Duffy's Cut, Part 4, Final

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)



(This series, which I've been meaning to finish, starts HERE.)

John slept in the woods.

Cholera breeds cholera. That much was sure. When it started, it usually was hungry for many more than one.

He helped bury the bodies of the men he worked with. He helped to carry water to the suffering in the sick tent. He even washed putrid blankets in the tiny stream. But then he stayed away from them, countrymen or not. Twelve dead already, and ten more likely to follow in a day. He didn’t think much, by exhaustion or choice. But he did think that he didn’t want to join them.

As John slept in the woods, he even dreamed. Under the purity of starlight, he saw himself as a lad chasing moths on the green hills of County Tyrone. He saw his beaten down father still alive. He saw the eyes of the girl he missed so terribly that he dared not express it in words. Not even to himself.

When he woke with a start in the depth of night, he saw the flicker of flames through the forest.

A noise jolted him. Something sharp and loud. He blinked in the direction of the men wasting away in the tent.

Someone was up. Moving. The fires looked like torches.

He brushed dirt from his legs and steadied himself on groggy feet. He was about to start walking when strange voices made him freeze. Not Irish. The clipped, dulled intonations of American born.

People from the nearby town of Malvern didn’t mix with his kind. Cold fear tickled up his back. The people of Malvern hated the lowly Irish workers, which generally suited him just fine. But nothing good could come from torches in the night. The voices were low and hissed to each other. He knew when he was close to a beating and had learned how to avoid it.

When he turned to creep away, he caught a hard blow to the stomach.

From the ground, choking and coughing, he saw the boots of the two men he didn’t hear behind him.

“Here’s another one,” a voice said.

A gunshot boomed from the direction of the tent.

“Clean it up,” the man said. “Every last one.”

John peered up.

From the strange illumination of moving torches, he could make out a pistol pointed down at his head. If he had the breath to speak, he would yell, “wait!”

“Dirty scum, go back to Ireland,” the man said.

The muzzle flashed.

Near dawn, John was dragged to the ditch dug for all of the other bodies. Work on the railroad went silent that day.


(Note about the series: Every day, my train passes the area known as Duffy’s Cut. Years ago, I noticed a strange stone memorial near the tracks out in the woods dedicated to Irish railroad workers. More recently, Duffy’s Cut has been in the news, since local researchers have begun to unearth the previously lost bodies of workers who may have been killed by a mob frightened by the spread the cholera at the work camp.)

Go back to Part 3.

Duffy's Cut, Part 3

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)



The stars burned like sugary fire in the sky.

He knelt alone at the edge of the stream. The tinkling water drowned the night sounds. Buckets hung slack in his hands as he looked up and pretended, if just for a moment, that he was a world and ocean away.

When warmth welled in his eyes, he turned back to the task. The icy rush pricked his fingers as he filled one container after another in the stream. His feet twisted into mud as he shouldered the weight and climbed the bank.

His straining footsteps crunched leaves and snapped branches through the forest.

He swayed toward the veiled light inside the moldy tent.

When he closed half the distance, the smell hit him again. Horribly more decrepit after the clean night breeze.

Inside, twelve men laid on rough frames of lumber over holes punched into the dirt. Their cloudy streams of diarrhea hit the holes and slowly seeped in. If they had the strength to move, they would probably catch wicked splinters in their bleeding asses.

A big, burly man plucked the water from John bucket by bucket. He was the one from Tyrone who never spoke. The company refused to send a proper physician, and he would not leave the men to the cholera. He hadn’t made a wage for two days already.

When John was picked clean, then man turned away.

One of the sick let loose. Another may have been sobbing.

Back outside, two pairs of withered, leathery eyes stared at the same beautiful sky. At least the company let them keep a shovel.

John started to pry out the shape of a grave.

Duffy's Cut, Part 2

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)




John struggled with the wheelbarrow spilling dirt.

The packed trail snaked along hillsides under huge oak trees. He never saw so many trees. Horizon to horizon. America was a land of towering shadows.

Mr. Duffy’s foreman stood at the dumping point over the cut. He was counting wheelbarrows. If it wasn’t heaping, no count, and no pay.

“I had to shovel myself,” John said as he huffed under the weight. “My man ran into the forest. I think he shit himself.”

The foreman didn’t look up from his notebook.

He heaved the load up and over. The tiny addition of earth landed on a mound growing far below.

John leaned and rested for a precious few seconds. “I heard him moaning back there,” he said.

“Second one today,” the foreman said. “We’ll fetch him.”

“The second?”

“Not your concern.”

John didn’t like the sound of that. There were whispers about cholera on the ship. And whispers of a passenger or two helped overboard. Questions were met with tight lips. Nobody else wanted to end up disembarking early.

“You’ll be wanting more loads if you want a wage today,” the foreman said.

“I need another man.”

The foreman shrugged.

“But I need a digger!”

“That load there was skimped,” the foreman said, gesturing over the edge. “No credit.”

John slammed the wheelbarrow down.

He heaved the wooden wheels around to circle back.

“You leave that man alone,” the foreman said.


On to Part 3.

Duffy's Cut, Part 1

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)

John knotted his pack and stood in the dim light of the ship’s lower deck.

Muffled voices filtered through the hull planks. The sound of crowds was unpleasant, almost diseased, compared with the weeks of clean wind and slapping water during the voyage.

The moored ship had emptied already. His fellow passengers were gone. Eager and flushed in the face. He was not so eager. Was that strange? He thought about his feet and how this ship was the last tangible link to his home in Ireland.

Someone thudded onto deck over him.

Clomping shoes, too undignified to be an officer.

