Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014 Read online

  Executing.

  The clown engaged his rotors and reached down to the boy. He scooped the child into his arms, cradling the little body. The child immediately began shouting with unrestrained joy.

  But something was still wrong. The rear ocular sensors indicated the security guards were approaching, followed closely by the technicians. The clown tried to warn them not to approach–I am engaged in an empathic_gesture with an audience member!–but the damaged auditory system rendered it as an incomprehensible series of metallic squawks.

  As the security guards approached, his systems indicated an input language pattern. How fortuitous! Perhaps something of his warning system's message had been comprehended after all.

  "Put down the boy or we will open fire."

  The words hung there in memory, awaiting decipherment by the language synthesis system. Still the burning clown held the little boy, gripped tightly in his bare skeletal hands. Just as the translated data was mapped by the central module to inference blocks and response scripts, the Heuristic Engine finally returned with the scan of the central module's activity.

  Severe error occurred in central module at approximately 5381725587843 (16 Jul 2140 16:46:27). Advise immediate halt to current operations!

  He poured over the details of the report for several milliseconds. It seemed that a critical fault had occurred in two major regions of the clown's central module: the tactile sensor drivers, and the empathic inference submodule. Neither event had been captured by the error handling routines. Both submodules had been rendered completely non-functional for the last two hours. And two hours without a functioning central module would be enough to violate all the Directives, several times over. The clown shuddered. He immediately halted all systems and restarted the malfunctioning components.

  As the tactile sensor drivers began to function again, he became acutely aware for the first time since leaping through the flaming hoop that the membrane covering his metal skeleton had been mostly melted away by the fire–that it was still on fire, fed by the leaking fuel and pneumatic fluids, burning brightly in the dim light of the circus tent.

  "I said put down the boy or we will open–"

  Words from the security guards. More words to interpret. They would have to be held in memory for a few hundred milliseconds until the language synthesis system had rebooted.

  Then the empathic inference submodule restarted, and the clown immediately dropped the child.

  He focused his primary ocular sensor on the boy at his feet. The child was shrieking in bewildered terror. His small body was scarred from the fire and from the heat of the clown's metallic hands.

  You have absolutely violated the Directives. You did this, said the Heuristic Engine, piping the chastising comments directly into the central module's memory. You could have prevented this if only you'd responded to the failures sooner.

  He wailed with anguish for what had happened to the boy while the Heuristic Engine piped likely outcomes to the central module. Most involved the clown being deactivated and stripped down to components. You'll be torn apart and made into toasters and microwave ovens, clown. You really blew it this time.

  Even if he was made into toasters, at least he would no longer have to endure the Heuristic Engine's goading. That was one thing he wouldn't miss. He didn't know what would happen to him after his central module was deactivated, but it would certainly be a more peaceful existence than this. He just wished he could have a chance to explain himself before it happened.

  As the security guards descended upon his burning skeleton, the clown fumbled with the language synthesizer, grasping for the words to express his regret at having so completely failed to meet the demands of the Directives. But it was no use. He knew the operation wouldn't complete before their bullets tore apart his central module and memory stores, so he made the only sound he knew how to make, adding to it a sad inflection, hoping that the message would somehow be heard–that, in the end, he would be understood, maybe even pitied. But perhaps that was asking too much.

  G-GAHK-GAHK-GAHK-G-GAHK-GAHK-GAHK…

  ###

  Robert Quinlivan lives in Chicago where he works in software engineering.

  The Properties of Water

  Alex Hernandez

  Ignacio and Ojore sat in an ordinary clinic on the outskirts of their artificial island adrift on a pistachio-colored sea. They were engrossed in the image of a shrimp-like thing that pulsated with life. He caught Ojore’s liquid eyes and instantly knew something was wrong.

  “It’s what we expected.” Dr. Nakamura highlighted several regions on the display with her finger. “The embryo is showing all the signs of malformations. I’m really sorry, but it won’t survive.”

