Reanimated_Terminal Misery Page 3

  “You alright?” someone said.

  “Spence? Sure, I’m doing as well as can be expected—I mean, this does feel like we’re putting ourselves in coffins. I’m just making sure everyone is doing well,” Ben said, returning his gaze to the units carpeting the entire cavern, like a symmetrical chrome city.

  “So far so good. No one has fallen to pieces, despite a few claustrophobia issues,” the doctor said, following Ben’s gaze.

  Ben turned back to the doctor, “You going in last?”

  “Efrem and I. Then I will take a well-deserved nap. I've been looking forward to it," he lied. "During these past nine months, I've only had one six-hour night sleep, and only because I overindulged on the brandy."

  Ben seemed not to listen. "I'm going to miss the world," he said, in a shaky tone. "I didn't leave many behind as some did, but…" He sniffed, and his eyes became clouded.

  “I understand. We are all going to miss it, but we will prevail, my friend.” The doctor put his arm around Ben. “Let’s tuck you in, huh?”

  “Thanks… I think.”

  Chapter 6

  Endurance

  Lystra, International Space Station

  August 23, 2065

  “Still here, alone in the universe,” Sam spoke into the camera. “I trained to be alone, but not knowing what’s going on down there has left me as numb as a corpse. I know I must cling to some hope, but my supplies are dwindling fast, and I’m not one to point a finger, but no one will ever judge what I am about to say. Humans are insane! We’ve brought this destruction upon ourselves, dammit—and for what? Useless commodities which hadn’t meant a damn thing in the end.”

  Only Lystra’s cold hum answered.

  "As for my situation, I can hold out for another Month or so, but then…" he trailed off, looking out into the vast space with his bloodshot, glassy eyes. He pulled on his scraggly beard. He'd never liked facial hair. He tried to grow a beard once, but couldn't deal with the itching and how old it made him look.

  He shivered and gripped his heat blanket with his stiff, gangly fingers. He tugged it to his chest and tried to hold it in place.

  “I’ve detached the probe, Knight Two, meant for lunar surveillance. Yeah, I know it cost a small fortune. Hope my life is worth it, Jeff,” he said, with an attempt at humor, but his lips only managed to contort. “Money means squat down there now, I’d imagine.

  “Getting a bit tired and moody—must be the damn E-CLSS not getting enough raw materials. I have a few tricks up my sleeve on how to enhance the system which I will not bore you with. If there is anyone left to bore.” He coughed into his hand.

  “My relief should’ve been here three weeks ago with supplies, but…” he faltered. His fingers cramped, so he switched hands. Rationing meals increased his fatigue and melancholy. Sam stopped exercising to conserve energy, but he could feel his bones and muscles weakening. He also got creative with maintenance. He needed to do a spacewalk to calibrate the gravity disk, but artificial gravity would put a drain on his limited energy reserves. He decided to worry about his bones after they rescued him—if they rescued him.

  “Houston, I’m clinging to the hope you guys are still with me.” He coughed to stifle a sob. “I’ll tune in again in a week or so unless someone out there reaches out to me sooner. The experiment we were working on to decipher a way to make bacteria edible is going well. I’ve had more time on my hands to work on this one and have grown quite a stock. I’ll let you know how it works out and. If I don’t, then I guess you can extrapolate.”

  “Captain Samuel Angel Walsh out.”

  Chapter 7

  Bisonon

  Spatial Tide, the Leamar Zone

  Earth date: September 3, 2065

  “We see the culmination of all Homo sapiens ways,” Fragam said, his complicated larynx thrumming under his octopus-like skin, and his many eyes gleaming with the reflection of the luminescent portal.

  “Will it be enough?” Fugna said.

  “The premature interruption was a sad affair. But—what is—stands. Altering it again will no doubt attract unwarranted attention,” Fragam said.

  “Agreed.” Fugna waved his worm-like fingers across thin light tendrils.

  “The Curator knows, but does she know all?”