He lifted his pack as the sound rumbled down the stairs.

“Come on! We have work already! I don’t believe it!”

It was the nervous kid.

“You’ve got to hurry! The foreman is not very patient. He’s been waiting for our ship to offer the work to the lot of us, and he’s not happy we’re five days late!”

“Maybe he should hire the wind next time,” John said. “That way we might keep our schedule.”

“I’m serious! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

It must be a good omen, yes? Each one of them worried about how to get their foothold in America. Hunger doesn’t wait long to start gnawing. A man needs a wage, and a roof, and loaf of bread before long. He should be happy, not feeling his spirits sink.

The kid chattered as they climbed back up to sun and salty air. “He’s a railroad man, this Mr. Duffy. I’ll introduce you. He likes me already. He’s got railroad work. Hard work, but good wages. They’re filling a cut to the west of Philadelphia. Earth works. He’s behind schedule.”

“Behind schedule…. Got it.”

“Hurry up!”

“Listen man. Stop. Breathe. If you don’t calm yourself, you’re going to be ill.”

A man in a top hat and a dark overcoat bellowed from the docks below.

Mr. Duffy, no doubt. Empty wagons were clopping toward the small crowd of his Irish shipmates.

He drew in a big breath of air and smelled it. Strangely sweet and thick. Not heavy with moisture as he was used to.

He descended the gangplank, and the ship pulled on the huge ropes. Restless waves thumped her slow and hard against the New World shore.


On to Part 2.


(Photo taken at the Philadelphia Art Museum)

SEED, Parts 11 & 12, Final

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




The Mala understood human hands even better than humans. They fundamentally modified the controls of their interceptor spacecraft so humans could fly them. One hundred and fifty broke into three spearhead formations behind the leader, who was the great, great grandson of Eve.

Enemy long range cruisers orbited Earth in front of them.

But not many. It was probably the last force of any real size they had left.

Their orbital bombers had deployed and orange sparkles glowed over the land masses on the planet. Anti-matter fires burned, pillaring blue smoke into the atmosphere. Typical. The enemy had vaporized the population down to manageable numbers, then invaded their key objectives.

The Mala battle squadron divided into smaller vanguards.

The leader could sense the panic in the enemy fleet. But it was too late for them. Always too late.

Cutting beams activated. One hundred and fifty ships marked targets. They dismembered the enemy force in one pass. The remnants of human empathy tingled in the leader, but the emotion was easily suppressed. The force swept through chunks of imploding ships and sizzling plasma fires. Mala transports followed from the rear.

Earth would be denied to the enemy. The Mala had exploited SEED, and they required no more human assets. The enemy could not be permitted access to them. Even though they would fail to develop human weaponry fast enough, they could not be allowed to try.

The leader communicated radiation trail coordinates for the transports to follow. He imagined the dread of the enemy invaders on the surface. Their paltry fleet rained into the atmosphere and burned. The Mala would hunt them. No use trying to run.

On the transports, the human forces buckled into their landing vehicles.


* * *

A thud knocked loose a semi-circle of wall. The cut doorway fell with a crash. Dust billowed past Jax into the room.

Black-clad soldiers fanned in formation. They covered the room with the aim of strange weapons.

A soldier in the center held out some sort of device. He seemed to be scanning, trying to locate something.

He hummed and clicked low, guttural sounds in his throat. The soldiers trained their weapons on the doorway where Mikale lay dead.

Beams combed streaks of fire across the wall.

A shriek erupted in the room beyond.

Something thrashed and fell partway into the light. The beams ceased, and a sound like tinkling crystals filled the silence.

Thankful, Jax wanted to weep in hysterical relief. But he was still paralyzed. The soldiers pulled flayed pieces of some kind of body and arranged them on the floor. They shoved Mikale aside with their feet. The man with the scanner seemed satisfied. He motioned the others toward Jax.

Crystalline knives cut through the straps. Bronze hands pulled him to his feet.

Jax gasped when he met them face to face.

Their eyes. Not natural.

Not really human.

They reflected facets of light like cut glass.

Someone behind him ripped down his pants, and cold metal engulfed his genitals. The sensation was immediate and explosive. If not for his rigidity, his knees would have buckled from the pleasure of it. Waves of an unlikely orgasm rocked through him.

Then the device was gone.

Jax blinked. Maybe the first sign that the drug was fading.

The leader nodded and the two holding his elbows stepped outward and pulled his arms taught like a cross. Those glittering eyes aimed the weapon at Jax's head.

"Wait," Jax said whispered, his jaw finally loosening.

A pinprick of blue clove Jax in the forehead. His world curtained to nothingness.

All over the planet, the Mala army claimed merciless victory in their millennia of civil war. After the enemy was cut down, human samples were taken, mostly sperm, but some eggs and surrogates too.

Diversity was strength, and the human ranks would grow.

In orbit, the Mala launched heavy radiation bombs when their forces withdrew, and the dying world sizzled with energy. Not even microbes would survive long as Jax's body still smoldered.

-The End-


Back to Part 10.

SEED, Part 10

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




The thing that had been Mikale spoke. "The SEED program must be terminated."

"My God, what did they do to you?" Jax said, wondering if the pulsing he perceived in the man's exposed brain was real.

"This human has been processed for retrieval," Mikale said. "The procedure failed. But mechanical control has been achieved. We speak through this control."

"Mikale?"

"The human is failing. He will soon cease to function."

The cable from Mikale's head disappeared behind his back and snaked from his feet deeper into the other room. Dark blood oozed down his neck. Jax couldn't see where the cable ended.

