David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

“It looks…bad,” Craig said, barely able to blink as he watched the world’s largest ship bobbing in the ocean as though it were God’s plaything. “We may have just done more harm than good.”

“We should investigate,” the A.I. suggested. “Stand by for a moment. I think I am close to establishing a visual connection. I can help you look for holes in the hull below the waterline.”

Craig nodded as he continued to pant, breathing heavily as the adrenaline rushed throughout his body. “I’ll stand by. I don’t really have anywhere to go.” He suddenly remembered how cold he’d felt just minutes earlier, but the adrenaline had sent his heart racing, warming him quickly. “How’s my body temperature? Am I going to be okay?”

“It’s rising,” the A.I. replied. “I’ve managed to tap into some of your nans’ systems and was able to facilitate a warming process by having the nans artificially produce extra adenosine triphosphate. That, along with your high heart rate and increased cortisol levels, had your body temperature rising. The nans broke down a lot of glucose to generate the extra ATP, so you’d better grab something sweet to eat when we go back onboard. You need to replenish yourself.”

“Heh. I was wondering why I was so hungry. Thanks. Hey, if I have all these nanobots in my body, then why wasn’t I able to stop breathing earlier when I did the Freitas test?”

“Freitas? You are referring to respirocytes?”

“Yes.”

“You do not harbor any of those at the moment. Respirocytes were a first-generation nanobot technology. In fact, it is a bit of stretch to even refer to them as nanobots. Each one, in essence, consisted of eighteen billion atoms arranged as a tiny pressure tank, filled with oxygen and carbon dioxide. The nans you currently have in your system are far more sophisticated.”

“Well, excuse me, but I liked respirocytes, and I sure as hell coulda used ‘em to breathe for me when I was stuck underwater going through useless set-up screens.”

“I understand your frustration. I’ve logged your complaint, and I will take your concerns into consideration in future iterations of the system setup.”

Craig looked up at the stars and shook his head, disbelieving. “Amazing. I’ve got tech support in my head, and I’m still getting brushed off. Hey, why don’t you put me on hold and blast me with some elevator music?”

“Elevator music?”

“Never mind.”

“Craig, I’ve established an optical connection,” the A.I. said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I can see the Titanic .”

“Look at the damage we’ve done!” Craig said as he flew to the bow of the ship and let the A.I. get a closer look at the hull’s rippled surface. “I don’t see how she’ll stay afloat now.”

“In 1907, the German liner, SS Kronprinz Wilhelm rammed an iceberg and suffered a crushed bow, just as the Titanic has. She was able to complete her voyage unaided. As I said earlier, the Titanic was, and is, a much sturdier ship than people realize. It was the fact that it hit the iceberg with a glancing blow and suffered several small breaches of her hull as she passed by, filling too many of the water-tight compartments, that led to her foundering. Unless there is a massive hull breach below the waterline, she should be fine.”

“Okay. So I guess we should have a look?”

“Indeed. With your permission, Craig, I am ready to take control of your flight systems.”

“Permission granted,” Craig replied, “but how will I get air once I’m encapsulated in that energy cocoon without respirocytes?”

“The suit you are wearing is lined with microscopic pressure tanks that will do the job better than the respirocytes ever could. You have several days worth of air in your clothing, and it self-replenishes.”

“Ah. I wish I’d known that earlier.”

“Are you ready, Craig?”

“I’m ready.”

The A.I. ignited Craig’s cocoon once again, and they dropped like a stone down into the dark abyss.

“Even if you’re able to produce forgeries of the devices, the procedure would be irreversible!” Dr. Lindholm protested as Aldous desperately worked to connect his mind’s eye to the antiquated computer equipment in the optometrist’s office.

“I can reverse it,” Aldous replied, barely paying attention to the protests of his hostage as he worked feverishly to connect to the Internet so he could begin his search for the information files he needed.

For a few moments, Lindholm was dumbfounded. He rebooted his line of argument. “Even if that were the case, do you realize how long the recovery time would be for such a procedure?”

“Probably about twenty minutes once I reactivate my nanobots,” Aldous replied dryly as he continued working.

“Nanobots?” Lindholm reacted, his back suddenly straightening as though he’d been kicked.

The two monitors atop the desk suddenly flashed on, mirroring Aldous’s mind’s eye. One monitor displayed the ghastly visage of Colonel Paine as he held Samantha above him with one hand, his fingers continuing to slowly burrow into her collarbone. Lindholm gasped when he saw the scene, his hands suddenly clasping on his temples as he heard Samantha’s blood curdling screams. “ Ach mein Gott. ”

“That’s my wife,” Aldous said. He turned to Lindholm. “She’s being tortured by that Purist government super soldier, and if I can’t rescue her soon, he will kill her.”

Lindholm nodded, his breath caught in his mouth as he tried to speak. “And you’re a…post-human.”

“That’s right.”

“There were rumors. I couldn’t believe them.”

“We’re real—or at least we were. For all I know, there may be only a handful of us left,” Aldous replied. He turned back to the other screen, which displayed the information from Aldous’s Web search.

“How are you controlling the computer?” Lindholm asked.

“With my mind—a device we call the mind’s eye. I’ll teach you more about it once we’ve dealt with more pressing matters.”

Lindholm’s eyes widened as he studied Aldous’s side profile. “You—you’re related to him. You’re related to Aldous Gibson, aren’t you? Are you his son?”

Aldous shook his head as he continued to search through the Web with his mind, his wife’s cries for help continuing concomitantly. “Not his son,” he replied. “I am Aldous Gibson, Herr Doktor. ”

“Dear lord. Dear lord, you’ve really done it. You’ve achieved immortality, as you always claimed you would.”

A sudden shriek from Samantha, far worse than any of her previous wails, snapped Aldous’s attention away from his research.

Paine threw Samantha down with a frustrated grunt; she remained attached to the board on which she’d been tortured, and it crashed, along with her, on its side. She’d been through more physical pain than any human could endure and survive, her post-humanity now working against her, cruelly repairing the damage as though she were Prometheus, ready for the eagle to peck out her ever-regenerating liver once again.

“For the love of Christ, Samantha,” Aldous said, exasperated and near tears, “I told you to just tell him. It will buy time.”

“She can hear you?” Lindholm asked. His question was ignored.

“Never!” Samantha suddenly belted at the top of her lungs, her eyes wild with animalistic hatred as she bore her teeth and screamed at the cyborg monstrosity before her. “Never! NEVER!”

Paine smiled. “You see? Zealot.” His smile suddenly melted, replaced by a frightening determination as he strode to her and sank his claws back into her chest. She shrilled.