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Contravene Birth 01.04
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 23 August 2005, 6:23 am
Read/Post Comments
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Contravene Birth
01.04
The grinding feeling sent small yet noticeable shimmers of pain up the spinal chord, an obvious indicator of a near paralysis injury. The neck was craned to the right in an awkward position, never to return to its intended state, and the feet remained limp; all feeling had vanished from that portion of the body. The right arm was undeniably broken, the elbow twisting back and the bone exposed through the torn skin; the shoulder blade was fractured in several hundred pieces, followed by a crushed collar bone. There was very little left intact on the beaten and broken body, and with every passing second the diminishing strength evaporated from the heaving man crawling along the empty hallway.
Doctor David Marcus gritted his teeth together as he clawed his way along the spotless corridor, wincing as the clenched jaw resembled the grinding feeling in his back. His breathing was erratic, and he could feel his body shudder from the sustained injuries. His heartbeat was far faster than he thought could ever be possible, and fatefully it pumped blood right out of his body and onto the white floor. The older doctor tried to crane his neck behind him, but the crippled upper body defiantly called back with a wave of unbearable pain, and sure indication that he was mortally wounded.
The deep guttural growl flooded the empty white hallways, echoing throughout the subterranean facility. A gasp of pain exited from the Doctor's mouth as he forced his entire body around to look behind him; down the featureless corridor lay a thick and dark blood trail, sickly distorting the bright lights that reflected off it from overhead. From somewhere behind him, down any one of the many intersecting hallways, another growl—that more closely resembled a scream—pierced into the still air, motivating the fading Doctor to turn forward and continue his painful crawl along the corridor.
With every inhale, he nearly choked on some congesting substance in his throat, and with very exhale, he spat up a deep red matter that stuck to the clean floor with far too much ease. He used his one good arm to pull his body along the unblemished floor in front of him, but kicked his legs in futility as they slipped effortlessly on the blood trail plaguing his past. Small cries of desperation exited from the man's mouth as he gave every remaining ounce of energy into this awkward crawl, trying with all that lingered in his body to get away from the monster of his own creation.
His analytical mind had stopped scrutinizing his surroundings, and it had stopped venturing into philosophical contemplation as it did when boredom was present. Now all it did was record the events as seen through his bloodshot eyes; every gruesome and excruciating pull by his one good arm, and every vain, slippery kick by his legs. Not even memories of a brighter past, of those he cared for, or for what even went wrong here flashed by; rather, every passing second was nothing but a day in hell, an endlessly agonizing moment where everything was wrong.
Several blinks helped clear his red vision enough for him to comprehend the doorway just ahead on the left. With a deep gasp—and a subsequent cough of blood—Dr. Marcus clawed along the smooth surface for it, willing everything within to at least get to that door. He pulled his battered body up to it, turning to lean upright against the door and look back down the corridor that would forever remain and memory of unbearable pain and unendurable fear. He looked down at his two legs, and suppressed a regurgitating cough as the once white lab clothing was smeared with dark blood. The Doctor followed the red trail down the corridor once again and realized just how much blood he had lost, and he found himself in partial surprise of his ability to even think.
That scream echoed yet again through the hallways, reminding him of the fiend he was trying to flee from. He forced his good arm up and opened the door, falling backwards as it flew open from his weight leaning against it. The Doctor rolled over onto his stomach and repeated the grasping action he had endured all down that hallway, pulling himself into the dark room. The sensor picked up his motion, and the lights automatically illuminated the area, allowing him to figure out where he was.
Ignoring the grinding pain every time he mobilized his legs, he kicked the door shut and looked up onto the table in front of him. Sitting right on the edge of the desk was a notepad, something that would have to do since he doubted his ability to get any farther from this beast. He reached up for it and pulled it down, blinking as a pen fell from atop it and onto his bloodied face. Pausing for a moment before clearing his slowing mind, he grasped roughly for it, rolling onto his back to write after ensuring that the small instrument would not elude his clutch. His hand shook uncharacteristically from the excessive blood loss, but he ignored the ill-fated signs and pressed the pen onto the yellow paper. This would be his last act.
The pen shakily drew out a line, then another perpendicular to the top of it. Two more lines formed next to it, connected in the middle by another, followed by three horizontal lines linked by a single vertical line.
