Just a quickie for the new design and hopefully, the sign of more to come. It's taken a long time, and nearly a decade of self-pity and total lack of self confidence, but I'm finally doing something consistently and with dedication every day. I'm writing a novel, tentatively called Leylined. I've been writing for a couple months and it's 60,000 words long. Is that good do you ask? I have no idea. But I write at least a thousand pages a day and it is working. Is it pulpy sci-fi/fantasy? Yes. Yes it is. Will anyone publish it? Who knows.
The point is to keep writing.
I great motivator was when I heard an interview with a musician (I forget the name) on NPR who had written a novel in a year. While touring, while writing songs, while probably partying his ass off after doing all of those things. Terry Gross (I can remember her name at least) asked him "Wasn't that difficult? Writing a novel in a year?"
He said no. He thought it was actually pretty easy. And why? Because he just wrote everywhere. Wherever he was, he had a notebook and a pen, or something. He wrote on the tour bus, he wrote while they waited backstage, at a bar or something else. Because he wasn't ashamed. Write! Write! Is your idea crazy and stupid? Do you worry if anyone will like it? His story was about a WWI vet whose horse is possessed by a regularly mean-spirited guardian angel. Does that sound absurd to anyone? Does it sound like "hell yes I want to read that shit?"
It didn't to me. Then he read it, and it was beautiful.
Tim Powers is an excellent example of what I am trying to get at. His books are about the most ridiculous, totally absurd scenarios. Vegas cardsharks are wizards? Werewolves threaten time-travellers in victorian London? There's some kind of magic beer? All his books have insane premises, but he makes you believe them. Why? How? Because he could believe it. Because he saw that it was ridiculous, that it was absurd and he said Hell Yes.
And you need to as well. Within reason, perhaps, but have the plots of major hollywood blockbusters been impressing you lately?
Sometimes, a new idea, a strange idea is ridiculous, and is laughable. The supposedly scientific explanation for humor is that it makes our brain work in a different way than usual, challenges our expectations, and surprises us.
So when you tell your friend that you have a crazy idea for a story, or a comic, or a movie and someone says "who would want to go watch that?" and laughs at you?
Challenge their expectations. The best comedians are smart - Dave Chapelle, Eddie Izzard, Jon Stewart. They point out the absurdities in our world, to make people remember that what is normal to us can also be weird, and stupid.
So have faith in yourself. Believe in your world, your story. Because no matter how absurd or strange, if you can feel like its true, then so can someone else.
We are only human, after all.

Just a quickie for the new design and hopefully, the sign of more to come. It's taken a long time, and nearly a decade of self-pity and total lack of self confidence, but I'm finally doing something consistently and with dedication every day. I'm writing a novel, tentatively called Leylined. I've been writing for a couple months and it's 60,000 words long. Is that good do you ask? I have no idea. But I write at least a thousand pages a day and it is working. Is it pulpy sci-fi/fantasy? Yes. Yes it is. Will anyone publish it? Who knows.
The point is to keep writing.
I great motivator was when I heard an interview with a musician (I forget the name) on NPR who had written a novel in a year. While touring, while writing songs, while probably partying his ass off after doing all of those things. Terry Gross (I can remember her name at least) asked him "Wasn't that difficult? Writing a novel in a year?"
He said no. He thought it was actually pretty easy. And why? Because he just wrote everywhere. Wherever he was, he had a notebook and a pen, or something. He wrote on the tour bus, he wrote while they waited backstage, at a bar or something else. Because he wasn't ashamed. Write! Write! Is your idea crazy and stupid? Do you worry if anyone will like it? His story was about a WWI vet whose horse is possessed by a regularly mean-spirited guardian angel. Does that sound absurd to anyone? Does it sound like "hell yes I want to read that shit?"
It didn't to me. Then he read it, and it was beautiful.
Tim Powers is an excellent example of what I am trying to get at. His books are about the most ridiculous, totally absurd scenarios. Vegas cardsharks are wizards? Werewolves threaten time-travellers in victorian London? There's some kind of magic beer? All his books have insane premises, but he makes you believe them. Why? How? Because he could believe it. Because he saw that it was ridiculous, that it was absurd and he said Hell Yes.
And you need to as well. Within reason, perhaps, but have the plots of major hollywood blockbusters been impressing you lately?
Sometimes, a new idea, a strange idea is ridiculous, and is laughable. The supposedly scientific explanation for humor is that it makes our brain work in a different way than usual, challenges our expectations, and surprises us.
So when you tell your friend that you have a crazy idea for a story, or a comic, or a movie and someone says "who would want to go watch that?" and laughs at you?
Challenge their expectations. The best comedians are smart - Dave Chapelle, Eddie Izzard, Jon Stewart. They point out the absurdities in our world, to make people remember that what is normal to us can also be weird, and stupid.
So have faith in yourself. Believe in your world, your story. Because no matter how absurd or strange, if you can feel like its true, then so can someone else.
We are only human, after all.

A really, really short story I wrote in a half an hour, just for fun.

“Oh. Fuck.” As the blinding light of the teleporter dimmed, Sarin knew she was in trouble. There were a dozen pig faced man-creatures wielding crude clubs in front of her, crowded around a small fire where something was being roasted. She had interrupted their dinner, and they didn't look happy about it.
“Abort abort abort! Recall!” Even as she yelled this, she had already begun running. Not quite running, really, sprinting was a more accurate term. The pig men were chasing her, yelling in a strange, guttural tongue. Last time they'd used the teleporter, David had got sent to a dimension with beautiful elfish people who used sex instead of spears to solve conflicts. They'd had a hard time getting him back from there.
And she'd got fucking pig men.
“RECA-HA-HAAL!” her voice cracked as she ran over the uneven ground, and a bluish light surrounded her. Then she was gone.
And then she was back. David and the others were laughing, Sonya was literally crying from her fits of laughter.
“Oh what, you didn't want to stay and start up diplomatic relations with hominus baconus?” David teased. He snorted and puffed his face in crude imitation of the pigmen and danced around her. She kicked him in the knee.
“Ow!” Everyone laughed even harder.
“Oh to hell with all of you.” Sarin stormed off the teleportation platform, David still hopping around on one leg, clutching his injured knee.
“Aw come on, it's not like we did it on purpose – you'd be laughing if it had been one of us. We'll mark the coordinates down and make sure no-one gets sent there again. Lighten up!” Sonya put a hand on her shoulder, her other still wiping tears from her eyes. She sighed. “We can send you back to the sex planet if you want, Sarin, but you said you wanted someplace new!”
“Harumpf.” Sarin was still mad, but she couldn't help a little bit of a smile tease her lips. “It was pretty funny, I guess.”
“That's the spirit! Look, once the administrator figures out we actually managed to get this thing working we won't be able to have any fun with it, so we should have fun while we still can!”
“Whatever” Sarin shoved her lightly, but it was too late, she was done being mad.
“Okay! I'm up!” Josef, the fat German yelled. “Gimme the camera, Sar.” She took the tiny camera off her head slapped on his balding crown. In the survival suit he looked like some jogger from hell.
“Ready to go?” David was back at the controls.
“Ja!” Josef was enveloped in bluish light and disappeared.
“Hey Sar, go grab a few more beers from the fridge, we still have the whole night till the administrator comes in in the morning!”
Sarin laughed and stepped walked out the room, hearing peals of laughter from the rest of the staff. Apparently Josef had gotten into a situation even worse than hers, or at least more hilarious. This wasn't exactly what she'd expected when she'd started working on the top-secret teleporter project, but she had to admit, if they were going to meet a bunch of aliens without government permission, drunk as hell and partying was probably the way to do it.
They could fire her in the morning if they wanted, but before that, she wanted to go back to the pig planet with a machine gun and a skillet. Second contact would be far less pleasurable for those damn monsters.