"Our knowledge is improved. This is our third retrieval. We may succeed with you."

Jax swallowed. Saving the most valuable victim for last? That was logical.

Mikale raised the syringe. "We will attempt to retrieve the information we need."

"Wait! No!" Jax tried desperately to stand. He couldn't let them cut into his skull. "I'll help you! I want to tell you what you want!"

"We would prefer to avoid the risk of failure," Mikale said.

Jax could barely breathe. "What do you want to know? Tell me!"

"The SEED program. Thousands of humans are in interstellar transport."

"Yes."

"They must be killed."

"But they're everywhere!" Jax said. "They're scattered all over space!"

"Humans are a tactical species."

"I don't know what that means!"

"In one generation of our life span, humans have ten. For every birth we achieve to tactical maturity, humans have 600. You outbreed us 600 to 1."

Jax shook his head, overloaded. He felt faint.

"Humans are a tactical swarm. Our enemies have exploited this weapon. We cannot prevail. We are reduced. We will be defeated."

"But we haven't--"

"Humans have been weaponized. But we have found the home world before our enemies. You will terminate the SEED program to deny our enemy. We will exploit our tactical position."

"Us? You mean you will exploit us?"

"We require the code to destroy to the SEED vehicles."

"Who are you?"

"We require the code."

"There is no code!" Jax said.

"We require the code."

"I don't know those computers in that level of detail! I don't know how to hack them!"

Mikale raised the syringe. "You will not disclose the information?"

"I'm trying to think!"

Mikale punctured the lead into the IV.

"No!"

But Jax's heart already shivered between beats. His toes felt hot. He wiggled them in his shoes, but the heat was strange. It poured over him, encasing him. He began to move slower.

A boom shuddered in the walls. Mikale's hand spasmed, and the syringe fell.

The building rocked, and a blinding, red beam slashed through the room. Jax was frozen. He couldn't blink. The beam swept a burning arc in the air and hit Mikale in the neck. A sizzling puff of smoke decapitated him. Jax had to watch Mikale's head fall with the body and manage three flopping rolls across the floor.


(Note: Next Monday I will post parts 11 & 12 together, and that will conclude this series!)


On to Parts 11 & 12.
Back to Part 9.

SEED, Part 9

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




Eve looked down on the dead girl lying on the suspension table for disposal. She already wept for her. The granddaughter she barely knew.

That girl always was the small one. The one not built for childbearing. She gave a son at age 13, barely, but something must have been damaged in her womb. After this second pregnancy at 15, they couldn't stop the bleeding. The tiny baby girl was stable, and they worked hard with their crystalline pinchers erupting and retracting from their amoeba arms. The moving minerals comprising their bodies sounded like sandpaper. Those crystals flashed faster and more precisely than any human fingers could move. Yet, they couldn't save her. Even if they knew an epoch of human anatomy and medicine, it might not have been enough. The biochemical intricacies of human life confounded even them.

There were many reasons not to weep. One death out of so many successful births. The daughters of daughters of daughters were now breeding, and 46 males training in the lower levels of the ship would be generals and leaders of men.

Eve was old. Twenty-two children had worn her thin, regardless of the early deliveries by caesarian. She respected the Mala. She even came to love the sound of their clicked and hummed language. She still smiled when she remembered the first real communication between them--when she realized that the mmmm-lll-a sound they made indicated a question. They seemed amused when she called them "Mala" after that sound. It was as if every interaction of hers with them was inquisitive.

In their pictograph language Eve helped develop, they often showed her the character meaning complete or adequate or enough. Eve often chose the smiley face. Of course, they had no faces to communicate body language with, but they certainly could see hers and what happiness looked like. They never chose the smiley face in their inquisitive and demanding sentences.

She wanted to believe that they would let her live out her life post menopause. Maybe not in luxury, but at least in health and comfort. She could still catch glimpses of her progeny and feel accomplishment. She could never talk to them, or let them know that she existed, but maybe the Mala would let them hear the volumes of human history she recorded. Maybe they would let her preserve the identity of her species.

Crystals protruded from the Mala doctor next to her and triggered transfer from the table into the disposal. A plasma wave of brilliant blue flared and advanced. She did cry a little when the wave swept back to reveal white ash. But a jolt to her back stiffened her body and cut off the tears.

She couldn't yell out when her face hit the bottom of the disposal unit. The grimace refused to form on her face.

The lid clicked down over her and the plasma wave hummed.

A sound like the Mala word for "hello."


On to Part 10.
Back to Part 8.

SEED, Part 8

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




A violent cramp in Jax's right arm pulled his entire body over. His biceps bulged between the straps.

He screamed.

"You will disclose the code to destroy the SEED vehicles."

Jax craned the knotted muscles of his neck to look up. "What?"

"You will disclose the code to destroy the SEED vehicles."

"There is no code!"

The cramp intensified. Jax moaned.

"You will disclose the code."

Jax blurted groups of words between waves of pain. "There was none...too dangerous...never know the future...no way to get them back...no way to stop them...once gone...."

The cramp released. Hard, iron pain yielded to a horrendous ache.

"You must terminate the SEED program."

"Even if there was a code, the transmission would take centuries to reach--"

The left arm cramped.

"No!" Jax said.

"We can execute the transmission. We can reach the vehicles. You must terminate the SEED program."

More gnashed words. "No vulnerable subroutines...you can't penetrate...always sleeping...no code...."

The arm relaxed.

Fire raged in his ripped muscles. "God.... Oh God."

"You must terminate the SEED program."

"I can't!"

"You will not disclose the information?"

"There is no information!"

"You will not disclose the information?"