They're all dead.
Dr. Marcus could feel his mind drifting, and his body going cold, but shook off the damning signs of his death. If he was going to do anything, it was get this information out. Too much had been spent on this project for it to be left in the dark like this; he had to make the deaths of his team and colleagues worthwhile, as well as the time they spent fostering this entire blunder. He had to justify this mistake.
But in our death, we found the answer.
33 Days Ago
"Created in His image."
The coffee cup connected with the lips of the older man as he stared back in partial surprise at the statement from his colleague sitting across the cluttered desk. After a large mouthful of the muddy liquid he found distasteful yet indispensable entered his mouth, he swallowed it in one large gulp and set the cup down on the coaster, careful to place the handle of the mug perpendicular with the table's edge. For how long had this habit plagued his late nights? Far too long, of course, though time could not possibly deter him from breaking the routine.
An interesting statement, to say the least. Obviously, his comparable and competent companion was referring to the ageless scripture describing Mankind's inherent relationship with 'God.' It was one of those statements that brought both confusion and hope; the confusion from how such a situation could be possible—with all of the errors and shortcomings of man when God was inerrant and omnipotent—and the hope that maybe there was a supernatural provision for Humanity. He relished upon the latter thought, knowing that the former would become the crux of this discussion, and allowed himself a brief moment to contemplate the potential victory that they could gain out of this war by the predestination of God himself.
"Does that make Human Beings perfect?"
Doctor David Marcus reached out for the mug again, but consciously stopped himself. "Perhaps, but what of our physical limitations?" Toying with the subject; how predictable am I?
"Well, ostensibly, what we lack in physical prowess we make up for psychologically."
"So, in His image, we are perfect on a mental basis."
Doctor Matthew Swanson shook his head, bringing up his hand to rub his unshaven chin, characteristic of the man every time the hour passed eleven. "Well, not necessarily. Perfection is impossible, or better said, unattainable."
Marcus smirked, an obvious indicator of his decision to play along. "Unattainable?" He looked around the dimly lit room, as if gesturing to some invisible force. "But what of 'His' image? Does that not infer physical properties? And, if it does, why does that mean perfection is impossible if we are intrinsically connected to God, who is perfect?"
"Appearances can be deceiving."
A finger protruded from his hand, signifying an infallible point. "But He is incapable of deception."
"Then, should that be the case," Swanson leaned back in the leather chair, "assuming that we are indeed of His creation in His image, perfection must be our ability to err; our fallibility."
"However, what we speak of here now is of the mind. What of the body? The body is limited to our genealogy."
"But the mind can overcome the body, so the body is progress-able so long as the mind is capable."
Marcus reached out for the mug, and this time actually brought it up for a drink. He knew what they were doing; he knew they were dancing around the true reason for this whole trivial discussion. It had been something of true contemplation for both of them over the last week, when the opportunity has presented itself and they found the corpse of a once-formidable entity that marauded their worlds in a nice package in their delivery room. Admittedly, it was a complete surprise for him, since such a 'gift'—as Swanson had been calling it over the last several weeks—was never to be expected. Granted, their job description included developing new methods and devices to help win the war, but receiving such a specimen was beyond what they could have anticipated.
Presently, with the genetic structure of the alien mapped out, they had before them several options for an experimental future, but all of them contained a high probably of failure, and therefore a waste of time and funds. The latter was not necessarily a large factor in their endeavors, but the former was unquestionably an obstacle. Time was, as much as everyone wished to deny it, of the essence, and getting something out there to aid in Humanity's defense was a high priority.
Though the idea to utilize this genetic resource, no matter which method they chose to take, would require time and effort that would be unredeemable should it fail in the end. Furthermore, there was no way to predict a high possibility of success since this was a truly new area of experimentation, which left both senior directors in a bind as to what they should do. It was not like there was some military commander or demanding manager above them—they were fortunately the top of the food-chain, receiving funding from a black budget and reporting to only one individual who graciously stayed out of their business—but failure on their part left yet another hole in their defense against this foe.
Now, staring at his colleague of nine years, they were running around this issue of whether or not to act upon this proposed idea; an idea that would either grant them a great contribution to this war or would devour months of their hard work. He was cautious—if not opposed to Swanson's idea—but he knew that if this worked out, the payoff would be tremendous.
