Perfectopia - Part #8/9
In an ideal world, YOU are the imperfection.
PREVIOUSLY:
While the team of friends futilely grasps at solution to the problem they created, the state of the world is going from not good to abysmally catastrophic. A PanCrop plague starts wiping out the sole food supply, while Neurils continue mutating, turning the population into compliant zombies. As existing nutrition stockpiles dwindle, administrators launch a voluntary euthanasia programs in order to manage consumption. A small ray of hope emerges in a form of an anonymous message sent to Sigmund offering help with “fixing the world”.
Part #8
Sigmund pressed a button on his phone to wake it up to check time, again. For the fifth time, he opened the message log and the map app to verify he was at the right place. The stranger was late.
The determination gradually gave way to invasive doubts. Maybe Gaby and everyone else were right. Maybe it really was too dangerous, too out of the blue, too conveniently good to be true.
No! He chased the thoughts away, repeating the same mantra he shut his friends with: It doesn’t matter if it’s some kind of trap—we have nothing else and we need to take this chance for the only alternative is to lie down and wait for death.
The intersection he was supposed to wait at was utterly unremarkable save for a huge billboard, towering over the street and adjacent derelict buildings. In contrast with the widespread decay it was new, fresh off the press.
WORLD UNITY DAY
JULY 1, HAWRELAK PARK
CELEBRATE WITH THE WORLD
(attendance mandatory)
A purr of an engine pulled his attention to the street. A black van rolled from one of the side alleys and screeched to a halt right in front of Sigmund. The door slid open, spilling two guys with red bands on their sleeves.
Panicked, Sigmund turned into a run, knowing perfectly well how pathetically futile it was.
“Sigmund, wait!” A familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, to face a woman peeking out of the doorway.
“Mrs. Novak?” He whispered, dumbfounded. Out of all the faces in the world, this was the one he expected or wished to see the least. Sigmund still recalled the chill in his body when NRC’s head lawyer was rattling allegations at him in Gagnon’s office, or the pure cold out-to-kill determination in the woman’s eyes, when she testified against him in court.
“Relax, I’m not part of NRC anymore. Not part of anything, to be honest.” She said, sensing Sigmund’s confusion. “Hop on, I’ll explain everything along the way. And don’t mind the goons. Mike and Richard here are a camouflage. We either ride around the streets as Admin’s enforcers or we attract the attention of the real ones.”
“Where are we going?” Asked Sigmund as soon as they pulled off into the street.
“The only place where they can still think for themselves—the Reseeder camp.” Replied the ex-lawyer.
“Didn’t take you for a preppy farmer cult type, but okay.” Sigmund was still skeptical. “How come you’re, you know, still you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” She shot back. “I guess I was lucky to meet the criteria of your ‘flush markers’. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. I could be standing happily in line to be euthanized right now, instead of running around the city, chasing a convicted terrorist. It’s quite stressy, you know?”
The man stayed silent, not sure how to respond.
“Oh don’t be so dramatic, Siggy. Can I call you that, now that we’re not bound by any workplace ethics?” She said, seeing a puzzled look on Sigmund’s face. “I’ve gone through all the research that your girlfriend came to director Gagnon with. I might not understand the actual science, but I get the gist of it. That’s where you come in, actually.”
“You can call me anything you want, Mrs. Novak. I don’t give a shit about any of that anymore.” Said Sigmund, recovering. “And let me guess: the expertise in growing potatoes does not translate well into producing a scientific solution for the issue of the human race going extinct?”
“Correct.” She replied. Yup, efficient as fuck, still a lawyer.
“Can you get me into the NRC lab?”
“No. They closed and sealed it down, then let everyone go. Not gonna happen.”
“Then you went through all this trouble for nothing.” Sighed Sigmund, squishing the small hope that just reared itself.
“Hold that thought. I have something to show you.” Said Mrs. Novak, settling deeper into her seat, signaling a temporary pause in conversation.
It took them a good half an hour to clear the city limits. In heavy silence, they drove for another twenty minutes or so until a makeshift sign announced an entrance to the Reseeder camp.
Mike, or maybe Richard, pushed the door open and jumped outside, followed by his partner and Mrs. Novak.
