rhubarb Marmalade and Puccini Zucchini. Rows of Orbs stretched out before them. Slinky sipped on his Dr. Pepper, enjoying the way the bubbly fluid tickled his palette. “Damn,” he commented. Rhubarb Marmalade, enjoying the visual distance her retinas allowed her, agreed, “Damn is right.” Afraid to go too far into the warehouse, tall, lanky Puccini Zucchini hung back, “What are we going to do? We still don’t know anything about them. What are we going to do?” Rhubarb shook her head, “How many of them are there?” Slinky continued to walk further into the warehouse, not noticing something on the floor ahead of him, “Here? One to three hundred thousand. These things are starting to become a real storage pain in the ass.” Puccini, forever annoyed by Whatyamacallit’s petty nonchalance, “What can’t you take these things seriously? This is serious.” Both Slinky and Rhubarb were ignoring him. Rhubarb shook her head at Slinky, “No, not here. What are the numbers worldwide?” No one noticed the obstacle in Slinky’s path. He looked back at Rhubarb as he walked, “I’ve heard everything from one hundred million to two billion. Figure how many people are born a day and this has been happening for a month and half...” Rhubarb interrupted, “There are also unconfirmed reports of accelerated birth rates. Women

are giving birth to the Orbs at four and five months. There are also rumors of spontaneous pregnancy.” “Immaculate conception,” Slinky raised his eyebrows, gracefully sipping his Dr. Pepper as he walked and was turned around in the direction of Rhubarb. Puccini noticed the obstacle, “Slinky, watch out!” It was too late. Slinky tripped and careened forward. His Dr. Pepper went skyward. It spilled onto one of the Orbs, violently fizzing. The Orb started to steam. Rhubarb was thrilled. Her retinas were performing well today, especially in the poor lighting of the warehouse. She was the first to notice the Dr. Pepper’s effect of the Orb. She pointed and ran over, “Look! Forgetting his fear, Puccini ran over also and Slinky got to his feet, saying in breathless surprise, “The pop!” Rhubarb looked up at them, “The pop is destroying the Orb. It’s falling apart.” But Rhubarb’s elation was arrested by the look on Puccini’s face. She heard a droning noise and looked back through the warehouse. The Orbs were all glowing and shaking slightly. There was movement everywhere she looked, “It’s too late.”

AS VAST AS THE SKY May 13th, 2147 “It’s starting.” “I know.” Minolta Guru continued pacing. “What do you mean? How can you know?” If Umbrel’s face had not been strained by the labor pains, it would have shown her vexation. “Because there’s not much time left, that’s how I know.” Minotla paced nervously. They were outside, in a park. Few people were around. The day was bright. The spikes in Minotla’s head gleamed and she almost seemed to have a halo of glowing silver. Her spikes, her crown of chrome thorns, and now her unearthly aura. They had stopped at a hypermarket and Minolta stole her a maternity dress. She changed in the park’s restroom. Umbrel wasn’t sure if she had ever worn a dress at all, much less a maternity dress. “But there’s a lot of time left, I’m barely six months along.” Minolta laughed, “I ain’t talking about that baby of yours, if you still want to call it that. We all have the right to denial, especially at a time like this. But that’s not it at all.” “What is it then? How do you know?” “Well, for one, few pregnancies these days are making nine months. Also, ever since this thing started we’ve been tracking the JUBAbot activity.” “What? You knew all along, why didn’t you break the story earlier then?” The pains were getting worse, Umbrel leaned against a tree, looking for relief and comfort. Minotla stopped pacing, walked over and helped Umbrel, holding her arms, “Once we realized what was happening, we knew it was probably already too late. And, anyway, this is what the Nihilisimus Rhizome wanted all along. The mixing of the human and machine.” “The joining of the only two souls in the world.” “Right,” Minolta smiled.