The mug settled back to the coaster, and the handle orientated itself perpendicular with the table edge. "Though undeniably, the mind is not inerrant."
"Indeed," Swanson nodded, "but not incapable of progression towards perfection."
"Yet as we have said, perfection is impossible."
"But He is perfect, so therefore, with us in His image, we must be at least capable of perfection."
"So perfection is possible, then."
"Some would suggest so, though our preceding assertions may not."
Marcus let out a soft chuckle. Nothing is ever absolute.
Swanson leaned forward, continuing on though altering the subject. "The mind cannot be altered, but through the mind the body can be."
"Then one could simply alter the body. Yet, as we know, the mind and body are intrinsically connected—one cannot exist without the other. We cannot extract consciousness."
His colleague let out a short sigh. "So in altering the body we inadvertently alter the mind…"
"—Which takes us farther from perfection." Marcus stated, finishing Swanson's thought.
Quite honestly, where we they going? Such ideas had been discussed and thought over many times prior, yet they sat in their darkened office far past normal working hours conversing about it. He knew that Swanson was trying to somehow bring him into agreement over what they should do with this opportunity, but the topic had only danced around it, rather than tackling the matter head on.
"Maybe," Swanson said in thought. "Maybe, perfection isn't what we need."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. Naturally, perfection was the ultimate goal of any project; why would one want to make something imperfect? Within perfection lay every contingency, every possibility, and every potential for success. It was only logical for their efforts to be centered around perfection and the pursuit thereof, so why would such a statement exit the mouth of a man who knew full and well this fact? Obviously, he had an underlying point to the sudden thought.
If perfection wasn't what they needed, then imperfection was? Then again, redefinition of perfection in its contextual state was necessary for this thought to continue. Imperfection—what is imperfection? Is it that state in which something is farthest from its truest condition, its truest capacity? Or maybe it was of a different imperfection, one that not resembled capacities or capabilities, but one that represented the image of God. If He is perfect, then an imperfect being would more likely represent the opposite of God, which was—
"Malevolence?" The words exited dryly from Marcus' lips.
Swanson, having already thought it out in the mere seconds between its origin and now, nodded in agreement, understanding Marcus' rather fragmented statement. "Maybe we need to produce this creature. Maybe we need to create something not in God's image. "
The night had been long for both men, but readily productive. Despite Dr. Marcus' reservations regarding such a project, their conclusions were not without justification, and their philosophical contemplation was not without validation. Now, the next morning, it was time to implement their thought out discussion.
A consensus had been reached, and they were going through with the controversial project. It was an odd thought to even be considered, mostly because trying what they were about to do was extremely debatable, if not reproachful by anyone with a conscience. It wasn't something of cruel torture, something that even the darkest of men would rebuke, but rather something of ethics; were they even doing something morally permissible? Was creating the very enemy that killed them even right?
Of course, under the circumstances of war, they were attempting a feat with good and earnest reason, even if the surface of things appeared much more rough than intended. They needed to break beyond the bleak and unproductive mode of thinking that had been plaguing most of the 'R&D' centers still in existence, and produce something capable of making a difference in this struggle to survive. Still, it brought upon doubts despite the sincere contemplation of last night, and the original reservations about time and effort were still clear and present. Creating this being, this entity that slaughtered millions was not especially conducive to winning the war
Marcus shrugged the thoughts off as he swiped his authorization card through the computer. What if it was? What if raising this being could give them a valuable weapon in their defense? Granted, creating an entity that soldiers tried so rigorously to kill didn't seem beneficial to their cause, but the underlying information could be. Besides, they had progressed too far into this project to turn back now, despite the premonitions of failure lurking in the shadows.
It was partly invigorating, since such an undertaking was truly groundbreaking, but mostly apprehensive because the uncertainties offered no security in their future or safety in what they were creating. What if this blew up in their face? Aside from the possibility that it turns out to just be a dud, what if it grew into something far beyond what they could have anticipated? The qualms were not helping his already cautioned outlook on this endeavor.
