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Day One: October 26, 2085.
As you can fucking imagine, things have gone way too far. I mean way out there, universe-far, fuck-off-far, in fact galactically far out there. All those damned films from 80-90 years ago, where the future society has taken some freaky technology to the extreme of self-beautification and personal enhancement. Or the flip side where the development of some nasty piece of biological or technological breakthrough is used to smite cities and continents back on Old Earth or terraform here on Mars at the flick of a switch. All self-prophetic! I thought battle armour could be best used to assist factory workers and packers in lifting and moving items. But, oh no dear naive person, let’s use it strapped to some mindless idiot to help leap ravines and cleave an enemy’s skull in two.
And naturally our use of DNA as the ultimate mass storage technology has been bastardised into some biological abomination of science to justify manipulations of all sorts to our God-given makeup. That helix pattern was staring us in the face for so fucking long it’s a wonder we ever figured it out. I’m sure it was that damn LSD that revealed DNA’s hidden secrets—again.
Us straight thinking, normal homo-fuckin-sapiens are the only ones who seem to see the problem here. There is an inherent loophole the size of fucking Earth’s America glaring back at us from the ominous black hole that is ‘possibilities’ asking for us to stick something into its gaping chasm to feed its craving for life. Yes. It is coming. No. They have no fucking idea.
By latching onto the mechanisms and nature of DNA’s structure, scientists found the vast amounts of storage space almost breathtakingly simple. From discs to drives to sticks to wires, they had searched outside of us to answer the problem of capturing and storing information. But what is information but the compilation of memories. And every cell of your body has memories. You cannot remove the x y z portion of your brain and now say ‘I forget.’ No. Your body tells us everything about you, your environment, and where you’ve come from. It tells us who your children, siblings, parents, and ancestors are—for generations back and generations to come. And yet we all came from the same particles. The oneness was there. The oneness is here.
Mimic DNA and you have nature’s perfect data storage system.
And mimic we did. Figure out how to manipulate data and you have the ultimate manipulation tool. And manipulate we did. Manipulate an embryo. Manipulate a species. Done. And done. So now we sit and wonder how we can manipulate ourselves—in realtime. Tomorrow I’d like to look like this. Extrapolate forward and see how I will look in 20 years. Make adjustments. And now? Tweak it here and there. That’s better. Forget about where we come from. A distant memory like the distant blue planet that birthed us, naturally.
Now we are all data devices. I hold within and without my body all my memories, photos, personal information, data downloads, every fucking 1 and 0 you can imagine that I’d want to keep—in me. I want to copy that file, view that footage, transfer that pixel, just a wipe on a data screen, or someone’s arm, and it’s there. Uploaded. Copied. Ready to roll. Like flea ridden mangy canines we’re infested with our own filth. Our own debris. Our own excrement. No letting go. Flotsam and jetsam floating on our skin—dermasdata. WTF?
And here we are, ready to exploit human vanity. How can we distribute this beautifully crafted virus? What’s the quickest way to install, download, upload, activate, run, execute? Execute. Love it. By touch. Simple. And how do we get the greatest number of people to touch in one go? A protest. And what can we protest? The use of DNA. Nobody’d ever suspect a thing. A bunch of activists spreading death. Return with our tails between our legs, back to our Mother Earth where we belong and not infesting other worlds. Poetic.
We think that just because we can terraform a planet, we have the right to terraform our bodies and manipulate something that was doing fine without interference. We may have dropped a few nukes over the poles, rover-mined methane into the atmosphere and stopped our bodily liquids from boiling, but we still must wear our breathing aids outside. We are not the all-powerful gods of this or any planet.
And so, the plotting begins. But first you must get in tune with the void. The hole. To understand and stand by the belief you need to hear. Words are not hearing. Data is not hearing. Hearing is feeling. Feeling is connecting. Connecting is not jacking in. Connecting is connectionless. Feeling is touchless. Hearing is resonating. Understanding is believing.
If you can’t hear what it is that the hole is saying, allow me to unplug your wax-filled deaffies and sprinkle some space-dust on those cobweb-smothered drums. Here is the beat to follow. Here is the beat to resonate with. Here is the beat of your heart. Here is the beat that will begin the journey. And what will you hear it say? It will say:
Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.
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Day Two
Public Experiment #1 has begun. A rumble and acceleration of the hyperloop allowed me to fumble an awkward hand onto a stranger. You’d think in this day and age that we would’ve become closer as humans and that the New Age hippies from the turn of the century would have won out in the whole hug thy neighbour, plant a tree, oneness with the planet thing. But the current Martian faux pas of touching has made even the most conservative and tight-assed religious no-no’s seem tame. Handshakes—limited to close friends and business associates—can make the boldest of individuals recoil in disgust as if you’ve placed a soiled palm in their face. Needless to say, the trips on the tube or other public transport is entertaining. And so, here we casually inject our first human test. An experiment that is a long time coming.