"Can't!"

A pause.

Then, a statement.

"You will not disclose the information."

Jax started to cry.

Tears spattered his stained shirt, his arms, the exposed bits of chair.

Across the room, a door of light opened.

Jax drew a quivering breath. At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing. Who he was seeing.

His project chief, Mikale, the best member of his staff, stood in the doorway. He held two thin lines and a large syringe. In the slice of brightness, Jax traced the lines back to his chair. They were the IV's leading into his arms.

Mikale had bled all over himself. His scalp, hair, and underlying fat had been rolled back on the side of his head. A small bundle of wire leads poked into what looked like living brain. The skull was cut away.

"We will have the information," Mikale said.

The voice. Altered, not right. But now Jax heard the similarities to Mikale's.

Mikale, who was a medical doctor by training, moved the syringe to the lines. Jax fought to get out of the chair.


On to Part 9.
Back to Part 7.

SEED, Part 7

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




She saw light.

At least her brain registered light.

She watched it, but it didn't mean anything. Light. Not light. Halos between the two. You must be conscious of a thing before it has meaning.

She blinked, and the light came and went. But this time, she felt the blink and connected the squeeze with change in the light.

The concept of distance hatched. A sense of close. The beginning of me, and a sense of not me. An observer and the observed.

She watched the light sharpen and become curious colors. There were designations for those differences, she knew, but her brain forgot the concept of words. Not "red" and "green" and "blue." Just this one being different from that one, and both floating higher in her mind than the third.

The third color was sky and water, but the images drifted like husks. Disconnected, wordless dreams. All was new, haunted by the ghostly tinge of familiar.

She squirmed and felt confined. She coughed, and her lungs felt thick and wet.

The coughs turned to gagging. She expelled globs and struggled to move. That's when the explosive seals blew. SEED4611's hatch flung to the side, and metal clanked on the floor.

She sat and gasped a breath of air. The immense importance of that first breath, and all the hours of training anchored onto it, finally sliced the veil over her sleeping consciousness.

She jolted.

The information hit her like a light in a dark room.

She was an Eve Officer on a Second Earth Elopement Device. The S.E.E.D. program. The fact that her hatch blew meant that the pod had landed without her help. Or aborted. Or never left Earth's orbit in the first place.

Hello? she tried to say. But the croak just gurgled in her throat.

She saw that someone had disassembled the pod. Computer boards chained by ribbon cable were spread on a metallic table. A glowing hose linked the array into the wall with colored lights. It looked like a servicing. Or maintenance. Had something gone wrong?

She cleared her throat again. Tried to loosen her stiff vocal cords. But another sound pulled her attention to the other side of the room before she tried to speak again.

A flash of light exploded, and her body stiffened.

A raspy sound like rubbing rocks and sand approached. And a hum. Almost musical.

Two shapes were converging on the pod.

She would have screamed if she could've broken the paralysis.

Especially when they touched her.


On to Part 8.
Back to Part 6.

SEED, Part 6

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




Jax's head was pounding. "I already explained this to you three times!"

Apparently, the voice wanted it again. "What is the payload yield of the SEED vehicle?"

Jax was tired, profoundly tired, so he just recited facts. No more fluff or conversation. His logical brain recited. "Human female--sixteen years old. Optimized age to survive birth six months after reanimation. Implanted fetus--male, twelve weeks gestation. Optimized for survival."

"How is the payload delivered?"

"After 100 years of travel on a random launch trajectory, the pod acquires a target star. Micro-course adjustments at 25 year intervals." He hadn't told the voice about the rest. "As it nears, the star system is scanned for a planet with life. A positive or inconclusive planet is chosen. If all planets are negative or none are found at all, the pod maintains course into the sun. They lied about that part. All those years ago. They told everyone that the pod would sling-shot with the sun's gravity and go find another star. But there wasn't enough fuel for that. The pod incinerates itself."

"How is the payload delivered?"

Jax talked faster. Angrier.

"Ninety percent of the pod's fuel and computing power are devoted to reentry and landing. The Eve Officer (that's the girl) is awakened at this point. She is trained to make adjustments if the reentry goes awry. She chooses the actual landing site. The human brain beats any computer in trying to survive. You can't program that sort of thing. Not then. Not now."

"How is the payload delivered?"

Jax fumed. "How do you think? If the planet supports life, the girl gives birth. She raises the child to sexual maturity. They mate at the maximum rate until the Eve Officer becomes infertile. Then Eve directs the mating patterns of her offspring. She's a doctor, teacher, confidant, matriarch. She passes on the human memories of our species and records as much as she can for future generations."

"The biological payload becomes operational," the voice said. Not a question this time.

"Yes," Jax said. "But how many planets support life? We haven't found any. Not from here." He shook some sweat from his hair. "You know what I think? I think what really happens is that the Eve wakes to a poisonous rock and dies a quick death. Or she craters into the planet. Or roasts in an alien atmosphere."

"The biological payload becomes operational."

"You said that already."

"SEED is a tactical program."

"And you're a cocksucker," he seethed.

It didn't take him long to regret saying that.


On to Part 7.
Back to Part 5.

SEED, Part 5

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




SEED4611 crossed the margin of an interstellar gas cloud and plowed through the sea of ions.

Particles swirled in the wake. Systems registered trillions of tiny electrical discharges sparkling over the hull. But the calm ahead did not last.

Several billion kilometers into those remnants of an ancient supernova, a disturbance rippled in the cloud.

The interference beat against SEED4611. Intensified. Something huge was cutting a path ahead.