A really, really short story I wrote in a half an hour, just for fun.

“Oh. Fuck.” As the blinding light of the teleporter dimmed, Sarin knew she was in trouble. There were a dozen pig faced man-creatures wielding crude clubs in front of her, crowded around a small fire where something was being roasted. She had interrupted their dinner, and they didn't look happy about it.
“Abort abort abort! Recall!” Even as she yelled this, she had already begun running. Not quite running, really, sprinting was a more accurate term. The pig men were chasing her, yelling in a strange, guttural tongue. Last time they'd used the teleporter, David had got sent to a dimension with beautiful elfish people who used sex instead of spears to solve conflicts. They'd had a hard time getting him back from there.
And she'd got fucking pig men.
“RECA-HA-HAAL!” her voice cracked as she ran over the uneven ground, and a bluish light surrounded her. Then she was gone.
And then she was back. David and the others were laughing, Sonya was literally crying from her fits of laughter.
“Oh what, you didn't want to stay and start up diplomatic relations with hominus baconus?” David teased. He snorted and puffed his face in crude imitation of the pigmen and danced around her. She kicked him in the knee.
“Ow!” Everyone laughed even harder.
“Oh to hell with all of you.” Sarin stormed off the teleportation platform, David still hopping around on one leg, clutching his injured knee.
“Aw come on, it's not like we did it on purpose – you'd be laughing if it had been one of us. We'll mark the coordinates down and make sure no-one gets sent there again. Lighten up!” Sonya put a hand on her shoulder, her other still wiping tears from her eyes. She sighed. “We can send you back to the sex planet if you want, Sarin, but you said you wanted someplace new!”
“Harumpf.” Sarin was still mad, but she couldn't help a little bit of a smile tease her lips. “It was pretty funny, I guess.”
“That's the spirit! Look, once the administrator figures out we actually managed to get this thing working we won't be able to have any fun with it, so we should have fun while we still can!”
“Whatever” Sarin shoved her lightly, but it was too late, she was done being mad.
“Okay! I'm up!” Josef, the fat German yelled. “Gimme the camera, Sar.” She took the tiny camera off her head slapped on his balding crown. In the survival suit he looked like some jogger from hell.
“Ready to go?” David was back at the controls.
“Ja!” Josef was enveloped in bluish light and disappeared.
“Hey Sar, go grab a few more beers from the fridge, we still have the whole night till the administrator comes in in the morning!”
Sarin laughed and stepped walked out the room, hearing peals of laughter from the rest of the staff. Apparently Josef had gotten into a situation even worse than hers, or at least more hilarious. This wasn't exactly what she'd expected when she'd started working on the top-secret teleporter project, but she had to admit, if they were going to meet a bunch of aliens without government permission, drunk as hell and partying was probably the way to do it.
They could fire her in the morning if they wanted, but before that, she wanted to go back to the pig planet with a machine gun and a skillet. Second contact would be far less pleasurable for those damn monsters.

A really, really short story I wrote in a half an hour, just for fun.

“Oh. Fuck.” As the blinding light of the teleporter dimmed, Sarin knew she was in trouble. There were a dozen pig faced man-creatures wielding crude clubs in front of her, crowded around a small fire where something was being roasted. She had interrupted their dinner, and they didn't look happy about it.
“Abort abort abort! Recall!” Even as she yelled this, she had already begun running. Not quite running, really, sprinting was a more accurate term. The pig men were chasing her, yelling in a strange, guttural tongue. Last time they'd used the teleporter, David had got sent to a dimension with beautiful elfish people who used sex instead of spears to solve conflicts. They'd had a hard time getting him back from there.
And she'd got fucking pig men.
“RECA-HA-HAAL!” her voice cracked as she ran over the uneven ground, and a bluish light surrounded her. Then she was gone.
And then she was back. David and the others were laughing, Sonya was literally crying from her fits of laughter.
“Oh what, you didn't want to stay and start up diplomatic relations with hominus baconus?” David teased. He snorted and puffed his face in crude imitation of the pigmen and danced around her. She kicked him in the knee.
“Ow!” Everyone laughed even harder.
“Oh to hell with all of you.” Sarin stormed off the teleportation platform, David still hopping around on one leg, clutching his injured knee.
“Aw come on, it's not like we did it on purpose – you'd be laughing if it had been one of us. We'll mark the coordinates down and make sure no-one gets sent there again. Lighten up!” Sonya put a hand on her shoulder, her other still wiping tears from her eyes. She sighed. “We can send you back to the sex planet if you want, Sarin, but you said you wanted someplace new!”
“Harumpf.” Sarin was still mad, but she couldn't help a little bit of a smile tease her lips. “It was pretty funny, I guess.”
“That's the spirit! Look, once the administrator figures out we actually managed to get this thing working we won't be able to have any fun with it, so we should have fun while we still can!”
“Whatever” Sarin shoved her lightly, but it was too late, she was done being mad.
“Okay! I'm up!” Josef, the fat German yelled. “Gimme the camera, Sar.” She took the tiny camera off her head slapped on his balding crown. In the survival suit he looked like some jogger from hell.
“Ready to go?” David was back at the controls.
“Ja!” Josef was enveloped in bluish light and disappeared.
“Hey Sar, go grab a few more beers from the fridge, we still have the whole night till the administrator comes in in the morning!”
Sarin laughed and stepped walked out the room, hearing peals of laughter from the rest of the staff. Apparently Josef had gotten into a situation even worse than hers, or at least more hilarious. This wasn't exactly what she'd expected when she'd started working on the top-secret teleporter project, but she had to admit, if they were going to meet a bunch of aliens without government permission, drunk as hell and partying was probably the way to do it.
They could fire her in the morning if they wanted, but before that, she wanted to go back to the pig planet with a machine gun and a skillet. Second contact would be far less pleasurable for those damn monsters.

This is a short story I should have finished a long time ago. There may be more stories from our hero, but for now, this is it. Please comment on it!