I have loathed the times spent on that damn locomotive heading for the subterranean factories and offices; piled in with so many others, all plugged into themselves rather than living fully alive on the Martian surface that surrounds their airtight homes. They should rather leave for the Moon colony than not experience this planet as it continues its transition from the deep orange reds to the turquoise and green patches spreading from the south. But the search for the perfect individual necessitated the most banal of activities—the daily commute. And although I prefer the freedom of my own two feet to that iron tube, I did enjoy studying the expressionless faces for clues of thoughts, emotions, and signposts, as to where they were in their lives. How happy are they really and what would they be doing differently right now if they knew what was ahead? But that is all romantic ideology. Anyone with a gun in their face is forced to re-evaluate their current life—or lack thereof—and if not, the bullet does the trick.
Preferring the ticking time-bomb to the lead capsule, we now can sit on the tube, breathing mask packed away, and take notes, compare data, and analyse the changes that the test subject will go through in the next few weeks. After much debate and to-ing and fro-ing we settled on (amidst sexual prejudices) a female subject. Points raised included the obvious physical makeup that could be analysed from a distance and the significance of the reproductive organs and their ‘exposure’.
Although we are aware of the initial changes that will present themselves, this has never been tried before, so we can’t, repeat, can’t assume anything. That will only sway the experiment’s results—and P00104 has made it clear that our intensions and focus on the desired results will only conspire to create those pre-desired results. Total physical meltdown may well be preferable, but how it is achieved is the key to phase one.
But in order to keep the data as extensive and precise as possible, I have made detailed notes on today’s events. Here is a brief summary:
With the human dermasvirus#32 applied the evening before, I took a light, test shower (robustness of the virus needs to be fully tested, but let’s not fuck around with a technical delay like accidentally rinsing it off on the day). Left my apartment at 07:28 and took a refreshing walk to the nearby tube station. Almost immediately I was engulfed in the stream of people heading down the mouth of the stairwell and into the humid stench past the turnstiles. So crowded yet not a push or shove in sight. Freaks.
As previously noted, and with exceptional efficiency, the locomotive came to a near-silent stop at 07:40. Personal spaces were subconsciously cordoned off, sideways glances completed, and then into their respective zones we began our journey.
07:44, we slowed gently to a stop at the subject’s station (Station #S00205) and amidst the hoards, our subject emerged and planted herself on one of the few vacant seats on the side of the carriage. Subject’s physical description: 32 years of age (ascertained after physical contact with her), unmarried, Caucasian, dark brown (near black) wavy shoulder-length hair. Fair skin. Weighing 81.4 kgs and 1.58 metres in height. Slightly rounded shoulders and stooped posture. As with most of the passengers she keeps to herself and doesn’t make eye-contact. Fortunately, the temperature in the transport necessitates the removal of her gloves and the loosening of her brightly coloured scarf. The dermasvirus needs to contact the skin to be effective (especially for this initial experiment). The thick coat and long pants that she wears in the current climate makes it more difficult to implement any close contact—but this was considered.
After a few minutes of observation from a few metres (approx. 4 metres), I proceeded to edge closer to the subject—making it appear as though I were ready for my destination stop. She was standing with her right shoulder facing me (but I was slightly behind her) and as the transport made a switchover and the carriage rocked, I fell forward and proceeded to (heaven forbid) grab her hand. Although it appeared to be an instinctive reaction it took a few moments for her to acknowledge the cultural fuck up and rip her hand back and into her gloves. I apologised and proceeded to hide my face (seemingly embarrassed but more out of being inconspicuous). And so, it was done.
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P00104 has indicated that he will be on the afternoon tube to take any visual information of the subject—although it will be too soon to see anything.
Sure, people need access rights or passwords to give and receive/accept data—but the virus circumvents all this. If only the on-planet government could get hold of that tech they’d have a fucking field day as far as personal rights go.
And now we wait.
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Day Three
Thieving bastards! If there was a trace of your DNA left on me I’d melt your faces, your bank accounts, and your social networking pages in an instant. Fuckers took my comm-unit right from under my goddamn nose. Need to learn from them as far as entering someone’s personal space (let alone their pockets) to grab what’s not fucking theirs.
So, all the tiniest details and notes from today’s tube ride—watching our subject—are probably being wiped clean as we speak to make it sellable on the open-bloody-market! Damn, I knew I should’ve copied it via dermasdna before pocketing it.
Today’s report was therefore processed straight from the good old-fashioned grey matter. Nothing of significance to report (as with P00104’s afternoon observations). Far too early.
And here I sit, wracking my brain about who or what was near me during and after the journey. Long gone, I’m sure, but it’s going to eat at me anyway. I’m the goddamn thief here. You don’t steal from the stealer! Now I’ve got to watch my back as well as the experiment. How ridiculous is that?