The pod's scopes noted anomalies in the light patterns of the stars ahead. A dark object began growing and obliterating stars. Proximity sensors warned SEED4611 that it was going to collide.

A precious jet of fuel pushed SEED4611 onto a new course. The mission parameters wiped--all the years of tracking, all the painstaking calculations. It would have to spot a new star and begin the calibration process again. And it would have to hope for a clear path. SEED vehicles carried enough extra fuel for three emergency thrusts. After that, their course could not be significantly changed.

The object adjusted course to match SEED4611.

The proximity alarms triggered again.

After two more bursts, it was finished. The object matched course a third time, making collision inevitable. Over six hundred years of travel was doomed.

When SEED4611 caught up to the huge, black craft, the relative speeds equalized, and a long, mechanized arm unfolded.

A claw angled open.

It gently closed around the pod.


On to Part 6.
Back to Part 4.

SEED, Part 4

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




At first, when the room went completely dark, Jax's body sizzled cold with terror.

He could scream. He really could. But he knew the voice was listening. So he roped that scream tight in the center of his chest and held on.

"You are needful," the voice said.

Jax flinched when something touched his lips in the dark.

He hadn't heard anything approach. He couldn't see a thing.

"Drink," the voice said.

Again, an object met his lips. He puckered and sweet water flowed into the cotton of his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been until the liquid washed over his tongue and soothed the cracks in his throat.

He gulped. Greedily.

He sensed minerals in the water. Something fragrant. Alluring.

The cup pulled away. Drips ran over his chin and down his neck.

"Eat," the voice said.

This time, Jax was ready. When softness touched him, he carefully bit. The sweetness of fruit exploded in his mouth. He almost laughed. Ripe, full fruit was so rare and expensive. He grinned as he chewed.

Pleasure. That's what it was. Glowing, dancing pleasure.

The meager light flicked back onto his body, but the rest of the room remained dark. No one was near him. No obvious source of the food.

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?" the voice said.

Jax stopped chewing. "What?"

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?"

"Tactical?" Jax said. "I don't understand."

He waited for an explanation.

None came.

"The SEED program is over six hundred years old," Jax said. "You know that. Everyone knows that." He licked his lips. "People learn about it in school. It's a chapter in science class. But no one cares really about it anymore. Not really."

Silence.

The lack of communication unnerved Jax. He knew the voice was there.

"We still receive scientific data from a few of the pods, even though they're so far out. The rest are either gone or out of range. That's why the program is still funded. Barely. It's a scientific program. There's only six of us anymore. Five plus me."

"You are the Director of the SEED program."

"Yes," Jax said. Then a thought made his gut sink. "Wait. Are they here too? Do you have the others?"

What were they doing to his people?

"SEED is a tactical program."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"SEED is a tactical--"

"Do you mean war?" Jax said. "Is that what you mean?"

The euphoria had worn off. He felt hot and clammy. More and more uneasy.

"What is the tactical objective?" the voice said.

"You know the objective! The whole world knows!"

No reply.

"It's survival!" he said. "You know how the Earth was four hundred years ago! You know how everything was falling apart!"

The voice was faster now. Less patient. Emphatic.

"The SEED program was launched during a period of war. SEED is a tactical program."

"No! No, that's wrong. SEED came before the war. SEED was the last thing the world did before it all fell apart."

"The SEED program caused war."

"No! It was the last and biggest pan-national project before the war. The costs were huge, but it was something that gave everyone hope. That humans would go on. That Earth wasn't all there is. Especially after we ruined it. That this wasn't all there was ever going to be."

Sweat poured from Jax. He felt feverish. Wired.

"What are you doing to me?" he said, looking down at the tubes in his arms. "I don't feel good! What are you doing to me?"

He shook his arms, but the tubes were secure.

"Are you drugging me again?" he yelled. "Why are you asking me these questions? Who are you?"

Now it felt like ants were marching all over his skin. And biting.

"WHO ARE YOU?" he screamed.

The tone and inflection of the voice never changed.

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?"


On to Part 5.
Back to Part 3.

SEED, Part 3

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




SEED4611 traveled eighty percent of the speed of light. It had been flung from Earth's orbit by the quantum accelerators which spun like gigantic centrifuges and scattered SEED vehicles on thousands of vectors toward the galactic center.

It traveled 72 million kilometers in five minutes. Five irrelevant minutes. But 4.067 seconds and 976,000 kilometers after that five minutes ended, SEED4611 received a signal. The first signal in over 200 years.

The message penetrated the encryption algorithms designed to filter out natural electromagnetic interference. The coding exhibited valid credentials. Mission parameters came on line, and SEED4611 parsed the transmission in preparation for data input.

But the code sidestepped the mission menus and hacked directly into the wake systems. It matched the machine-level syntax and embedded a false wake command. SEED4611 prepared to revive the cargo in the desolation of interstellar space.

Valid wake signals originated in the navigation and gravity cores. These guided the vehicle into a gently decaying planetary orbit once an objective was reached. Then, the wake command would activate. But this signal had been broadcast from outside the vehicle.

Offline processors in the main computer lit and flowed with electricity.

Programs booted.

Circuits prepared for the flurry that would initialize the three-month resuscitation process.

After the intricate warming and induction period, the young woman would open her eyes. She would open her eyes to nothing but a pin-prick sky of stars. And she would die sixteen minutes later when the pod's power drained and the absolute cold froze her for the final time.

But the wake circuits winked out.

And the warming protocol did not execute.

A low level subroutine not expected by the hacking signal aborted the process. A failsafe. Not enough light registered on the pod's photocells to indicate that a solar body was close by. The forgotten bit of programming was added as an afterthought to help prevent a tragic loss of cargo in space.