Plastic Nerves

The doctors sit me down in the chair. It's hard and plastic – not very comfortable, but they tell me that's the point. “We want to make sure you're aware of the decision being made here; we want to make sure that you aren't going to regret this. The uncomfortable chair stimulates your nerves, makes you move and feel – keeps you awake. We don't want you getting too relaxed, too at ease with what you might lose.”
I smirk. I've done this test every day for the past 23 days, and they've said nearly the same thing. Not exactly, “you might get used to what we are saying and automatically respond instead of thinking about it, so we have to ask you in different ways, different times to keep you thinking about the choice you're making here.”
They say.
They want to get this test done even more than I do. But they won't get the government-approved green light unless I say yes every day for a month and undergo the most rigorous psychological testing any test subject has ever experienced. It's not that they care about me – I volunteered, I'm asking for it. But the equipment won't be reusable, and they want to make sure that they get real results – not a premature failure. The doctors say that no one has undergone something like this – to this extreme. They say I could die. I tell them I'm aware of the risks. They say my life won't be the same – I could lose all my friends and family, my life as I know it. I tell them I know, and I'm almost sad about that, but I want this. I want to be the first.
“Sure we can't just get this done?” I ask the nameless doctor in front of me. He introduced himself once – I don't remember it. Something Indian. It doesn't matter. They all look the same, sound the same. This one's white – this one's black – this one's a woman, another a man. “If all goes well, none of what you're telling me will matter – I can have my entire life the way it is now – I won't miss anything.” They look at each other, and tell me the same thing they've told me every time I've said that. “We just want to make sure that you understand the risks.” Only one week to go till the questioning ends, but I'm getting impatient.
“Is it that you don't trust yourselves?” I look at the doctor to my left. She's young, pretty. Brown, wavy hair comes down to her shoulders, almost covering her face, but she's held swept it back behind one ear, revealing a smooth, slightly freckled white face – button nose and those thin, rectangular glasses you see everybody wearing nowadays. Her eyes are blue. I look into them. She's scared of me – she's been scared this whole time. I try to remember why – I'd asked someone about it before. “You're too intense for her – too knowledgeable about this whole business. She imagined that our best candidate would be someone who took everything lightly and didn't make a huge fuss about it, didn't think about it. That's what we all almost wish you were, but we understand why that can't be the case. That's why we have the psychologists.”
Too knowledgeable. Too smart. It's sad. Doctors and psychologists are always used to dealing with people less intelligent than them. People don't actually understand what the doctors tell you, what their tests are about. How can they? Doctors go to school for years and years, losing personal lives and enough money to sink a ship, while the person who's walked into their office probably just knows what they feel like and what they read on the internet. How can they be expected to know what their choices really are? They should just be told:
This one might kill you, but if it doesn't it will definitely work.
This one won't kill you, but might not work.
Those are usually the choices.
Not me though – I knew enough. Enough to be annoying. Enough to know their games. Enough that if they explained something to me, I learned enough to explain it back to them. That's why I was here. I was an intelligent man willing to do something that most intelligent men were believed incapable of giving – my life and privacy. I'll ask you to think about that – constant surveillance of every tiny action in your life.
Everything.
I'm realising that I've made no mention of what exactly is happening to me. I apologise, truly. The aura of mystique, tense atmosphere and of course my rant on the members of the medical profession have taken my attention away from the truth of what is happening to me. I suppose it will provide you a point of reference to what I've been talking about this whole time. My name is Lucas Evans. I am 32 years old, have a wife, Elizabeth Evans, 30 and a daughter, Amanda Evans age 4. I love them, and we are a happy family – which was the one element about my candidacy for this experiment the doctors found negative.
I've mentioned it before.
As to what exactly is going to happen, well, They're going to replace my entire body, brain included, with mechanical and electrical components. There won't be a single piece of flesh left in me – even blood. Fibre-optic nerves, plastic cells, ceramic muscles an electric brain. I won't bore you with the specifics, but suffice to say it does a near perfect job of replicating the human body. I've seen it – it's based on my DNA, so it looks almost exactly like me, except for a few adjustments. It is extremely strange, looking at myself, but not in a mirror. Maybe this is what actors feel like when they go to a wax museum with themselves on display. I ask the doctors if I can go see my body – they tell me ok. It's a short walk from the room where they interrogate me. We have to be sterilised before we go in – it confuses me because it's not like there's anything to contaminate, but they want it done anyway. I guess I understand, I don't want any dirt getting in my brain case, clog the metaphorical thinking cogs. It takes a few minutes, but it's ok, I've done this at least a dozen times before. The room we enter into is rather large for its purpose – too large. But maybe that's the point. There's a large box in the centre of the room, slightly larger than a grandfather clock. It's white, like everything else in this barren place – something to remind me of the fact that I'll soon be vastly separated from my human senses, and my world may turn as sterile as this lab. I don't feel that way, so I say as much.
“Why?” asks the young woman doctor. “your skin will be a series of pressure sensitive receptors made of plastic, your body temperature will be regulated by metal valves and your muscles powered by ethanol! Everything will be artificial! Even your brain will be a computer matrix, physically and chemically copied from the biological version but made of silicon and plastic, your personality uploaded from copies of your brainwaves, you'll barely be attached to even that! How can you say you won't be separated?”
Her eyes were wide open, her chest heaving, knuckles white where she was gripping her clipboard. She stared at me from behind those small rectangular glasses, a few strands of hair falling over them, set loose by her explosive outburst. The other doctors said nothing, merely waited for my response.
There was an awkward silence.
I like awkward silences – you always get to see everyone embarrassed. I think that if you see someone when they're embarrassed you learn something about them as a person. I learned one thing – She doesn't like awkward silences.
“What's your name?” I ask, awaiting her confused expression. I get it. “What does that have to do with anything?” She cocks an eyebrow and frowns; I imagine she's convinced I have no idea what she's talking about. I ignore her comment and look at her name tag instead – Sara, it says. Dr. Sara Schectman, MD.
“Ok Sara, now I feel like we can talk on a personal basis. I hate talking to people I don't know. Well, I don't think it's very different, being in that body. In fact, I feel like I'll actually be closer to nature, to reality. Right now, my body is made of of trillions of tiny, individual cells, each their own little animal, working together to create who I am as a person. When I touch something with my hand, the cells in my skin feel the pressure, temperature and whatever else and send out what they felt through little chemical signals that travel from one cell to the next all the way up to my brain, where I get to figure out what exactly it is that I'm touching. There are hundreds of tiny living things doing that work. My body is like a machine, housing and servicing my soul. We hope I have a soul, because if it's something else that makes me human, when I get put into that metal box it'll just be a bunch of experiences and emotional responses that don't think or feel – not me, the man. You're going to coax my body into using that metal brain, hoping to lure my soul into it. When I get put in there, its different than being this animal. In that body, there are touch and temperature sensors, but they aren't alive. They don't lust for self-survival, they're connected to my cyberbrain and do exactly what it says. Every single part of my cybernetic body function can be consciously controlled. It won't need to be, if everything goes right – my brain will barely notice the difference, but I could if I wanted to. My bones are made of titanium instead of hard, calcified cells that are still alive. My muscles are ceramic tendons that expand and contract based on the temperature of the ethanol that runs through them, not long, tough living cells, individual animals doing the work my brain and spine command. Everything in my cybernetic body goes directly to my brain. My whole body is like a single cell, each part within serving the nucleus where all information and function are stored. There are small microchips in and around, to help service those parts, but I'm in complete, conscious contact with them. So when I touch something, it's really much more like my actual mind is touching it, instead of just a cell of skin.” I'm holding my right hand out to her, palm up, pointing at my fingers with my left hand. Her mouth is slightly agape, I'm not sure if it's because she's so impressed by my diatribe or because she didn't understand my point. I'll try not to think about it.
“Ok, but your body is completely self-contained – you can survive near-indefinitely without eating or drinking, your power cells just need to be recharged every few years, you aren't using the world to survive, you're now completely independent. You're a part of the world because all those millions of cells are constantly changing, constantly affected by the world around them. You'll be made up of things that were once part of this world, but were a dead part – the closest thing that body has to an organic component is the plastic that once was a bunch of liquid, dead dinosaur. It doesn't have anything to do with life, just metals and plastics and clays!” She almost spat the last few words.
“It sounds like you're disgusted by this project, don't you want this to happen? Why are you here?” I ask, bemused.
Her lips jam up tight, and she crosses her arms over her chest holding her clipboard. She looks embarrassed, and turns away. “No, it's just that... this is for people that have no hope, no body of their own. This should be for people with no alternatives! Not you. You've got a perfectly working body, a good family, you don't have any history of health defects – why are you giving all that up for this? You have so much to lose!”
I smile – it's really funny how some people show they like you, and which people do like you. This girl clearly likes me. I'm sorry, this young female doctor. Why? That's a good question. Millions of years of evolution and thousands of cultural have taught her, unconsciously that whatever traits I possess are excellent qualities for a mate. I'm not interested, but it's flattering. “Don't worry – I trust you to get me through this ok and see me back to my wife and daughter.” She just looks at me.