Two security guards nodded in greeting as he passed the security checkpoint and proceeded to the large elevator directly ahead. He looked absentmindedly at the spotless white walls, and allowed his mind to wander yet again. The bright overhead lights reflected sharply off the clean floors, somehow reminding him of the facility he was entering. No pictures or other humanly-effects were added to this place; only the stale unsightly white walls and spotless floors. Understandably, this place needed to be clean beyond any sane man's standards, but he didn't enjoy the lengths to which that fact was preserved.
The two doors separated with a slight beep, and he stepped into the spacious elevator alone. The interior was an exact clone of the hallway, the only difference being the control panel on the side wall with a small digital display that read 'zero.' The doors shut before him, and the predictable weightlessness ensued for a second as the elevator accelerated downward, plunging into the depths of the facility. As with most other United Nations' funded facilities with sensitive directives, a good portion of it was built underground. Thankfully, he only had to come down here when conducting special projects, but every occasion he did was not too enjoyable. There was a bleak feeling in the laboratories thirty meters beneath the surface, and he didn't like spending any more time in them than necessary.
However, this time was supposedly different. They were about to embark on something far more exciting than the mundane projects that usually took place down there, for which he was appreciative, so maybe the time spent underground would be worth it. Marcus brought a hand to rub his forehead as the doors parted in front of him. He found the usual and predictable sight before him; an empty, white hallway extending ahead for as far as his eyes could see, with nothing visibly different, as if time itself had stopped completely since his last departure of this facility.
It was not awkward to walk these featureless corridors, but it was bizarrely foreign to him. He knew the layout of this subsurface complex far batter than anyone, yet every time he descending into these depths he found himself in a realm so distant and alien that he doubted whether or not it was all a repetitive delusion of the same location or the reality everyone believed it to be.
Of course, he couldn't let these distractions pull him away from the task at hand. They were already devoting all their time to this project, and wasting even more by irrelevant thoughts was not a wise nor productive choice. He pushed the concerns of the project—and the peculiarities of his own mind—aside and continued forward into this white establishment.
"Nice of you to show up." Swanson said, exiting from a nameless door and coming up to greet him. "Part of me was worried that you found a reason why we shouldn't do this."
Marcus let out a courtesy laugh, a sure indicator that he had tried to do so. "Well, looks like you prevail this time. Status?"
"We have the embryo stabilized," Swanson's voice seemed to echo throughout the empty, featureless corridors as they began walking deeper into the complex. "You would be surprised to know just how these things reproduce, or rather, under the conditions thereof. Apparently, there is no intercourse between two different beings, and for that matter we have concluded that there are no genders among this species at all."
An interesting fact. "So how do we induce development?"
"Well, this is the interesting part," Swanson paused as they made a turn down another hallway, completely empty all the way to the distant end with closed doors lining either side. "Somehow, the parent being is capable of discerning when to begin the reproduction development—all on its own—which means that at any point in time the being can, in lamest terms, 'activate' the embryo into development, regardless of the physical properties surrounding the parent being. From what we know so far, it could conceivably reproduce in any environment, no matter how harsh, as long as the parent being can survive."
"So they are genetically structured to subsist and reproduce in any environment they are capable of enduring."
"Exactly," Swanson replied, stopping by a pair of large doors and reaching out with his identification card. He swiped it through the computer, entered a seven digit code, then placed his thumb squarely on the digital pad. The two doors, easily thick enough to stop all but the most determined madman from entering, parted with ease and revealed a room much like the corridors—white and spotless—but sporting several computer stations along the walls and a glass window looking down into a chamber, as well as somewhat dimmer lighting. The two senior directors stepped down the short flight of stairs descending into the control room, nodding at the three technicians idly standing by the large window—the first men Marcus had seen since exiting the elevator, excluding the companion that walked beside him.
Marcus walked over and looked down into the chamber. Dropping about ten meters, the completely white and obviously immaculate chamber sported a transparent bed-like object surrounded by comprehensive computers and machinery—all coated white. In the center of the see-through divan was a round, deep red object. That, in all its mild glory, was their entire project.
"Do we know how long it will take to develop?"
"No clue."
He let out a short sigh. This could take days, or months, or maybe even years. They knew so little about this alien species that anything was possible. Fortunately, the very nature of the embryo meant it could subsist in a wide range of environments, meaning that extensive and exhaustive research and experimentation was not needed to just make it live. They had found some early shortcuts to make it this far, but now all they could do was wait.