The news coverage on the latest DNA developments is becoming more interesting by the day. Everyone seems to be fanatically enthusiastic about even the slightest tweak that some lab-rat can make to the current systems. Well, they’ve all got their heads up their bums if they are relying on scientists who follow their paycheques. Passion. That’s what it’s all lacking nowadays. Passion drives progress. Real progress I mean.
Need to get P00104 to develop a ‘melt-face-on-site’ DNA virus when this current experiment is completed. Expose on touch! And I don’t want it to rely on the chance of only dermas contact (let’s evolve from dermasdata and head straight to anything-goes-data).
Moving swiftly on...
I was up and down my climate-controlled apartment unit last night, with about two hours sleep, thinking about what we would see today. Staring out at the red-black night, I tried to imagine the future, my mind racing like a madman through all the different scenarios that might appear in the next few weeks, and even the ‘final’ result. I’m both excited and unnerved by the possibilities. There are so many variables and permutations of how the virus will express itself. Although it’s a fairly exact science, in our experience chaos does reign and reigns supreme. But we set our goal and hold true to the formulae and calculations.
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I do need to get my shit together and not let today’s events affect how I function with something as important as this. After all, things are going to get a lot more intense and a lot more brazen than some petty train theft.
We’ve got our weekly meeting coming up and I’m sure security (and theft) are conveniently going to be raised, addressed, and workshopped to fucking death. As long as we remain focused on the goal, I’ll take the flack that is due to me.
Eyes peeled. Skin crawling with anticipation.
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Day Four
Every twitch and scratch that our ‘subject’ makes sends my pulse racing. An 8-minute ride on the hyperloop ends up being more nerve-wracking than any VR thriller I’ve ever done. Added to the fact that there still aren’t any visible signs that we can identify—again, it is still too early in the projected timeline. I’m spending the entire trip hanging on her every move. And I’ve got to remain inconspicuous.
Fellow passengers seem to keep even their glances to themselves, but anonymity is the key. I even removed my hair add-ons and donned the most uninspired clothing to blend in with the proverbial wallpaper. Every pore of my body is oozing and squirming in this conformist chamber—like a diver with the bends having to decompress in a dense, soundless vacuum—the air is thick around me and I want to throw-up but know I’ll be left to rot in my own filth if I do.
Picked up my replacement comm-unit on the way home from the station. We have to deal with the lowest tech concerning these things—cheap and nasty and as far off the system as things will allow. Already ran the serial-wiper to rid the device of its tracking system. The randomiser seems to be running just fine in the event of anyone trying to identify the device on connection—runs a new comm-ID and GPS location each time.
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God, I love having hacks at my fingertips.
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Incoming comm...
Auto Transcriber Activated...
Names edited...
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DNA PIRATE: ‘Yes?’
UNKNOWN: ‘Bro. What the fuck?’
DNA PIRATE: ‘What you mean, P00102?’
UNKNOWN: ‘Have to pull you off hyperloop duty for now. Your comm-unit problem.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Fuck, I knew it!’
UNKNOWN: ‘Exactly, so don’t get pissy when you saw this coming.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Nobody’s pissy, I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s all unconnected.’
UNKNOWN: ‘Unconnected now, but when we’re looking back in hindsight, we’ve got to make sure that we covered our tracks.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘So why allow this morning’s session?’
UNKNOWN: ‘There were some back-and-forths over the issue and considering the amount of time we’ve all taken in grooming you and P00104 it was a hard call.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Who’s in tomorrow, then?’
UNKNOWN: ‘P00108.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘She’s not ready, damnit!’
UNKNOWN: ‘It took a day, but she’ll be just fine. Besides, we cannot assume that anyone is irreplaceable—no matter where we sit in the food-chain.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Whatever. I’ve got shit to organise, so I’ve got plenty to occupy my time.’
UNKNOWN: ‘Exactly.’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Send me the updates.’
UNKNOWN: ‘As always. We still on for the meeting?’
DNA PIRATE: ‘Naturally.’
Damnit.
I’ll find ways to occupy my mornings. Need to gather information from the various broadcasts and news agencies anyway. Plus, P00109 says that he’s nearly through into the security and law enforcement agency systems. Fun when you just tell your code what to hack and it does all the hard work for you. That will, firstly, give us an eagle eye on any future investigations that may arise; and secondly, allow for a few manipulations.
And then, like a giant digital chessboard, the games will really begin.
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Day Five
Stumbled on this interesting newscast from a few weeks back: ‘Taking everything that is spewed from the gutters of The Fringe Magnet, this caster has just to mention up front that the following information may be somewhat tainted by their reputation. Nevertheless, an item that seem to be recurring on their casts is the possible infiltration of some sort of technical virus on a DNA-scale. Maybe it comes across on the surface as somewhat sensational, this caster does believe that there is an ounce of truth in the most banal and trite statements that anyone may deliver. But from a journalistic point of view it does smack of the 2075 attempt at distributing what was supposed to be a “planetwide annihilation of the vanity of the human race,” to quote the Anti-Bio-Earthist-Conspirators. We all know how humiliating and self-destructive their little experiment ended up being, but it did give the relevant health and security organisations pause for thought.