* * * * *

The day we've all been waiting for finally arrives. We start the day in a meeting room with a window to the transplant room. “Let's go over the procedure.” states the Indian doctor. “First you'll be knocked unconscious through hypnosis and acupuncture, we can't afford for any drugs to mess with your system – your brainwaves need to be completely natural. After that we'll open up your head and spine, and disconnect the two. After that, we'll connect your spine to the cyberbrain, which at this point is calibrated for your consciousness and thought patterns, but hasn't been uploaded. We'll then connect your natural brain to your cyberbrain and let them work in parallel. It's going to be awkward, and you'll look a horrid sight, because we're going to have to brace your neck, and you're going to have an extra metal brain attached to the back of your skull, so I would not try to ask anyone out on a date.” He showed a model on the wall display.
It really does look awful. It's almost like some sort of horrid hunchback standing straight. The model – soon to be me – has a large plastic cover coming up from the small of its back coming up to a point about 30cm behind the shoulders and reaching back over to cover my head. Overlaid on the image is what is actually going to happen to my spine and brain. The spine is laid bare, open to the elements, the nerves pulled out and attached to the cyberbrain. The head of the model is completely shaved, covered with electrical receptors and transmitters.
“At this point we'll begin training your new brain from the spine up. We'll teach it to use your nervous system and provide subconscious responses by poking, tickling and moving your body. This will take a long time. After that point we'll have you start consciously doing things, telling your body to move, thinking, speaking and performing problem-solving exercises. We'll also begin teaching your brain how to use the cyberbrain's capabilities – such as accessing computers in the lab and commanding small robots. The receivers attached to your head will transmit your brain signals to the cyberbrain, which will command the spine, and in turn, will send the results back to your physical brain. After about a day of this testing, we'll begin killing parts of your brain. This will force your brain to use the cyberbrain to perform those functions, which should begin pushing your consciousness into it. After we've killed off almost all the motor functions, we'll let you sleep, and during REM sleep we'll slowly begin poisoning your brain. This will force your brain to connect to the cyberbrain, and your consciousness should slip over before your brain is completely killed. It's worked in our test animals, and there shouldn't be any problems. Then we'll disconnect your cyberbrain and kill your body. It'll be cremated. The uh, the crematorium is actually connected to the test chamber. Finally, before you wake up, we'll install you into your new body. Then you'll wake up and we'll get you used to that, which should be painless and easy. Any questions?”
We'd gone over this before, but really hearing that this is what would be happening in less than an hour was intense. Of course, it'd be about 36 hours before it was finished, but there wouldn't be any turning back after the surgery. “Is there any reason for killing my body? Have you ever left an animal brain or body alive after transferring the consciousness?” I ask, tentatively. I think I've asked this before, but I want to know again. I'm starting to feel the dark tendrils of fear gripping my neck.
“We tried that. A few times. The animals would respond to simple stimulus, but even subconscious reactions were missing. Anything that actually required brain function was gone. We discovered that the brain cells, although they were being fed by the body and kept alive, refused to perform any function. Essentially, they were brain-dead even though there was no physical damage to the organ itself. At the same time the cyberbrain signals would go haywire. It was as if the brain was searching for something that just wasn't there, but as soon as we destroyed the original body, it calmed down and resumed normal function.”
This was all really getting to me more than it should have. I'd prepared myself for this. But the facts just brought up so many questions – why did the brain die? Even simple animal brains wouldn't allow two identical copies. “Has there ever been a successful re-transfer of brain function from cyberbrain to biological?”
He shook his head. “The consciousness in the cyberbrain appears to refuse re-transfers. You can't force it back in, it just won't go.”
I had heard of that, I remembered now. Proof of the soul, they said. I'm not a religious man, but something like that is hard to dispute. I reassured myself. Just because a soul exists doesn't mean it's divine at all. What was I getting so spooked about? This was it. This was the day I'd dreamed of. This was my future. Scratch that. This is my future.
“I'm ready.” I say this with certainty.
“Very well.”
We all stand up and leave the room, walking single file into the transplant room. The doctors look so professional, with their lab coats and glasses and clipboards hugged to chests. They strip off my clothes and lay me down face first on the operating table. There's a hole for my face. No real purpose, all I can see is the floor, but I suppose its to help me breathe.
“We're going to start the acupuncture now.” I think it's Sara speaking. I ask.
“Yes, it's me. I thought you knew I was doing this part?” She seems surprised, maybe insulted. I'm not sure.
“I guess I forgot.” This isn't right. I shouldn't be feeling like this. I've been sure, confident, even obstinate in my dedication to this procedure. Not like this. I'm about to change this world. I'm about to become immortal. I won't need clothes to keep me warm, I won't need scuba gear to help me dive, I won't need a space suit to survive in space. I wont need anything.
Or anyone.
I lose feeling in my legs. They tell me that's right.
I have a soul.
I lose feeling in my arms.
Will I like immortality? Will I miss the embrace of death?
I lose feeling in my arms. They tell me it's all right.
“Sara?”
“Yes?” Her voice is quiet, subdued.
“Don't be afraid.” I tell her this, I tell her, but in truth I'm telling me.
I'm so scared.
I lose all feeling. It's just me, my ears, my eyes and my trust brain. But maybe I already said that. I'm not sure any more.
The Indian doctor speaks. “We're taking out your spine, and opening your skull now. Tell us if you feel anything.” I don't.
They hook up the electrodes, give me access to the cyberbrain. It's so open. My mind has left Plato's cave, and is looking upon the great ocean of Life. I am standing on the beach. They are telling me to perform some tests. They are telling me to move machines. I don't need to.
I don't need to.
I don't.
It's ready for me now.
I am leaving. I am free.
I let my fleshy husk go. I give birth to a new me. For one brief instant, I am between bodies. I am unbound, my spirit free of physical constraints. I can feel the world, the souls of those around me, the lines of love and spirit that bind my family. For one glorious moment I have no need of flesh, of steel, of man or God. It is not a religious experience. It is a living experience. Then I have a new body, a greater body, and I feel not the essence of life. I cannot feel that, but I can feel more. I am one, I am me, and I am ready. I can see my still breathing body on the table. It will not speak another word, love another person, do another thing. There is a brain there, but it is empty, a mere shell of what it was before. There is no me in that body, no identity for me to find. It is a mannequin of flesh and blood, beating organs and flowing fluids. I step forward, seeing the looks of shock and fear on the doctors' faces. I should not be alive. I should not have been able to do this thing.
I should not have skipped the tests. They say. I should not have been able.
But I have.
I understand now why the animals could not handle this – they could not decide which way to go. They could not free themselves from evolution's gift, from the bodies they hold so dear. They lived a half-life, a fearful existence where they could not become unbound. I am greater.
I am a new truth.
I tell the doctors that this is the end, I am leaving now. I tell them that when they decide to join me, I will be waiting. I tell Sara that she will be okay, that someone will come who will love her. I do not know this, but I tell her anyway. I walk out the doors, out the building. No one can stop me, no one will stop me. I grin, feeling the ceramic of my muscles tighten my plastic skin. I feel alive.
I skip down the street, humming a song. It might be the tune from something else, but I think I'm making it up. I could search the net to see if I am stealing it, but I don't.
I am alive.