It was odd to stare at the alien creature in growth, now nothing but a mere orb, and see everything they were trying to accomplish encapsulated in a space that could fit on the palm of his hand. Usually, their projects included aching loads of technical pre-work, hours in the simulators, then days spent creating it, but now they were staring at something with far more potential—and they hadn't done a thing to make it this far. The only "breakthrough" for this whole endeavor was its surprising delivery to their facility; otherwise, they had done nothing to make this work.
That was probably the part that stuck out most. It was too easy to be true, too easy to work out. The simple fact that this embryo didn't require constant stabilization was uncomforting, and the additional reality that it could persevere despite all but the harshest elements they could throw at it didn't render a reassuring gesture. Everything about this was too damned…
Perfect.
"So is this the essence of imperfection?" Marcus stated, trying to break his discouraging series of thoughts.
Swanson looked over. "Time will tell."
"Maybe not."
Both directors turned to see a technician motioning towards the primary screen displaying the properties of the embryo. Everything was seemingly unchanged except for the neural activity.
"What—?" Marcus began, but never continued his exclamation. Neural activity? Such things were not expected at such an early stage in its development. Per their anticipation, it would be dormant for the first period of time—something longer than a mere morning since it was extracted from the corpse of the alien—and it was not supposed to develop anything resembling consciousness until closer to birth. Now, with the reading rising steadily, the embryo was beginning to develop the early stages of perception and awareness.
"Impossible." Swanson muttered, looking back down at the small red orb ten meters below.
Marcus looked over at his colleague, his tone serious yet the content of his words flippant. "Only perfection is impossible."
It had grown; it was now ninety times its size of only thirty-one days ago. All the scientists and technicians observed it day and night, watching in fascination as this alien being developed at an astonishing rate. It was reassuring, meaning that time was indeed not being wasted on this project, but it was also damning, since it was growing beyond and out of their control. There was no way to slow it down, other than killing it outright, which left them in an undesirably passive position.
However, it was progressing close enough to their intentions, so its foreign growth properties were being meet more with enthusiasm than fear. Aside from that, it was good news because a final product would be available far sooner than formerly thought, which put more time in their pockets for the post-development experimentation. All in all, they could conceivably have something worthwhile in as soon as a week.
Much to his dislike, Marcus had spent endless hours day in and day out in the subterranean portions of the facility, watching as this alien grew from a mere embryo to a near life-size being in a month. It was distressing to see just how easily and quickly this species of aliens could reproduce, as that was testimony to the endless line of warriors that they faced in combat; was it even possible to beat this foe? Hours of downtime was occupied fully be these premonitions of a dark future, because the knowledge they now have about these extraterrestrial beings was not comforting.
At the very least they were gaining valuable inside information on them, albeit none of it was good. Already proven warriors, the additional fact that these things could multiply faster than they could be killed was discouraging, if not depressing. Yet his analytical mind reminded him that there was always a counteraction to every action, and that if these things were so formidable, there must be a weakness somewhere that they could exploit. Aside from learning more of this species, it would be a second undertaking to find out what can be done to stop this foe from killing millions mercilessly.
Some sort of weapon? Maybe a biological agent, or even chemical? Something had to be deadly enough to these things while leaving humans unscathed. Obviously, they could deploy any number of conventional weapons to kill these aliens, but in the process the lives of those soldiers were being jeopardized—and more often than not, flat out killed. It wasn't enough to kill some and lose some, perhaps as previously thought by some obtuse commander—the simple reproduction factor proof of that—so they needed something that could kill them while not harm those who used it. They needed the perfect weapon.
Marcus laughed at himself silently as he stared down yet again into the white chamber, looking at the developing being ten meters below. Why did everything revolve back to perfection? Clearly, perfection was a rational goal for any science or military outfit, yet, as his discussions had portrayed, not a very attainable one. However, that did not mean that getting close to perfection wasn't good enough; in fact, most cases that was the best scenario. Perfection was flawless, and naturally, one wanted his project or weapon—or whatever—to be as flawless as possible, or as close to perfection as feasible.