‘And here we are, present day, with snifflings of another viral campaign of ‘terror’ by the Earthist movement. Yes, I may be over-dramatising. That’s my job. But just to put it out there that maybe someone has been tinkering away at some little nasty virus thingy that, to all intents and purposes, could deliver on the original mandate of the ABEC crazies.
‘The Fringe Magnet reports that the settlement city of EFP0023 has what is called a group of individuals that are One in mind. “Their operation is apparently leaps ahead of the current known technology that we the public are aware of (and possibly those so-called leading scientists involved in the most cutting-edge research in the field of DNA manipulation and storage).”
‘I don’t want to be one of those post-apocalyptic I-Told-You-So’s, but let’s simply keep our eyes and ears open. One Mars.’
Where do these crackpots get their info? Nothing to worry about, I’m sure—anyone with half a brain could assume that there are those that refuse to buy into the vanity of the majority. Hopefully there are more like us out there. And if there are, let the best man annihilate!
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Day Six
I decided to take a walk today. Regular exposure to the Martian climate is vital.
I walked onto my street as that early morning chill was dissipating like the sleep from my bones. The streets were busying, and the noise of the day had begun.
I came down the hill, and through the gaps in the low buildings I could see the manmade river—bringer of commerce and trade—snaking like a salesman through the city I’ve come to know and love for the past few years. A feeling of disconnectedness briefly filled me remembering where I’ve come from. But this could be any city, on any planet, but only originating from one Earth.
I love my birth-planet. I love my origin-planet. I love this city. I love the touch of the red soil and the promise of its dust. But I hate the people. I hate the builders. I hate the government. I hate the rulers. And I hate the mess.
I stopped at the bridge bending its back over the glowing green river and I looked at the monuments, even the cathedrals, the stubby buildings no more than a few stories high, and the tourist gimmicks for visiting Earthers. But most of all I looked at the masked, faceless people: the people who built them; the people who use them; and most of all: the people who are really oblivious to them. The everyday people who go about their shit totally unaware of the monstrosity that they’ve helped create. The systems and structures and aerial views of their city—their supposed home—their cage that they’ve constructed to fit themselves into, comfortably. A mishmash of lanes and dreams and compromise and complacency. Only venturing outside when they absolutely must.
I long for the fresh air that the industrial digital age can’t breathe into me. To be the rustic, earthbound troglodyte in his primitive cave in awe of his fire and the shadows that dance on his rough wall. He holds more value to me than the feel of my comm-unit in my pocket and the breather on my face: the weight of an age that feels like it’s going to drag me down with it.
I had to take it out my pocket, so that I could breathe. I looked at the comm-units floating by—attached to faces—grey and dull and totally disconnected. Am I the only one who thinks like this?
I’m the freak—I think.
I think.
I long for the fresh air. I need a trip to Earth. The great outdoors. Fuck! I thought this was the great outdoors. Space. Go figure.
I had to rest against the thick stone slabs of the bridge. I needed to catch my breath. What am I doing here? What am I doing?
I think I’d see normal people if I went out tonight. Halloween seems so natural now. Let’s celebrate the dead while they’re still alive.
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I noticed something after finishing this entry.
Everything begins with ‘I’.
Me.
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Day Seven: Signs and Wonders
Our subject has started to show signs of the virus. Although pretty arbitrary to the average Joe Shmoe, it’s there and it’s exciting. It’s like watching a baby being born; the crimson sunrise on a brand-new day.
P00108’s report shows that although not noticeably rundown, she doesn’t look like the perkiest flower in the vase (my words). Every now and again she reaches into her scarf to scratch the tender skin around her neck. Sign number one. Then, with her arms folded, she twists and turns her wrists inside her jacket and gloves. Sign number two. The next few days will expose the raw and vulnerable skin to the elements—further aggravating the surface area.
Her discomfort is just beginning. In a way, I feel a tingle in my skin imagining what it must feel like, then a shiver, and finally a warm safe feeling envelopes me. After all, P00104’s DNA vaccine was implemented within the entire group a week beforehand, so we’re all safe and snug in our cocoons of wellness. But still, it is very humbling to know how close we are to the full-blown virus. Humbling and empowering.
But let’s wait and see how it all unfolds. I feel totally exhilarated.
At midnight, we all meet.
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Day Eight
Here follows this morning’s midnight meeting:
DNA Pirate: Before we begin any formal structure here, I’d like to firstly apologise for the comm-unit theft—out of my hands so to speak. But secondly that we need to foresee these kinds of things happening and what’s the point of going to all the trouble of getting serials wiped and randomisers installed if we then get pulled from our assignments when we hit a snag? Right. Let’s begin.