This is a short story I should have finished a long time ago. There may be more stories from our hero, but for now, this is it. Please comment on it!

Plastic Nerves

The doctors sit me down in the chair. It's hard and plastic – not very comfortable, but they tell me that's the point. “We want to make sure you're aware of the decision being made here; we want to make sure that you aren't going to regret this. The uncomfortable chair stimulates your nerves, makes you move and feel – keeps you awake. We don't want you getting too relaxed, too at ease with what you might lose.”
I smirk. I've done this test every day for the past 23 days, and they've said nearly the same thing. Not exactly, “you might get used to what we are saying and automatically respond instead of thinking about it, so we have to ask you in different ways, different times to keep you thinking about the choice you're making here.”
They say.
They want to get this test done even more than I do. But they won't get the government-approved green light unless I say yes every day for a month and undergo the most rigorous psychological testing any test subject has ever experienced. It's not that they care about me – I volunteered, I'm asking for it. But the equipment won't be reusable, and they want to make sure that they get real results – not a premature failure. The doctors say that no one has undergone something like this – to this extreme. They say I could die. I tell them I'm aware of the risks. They say my life won't be the same – I could lose all my friends and family, my life as I know it. I tell them I know, and I'm almost sad about that, but I want this. I want to be the first.
“Sure we can't just get this done?” I ask the nameless doctor in front of me. He introduced himself once – I don't remember it. Something Indian. It doesn't matter. They all look the same, sound the same. This one's white – this one's black – this one's a woman, another a man. “If all goes well, none of what you're telling me will matter – I can have my entire life the way it is now – I won't miss anything.” They look at each other, and tell me the same thing they've told me every time I've said that. “We just want to make sure that you understand the risks.” Only one week to go till the questioning ends, but I'm getting impatient.
“Is it that you don't trust yourselves?” I look at the doctor to my left. She's young, pretty. Brown, wavy hair comes down to her shoulders, almost covering her face, but she's held swept it back behind one ear, revealing a smooth, slightly freckled white face – button nose and those thin, rectangular glasses you see everybody wearing nowadays. Her eyes are blue. I look into them. She's scared of me – she's been scared this whole time. I try to remember why – I'd asked someone about it before. “You're too intense for her – too knowledgeable about this whole business. She imagined that our best candidate would be someone who took everything lightly and didn't make a huge fuss about it, didn't think about it. That's what we all almost wish you were, but we understand why that can't be the case. That's why we have the psychologists.”
Too knowledgeable. Too smart. It's sad. Doctors and psychologists are always used to dealing with people less intelligent than them. People don't actually understand what the doctors tell you, what their tests are about. How can they? Doctors go to school for years and years, losing personal lives and enough money to sink a ship, while the person who's walked into their office probably just knows what they feel like and what they read on the internet. How can they be expected to know what their choices really are? They should just be told:
This one might kill you, but if it doesn't it will definitely work.
This one won't kill you, but might not work.
Those are usually the choices.
Not me though – I knew enough. Enough to be a

This is a short story I should have finished a long time ago. There may be more stories from our hero, but for now, this is it. Please comment on it!