So SEED4611 traveled on.

And covered another span of space.

Another hacking signal hit the wake cycle, and again the failsafe terminated it.

A third signal arrived. A fourth. A fifth.

Then, the listening subroutines of antenna deactivated.

It was another base-level failsafe. In the event of cosmic interference or hardware failure, the antenna was designed to power down for six months to prevent repetitive and catastrophic power drains.

The wake signals continued.

One after the other.

SEED4611 was indifferent and unhindered by the attacks. It sped onward, a speck on an ocean of black oceans.


On to Part 4.
Go back to Part 2.

SEED, Part 2

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




Jax slogged through the black curtains of a strange sleep. A pain was wriggling in the darkness.

Throbbing.

Growing.

Dragging him awake.

His conscious mind struggled to assemble itself. To reconnect sensations, thoughts, limbs.

It was....

In his arms. Yes. He was sitting, and the pain was in his arms. Bad pain. Cramps digging into the muscles. He tried to pull his hands close to his body, but they wouldn't come.

He groaned, waking more.

Waking more.

He concentrated on the thick weight on his eyelids and willed them to open. Weak light smeared with the darkness. He blinked, but couldn't rub without his hands. His consciousness slipped and slid. He was so groggy. Like something trying to swim out of a pool of tar.

Hot pain knifed in his wrists.

He groaned louder.

The cramps hardened.

"The subject will relax," an amplified voice said from somewhere in front of him. It was all dark beyond the blurred shape of his arms.

The pain now boiled over.

Agonizing.

Unbearable.

Jax shook. Rocketed the rest of the way awake. "It hurts!" he screamed.

"The subject will relax."

A muddy warmth flowed into Jax's wrists and ran like syrup through his arms. It climbed his neck, then spread drowsy comfort up the sides of his skull. When the pleasing sensations met in the middle, the steely contractions released. It was so abrupt, his body jerked in the opposite direction.

He sucked in deep breaths as the lazy euphoria deepened. He tried to lift his arms again, but they were still pinned. His heart felt like it was beating miles away.

"You are awake," the cold voice said.

Not a question. A statement.

Jax swirled with the tumble of thoughts loose in his head.

Awake? Had he been dreaming? When did he go to bed? What day was it? What was the last thing he had been doing?

But there was nothing. Just a cloud of tattered connections.

Seconds passed, and Jax's focus sharpened a little more. He turned his head and perceived something. A thin, milky white line snaked down his shoulders to his forearms. He could feel a light pressure down there. A pull on the hairs of his skin.

"What's going on?" he said, murky.

The voice didn't respond.

A little louder, more agitated. "What's going on here?"

The objects on his arms were tubes. He squinted to see little green wings taped to his wrists. Needles. Intravenous lines.

Had he been injured? Fallen ill? But this was no hospital. Below the IVs, his wrists were belted to a black metal chair.

He attempted to get his legs under him, but his ankles resisted too. And something tight around his middle.

"Let me up!"

Animal panic sparked. Claustrophobia. Trapped.

"The subject will relax," the voice said.

"LET ME UP!!"

"The subject will relax."

Jax thrashed.

"The subject will be...punished."

Heat like hot peppers radiated from his wrists and spread. When it hit his skull, his mouth opened. When it hit his abdomen, a crippling earthquake of nausea slammed into his gut.

The reflex threw him hard against the restraints, and a deep, guttural sound ripped from his throat. He vomited a violent stream. Splashes pattered all over the floor.

The convulsion eased a moment, and he choked in a breath. It was cut by another horrifying heave.

He bent against the restraints. Rock hard. Fuzzy sparkles erupted in his vision. He was frozen in agony. Nothing going in or out.

His mind screamed for the voice. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! But his eyes just swelled in their sockets.

"The subject will relax," the voice said.

The change started at the wrists again. Some kind of drug was being pumped into his bloodstream. The euphoria marched back. The hideous, dying paralysis dissolved.

This time when the pain was gone, Jax found himself sobbing. Like he hadn't done since childhood. The magnitude of the pain his body could feel left him in disbelief.

"Don't," Jax said, squeezing tears. "Don't...."

"The subject will confirm information."

Jax looked up. His face streamed and wet.

"You are Jax Hyrysn," the voice said. "You are the Director of the SEED program."

The voice sounded kinder. Almost apologetic.

Jax straightened in the chair. The wave of relief was physical. He was distantly aware of urinating.

He nodded. Fast and eager.

The tears still flowed, but they were hysterical and happy now.

Yes!

Yes, he could confirm that!

And he could do more. Anything more. Anything to keep the pain away.


On to Part 3.

SEED, Part 1

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)




In interstellar space, nothing moved. Nothing changed.

One atom per cubic mile, and so many dark miles. More than the human brain could fathom.

Yet, in all directions, there was light. Billions of years of nuclear fires dotted the universe like brilliant lonely islands. Stars hugged their planets. Gravity swept the vast distances clean.

But in the tiniest speck of the tiniest fraction of the tiniest sliver of space, something did move. A small vehicle like a bloated coffin arrowed forward at terrifying speed. Of course, in interstellar space, terrifying speed felt like the tick of a second in the course of a year. Insignificant. Pointless. A race standing still. But back on Earth, that kind of speed would vaporize the craft in a millisecond if it ever touched the atmosphere again.

Inside SEED4611, the cargo slept. (If the near-arrest of molecules could be called sleep.) A sixteen year old woman. Her womb impregnated with a male fetus unrelated to her. The systems didn't maintain the cold. The nothingness provided the absolute freeze.