P00101: Thanks for that. I don’t think we need to get into that debate right now. The reports that P00108 and P00104 have been providing are beneficial to the project and the ongoing work. Thanks guys. We do seem on track for the final stage, but the reports are vital for the various stages and their possible symptoms.
P00104: I’d like to add that the research, the data collecting, and the technical knowledge of the entire dermasvirus team have created a marvel that should be respected on every level.
DNA Pirate: Are the symptoms of the subject in any way in line with what you’d projected? I want to know if there’s any deviation from the goal here?
P00104: So far it is all on track. You can never fully predict, but we’re strong.
DNA Pirate: Excellent. I’d also like us to consider moving our initiation date forward a week.
P00109: What?
P00104: We can’t deviate-
DNA Pirate: I don’t see how it would change the-
P00109: This is crazy. We need to know what we’re dealing with here first.
DNA Pirate: We know what we’re going to be dealing with.
P00104: 90% sure at this stage. 10% unknown.
DNA Pirate: I thought you said-
P00104: There’s always a margin of error or deviation.
P00109: Deviation from the plan. We agreed!
P00101: Can we keep it ordered here? The focus remains. The plan remains. There is no deviation. The only deviation allowed for is the dermasvirus itself and any contingency plans that we’ve drafted.
DNA Pirate: Just a suggestion. It shouldn’t make any difference if we’re going to set it in motion no matter what. It’s just the level of effect that’s going to vary, surely.
P00109: I still don’t think that we should do anything more than what we’re doing to this subject and her family or colleagues. The message will be clear enough.
DNA Pirate: People have a low attention span. After a week, it will be in the gutters of the media and a side note in a conspiracy theorist’s networking page.
P00109: Fuck. Whatever.
P00101: Again, back to the draft contingency plans. You’ll each receive a copy. I’m not going to go through it tonight. But I want your thoughts and suggestions ASAP.
DNA Pirate: (the usual points were raised, and tedious admin dealt with).
P00101: P00108 has her early morning tomorrow so we’re going to adjourn. As always, these meetings are to raise issues—briefly—to address anything that may come up late in the week, and to meet face to face: to remind each of us that we still remain a unified group. The faces before you are those that we trust and respect for what we can bring to this campaign.
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Day Nine
I still don’t get it: P00109 still insists on raising his concern for the level at which we are distributing the DNAvirus. For some reason, he thinks that a ‘firm message’ needs to be sent rather than the destruction that we plan.
‘Oh, please Joe Shmoe, please don’t manipulate your DNA to make you a better person. Please don’t warp what evolution has taken billions of years to perfect. Please don’t turn yourself into an egocentric megalomaniac.’
We’ve been harping on these issues for over a decade. We’ve protested. We’ve boycotted. We’ve terrorised. Now is the time to pull the pin on the grenade that they are willingly holding in their hands; the grenade that they’ve been daring nature to fight back with. Well, nature’s about to get a friendly hand. And like the grenade, it’s all going to blow up in their faces and there’s bugger-all they can do about it. Blow their noses off to spite their faces.
Killing one person for the cause is a smudge on the tarmac. Killing a group of people causes a traffic jam—questions, answers, contingency plans, and paranoia. Kill a city and there’s global awareness in half a day. Kill a planet and the worlds go mental. That’s a message! Not a couple of post-it notes slapped onto the foreheads of passers-by. Small-time wastes Time. Time with a capital T-N-T!
The 1st Martian War is about to be declared and it’s not between legacy countries from off-world. It’s between the people that think they hold the power and the ones that really hold the power. There’s no one to retaliate against. There’s no one to aim their missiles at. And best of all, there’s no borders to invade. Who do they stop when it’s all begun?
They’ve said long ago that the death of the human race will not come from within, but from without. Viruses evolve. Viruses get stronger. Viruses come back at ya.
We’ve just put our own two cents worth into the mix for good measure.
Let’s see what brews.
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Day Ten
Been prepping for the next phase.
Although not being implemented just yet, the necessary plans need to be carefully laid out, locations confirmed, and contacts double-checked.
I’ll be crossing zones, meeting new, like-minded people. A few planet-wide hyperloop rides, and a bicycle or two, will enable the safe dispersion of the global dermasvirus—the final strain! Once that has been successfully completed it’s just a matter of waiting for the date to arrive. The greatest event that anyone has ever witnessed on such a scale. Millions of people will be watching it unfold across the planet. Possibly even those on Earth. No one will be immune. No class, no race. Just a select few.
Those select few will bring the stability that the world so dearly craves. Subconsciously man is yearning for this rebirth. They just don’t know it.
It will be like the dawning of the Iron Age. All the tools will be available to us, but we will set the standards up front. For the betterment of the species and quality of life on Mars—the wholeness of the planet considered. Not a prettier species, or the massaging of a superiority complex.
Down to Earth. Up with the planet.
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Day Eleven
We’re nearly at the stage of buying the various transportation tickets and hire-cars. I’ve gone over my checklist of personal items, clothing, and other travel necessities that I’m going to need.