“C’mon, Siggy.” She urged.
Reluctantly, Sigmund stepped into what seemed to be a film set for a western movie. Two-story wooden buildings—all new—circled the main square and lined the streets branching out of it in all directions. Everything screamed a well organized utility rather than favela vibe he half-expected to find.
Yet, it was the people that gave Sigmund a stop. The eager, questioning looks in the Reseeders eyes were a social shock to him after months and months being dulled by vacant looks on the faces on the streets of his home town. That, and the fact that many of the camp’s residents were children. Way too many to account for the sporadic adults he could see.
“Children younger than about ten seem to be mostly immune.” Explained Mrs. Novak. She did not elaborate, trusting Sigmund to connect the dots himself.
Of course! He thought. How come it did not occur to me? A brain that was not fully developed stood a much better chance of staying under the Neurils’ proverbial target pattern radar.
The implication hit Sigmund like a blast of a space rocket taking off. Millions of poor little creatures trying to make sense of what was going on with their zombified parents, countless tiny happy worlds inexplicably crumbling into a nightmare. The girl in the blue dress… oh God!
Sigmund had to step back to prop himself against the van, nausea washing over him.
“Take three deep breaths, then try and get your guts together.” A tone on Mrs. Novak’s commanding voice made his mind refocus. “We don’t have time for drama.”
“Right.” Managed Sigmund, fiercely focusing his gaze on the woman in an attempt to avoid tens of questioning small eyes. “You wanted to show me something?”
Without replying, she turned to walk into one of the side streets, nodding for him to follow. A short stroll later, they entered a smallish unremarkable building, its interior littered with long tables and benches, suggesting it was a communal dining hall of sorts, deserted at this hour.
Mrs. Novak went directly to one of the cupboards lining the walls and tugged at it, making the cabinet swing outward, revealing a low opening into a narrow staircase. She cast a glance back at her guest, then disappeared into the hole.
A few flights of stairs down, Sigmund blinked in near-darkness. The only source of light down here seemed to be whatever was filtering from the cave entrance above. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out dark shape of the woman, tinkering with the lock.
The mechanism finally clicked and the hinges protested with a barely audible squeak.
“Okay.” Said Mrs. Novak. “Brace for the light.”
A millisecond after a mechanical clunk of a heavy-duty switch, the space was flooded with the clinical glare of hundreds of overhead LEDs, momentarily blinding Sigmund.
“Fuuuuuck meeeee…” was the only coherent thing he was able to vocalize after his sight returned.
The spacious room was a miniature copy of the NRC lab, complete with rows upon rows of server racks, terminal stations, neural scanners, 3D printers, an industrial press and a high-pressure container sealant equipment. Sigmund’s face broke into an uncontrollable grin when his glance finally settled on a brand new NanoTek’s Nanofabricator. Jackpot. Christmas. A fucking Bingo!
“How?” He queeped.
“Well, I was there when your girlfriend tried to blow the whistle.” Said Mrs. Novak. “What she brought was concerning to say the least, yet instead of investigating it further, NRC went into full cover-up mode. And if there’s one thing I’m good at is recognizing when things begin to stink. I kicked off my own backup plan—build an alternative lab, form a taskforce, start fixing shit if it starts to really go sideways.”
“That’s quite badass.” Marveled Sigmund. “This stuff is not something that can be ordered off Amazon.”
“Ha, no shit.” She smiled. “Using my unique position at NRC, I faked orders and delivery manifests, using gov money to acquire and funnel equipment into an abandoned warehouse posing as a government-sanctioned lab. Took months to amass that stuff, all the while the folks at this camp graciously were prepping a mad scientist’s underground lair. We’ve finished smuggling the last of the equipment mere weeks ago.”
“Sick.” Said Sigmund. “And where’s the taskforce?”
“I’m talking to it.” Replied Mrs. Novak, her glance suddenly serious. “And if you’re waiting for the ‘no pressure’ line, there won’t be one. It’s on you, amigo, and I don’t think we have a lot of time.”
“Ooooookay.” Dragged Sigmund. “This is how it’s going to go. First, I’m going to make a call. Then, I’ll need Mike and Richard to make another swing by the city. I need my team here.”