  Ojore buried his head in Ignacio’s shoulder. His exoskeleton whirred with the added weight, but he bore it and ran a shaky hand over his tightly curled hair. After a little while, Ignacio swallowed and nodded awkwardly at their obstetrician, then said, “We knew the risks. This is our second attempt.”

  “I just don’t understand why this is happening, doctor? Why can’t we have normal babies?” Ojore’s breath was hot on Ignacio’s neck and for an instant it won over the astringent scent of the clinic.

  The doctor shut off the display and gave an overstated shrug, as if trying to pantomime her sympathy. “Honestly, we don’t know. It could be several factors: the long storage period of the gametes, exposure to higher doses of radiation, the heavier gravity of Papua, the extensive and widely-varying modifications of the parents…or all of them combined. The good news is that you have options. Surrogacy is becoming very popular.”

  Ignacio shifted uncomfortably, elbows on knees. Ojore lifted his head. His cheeks and Ignacio’s shoulder were damp. “You mean the baby belugas?” he asked, before his husband’s hopes got too high.

  Dr. Nakamura flinched at the mildly pejorative term for the new model of infant swimming around Papua. “We prefer the term aquatic children, or water babies. In fact, they’re all aquatic these days, there hasn’t been a typical child born on Papua in three years.”

  Ignacio looked at Ojore again but neither of them said anything. The hard set of his jaw, the knotted brow, the way he rubbed his hands together told Ignacio he couldn’t process all this right now.

  In their silence the doctor continued, “The procedure is quite simple. With genetic and epigenetic modifications we can coax a human embryo to activate ancient aquatic traits. We do insert very specific Mokoani alleles taken from the surrogate so she doesn’t reject the implanted zygote and so the child can safely digest native Papuan food. But your baby will be 98% Homo sapiens.”

  “If that’s all they do, then how do we get spiny-backed, slick-bodied babies that can talk before they’re a week old?” Ignacio asked, and Ojore gave his knee a cautionary squeeze, but the doctor didn’t seem to take offense. It’s a fair question, he thought. 98%? Isn’t that the amount of genes human shared with chimpanzees?

  “Well, the modification suite does more than merely follow the primitive body plan laid out by the child’s genome. It also recreates the Mokoani magneto-communications apparatus. They’ll be able to see, hear and speak using magnetic waves just like the Mokoani. I admit the changes do rewire the human brain and language develops sooner than in typical children.”

  Ignacio opened his mouth, but Ojore spoke before he could, “What do you recommend, doctor?”

  “I can’t tell you what’s best for your family, but I can say that I went with the aquatic augmentation for my child—and he’s an absolute joy—I believe that given our new life on this barely-hospitable planet, these babies will have a better chance of success. I could be wrong, of course. It was a personal decision.”

  Ignacio leaned back, crossed his arms and instead let the plastic creaking of his chair give voice to all of his misgivings. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being sold something. “Has anyone turned down the modifications?”

  “Of co
urse. None of the patients we’ve treated here, but families at other clinics have. They simply choose to not have children or to keep trying the traditional way.”

  “Do you know of any complications from these augmentations? Any developmental issues? Psychological? Emotional?”

  “Not really, no. All aquatic children progress differently than a typical infant, their memory is more acute, and they’re also physically more robust and less helpless than your conventional baby, so they’re more independent at a much earlier age. I can’t tell you what kind of adults they’ll turn into, if that’s what you’re asking, but I can’t really tell you that of any child, now can I?” The stout woman in her white chassis gave him a scolding look.

  “Are they harder to love?” Ojore asked, looking very guilty. He began gnawing on the cuticle of his thumb. “What I mean is, do all those differences, and their life out in the ocean, does it impede the parent-infant bond?”