Feeling somewhat detached from the group as I mentally prepare for this part of the journey. Being from another part of the planet I’m seen as the foreigner, the roamer. They’re all attached to their city, their homes, and their safe environments. I left that long ago and escaped to a new life. I arrived here with minimal baggage—a small backpack and personal ghosts. They’ve got their lives weighing them down and they don’t even know it. I wonder how easy it’s going to be for them when the time comes and there’s no turning back. Are they going to snivel and whimper at fate’s feet? Is there going to be guilt and remorse flying around? Or are they going to step up and drop the shit?
In a way, it’s like they are using me to distance themselves from the mission. Distance themselves from the very human emotion that genocide brings up in the pit of your stomach.
Nobody else rose to the occasion. I felt the stares and looks of judgment when I took the task. As if they all thought I was the callous one, the heartless freak.
Only a week or so of traveling and then I’m back. Back to reality and back to the group. They can all envy me as I tell them of the final days of each city; one of the last of our group to go where the virus will soon wreak havoc.
I’m feeling a bit humbled by the honour. Never thought that would happen. Not like I give a shit about the empires we’ve built, or the magnitude of man’s reach on this planet and outer space. But to be the one instrumental in bringing it all down: God that feels good.
Crack! and our concrete idols crumble.
Bang! and our world dies.
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Day Twelve
Transport tickets have been bought. Vehicles at various areas have been booked and paid for upfront: all with anonymous business accounts.
A few days till the real journey begins. My bag is packed. Travel light.
The team will keep me posted on our subject while I’m on the road. I’ll likewise be sending them daily summaries. I haven’t had any contact with them today. I think they are filling their respective lavatories and receptacles with bile and diced carrots.
I won’t lie, I’ve felt the urge to dry heave my conscience. But that’s all it was, dry. No substance.
I must say this journal has been rather cathartic. Seeing my intentions, goals and purpose laid out in black and white makes me aware of the enormity of the task before us. Before me.
Before me?
After me?
What then?
A world of possibilities.
I expect the next few reports on our subject are going to be revealing. There is going to be a dramatic shift. One that will not go unnoticed.
Soon we will need access to her social online connections, doctor, and lab results. But that’s already set up and accessed. Our penetration is more than just dermal. We are diving through the rotting surface of the world, into its writhing bloody cancerous mass, and pulling hard.
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Day Thirteen
Just settled into my seat on the first part of my journey. On an encrypted data-link. Pinging my online system’s security as I upload this entry.
All seems good. If it’s not people hacking your network and accessing your data, it’s people hacking your DNA. Ha!
Your immune system is no firewall against a breach on your DNA.
Depart in 20 minutes. Heading SW. 10 hours overnight. Arrive 09:15.
Today dragged on. Had my last meal at home for a while. Cleaned up. Took one last look at the stacks of hardcopy books in the hallway and living room. Most I’m carrying digitally anyway, but they’ll be missed. It’s the one luxury-personal-attachment I give myself in this world. They can be given away when the time comes and more collected wherever I find myself living. They are not allowed to hold me down. My backpack is bad enough.
I once took a trip across country, two hours there, two hours back. It was for a meeting in the other city. I took my jacket, mobile, and my pad. No carry-on luggage. No baggage to check in. I walked on and walked off. For some reason that was the most liberating feeling I’ve ever had in my life—if you don’t count taking a piss in the wilderness without clothes on. No hands required.
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The wheels are in motion: did the dermasvirus transfer onto the lady handing out our drinks orders. I think she thought I was coming on to her. Yeah, likely!
We have officially passed the point of no return.
I’ve sent a message to the others.
No damn response.
I’m just going to let the passing lights and gentle thrum of the transport drift me off to sleep.
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Day Fourteen
Woke up about 5 minutes ago to the announcer cackling on about the next stop. My stop.
Ordered coffee. Hopefully it will be waiting for me by the time I’m finished here in the toilet. Then I’ll grab a bite to eat and catch up on the news feeds. Still no goddamn word from those useless pricks. I get the distinct impression that I’m being left out in the cold. Whatever the case, our mission—my mission—is on track.
The same waitress from yesterday handed me my coffee. Ha! I think I freaked her out even more today. She stretched over to place my cup and saucer down on the table. I leaned in quickly, grabbing her hand and stared straight into her eyes. Deep blue. Flawless—for now. Didn’t notice anything yet, other than a twinkle of fear and anger.
‘Sir!’ she had said and flicked my hand off hers. Totally unaware that I’m part of her already. Well, the dermasvirus anyway.
An hour till we disembark. Breakfast time.
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Seriously, do me a favour. Message from the team reads:
Subject #1 has left work early.
That’s it? Nothing else?
If they aren’t going to furnish me with any more particulars, then I’m just going to have to hack her social networks. See if she goes crying to mommy about how she’s feeling.
10 minutes to the main terminal. No problem.