***
2 weeks later - July 1st, 2032 | Outside Edmonton, Canada
“Good morning and Happy World Unification Day!” Exclaimed Sigmund, crooking his nose at the mixed smell of cheap instant coffee and body odor, his attempt at sarcasm falling short with his friends. Two weeks in a cellar with hardly any sleep, running on caffeine and whatever high-energy food supplies Reseeders were able to come up with did little good for the team’s joyous mood.
The rudimentary built-in ventilation and the standalone fans were struggling to keep up with the heat, generated by the server farm, running tests and simulations around the clock, contributing to Sigmund’s exhaustion. Weak grunts from around the lab betrayed the rest of the group feeling the same, if not worse. They also served the function of confirming everyone was still alive and awake—in the past days, Paul discovered a tendency to pass out.
“Okay, everyone. Status?” He shot.
“The viral vector adjustment strategy is confirmed. Ready to go on my end.” Said Emily.
“Simulation test success rate is 92% percent.” Reported Gaby. “Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.”
“Code review is complete on my end.” Said Paul, weakly.
“No bugs or hidden Easter eggs this time?” Bit Sigmund.
“Oh fuck off.” Retorted his friend. “It’s software, you can’t ever be 100% sure. In fact you can be positive there are bugs, but I can assure it won’t make you grow a second dick, we don’t need another one here.”
“Alright, folks.” Sigmund stood up, ignoring the protests from his stiff muscles. “Time for the big reveal. Gabs, Em, P, work together on compiling a package with the data and code for a release ASAP.”
“You sure it’s a good idea putting the cards on the table like that?” Paul was always first to question Sigmund’s authority.
“Of course not! Actually, it’s a really shitty idea, but at this point I don’t feel like we have the luxury of not taking every single tiny chance, even at the cost of putting ourselves at risk.” For once, Sigmund was not mad at his friend for second-guessing him. If anything, addressing concerns was a good way to reassure himself. “We have to put it out there on the off chance someone in position to replicate the solution is still listening. Even if we release the Anti-Neurils here locally, there’s no guarantee it will take worldwide before it’s too late.”
As the three heads nodded in acknowledgement before leaning in over their respective keyboards, Sigmund launched a video app and hit the record button.
If you’re seeing this, hello. I’m going to be brief.
My name is Sigmund Roth and I’m responsible for the state the world is in right now. In short, I created a virally-perpetrated nano technology that was supposed to subtly nudge world’s leaders in making the right decisions, and it did for a while.
Unfortunately, it backfired. The neurobots—Neurils—started mutating, affecting a much wider range of people and in ways I did not expect. At this point, I have to conclude that humanity is heading towards full extinction.
That is, if we don’t do something about it. There’s a cure—another batch of neural bots, Anti-Neurils. We’re making a batch of those here in Alberta to be released locally. However, it might still be too little too late.
That’s where you come in. If you work or have access to nano-fabrication equipment, or know someone who does, take a look at the links attached to this message. Try to replicate the cure in your neck of the woods.
Let’s try this one last chance!
Sigmund clicked off the recording and raised his head. His three friends were all looking at him, accusingly yet understanding.
“Aight, let’s pack it all up and post it.” He said. “P, can you whip up a script that would plaster the Internet with that shit?”
“I think so.” Replied Paul.
“Flood all online forums that’re still open, post on every video and social platform, carpet-bomb all academic email lists. Let’s make sure we’re heard, and Gabs, let’s start printing.”
***
Hours passed slowly, now that there was nothing else to do but wait. Propagated by Paul’s hastily-concocted script, the Anti-Neuril manifesto / data package was popping all over the Web—faster than Admin’s lackeys were able to pull them down—while Nanofabricator hummed, taking its sweet time churning out neurobots into a prepped aluminium container. It’ll take painfully long hours, if not days to fill the whole case of those, destined to be carried and popped open by Reseeder volunteers around Edmonton, or even further if lucky.
Rest… I fucking need it… thought Sigmund, allowing himself to be taken by sleep.
A violent crash of the door being kicked open instantly plucked him awake. Mrs. Novak took a second to catch her breath in the doorway. “They’re here!”
Proceed to the final part #9 »