With his own project, though, perfection seemed to be the antonym. While subconsciously that was what everyone hoped for—a perfect being—it was originally the opposite of what they were trying to achieve. Then again, their definition of perfection was something opposite of God, not in His image, so the way he thought of it now differed considerably. What they all meant now, in terms of a perfect being—or his own contemplation about a perfect counter-weapon to this alien—was in the context of death and killing. Which was the opposite of existence and life…
He stopped himself there. This perpetual monologue in his head was not helping him deal with the issues present. Yes, he needed to find a way to stop these creatures, but thinking of perfection and its contextual significance was not going to do that. Although not entirely true, since his own philosophical contemplations often proved far more valuable than any single test, he knew when he was losing track. Perhaps he was onto something; perhaps he was drawing near to a theoretical conclusion that could solve the issue, or at least point him in the right direction, but he'd have to save the rest of his thoughts for a moment when everything else wasn't so pressing.
The Doctor turned and walked over to a computer console on the opposite side of this "control room," wondering what it would be like to watch himself during these thoughts. No doubt it was humorous, which was probably why he tried to be alone when thinking about these matters; consequently, he was glad the room was empty at the moment, yet he knew that throwing two minds at an issue worked much better than just one. He'd have to talk to Swanson later.
A couple of key taps, and the screen filled with technical data on the alien. Somewhere in here was the answer to his questions—he knew it with complete certitude. Somewhere in front of him was the solution to the problem, the key to winning this war, all he had to do was find it. His eyes gazed over the data yet again, nearly recalling it all from memory, and his mind tried for the umpteenth time to piece together the facts.
Would he ever find the answer?
"Of course we don't have the clearance!" The strong whisper seemed to echo down the empty hallway, as if reaching out for someone else to hear. "The old men aren't going to believe us even if we gave them damning proof right before their eyes. Hell, even if they knew it would destroy us we'd still see them turn us away. I'd like to say that they would have common sense to recognize the problem and make a decision right away, but they would stall too long, and then it would all be lost—we'd all be dead. Time is of the essence, and we can't afford to let them make a delayed decision when action is required right now."
It was true; undeniably true. What would appear to be nothing more than a matter of opinion unfortunately closer represented fact. If this went on—without proper authorization—their hides would be on the chopping block, but the lives of many more were at stake now; shouldn't that overcome fear for oneself?
Gregory Sheene fidgeted unconsciously with the identification tag hanging off his long white trench coat. He was not one to back away from challenges—from dong the right thing—especially when he was near certain that this problem was indeed a problem, but he reminded himself that a challenge to him was that of research or of experimentation, not of clandestine acts that could get him imprisoned if he was wrong. Apparently, however, his colleague did not share the same premonitions about where this venture could take them on a personal level, and therefore did not share his fears if they turned out to be incorrect, ever-clearly opting to save this entire facility. How very selfless of him…
Maybe, if there had been a shred of support from the two directors above them, he would have held more confidence in this idea. Perhaps this was testimony to his lack of perseverance in the face of jeopardy, or possibly indication of his weak will when unsupported by an authority figure. Though whatever this circumstance told him about himself, it nonetheless stared him down in this darkened and deserted hallway. There was a choice to be made, one that would either continue this project—and risk everyone in this facility—or kill it now, and it required either complete determination or full dismissal of his efforts.
He looked down the dim corridor, every other light turned off due to the lateness of the hour. The recently mopped floor cleanly reflected the light from above, and the spotless white walls gave way to doors on each side as the hallway extended to a T-intersection a ways off. It was the classic representation of a hospital, except the purposes of this facility were far from healing the sick. It was ironic to some degree, and his already divided mind drifted away from the pressing issue to the absurdity of his line of work. The title 'Doctor' before his name was not the one he had conceived from his young ambitions, but rather entailed creating fiends to kill, not mend. If he could have seen this future, would he have even considered being a so-called "doctor?"
"Greg, either you're in this or not."
Sheene looked down for a second, regaining his thoughts before looking back at his partner. He could feel every instinct scream yes, since this was the right thing to do, but he could feel his own fear of being wrong reset his fortitude. But fears aside, he needed to do what he knew was right, even if his predictions turned out to be false in the end. If he failed to act now, then the lives of dozens could rest on his shoulders, and that was not a burden he wanted to take with him.
"Alright, alright. We'll do this. I'll add the substance to the divan."
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