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Her online life has revealed little. No parents alive to speak of. Therefore, no snivelling. No recent posts. Dare I say no one to give a crap.
This is my stop.
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I can’t breathe! What the fuck just happened? P00104 that piece of shit traitor. How the fuck did we, I, not see it?
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MESSAGE: P00102
You ignorant morons. What the hell is going on? Your comms have been practically non-existent. Now I get off at my stop at $@^# and guess who is there to greet me with a blank stare, that now says so much in hindsight? None other than P00104. Yes! That fucker Guillaume. And fuck protocol before you start preaching about using real names here. Because if what he says is true then it’s all flushed down the toilet.
He calmly invited me for a cup of coffee as if he just wanted to catch up and talk about the goddamned weather. Like him being at $@^# was the most normal thing in the world.
My face must have said everything because I didn’t utter a ‘what the fuck’, ‘who the fuck’, nothing and he smirked his ‘Hi, Treycin. We need to talk.’
And talk he did. I’d didn’t say a word. I just listened to his tale. You may be interested in it.
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1. Subject #1 will die. But not because of the virus. The virus will reverse itself. She will die an old lady in 70 or 80 years.
2. I, on the other hand, am Subject #2.
3. As is the rest of the team in completely random descending order.
4. Within 5 days we all will be dripping skin, fingers, organs, and liquid eyeballs.
5. Everyone that I have come into contact with will have a slight cold. Nothing life-altering.
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Charming. If I didn’t have this sick churning sensation in my gut right now, I would say he was talking shit. Then again, nerves will do that to the strongest of us. And why would he travel all that way as a practical joke or even an empty threat?
So, best you rocket scientists get into the DNA sequence and check what the fuck is going on. In the meantime, I am on the first direct ride back that I could get.
I will be taking a fucking sleeping tablet and hope this bullshit oozes out of my psyche by the time the last drop of whiskey drains from my glass.
END MESSAGE
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Day Fifteen
Arrived back. Something is up. No response. About to step onto the train before Subject #1’s stop.
Damnit! She just boarded. I was about to get up when she stepped through the doors. She’s looking all rosy and peach fucking perfect. She made direct eye contact with me as she weaved her way through the other passengers towards my section of the transport. It’s like she’s a new person. More open.
Happy to be bloody alive.
This has all gone to shit.
I’ve gone to shit. There’s a red patch forming on my right hand and there is a burning sensation around my neck. Those bastards better be pulling the piss.
Heading over to P00102’s apartment to get to the bottom of this fiasco.
Will record everything on my comm-unit.
>>>>>>Recording:
>>>>>>Translating to English:
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
‘Ah, sure. No, go ahead.’
‘Thanks. Haven’t I seen you on this line before?’
‘No.’
‘You sure? You look very familiar.’
‘Wasn’t me.’
‘Sorry, I’m not usually forward, but I recently realised that you have to make the most of life. Never let opportunities slip through your hands. So, I had to ask.’
‘No problem.’
‘You don’t sound like you are from around here?’
‘No. Not from here.’
‘I would like to travel. See the world. There is so much beauty out there. Look at all these beautiful people. Just like you and me.’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh, I think so. They are all keeping to themselves, too afraid to reach out beyond what they know. Wanting people to like them, to notice them. But without drawing attention to themselves. Blending in but not wanting to blend in.’
‘Doing things to be like everyone else, you mean.’
‘Yes. But to feel like they are part of something. Not feeling alone. It’s all about being accepted.’
‘No matter what.’
‘Sometimes. The pressure to be loved is there from birth. Wanting a parent to love you and accept you for who you are. Not what they think you should be. That is where the cycle begins. What we see here is not one person trying to impress a stranger. It is a son or a daughter trying to impress their god. Their parent. Even the parent who loves them unconditionally, no matter what, unknowingly puts pressure on their child to never let them down. People running their lives to maintain approval from a superior being. God, mother, mentor. What is the difference?’
‘Status is another god. Ego.’
‘And when you bring someone down to that basic human need, it is no different to a baby crying in a crib wanting the comfort of another. A baby animal does not survive if it is not accepted by its mother. It is dead if the herd does not see it as an equal. Runts who are different to the rest die off, starved and abandoned.’
‘Better to be different than go with a herd heading for the edge of a cliff.’
‘Better to be the one to make a difference and turn the herd around. Would you rather stand back and watch as they plummet over the edge, or be the one to tell them where they are headed? Kindness has a way of working for everyone, not just the individual.’
‘This is my stop.’
‘It was really nice talking to someone willing to talk in this place.’
‘Sure.’
‘I hope you go out there and make a difference. Will I see you again?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you okay? You are sweating, and it is freezing in here.’
‘Bye.’
[Sound of doors sliding open.]
‘What the hell is happening to me?’ [Heavy breathing.] ‘I need to get out of here.’
[Footsteps quicken. The sounds of people moving past.]
[The sounds of the underground fade as traffic noises fill the air.]