SEED4611 was launched with energy for one purpose alone. The on-board system processed one burst of data each year. Two hundred and fifty seven years ago, the light of one star in the look-zone registered a tiny increase in magnitude. A tiny increase greater than the other stars. SEED4611 used the stored energy to delicately steer toward it, slower than a glacier on Earth. Now, it only had to maintain. Now, it only had to collect the thin streams photons striking its dark, metal skin. Now, it only had to wait.


On to Part 2.

The Finger, Part 6

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Thank God for late night fast food.

Sam scored a large chili before walking the dark parking lot to his car. Vending machines stopped you from gnawing your arm off, but it left you restless and a little sad.

The city morgue shared space at Our Lady of Victory Hospital. Sam planted the chili between his legs and eased out of the lot onto the empty streets. Once in a while, he passed a guy wandering the half-lit sidewalks. Other times, a homeless guy nestling on a bed of cardboard. Sam thought about what the beat cops said about the middle of the night. Nothing but lions and lambs. When the predators got too hungry, the cops mopped up the mess.

Sam held the chili and steered with one hand, and spooned with the other. He blew before each bite. Damn hot, but delicious. He drifted through several blinking yellow lights, then shoved the spoon back into the cup to free a hand to make a right.

A van lurched out of a blind alley.

Sam's car crunched into the side.

In the blur of impact, he saw light, his feet, the steering wheel, and a no parking sign.

He rocked back, his face feeling leaden and detached. Bad habit not to wear seatbelts in the city. He tasted blood where his ballooning lips hit.

Splattered chili on the windshield dripped down. Kidney beans fanned across the dashboard along with big chunks of meat. Through the mess, he saw his crunched hood venting steam.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Sam dropped his head back on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. This was the best night ever.

Outside, a door slammed. Footsteps came closer.

Beautiful. Utterly tremendous.

Someone knocked on the window.

"Hey! Hey, bud! Are you alright?"

Sam wondered. If he wished hard enough, would it all go away?

The man outside screeched. "Oh my God! Oh my God! He's dead! This guy is dead! His brains are all over the windshield!"

Sam snapped up. The guy ran, smashed into a mailbox, and spun to the ground.

"Whoa! Wait!" Sam said. "It's just chili, man!"

The guy scrambled up and pounded on the dark store fronts. "Help! Help!"

Sam wiped the blood with his sleeve.

He checked his swollen face in the rearview mirror.

He reached to open the door.


Back to Part 5.

The Finger, Part 5

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Sam collected the vials for the lab. Some bloody fluid. Tissue for DNA analysis.

He slipped the fingerprint sheets into an envelope to send to the FBI database. Maybe Jane Doe index finger had a criminal record. Or maybe she got into the system some other way. Lawyers get fingerprinted to join the bar in New Jersey. That's how they snagged that guy who broke into his ex-girlfriend's house to steal her underwear. An estates lawyer. People who make their living from the dead are all more than a little weird.

Sam yawned and picked up the phone. It was after midnight and sliding towards one.

It rang.

And rang and rang.

Sam kept on. He knew somebody was there.

At last, a groggy voice came on. "Morgue."

"Detective Slattery here."

"Right," the guy said slowly. "Um, who?"

"Didn't mean to wake you up," Sam said.

"Late night last night."

"I need you to check something."

"Now?"

"Yeah?"

"But it's like...and everyone's...."

"I'm trying to wrap up some work," Sam said. "I need to know if you have any bodies missing a finger."

"A finger?"

"Yeah. An index finger."

"You're kidding, right?" the guy said.

"Actually, no, I'm not kidding. Go watch Love Boat and fall asleep later."

"Star Trek," the guy said. "But I've seen this one a million times."

"Okay. Good. Now back to the--"

"Man, you're calling me about a finger? You know what kind of company I keep down here? We have bodies in every possible condition. We have fresh ones, cured ones, and ones so rotten they resemble a bag of soup. We have new arrivals, and old friends who have be in the fridge for years. We have heads with no bodies and bodies with no heads. Fingers on, fingers off. Rats like fingers, did you know that? Homeless people die in hidden, tucked away places. When someone finally shovels them out, rats have run away with all sorts of bits and pieces."

"This one is fresh. And cleanly cut," Sam said.

"Good for you."

"Someone intentionally did it. With a knife or cleaver. Or maybe it was piece of machinery."

"You mean, like an accident?" the guy said.

"I guess that's possible."

"Did you check the police reports? The hospitals? A little oops, and chop-o-matic goes the finger. People might have been looking all around for that thing. They can sew those things on really good now. Like it never happened."

"I checked the police reports."

"That would suck to have your finger ripped off, then miss out on the consolation prize of having it sewn back on."


"I can check the hospital reports."

"Did you ever see Saving Private Ryan? You know in the beginning, during the beach landing, when that mortar shell hits, and that dazed guy is looking around for his arm? He bends down, picks it up and carries it off with him?"

Sam sighed.

"You just made me think of that."

"I'll be over in half an hour," Sam said.

"Why?"

"To drop off the finger," Sam said, annoyed.

"Right. Great. A ton of paperwork for a measly finger."

"I'll bring you a can of Red Bull," Sam said.

"I hate Red Bull."

"Perfect."


Back to Part 4.

The Finger, Part 4

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Sam heard the older detectives in his unit laughing.

Bastards.

They were coming in from the main hall after a smoke, or a bag of chips, or a visit to pester Nancy, the 8th floor receptionist. If they invited Sam to leave his makeshift office in the corner, it was only to give him shit. Or to boss him around. He was the entertainment on otherwise slow days.