Umbrel gasped, her muscles started to contract, “Shouldn’t we get to a hospital?” Minolta, still holding her, shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. Giving birth to an Orb is remarkably clean. And there isn’t much time left.” “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” “The JUBAbot activity, it has increased immensely over the last thirty-six hours. It seems to have reached a critical point. We expect something to happen before sunset tonight.” “What?” “That’s what I’m waiting for. But I doubt it will happen until after you give birth.” “Why me?” “Nothing to do with you. You’re probably one of fifty million to one hundred million women who will give birth to an Orb today. The last wave. Once, it’s finished, it should start.” The pain spread over her body. It was becoming more intense and the contractions were occurring at a faster rate. Umbrel tried to sit down or lay down, just to get off her feet. Minolta stopped, “Stay on your feet, it will be easier. It’s alright. It won’t get much worse than it is now.” Minolta smiled at her, the chrome crown of thorns dull under the shade of the tree. Still, Umbrel felt comforted with Minolta near her. Then, it came. More pain and she screamed out: “It’s coming.” It stopped so quickly. It rolled out before them, the Orb. There, on the ground, it seemed to be staring at them. They both watched it silently. Umbrel heard her own breathing and Minolta’s. The Orb, her offspring, sat there as the wind blew the grass and the trees and there was no clouds in the sky to make high, grand, crawling shadows on the ground. It was warm, humid, May late afternoon in Atlanta. The wind blew through Umbrel’s sandy red hair. They— Umbrel, Minolta, the Orb— sat together in anticipation. The Orb started shaking, glowing and shaking. Minolta’s grip on Umbrel’s arm tightened. Their breath stopped. The Orb broke open and a mass of something like a thick swarm of bees seemed to fly out of it and then in the air disappeared into nothingness. The JUBAbots. Neither of them moving, Minolta’s grip still tight, she whispered, “It’s happened.” But then nothing happened. Minolta ran out from under the shade of the tree and looked up at the sky. Umbrel sat against the tree, still and peaceful. Her mind blank, she stared at the broken Orb. Nothing happened, not for awhile, at least. Minolta kept staring at the sky, seeing nothing. Umbrel, feeling cold, hugged herself. The wind blew through the grass and the trees, no clouds were in the sky to make crawling high shadows on the ground. But then, on the edge of her vision, Umbrel saw a shadow. Wrestling her gaze away from the Orb, she looked out from under the tree. Now, Minolta saw something. She was no longer just looking at the sky. There was something else, the thing she had been waiting for. Still feeling cold, still hugging herself, Umbrel got out from under the tree to stand by Minolta. Umbrel noticed that other people in the park were stopped and looking at the sky. Umbrel stood next to Minolta and looked up. There it was, whatever it was. Something was forming, in the sky, floating there. A giant metallic looking mass a few miles up in the sky. It was growing and beginning to the block the sunlight. Umbrel looked around and noticed that there were other masses in the sky, all growing, all converging. Umbrel wondered which night would come first, the one which had fostered her dreams for all those years or the one that was

her doing, her offspring.

DEPRESSURIZED REFRESHMENTS Aboard the Faygo I: Year 6,140 of the Fifth Kola Regime (2,664 Earth Years AD) Science Officer Yahoo Serious ran into 2nd coordinator Dyet Koke and senior engineer Cherry Koke as they walked down the passageway with levity. Dyet Koke and Cherry Koke halted. Dyet Koke addressed Science Officer Yahoo Serious: “Science Officer Serious, just the person who we were going to meet.” Yahoo Serious stood straight. The ship was silent and she thought she could her the sizzle of her ebullient blood, “Yes, 2nd coordinator, I was coming to central command to make a report.” Dyet Koke nodded, indicating to Yahoo Serious that she could continue. She obliged: “We have obtained a sample from the unknown massive entity and have it isolated in Ob-chamber1515.” Dyet Koke looked at Cherry Koke and they nodded at each other. Dyet Koke turned to Yahoo, “Excellent. Let’s began the identification process.” Dyet Koke and Cherry Koke started walking down the passageway, toward Ob-chamber 1515. Yahoo Serious followed along. Somewhat unsure of what they should do, how they should proceed with the sample, Dyet Koke explained the need for urgency, rationalized his decision aloud, “We need to find out what we’re dealing with here. Find out if there is any way we can communicate with the entity, or, at least, discover what happened. It’s possible that the humans survived, that they left the solar system and migrated to another planet. It’s even possible that they constructed the entity.” Yahoo Serious reacted with skepticism, “I did not think that this species was so advanced.” “Well, we can’t that forget that Soda is over five hundred light years from Earth. The humans were advancing at an substantial rate. It would be hard to predict just what they would be capable of by now.” They walked into Ob-chamber 1515. There, in a pressurized room separated from the rest of the chamber by a thick sheet of plastic, was a translucent Iso-crate which contained the sample. The sample was a nebulous mass of what appeared to be a mixture of metal and other synthetic materials, along with other unspecified debris. They all approached the window, staring at the sample with curiosity. Dyet Koke did not hesitate, “Yahoo, open the Iso-crate.” Yahoo Serious, uncertain whether she heard right or not, appealed for clarification, “What?” “Open the Iso-crate.” “But, 2nd coordinator, there’s other, more prudent ways to proceed. We can’t open the crate yet, not until we’ve done some preliminary study.” “Doesn’t the Ob-chamber have defensive mechanisms which should prevent the rest of the ship from being contaminated?” “Yes, but they’re not infallible.” “We’ll have to trust the systems.” “I don’t think we have to be so rash. We’re not going anywhere. We can afford to wait.” “No, we can’t afford to wait. We don’t have that much stored energy. We have to know what happened. If they did migrate, we need as much time as we can to follow them, to make sure we have enough energy. Open the Iso-crate and commence with direct observation.”