Plastic Nerves

The doctors sit me down in the chair. It's hard and plastic – not very comfortable, but they tell me that's the point. “We want to make sure you're aware of the decision being made here; we want to make sure that you aren't going to regret this. The uncomfortable chair stimulates your nerves, makes you move and feel – keeps you awake. We don't want you getting too relaxed, too at ease with what you might lose.”
I smirk. I've done this test every day for the past 23 days, and they've said nearly the same thing. Not exactly, “you might get used to what we are saying and automatically respond instead of thinking about it, so we have to ask you in different ways, different times to keep you thinking about the choice you're making here.”
They say.
They want to get this test done even more than I do. But they won't get the government-approved green light unless I say yes every day for a month and undergo the most rigorous psychological testing any test subject has ever experienced. It's not that they care about me – I volunteered, I'm asking for it. But the equipment won't be reusable, and they want to make sure that they get real results – not a premature failure. The doctors say that no one has undergone something like this – to this extreme. They say I could die. I tell them I'm aware of the risks. They say my life won't be the same – I could lose all my friends and family, my life as I know it. I tell them I know, and I'm almost sad about that, but I want this. I want to be the first.
“Sure we can't just get this done?” I ask the nameless doctor in front of me. He introduced himself once – I don't remember it. Something Indian. It doesn't matter. They all look the same, sound the same. This one's white – this one's black – this one's a woman, another a man. “If all goes well, none of what you're telling me will matter – I can have my entire life the way it is now – I won't miss anything.” They look at each other, and tell me the same thing they've told me every time I've said that. “We just want to make sure that you understand the risks.” Only one week to go till the questioning ends, but I'm getting impatient.
“Is it that you don't trust yourselves?” I look at the doctor to my left. She's young, pretty. Brown, wavy hair comes down to her shoulders, almost covering her face, but she's held swept it back behind one ear, revealing a smooth, slightly freckled white face – button nose and those thin, rectangular glasses you see everybody wearing nowadays. Her eyes are blue. I look into them. She's scared of me – she's been scared this whole time. I try to remember why – I'd asked someone about it before. “You're too intense for her – too knowledgeable about this whole business. She imagined that our best candidate would be someone who took everything lightly and didn't make a huge fuss about it, didn't think about it. That's what we all almost wish you were, but we understand why that can't be the case. That's why we have the psychologists.”
Too knowledgeable. Too smart. It's sad. Doctors and psychologists are always used to dealing with people less intelligent than them. People don't actually understand what the doctors tell you, what their tests are about. How can they? Doctors go to school for years and years, losing personal lives and enough money to sink a ship, while the person who's walked into their office probably just knows what they feel like and what they read on the internet. How can they be expected to know what their choices really are? They should just be told:
This one might kill you, but if it doesn't it will definitely work.
This one won't kill you, but might not work.
Those are usually the choices.
Not me though – I knew enough. Enough to be annoying. Enough to know their games. Enough that if they explained something to me, I learned enough to explain it back to them. That's why I was here. I was an intelligent man willing to do something that most intelligent men were believed incapable of giving – my life and privacy. I'll ask you to think about that – constant surveillance of every tiny action in your life.
Everything.
I'm realising that I've made no mention of what exactly is happening to me. I apologise, truly. The aura of mystique, tense atmosphere and of course my rant on the members of the medical profession have taken my attention away from the truth of what is happening to me. I suppose it will provide you a point of reference to what I've been talking about this whole time. My name is Lucas Evans. I am 32 years old, have a wife, Elizabeth Evans, 30 and a daughter, Amanda Evans age 4. I love them, and we are a happy family – which was the one element about my candidacy for this experiment the doctors found negative.
I've mentioned it before.
As to what exactly is going to happen, well, They're going to replace my entire body, brain included, with mechanical and electrical components. There won't be a single piece of flesh left in me – even blood. Fibre-optic nerves, plastic cells, ceramic muscles an electric brain. I won't bore you with the specifics, but suffice to say it does a near perfect job of replicating the human body. I've seen it – it's based on my DNA, so it looks almost exactly like me, except for a few adjustments. It is extremely strange, looking at myself, but not in a mirror. Maybe this is what actors feel like when they go to a wax museum with themselves on display. I ask the doctors if I can go see my body – they tell me ok. It's a short walk from the room where they interrogate me. We have to be sterilised before we go in – it confuses me because it's not like there's anything to contaminate, but they want it done anyway. I guess I understand, I don't want any dirt getting in my brain case, clog the metaphorical thinking cogs. It takes a few minutes, but it's ok, I've done this at least a dozen times before. The room we enter into is rather large for its purpose – too large. But maybe that's the point. There's a large box in the centre of the room, slightly larger than a grandfather clock. It's white, like everything else in this barren place – something to remind me of the fact that I'll soon be vastly separated from my human senses, and my world may turn as sterile as this lab. I don't feel that way, so I say as much.
“Why?” asks the young woman doctor. “your skin will be a series of pressure sensitive receptors made of plastic, your body temperature will be regulated by metal valves and your muscles powered by ethanol! Everything will be artificial! Even your brain will be a computer matrix, physically and chemically copied from the biological version but made of silicon and plastic, your personality uploaded from copies of your brainwaves, you'll barely be attached to even that! How can you say you won't be separated?”
Her eyes were wide open, her chest heaving, knuckles white where she was gripping her clipboard. She stared at me from behind those small rectangular glasses, a few strands of hair falling over them, set loose by her explosive outburst. The other doctors said nothing, merely waited for my response.
There was an awkward silence.
I like awkward silences – you always get to see everyone embarrassed. I think that if you see someone when they're embarrassed you learn something about them as a person. I learned one thing – She doesn't like awkward silences.
“What's your name?” I ask, awaiting her confused expression. I get it. “What does that have to do with anything?” She cocks an eyebrow and frowns; I imagine she's convinced I have no idea what she's talking about. I ignore her comment and look at her name tag instead – Sara, it says. Dr. Sara Schectman, MD.
“Ok Sara, now I feel like we can talk on a personal basis. I hate talking to people I don't know. Well, I don't think it's very different, being in that body. In fact, I feel like I'll actually be closer to nature, to reality. Right now, my body is made of of trillions of tiny, individual cells, each their own little animal, working together to create who I am as a person. When I touch something with my hand, the cells in my skin feel the pressure, temperature and whatever else and send out what they felt through little chemical signals that travel from one cell to the next all the way up to my brain, where I get to figure out what exactly it is that I'm touching. There are hundreds of tiny living things doing that work. My body is like a machine, housing and servicing my soul. We hope I have a soul, because if it's something else that makes me human, when I get put into that metal box it'll just be a bunch of experiences and emotional responses that don't think or feel – not me, the man. You're going to coax my body into using that metal brain, hoping to lure my soul into it. When I get put in there, its different than being this animal. In that body, there are touch and temperature sensors, but they aren't alive. They don't lust for self-survival, they're connected to my cyberbrain and do exactly what it says. Every single part of my cybernetic body function can be consciously controlled. It won't need to be, if everything goes right – my brain will barely notice the difference, but I could if I wanted to. My bones are made of titanium instead of hard, calcified cells that are still alive. My muscles are ceramic tendons that expand and contract based on the temperature of the ethanol that runs through them, not long, tough living cells, individual animals doing the work my brain and spine command. Everything in my cybernetic body goes directly to my brain. My whole body is like a single cell, each part within serving the nucleus where all information and function are stored. There are small microchips in and around, to help service those parts, but I'm in complete, conscious contact with them. So when I touch something, it's really much more like my actual mind is touching it, instead of just a cell of skin.” I'm holding my right hand out to her, palm up, pointing at my fingers with my left hand. Her mouth is slightly agape, I'm not sure if it's because she's so impressed by my diatribe or because she didn't understand my point. I'll try not to think about it.
“Ok, but your body is completely self-contained – you can survive near-indefinitely without eating or drinking, your power cells just need to be recharged every few years, you aren't using the world to survive, you're now completely independent. You're a part of the world because all those millions of cells are constantly changing, constantly affected by the world around them. You'll be made up of things that were once part of this world, but were a dead part – the closest thing that body has to an organic component is the plastic that once was a bunch of liquid, dead dinosaur. It doesn't have anything to do with life, just metals and plastics and clays!” She almost spat the last few words.
“It sounds like you're disgusted by this project, don't you want this to happen? Why are you here?” I ask, bemused.
Her lips jam up tight, and she crosses her arms over her chest holding her clipboard. She looks embarrassed, and turns away. “No, it's just that... this is for people that have no hope, no body of their own. This should be for people with no alternatives! Not you. You've got a perfectly working body, a good family, you don't have any history of health defects – why are you giving all that up for this? You have so much to lose!”
I smile – it's really funny how some people show they like you, and which people do like you. This girl clearly likes me. I'm sorry, this young female doctor. Why? That's a good question. Millions of years of evolution and thousands of cultural have taught her, unconsciously that whatever traits I possess are excellent qualities for a mate. I'm not interested, but it's flattering. “Don't worry – I trust you to get me through this ok and see me back to my wife and daughter.” She just looks at me.