As usual Rick's voice dominated. Sam heard his name. The usual insults. Another round of laughing. Sam made the mistake of introducing himself as Samuel on his first day. He didn't look up when the three of them came around the cubicle divider.

"Yo, momma's boy," Rick said.

Sam flipped the page in the report folder.

At the edge of Sam's vision, Rick's arm swung, and something crashed into the papers in front of Sam's face.

"Jesus Christ!" Sam said. "What the--"

"Congratulations!" Rick said. "You finally got the big case you've been waiting for!"

"What the hell is this?"

Sam dangled the baggie with the finger in it.

"Well," Rick said, "we were going to give you a hand, but we didn't think you were worth the whole thing."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

Fuckers.

"The grunts just brought it in. It was found this morning. Nice of them to let it ripen up a bit for you." Another folder slapped onto Sam's overflowing desk. "There's the report. Some little girl picked it up on JFK."

Sam peered through the plastic.

It appeared to be a woman's finger. Severed just above the knuckle. Index finger from the left hand.

"Go to it Sherlock. Put that private school degree to good use," Rick said. "Or then again, maybe you should call Mulder and Scully over at the FBI. Looks like an X-file to me."

Rick's audience chuckled.

"I guess you'll be pulling an all-nighter," Rick said. "I'd toss you a Snickers Bar from the machine, but I ate the last one. Smell you later."

"Hey, shouldn't this be at the morgue?" Sam called after them. "What are we supposed to do with it here?"

But the voices faded down the hall. The door slapped shut.

"Great," Sam said. "Just great."

He glanced at the clock. 4:55 p.m.

Well, nothing to go home to anyway. An empty apartment and cop show reruns. Might as well get a start.

He turned on the desk lamp and pulled it down. Leaning in, he held his breath and opened the bag.


On to Part 5.
Back to Part 3.

The Finger, Part 3

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

"Are you a professional asshole or something?"

"What do you mean?"

"Back there. That lady. It takes talent to be that big of an asshole."

"I've been taking classes."

"You must be top of your class."

"I'm no fucking teacher's pet."

"Someone must've pissed in your Cheerios this morning."

"She was too pretty. I hate bitches like that. They got their garlic bagels, their Starbucks coffee, their Coach handbag, their snooty fucking attitude."

"How do you know what a Coach handbag is?"

"Screw you."

"I just thought you might be holding out on me. You know, a few handbags, some high heels, pantyhose, who knows."

"You want to die today? Is that it?"

"And you're the one to do it?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"I'm scared."

"You should be."

"So what are we supposed to do with this?"

"The finger? Looks delicious, doesn't it? I can think of some things to do with it."

"Seriously. Should we take it over to the morgue? Or over to the detectives? Nice of them to blow us off."

"Come here, big boy."

"Stop it."

"Come here...."

"Don't wave that thing at me!"

"Come.... Follow me...."

"That's sacrilegious, man."

"Or how about this?"

"Disgusting! Get that away from your nose!"

"What? Smells good."

"That's sick."

"No. This is sick."

"Oh, Jesus."

"You like?"

"What if that's a guy's finger? You want a guy's finger touching your crotch?"

"This is no guy's finger, dumbass. Look at it."

"I'm not looking down there."

"She's good. I'm telling you. You want some?"

"You wish someone would put their finger down there."

"Hey, I got an idea. You ever finger your wife?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Well, have you?"

"I'm serious."

"She might want to be fingered. You wanna borrow this for a while?"

"You don't fucking talk about my wife!"

"Lookie here. You just-- OW!"

"I told you!"

"That fucking hurt!"

"Next one's in the head, I swear."

"Jesus. You're no fun."

"Just put it down and stop playing with it."

"Christ. Whatever. That better not bruise."

"Just show some respect, asshole."


On to Part 4.
Go back to Part 2.

The Finger, Part 2

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Carmen wrapped her arms around her little daughter in her lap. A third police car rolled to a stop along John F. Kennedy Boulevard. The cops already there laughed to themselves. They seemed bored. Filling time. Itching to stir trouble. The severed finger sweated in a plastic baggie in the middle of the sidewalk.

She turned her face from the red and blue strobe lights.

"All this is scaring my daughter," Carmen said. "Can we go?"

"Just sit tight," narrow-eyed cop said.

She forget their names before she was done hearing them. Officer Asshole and Officer Shit-for-Brains.

Carmen pulled a tissue from her purse and wet a spot with the tip of her tongue.

Shit-for-Brains freaked. He leveled a finger at her. "Don't touch that! Wait for the detective!"

"Can I clean this bloody fluid off her face?" Carmen said.

"Absolutely not! It's evidence."

"Christ Almighty. You've got to be kidding me," Carmen said.

"Ma'am, if you touch that evidence, I'm going to arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Celine hid her head.

"Screw. You," Carmen said.

She wanted to say fuck, but she failed as a parent enough for one day.

The cop glared at her, then yukked it up with his buddy.

The finger in the bag kept intruding on Carmen's thoughts. She squeezed Celine and kissed the top of her head. The girl's flesh was yielding and soft. With a deep solidity underneath.

She dialed her cell phone. As it rang, she stared at the dismembered finger. It wouldn't be human much longer. No warmth. No miracle of movement. Soon it would be putrid chemicals and a hollow stick of bone.

Celine's living fingers twined in her blouse and crumpled the fabric. Her tiny hands mirrored the dearest thoughts swimming in her head.

"I'm not going to be in today," Carmen said to her secretary.

She smiled downward.

"I don't care," Carmen said. "Let them take care of it. They'll survive without me."


Go back to Part 1.