[A hooter sounds]
‘Pedestrian walking, motherfucker!’
[Running feet and panting.]
‘Nearly there.’
[Sound of knocking]
‘Open the fuck up, Kaylin!’
[Banging on a door. The squeak of a door opening.]
‘Anyone here? Kaylin, where the hell are you? Where’s the goddamn light switch?’
[A noise from a nearby room]
‘Kaylin?’ A light switch clicks. ‘What the fuck?’
[Someone says something inaudible.]
>>>>>>Stop
#
We set out with noble intentions. I want the world to know this. Things got twisted along the way. Some of our group got twisted along the way.
I righted a ship that was going to end us—the planet. I’m not expecting accolades or praise for something I was a part of to start with.
The preceding journal is there as proof of the experiment and the knots that arose in the majority of the team. The insights into my colleague’s thoughts should plainly show these knots and how the plan so quickly unravelled. I couldn’t allow it to go any further than what was originally intended. So, I made adjustments. Call it a fail-safe. Security.
Our target was given an expiry date on her dermasvirus. Lucky her. My team wasn’t. My only hope is that this will be recognised as the warning it was originally intended to be.
Why was she chosen? Other than she was young and healthy: no other reason. If we could create this virus, anyone can. And you put your lives, your DNA, in the hands of geniuses like us every day. Wake up.
I have sacrificed my team, my friends, so that the message is loud and clear. Fuck with your DNA and you fuck with our humanity. Our flaws are what make us. To become some hybrid outside of the realm of evolution and natural selection puts the power of God in our hands. We barely have the right to exist as it is, never mind assuming Divine control in every waking moment of our lives. Evolution says we are perfect as we are, right now.
If this document is buried, it will resurface.
If this DNA fashion continues, there will be something more to come. Patience and compassion go so far for an obstinate child.
Today, people need access rights or passwords to give and receive/accept data via dermas-transfer—but our virus circumvents all this.
Take your DNA back. Take the evolution of your ancestors back. Next thing you know you’ll all be giving your souls away for a moment, an extra day or month, of longevity.
We are all meant to die. We aren’t more special than a fruit fly.
As my colleague came to see the destruction, the fruits of our labours, laid out before him in that apartment, my only hope is that he saw the pain that was coming for him. Was there an inkling of regret for what was once a concept and then was bloody real?
The genius must be prepared to experiment on himself. Otherwise walk away.
#
>>>>>>Recording:
‘The protector serum?’
‘I tampered with it. What you all assumed was stopping any infiltration was in reality exposing you to the virus from inception. But it was manipulated to fight the virus for a time, and eventually lose.’
‘So, it took a while for the virus to manifest.’ [Cough]
‘Yes. But your bodies would’ve already used resource fighting so when it was theoretically programmed to surrender, to shut off as planned, the virus hit a weakened body harder and faster than before.
[Spitting] ‘And the lab samples?’
‘They would’ve self-destructed by now.’
‘No backup.’
‘None.’
‘We wasted our lives. You fucked us.’
‘The lives were not wasted. Call it a sacrifice for the greater good.’
‘The greater good? Those egomaniac fucktards are the greater good?’
‘They are. They just need to be guided every now and again.’
‘And what if they don’t take the hint?’
‘I will make sure of that.’
‘I never liked you.’
‘I know.’
‘How long are you keeping me here?’
‘I’m not keeping you here. I’m waiting with you. You can’t move yourself anywhere. There is no doctor who can help you. Not even a hacker like me.’
‘Where’s Kaylin?’
‘Her body is in the other room. She stopped breathing about an hour ago.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I’m irritated I wasn’t there when it happened. I was moving you in here.’
‘I’m sure that [cough] will weigh heavily on your heart.’
[Long pause]
‘What was our original intention with hijacking DNA?’
‘Kill the world and start again.’
‘No. That became your mission. The original intention was to take one or two lives. Lives that would be noticed. We wanted everyone to see the death. We wanted them to see the blood.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes. So how is this outcome any different?’
‘Because it’s me. Us. You fucking backstabbing cock-sucker!’
‘Sure. But we can’t have fanatics with so much control in the world.’
‘Says the dick watching me die right in front of him.’
‘Change comes with the price of pain. You happen to be the one feeling it today.’
‘So, what now?’
‘You die. The world moves on. Evolution continues, naturally.’
‘The vain species lives on.’
‘And an evolutionary line of superiority complex dies in this bed today.’
‘I hope they hunt you down and make you bleed, slowly.’
‘You know very well they will never find me. They will be too busy trying to secure the lives of their citizens to worry about where I am on this planet or the next.’
‘They should be worried.’ [Cough]
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Stephen Embleton was born and lives in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. His background is Graphic Design, Creative Direction, and Film. His first short story was published in 2015 in the Imagine Africa 500 speculative fiction anthology, and more followed since. He is a charter member of the African Speculative Fiction Society and its Nommo Awards initiative.