* * * * *

The day we've all been waiting for finally arrives. We start the day in a meeting room with a window to the transplant room. “Let's go over the procedure.” states the Indian doctor. “First you'll be knocked unconscious through hypnosis and acupuncture, we can't afford for any drugs to mess with your system – your brainwaves need to be completely natural. After that we'll open up your head and spine, and disconnect the two. After that, we'll connect your spine to the cyberbrain, which at this point is calibrated for your consciousness and thought patterns, but hasn't been uploaded. We'll then connect your natural brain to your cyberbrain and let them work in parallel. It's going to be awkward, and you'll look a horrid sight, because we're going to have to brace your neck, and you're going to have an extra metal brain attached to the back of your skull, so I would not try to ask anyone out on a date.” He showed a model on the wall display.
It really does look awful. It's almost like some sort of horrid hunchback standing straight. The model – soon to be me – has a large plastic cover coming up from the small of its back coming up to a point about 30cm behind the shoulders and reaching back over to cover my head. Overlaid on the image is what is actually going to happen to my spine and brain. The spine is laid bare, open to the elements, the nerves pulled out and attached to the cyberbrain. The head of the model is completely shaved, covered with electrical receptors and transmitters.
“At this point we'll begin training your new brain from the spine up. We'll teach it to use your nervous system and provide subconscious responses by poking, tickling and moving your body. This will take a long time. After that point we'll have you start consciously doing things, telling your body to move, thinking, speaking and performing problem-solving exercises. We'll also begin teaching your brain how to use the cyberbrain's capabilities – such as accessing computers in the lab and commanding small robots. The receivers attached to your head will transmit your brain signals to the cyberbrain, which will command the spine, and in turn, will send the results back to your physical brain. After about a day of this testing, we'll begin killing parts of your brain. This will force your brain to use the cyberbrain to perform those functions, which should begin pushing your consciousness into it. After we've killed off almost all the motor functions, we'll let you sleep, and during REM sleep we'll slowly begin poisoning your brain. This will force your brain to connect to the cyberbrain, and your consciousness should slip over before your brain is completely killed. It's worked in our test animals, and there shouldn't be any problems. Then we'll disconnect your cyberbrain and kill your body. It'll be cremated. The uh, the crematorium is actually connected to the test chamber. Finally, before you wake up, we'll install you into your new body. Then you'll wake up and we'll get you used to that, which should be painless and easy. Any questions?”
We'd gone over this before, but really hearing that this is what would be happening in less than an hour was intense. Of course, it'd be about 36 hours before it was finished, but there wouldn't be any turning back after the surgery. “Is there any reason for killing my body? Have you ever left an animal brain or body alive after transferring the consciousness?” I ask, tentatively. I think I've asked this before, but I want to know again. I'm starting to feel the dark tendrils of fear gripping my neck.
“We tried that. A few times. The animals would respond to simple stimulus, but even subconscious reactions were missing. Anything that actually required brain function was gone. We discovered that the brain cells, although they were being fed by the body and kept alive, refused to perform any function. Essentially, they were brain-dead even though there was no physical damage to the organ itself. At the same time the cyberbrain signals would go haywire. It was as if the brain was searching for something that just wasn't there, but as soon as we destroyed the original body, it calmed down and resumed normal function.”
This was all really getting to me more than it should have. I'd prepared myself for this. But the facts just brought up so many questions – why did the brain die? Even simple animal brains wouldn't allow two identical copies. “Has there ever been a successful re-transfer of brain function from cyberbrain to biological?”
He shook his head. “The consciousness in the cyberbrain appears to refuse re-transfers. You can't force it back in, it just won't go.”
I had heard of that, I remembered now. Proof of the soul, they said. I'm not a religious man, but something like that is hard to dispute. I reassured myself. Just because a soul exists doesn't mean it's divine at all. What was I getting so spooked about? This was it. This was the day I'd dreamed of. This was my future. Scratch that. This is my future.
“I'm ready.” I say this with certainty.
“Very well.”
We all stand up and leave the room, walking single file into the transplant room. The doctors look so professional, with their lab coats and glasses and clipboards hugged to chests. They strip off my clothes and lay me down face first on the operating table. There's a hole for my face. No real purpose, all I can see is the floor, but I suppose its to help me breathe.
“We're going to start the acupuncture now.” I think it's Sara speaking. I ask.
“Yes, it's me. I thought you knew I was doing this part?” She seems surprised, maybe insulted. I'm not sure.
“I guess I forgot.” This isn't right. I shouldn't be feeling like this. I've been sure, confident, even obstinate in my dedication to this procedure. Not like this. I'm about to change this world. I'm about to become immortal. I won't need clothes to keep me warm, I won't need scuba gear to help me dive, I won't need a space suit to survive in space. I wont need anything.
Or anyone.
I lose feeling in my legs. They tell me that's right.
I have a soul.
I lose feeling in my arms.
Will I like immortality? Will I miss the embrace of death?
I lose feeling in my arms. They tell me it's all right.
“Sara?”
“Yes?” Her voice is quiet, subdued.
“Don't be afraid.” I tell her this, I tell her, but in truth I'm telling me.
I'm so scared.
I lose all feeling. It's just me, my ears, my eyes and my trust brain. But maybe I already said that. I'm not sure any more.
The Indian doctor speaks. “We're taking out your spine, and opening your skull now. Tell us if you feel anything.” I don't.
They hook up the electrodes, give me access to the cyberbrain. It's so open. My mind has left Plato's cave, and is looking upon the great ocean of Life. I am standing on the beach. They are telling me to perform some tests. They are telling me to move machines. I don't need to.
I don't need to.
I don't.
It's ready for me now.
I am leaving. I am free.
I let my fleshy husk go. I give birth to a new me. For one brief instant, I am between bodies. I am unbound, my spirit free of physical constraints. I can feel the world, the souls of those around me, the lines of love and spirit that bind my family. For one glorious moment I have no need of flesh, of steel, of man or God. It is not a religious experience. It is a living experience. Then I have a new body, a greater body, and I feel not the essence of life. I cannot feel that, but I can feel more. I am one, I am me, and I am ready. I can see my still breathing body on the table. It will not speak another word, love another person, do another thing. There is a brain there, but it is empty, a mere shell of what it was before. There is no me in that body, no identity for me to find. It is a mannequin of flesh and blood, beating organs and flowing fluids. I step forward, seeing the looks of shock and fear on the doctors' faces. I should not be alive. I should not have been able to do this thing.
I should not have skipped the tests. They say. I should not have been able.
But I have.
I understand now why the animals could not handle this – they could not decide which way to go. They could not free themselves from evolution's gift, from the bodies they hold so dear. They lived a half-life, a fearful existence where they could not become unbound. I am greater.
I am a new truth.
I tell the doctors that this is the end, I am leaving now. I tell them that when they decide to join me, I will be waiting. I tell Sara that she will be okay, that someone will come who will love her. I do not know this, but I tell her anyway. I walk out the doors, out the building. No one can stop me, no one will stop me. I grin, feeling the ceramic of my muscles tighten my plastic skin. I feel alive.
I skip down the street, humming a song. It might be the tune from something else, but I think I'm making it up. I could search the net to see if I am stealing it, but I don't.
I am alive.