  “I believe she knows just enough. The important question is—will she abandon the frozen planet in search of another.”

  Fragam turned at the torso as if to regard his traveling companion. "The consortium need not be made privy of our suppositions. The Curator will bore after a few millenniums and abandon her frozen human oddities."

  “As it stood, she tended the planet poorly. A sign of a weak keeper. Other Curators rule supreme,” Fugna said, his fingers never stopping.

  “We will wait, as is our way. There is much to be done. These Homo sapiens were a pitiable species at best. They had Short life spans, weak, and powerless. The Creator even kept her energy from them.”

  “That always intrigued me.”

  Fragam made a clicking chuckle. "Some curators want their play-things to have freedom of will and all that nonsense. That is why humans are so weak. They let emotions rule them.”

  “How long until our offspring are ready to populate the small planet?”

  “The Consortium believes we will be ready in three Earth millenniums,” Fragam said.

  Ahead of them loomed the ghostly image of a white-blanketed Earth.

  “I am picking up life signs.”

  “They will soon wink out. The planet is ours.

  Chapter 8

  Check Out

  Lystra, International Space Station

  October 3, 2065

  “I’m in bad shape.” Sam coughed in short spurts into a rag. He faced the camera again and cleared his throat.

  “There’s nothing left. This is the feed from ArtTech, the USC satellite I intercepted. It’s horrific. I can’t begin to understand how, or when, we were facing the end of…” He sobbed scantly—for his family, friends, and all those he left on the surface to die. “If I’d known, I would’ve n-never left them. How could I have? I suppose the joke’s on me. Seems I forgot to check my emails again, huh?” He tried to laugh for the log entry; instead, he choked on a dark thought.

  He coughed harder, attempting to clear his lungs in order to resume. "For years—since as far back as I can remember—they prophesied about the end of the world. Crackpots were all they were. Dammit! I can only hope someone's alive down there. If so, their fate will be no different than mine. There is no doubt—Earth has settled into an ice age." Just hearing himself say these words cracked his demeanor.

  "Ambient temperature is at twenty-three degrees Celsius below z-zero. Oxygen levels are low, but stable. Food rations down to scraps and the enhancing food experiment went south.

  He’d started drifting into unplanned sleep, waking ragged and delirious. He hadn’t eaten in five days and could feel his body emaciating away, cannibalizing itself.

  “Houston, Angela—I gotta call it quits. Where you are, I will soon be. Preparing oxygen shut down.” No tears came with his scratchy sob. “Houston, Captain Samuel Angel Walsh checking out.”

  Chapter 9

  Sumerons

  The Zokbia Enterprise

  Earth date: October 3, 2065

  “Understanding is granted. This we did not foresee. When the Bisonon visited Earth, we searched for any tampering. They have changed their tactics once more. Ever so clever," said Clict’en Mu—a Sumeron overseer. His oversized brain prodded at the images that spun in from the space grid where Earth lie dying.

  "They are merciless. Stopping their pursuits has become burdensome. The ion propulsion test had succeeded for the humans. Warp speed would open their first portal. That has been staunched," Blun’to Nec said.

  “Suggestions,” said a taller Sumeron in an ivory-pearly cloak. To his side floated multiple images that swam and changed giving him constant updates on Earth’s surface.

  Clict’en nod
ded to Nirm’ve. He spun to face dozens of holographic faces that hung in space. These represented allies from many galaxies. The Consortium's goal as a whole was to assess potential threats to their systems and also to offer spaceworthy beings a chance to join them. "The Curator these events have escaped as it has us. The humans, as seen in space-time, to us would have gathered. Unity in numbers.”

  “For certain, but may I point out that it is too late,” Said Blun’to, panning through more images around his head.

  Clict’en’s slender arm rose, and an image floated from Earth's wormhole. The image expanded. "These clever humans have survived in rudimentary stasis chambers. I propose sending several low profile guides to assist our future brothers."