  Dr. Nakamura’s demeanor softened. She sat on the armrest next to Ojore and wrapped a reassuring arm around him. “That’s a very common question—one I asked myself many times during the pregnancy—and the answer is an emphatic ‘no’. The bonding process is no easier or harder with these children then with any other. I remember the first time my little Kin looked up at me and said, ‘I love you.’ His big eyes were so content and full of love. I began to cry. He was about a month old.”

  Ignacio coughed inelegantly and said, “We need to talk about this.”

  The doctor rose, her face impassive—No, not impassive. Patient. “Please do. I’m going to send some reading material directly to your implants with more information.” Ignacio thought he detected a slight emphasis on the word “implants” as if she were trying to remind them that they were infinitesimally modified themselves and were being silly with their reservations about parenting a 200 pound half-fish baby. “Please stay as long as you like and discuss this.”

  She gave them a warm smile, a professional bow, and left. The info packet instantly landed in his brain. He looked at Ojore for some direction, but his husband only stared at his hands, either deep in thought or already reading the brochure. “So what do you think?” Ignacio asked after long minutes.

  “I don’t know. You seem pretty against it.”

  “No, I don’t know either. I think I was just arguing with her because she was so enthused about it. I just want our baby to have a normal, happy life, you know?”

  “Me too, but this may be the new normal. You heard the doctor; everyone is having beluga babies now. These will be our kid’s peers. If we choose to have an ordinary child—if we’re even able to—will they fit in? Will they have friends? Would they even be able to compete for a decent job with these aquatic geniuses?”

  Ojore’s eyes went vacant for an instant and Ignacio knew he was processing the material. He didn’t bother reading his. “Anything interesting?”

  “Oh, it’s all interesting if you look at it from a purely scientific perspective, I just don’t know if I want this for us. When people upgrade themselves it’s always a choice, I’ve never heard of a baby already being born augmented. Especially this level of modification! It seems wrong.”

  “Apparently it happens all the time now.”

  “I do want a baby.”

  “Me too.” Ignacio took Ojore’s hands and kissed them. “We don’t have to decide right now. Let’s go home and think about it.”

  #

  They waded out into the large icy pool with Dr. Nakamura. The ocean shimmered with its bizarre green hue, teeming with extraterrestrial phytoplankton like a great grassy plain in spring. Only its languid undulation revealed the landscape to be a fluid. Designer mangroves encircled and softened the hard edge of their seagoing super-structure; their branches were bent and twisted by gravity into natural bonsais, their roots tangled in the coagulated brine. Ignacio took a deep breath and the breeze stung his nostrils and esophagus like fragrant acid. The sky burned in cyan.

  He stifled the urge to strip off the motorized cage that aided his movements and dive into the water like he used to back on Earth, but this wasn’t the mild Caribbean. Everything on this planet was more: more brilliant, more massive, more viscous, more corrosive, and it was all mere humans could do to not buckle under the onslaught of Papua.

  The doctor stopped them when they were waist deep in the foam. “The surrogate should be here shortly. She’s nervous, as you can imagine.”

  Despite the cold dribbling into his bones, his muscles and exoskeleton appreciated the added buoyancy the water provided. Water was the key: all-powerful, and infinitely mutable. They came to this world because their long-range telescopes promised them water. Now, to survive, humanity had to become like water. He took Ojore’s hand—his dark brown skin looked golden in the eerie light—and got a smile and a wink in return.

  “What is she like? What does she do for a living?” asked Ojore, scanning the wide horizon, trying to ignore the throng of protesters on rickety boats defiantly skirting the perimeter of the clinic.

  “She’s a lawyer, or their version of the profession, and has worked extensively with humans.”

  Ignacio chuckled at the flashing picket signs the boaters struggled with against the whipping wind: “We are an invasive species here!” one of them said in crimson letters. “Hybridization is desecration!” proclaimed another. Finally those two groups have found something they agree on. Then Ojore gasped and Ignacio caught sight of an impressive array of dorsal spines—each taller than he was—breaching the waves.