Yahoo Serious, still not convinced, sighed, “Yes, 2nd coordinator.” She ordered the computer to open the Iso-crate. An electronic arm emerged from the wall on the left and extended out to the Iso-crate. The Iso-crate unsealed itself and the electronic arm lifted off the top cover, placing it the cover on the floor. They all watched the sample and waited. The sample remained stationary, unresponsive. Dyet Koke took a deep breath, “Yahoo, any signs of contaminates?” “No, nothing so far.” “Fine, let’s proceed then.” Yahoo Serious punched instructions into the computer, initializing the identification programing. At that moment, a warning alarm sounded. Something foreign was inside the ship. Dyet Koke and Cherry Koke backed away from the protective sheet, their eyes wandering paranoid and worried. Yahoo braced against the computer, panicked. Dyet looking around wildly, yelled, “Yahoo, what is it? I thought the computer was showing no contaminates.” “It was. This is something else,” Yahoo watched the screen carefully, waiting for any signs of new data, for any signs of what had set off the computer. The computer responded, “Found it. It’s nanotech.” Dyet and Cherry looked at each other. It dawned on them what had happened to Earth and what was happening now. Their fate was sealed. There was no fighting back. They waited, resigned and tense. Yahoo kept watch on her computer, braced and waiting for new information. As the computer provided more data, she announced it, “Nanotech is spreading to all areas of the ship. Contaminating central command, all living spaces, and all Ob-chambers.” Cherry Koke stared at the vents, “The nanotech is here.” Dyet Koke looked at the Iso-crate, noticing that the sample was growing smaller and smaller. Any hope of preserving the Kola was now lost. Back home the warring families would destroy each other, destroy the race. Planet Soda would become barren and bereft. Here, aboard the Faygo I, the nanotech would enter their bodies and begin eating away at the ship. Soon, they would all perish. The nanotech would recycle all the materials from the ship and incorporate them into the massive growing entity outside. But, for what? Was the entity conscious? Was their design or purpose? Or was it only some kind of perverse evolution, perverse perpetuation of life for the sake of only evolution, only perpetuation— endless growth and assimilation, mindless, soulless, ruthless and absolute. Then, Dyet heard a pronounced fizzling sound. He glanced around, confused. It was coming from Cherry and Yahoo. It was their blood. Then he could feel it, inside. His blood. He could see it in their bodies, their fizzling, vicious and angry. His blood, too. He cried aloud, frightened, “What is it? What’s happening?” Cherry staring at herself as her insides fizzed, “It must be the nanotech. It’s entered our bodies.” Dyet was frantic, “But what’s happening? Is it trying to kill us? What’s happening?” Yahoo turned back to her computer, “No. It’s being neutralized. It went straight for all the crew. But, our blood is destroying them.” All around the Faygo I, the fizzing continued, filling the passageways with the hissings echos, the persistent sissings sound refreshing and soothing, like the ambient noise of a multitude of pop cans opened all at once. A thousand, maybe a million, soda pops simultaneously unsealed,

bubbling exuberantly into infinite space.