  “What you propose has merit. We must move cautiously so as not to alert the Curator or the Bisonon. The Vasti, Science guild, and Androida have dues,” Blun’to said, his oversized blue eyes sparkling at the ideas swirling in his brain.

  Nirm’ve made a chuckling sound. “I will appraise our brothers to the events and place them in motion. The Science guild can prolong their rest and assist with communication and equipment enhancements. The Androida can provide sentient androids to protect the human encampment. The Vasti can watch over the land, for the Bisonon will send an envoy once they find a human colony thriving.” Nirm’ve turned to the holographic emissaries. “Anyone opposing such actions?” None spoke. “Accepted then.”

  Blun’to’s multiple arms came up. “Will the Curator assist or antagonize?”

  “We see strength in strife. We will pan the Earth wormhole ahead and see what may interest her.”

  Clict’en made a dour moan. “She may abandon the planet altogether and seek another.”

  “That would be most unfortunate,” Nirm’ve said.

  “And the other human planet?” Clict’en said, his words floating into Nirm’ve’s conscience with images.

  Nirm’ve spun the red planet’s image with a shiny amber finger. “This is not a target. They will fend for themselves.”

  Chapter 10

  Forlornness

  Manta Ecuador, Rosa Mountains

  April 23, 4067

  Machines ticking, hissing, and beeping echoed throughout the cavern, where as much as 1,223 people lie in a hypnotic sleep somewhere between life and death. Blinking lights from computer equipment created an eerie light show in the gloom.

  Maintenance drones scurried from pod to pod monitoring cycles, unaware of time. Some automatons had maintained the equipment and themselves during the human slumber. The power units derived their unlimited energy from somewhere deep underground. Most of the machines still functioned, others had died long ago, as did some drones, and these became spare parts for the remaining androids.

  Some toasters had lived up to their spine-chilling nickname. Whether due to wear and tear, earthquakes, or glitches, they had shut down, converting themselves into expensive coffins.

  One panel began to beep louder than the others.

  The drones stopped as one.

  A multi-appendage drone approached the half-moon of screens and began moving its nimble digits along several glyphs.

  Another drone approached.

  “We have reached preeminent juncture. Prepare for resuscitation event,” the spidery drone said to the tall, slender android.

  "Sending a signal to automated nurses—three are offline, seven have malfunctioned," the android responded as if speaking through a fan. Its size offered it a complete view of the cavernous setting.

  “Compensate. Load application to maintenance staff drones,” the spidery drone said.

  “Affirmative.”

  High above the human-cocoon staging area, the sun had once escaped the daunting sky but was shot back into space by the permafrost which blanketed the earth. Now, the rumbling thunder and light emissions that had danced through the thick clouds had been replaced by delicate, finger-like multicolored clouds, enhanced by the invigorating light. The Ice that had once reigned upon the land melted away, gradually exposing the barren ground and, with the newly escaped sun's rays, it began awakening that which had slumbered for so long. The land began to heal as watchful beings waited patiently.

  In large cities, portions of geometric skyscrapers protruded from the deadly ice’s embrace. The wind's violence had seared away their skin and, in no time, they would crumble like ashes. If someone were alive to look into the ice patches still dominant in large cities, they'd see the tortured faces of the dead who had frozen instantly, their expressions twisted and their faces ravaged by their frozen entombment.

  Far above the cavern floor, where once slicing wind could freeze steel, emerged an entirely different landscape, shaped by invisible hands and enough radiation to put the sun to shame. Life prevailed under such contamination. It adapted and thrived. Time, as it seemed, healed the land which had once witnessed the dominating power of a single race. Above the remaining human survivors flourished a world unfit for humanity. Like the dinosaurs, humans had run their course or had they?

  Chapter 11

  Cognizant

  Manta, Ecuador, Rosa Mountains,

  April 23, 4067

  Dr. Spencer hated to binge drink. The next day he felt as if someone had kicked him in the head repeated times, not to mention the alien creature which tore at his insides, and all he could do was regurgitate to vacate it. Man, this had been the mother of all hangovers. He just wanted to sleep some more, but unfamiliar, loud noises made him stir.