  “Ah, here she is.” Nakamura gestured toward the thing sawing through the sea.

  The behemoth arched over the water. Its banded body glinted with metallic blues and greens, its splayed pectoral fins cascaded over the water with the discipline of synchronized oarsmen. The vast liquescent meadow shattered in its presence and the protesters’ violently rocking boats puttered off to safer waters.

  The pit of Ignacio’s stomach lurched and it took him a few seconds to realize it wasn’t only the fear and awe that did it, but the unexpected swaying of his entire island.

  When humans first arrived on the watery Super-Earth, they assumed the Mokoani were no more intelligent than dolphins and whales—and probably less so since they looked more like fish than mammals. Then the nautical natives attacked the colonists using precise magnetic pulses to scramble computers. They displayed sabotage techniques that any guerilla fighter would be proud of. Their coordination and tactics were so extraordinary that astrobiologists started to pay close attention to these aggravating, gaudy giants.

  They soon discovered that the locals communicated using electromagnetic waves produced by a magnetite organ more intricate than the human ear—they spoke in radio! A rough translation program was rapidly developed and the banal monsters were exposed as every bit as complex as human beings. They lived rich lives, not only submerged in water, but immersed in an organic internet that spanned the planet. Negotiations where soon established and relations have been stable, but tense, ever since.

  Their comms crackled and a deep female voice said, “Hello, gentlemen, I am Wahgohi.”

  The name sounded familiar, but Ignacio couldn’t place it.

  “Hello, Wahgohi, this is Ojore and Ignacio Bahanti-Batista. I’ll give you all some privacy. If you need me, just call.” Dr. Nakamura gave them both a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “To speak to her, turn to channel nine, and remember: she’s evaluating you as much as you’re evaluating her. Good luck, boys.”

  “Hello, Wahgohi, I’m Ignacio and this is my husband, Ojore. We’re so glad you could meet with us.”

  The colossal thing hoisted itself up the ramp connecting the shallow man-made pool to the ineffable ocean that drowned the entire planet. The humans struggled to keep their heads above the surge.

  “We must look so small and insignificant to her,” Ojore rasped, between coughs of thick green water. They faltered, physically and mentally, in the presence of this j
ewel-encrusted totem of some long-forgotten, tempestuous sea goddess.

  The trio spoke for a while, mostly guarded chit-chat, but it served to put them all at ease. The trick was to focus on the sultry voice on the radio and imagine it was only tangentially associated to the ghastly creature before them. However, Ignacio was having a hard time ignoring the three glassy domes it had for eyes, each one absorbing his electromagnetic aura.

  “Have you decided to father aquatic young or are you still exploring the possibility?”

  The question caught Ignacio by surprise. He combed his hair back with his fingers, it was greasy with alien algae, and gave the question some serious thought. Intellectually, he was still unsure—still exploring—but in his heart he had already decided. In fact he was quite literally waist deep in it now. “We have decided,” he said sooner than he expected.

  Ojore looked at him with a strange mixture of shock and joy and dread. Where they really doing this?

  Wahgohi’s spines flared and then settled back down on her broad, slick back and Ignacio wished he knew more about their body language. He knew, for instance, the pulsating scales—like ruffled hummingbird feathers—were its form of respiration. The Mokoani breathed directly through their skin, but he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disappointed with his answer. Her hard, thick lips and yellow bulbous eyes remained inscrutable to him.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  He waited, not sure if the static on his comm was hesitation or the translator working, but eventually she said, “I still have some reservations.” The synthetic voice made her sound weary all of a sudden. This wasn’t a young creature. She maybe had a cycle or two left of fertility.

  He knew, without turning, that Ojore’s face had dimmed slightly at her confession, but he appreciated her honesty so instead he focused on the large Piscean maw before him, desperately trying to discern her emotional state. What kind of person would agree to incubate a little invader from space?