  "What?" Dr. Spencer managed as bone-chilling air coursed through his body. Minute electrical jolts made his muscles scream for mercy. Between teary blinks, he saw the blackened sky. No, not the sky, but obscure, sharp rocks, littered with scattered, blinking lights. Then, as if his brain had been plugged back in, he remembered. The toasters—the CEEP program—I’m awake, he thought, trying to move, but paralyzing pain sizzled through him. He gasped, puffing out the painful pungent gasses that had resided in him for so long. It tasted like death.

  “Please remain calm, Dr. Spencer. Commence nutrition gradient, plasma filtration, and impurity extraction. Please remain still. Thank you for cooperating,” the reassuring nurse-like voice said.

  The doctor heard scattered alarms, moans, and androids chattering all around him.

  They’re rousing us, the doctor realized.

  His mind swam with images and possibilities—did everyone make it? How long had they been asleep? He forced himself to lie still despite his anxiety. His stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm, and the tart taste in his mouth made him gag again. A scalding heat ripped across his belly. He could barely swallow, so he urged himself—no matter what happened, at least I regained consciousness. Judging by the moans I’m hearing, others are alive, too.

  During CEEPs implementation, their most significant fear concerned brain damage due to prolonged inactivity. Experimental subjects, like chimpanzees, dogs, and cats seemed unimpaired following a short sleep cycle. The people they put to sleep for a few weeks at a time displayed no adverse side effects if only a sense of being tired. Their limited time forced their hand. Therefore it was trial and error, and if the project had failed, there would be no second chance—humanity would have slipped into oblivion—not a memory, but nothingness, as if they had never existed.

  The doctor had practiced mnemonic sequencing and started counting, adding, spelling, and reciting formulas—or anything with a logical sequence, even memories—despite the pain, they inflicted to his head. He searched for gaps in his mind. He saw his wife. Her face smiled back at him across time—across death. He felt the Grim Reaper’s bony fingers wrapping around his throat, then he sobbed.

  “Twenty minutes for cycle completion. Please remain still, thank you,” the oblivious computer voice intoned.

  “Computer.” He cleared his throat. “How are my vitals?”

  “Vital signs stable.”

  “Computer, what year is it?”

  “United States Coalition, date April 23, 4067,” it said candidly
.

  “…What? Repeat date.”

  “The year…” came a hoarse scratchy voice, “…is April the 23 of 4067. Computers are good at keeping time.”

  The doctor recognized the voice before he remembered the craggy face above him. “Ben?”

  "In the flesh, or should I say, the diminished flesh," he tried to smile, "Gandhi had more flesh after his twenty-one day fast, my friend. You're not faring better; I've seen smother skin on corpses." He laughed feebly.

  “How can it be 4067?”

  "I've checked it with the computer a dozen times. I can't understand it either. Maybe this is like that old televised series Lost and we're dead, but have to come to terms with it," Ben said, sliding a straw into his cracked lips to stimulate enough saliva to speak again. A dark fluid raced up the straw between Ben's lips.

  "Toasters had a two-century marker." The doctor coughed.

  “I know. We checked it out thoroughly. Somehow, we’ve been in these dreaded things for two thousand years,” Ben said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Look, I'm going to go do a few more rounds, and I'll be back. Wait for someone to help you. I fell out of the damn machine. If it had not been for the boxes beside the toaster, I'd have likely broken something. We are weaker than expected, though, and this could coincide with the numbers on the clock."

  Dr. Spencer took in a few deep breaths, but each one seemed insufficient as if his lungs had shriveled like his skin. "The machines and drones would've given out long ago—their parts worn out, their back up batteries wasted to dust."

  Ben shook his head, “I don’t know about that. Temperature down here’s still very cold. It could’ve preserved the alloy and conserved the batteries. Spence, I have more questions than answers at the moment. Be patient, my friend. The point is, we’re alive and well.”