I really like dinosaurs, you know that? I wish I could bring them back, encourage them to live and frolic in our wildernesses. Cause you know, ain't no government going to ok the use of military weapons against em, and hunters aren't about to take down a T-Rex with a rifle or nothin. So you could just take a bunch of dinosaurs, put them in an endangered area, and voila! Protection, and awesome monsters! I understand that really, we'd be messing up a huge section of the ecosystem, but really - what's cooler, a bunch of apes and some big rodents or giant monster lizards? I rest my case.

I really like dinosaurs, you know that? I wish I could bring them back, encourage them to live and frolic in our wildernesses. Cause you know, ain't no government going to ok the use of military weapons against em, and hunters aren't about to take down a T-Rex with a rifle or nothin. So you could just take a bunch of dinosaurs, put them in an endangered area, and voila! Protection, and awesome monsters! I understand that really, we'd be messing up a huge section of the ecosystem, but really - what's cooler, a bunch of apes and some big rodents or giant monster lizards? I rest my case.

I really like dinosaurs, you know that? I wish I could bring them back, encourage them to live and frolic in our wildernesses. Cause you know, ain't no government going to ok the use of military weapons against em, and hunters aren't about to take down a T-Rex with a rifle or nothin. So you could just take a bunch of dinosaurs, put them in an endangered area, and voila! Protection, and awesome monsters! I understand that really, we'd be messing up a huge section of the ecosystem, but really - what's cooler, a bunch of apes and some big rodents or giant monster lizards? I rest my case.

I'm trying to write a book. It's ambitious, and probably stupid. However, I like the idea. I will put up the first teensy bit here - it might look long on the blog, but it's only a few pages long.


'Eve, you awake?' said her dinner plate. 'There's something coming in on the screen, it looks really weird – wake up!' Eve frowned at the dinner plate. Previous experience had taught her that dinner plates were surfaces on which food was placed to be eaten – not talking ceramic discs. 'Shh! I want to eat in peace!' she sternly told the plate. 'EVE! WE'VE GOT A SIGNAL!' her plate screamed, as it squirted gravy at her face – rather hot gravy in fact. The chair which had been holding her fell to the floor as she squealed from the hot coffee splashing her in the face, carrying her barely conscious body with it. 'JESUS CHRIST FRANK! You're supposed to splash COLD water on somebody's face to wake them up, not fucking hot coffee!' Her rage at the dinner plate was such that the painful burn of the hot coffee (hadn't it just been gravy?) was barely noticeable. It was then that she noticed that standing in front of her was not in fact a dinner plate, so rudely acting human, but the short, pudgy figure of Frank Alvarez, her co-worker and researcher at SETI. His tiny brown eyes were pointed at the floor, and he was holding his arms behind his back abashedly, as if doing so would cover up the fact that his coffee mug was visible and still dripping. 'Sorry Eve, I just got excited, I mean, we have a signal!' He looked up at her, a small smile touching his mouth. 'OK Frank, but we get signals all the time, they're always something else, you can be calm about it. I know you're new, and this is very exciting, but for the love of God, don't pour coffee on anyone to wake them up. Ever. Now go get me a towel.' She looked down at him, and pointed towards the bathroom. 'Go!' Frank's smile disappeared, and he scrambled over the chairs and desks to get out. 'Don't break anything!!' She yelled after him. 'And get some cold water too!' She touched her face lightly – it hurt, but as much as she expected it would. Must not have been new coffee, at least. She surveyed the room – like most of the older SETI offices, it was extremely disorganised, papers, coffees and beer cans strewn about, trash cans overflowing. She wished she could be in one of the new offices, with the nice servers and cleaners, where all the other radio astronomers worked. One of the old machines was beeping at her, pointing out a regular signal. They'd just upgraded the machine's software with a new program that rather intelligently picked out standard noise and supposedly only reported extraterrestrial signals. Of course, lots of things bounced around in orbit, and so the software still picked up the occasional TV show, distress beacon or even telephone call. Still, it was better than before, and had saved them a lot of money – which was good, because funding for the SETI program was at an all time low – Frank's “new employee” status was due to the fact that he was willing to work for almost nothing. She wiped her face off in her shirt and stared down at the screen. It looked like a standard distress beacon, from a ship or mountaineer – a jump in power, signalling a beep, every few seconds, except for the fact that whatever was emitting this particular signal was exerting as much energy as three aircraft carrier reactors just to push out one beep. Jesus she thought this thing could be heard by anyone on earth listening to the right frequency. She turned on the volume on the computer. The first beep sounded through. It wasn't like a regular distress beep, whose signals were high pitched and a single tone. This one began as a low D minor, raised itself up to a C major, and dropped back down to D minor within one slow, three second long beep. Booeeoop. Booeeoop. Booeeoop. What the fuck is this? A loud crash broke stole her attention away. Frank had just returned with a towel and a jug of water, and had managed to slip on the coffee that now covered her workstation. 'Oww...' Frank groaned and tried to stand up, but his hands pitifully slipped again on the coffee. Eve sighed, and walked over to him. She extended her hand, and as he grasped it he blushed terribly and looked up at her shyly. 'thanks' he mumbled. 'Come, on, lets triangulate this signal, forget the mess.' Frank didn't respond, he was still in mild shock at the fact that he was touching her. Eve was an attractive woman, with short black hair that cupped her face like a cloak, dark brown skin inherited from her Indian father, green eyes from her Irish mother, and a perfect BBC British accent. Frank worshipped her, and she knew it. 'Frank. Come on. Let's find out where this is coming from.' She pulled her hand away, wiping his sweat off on her khaki shorts. Cause I want you ba-a-aby yes you know its true I love you baaby... the song softly could be heard coming from the back of the room. 'Shit! That's my cellphone!' She scrambled over to her backpack. 'Shitshitshit' She rummaged around and snapped it out of the bag. 'Hello? Eve Darcy speaking' she gasped. 'Eve? This is Philippe Carson, from the, uh, Europa team?' said the low, French voice on the other end of the phone. 'Right, Philippe, nice to hear from you! What's going on? She'd met Philippe once, when the Europa probe had been launched – he was a nice guy, funny without the usual dry personality associated with Astronomers and Physicists. 'Well, I believed you would want to know about this – the Europa probe has been picking up some extremely powerful radio signals coming the moon.' Eve felt her jaw drop. 'You're sure its Europa – its not just a reflection off the moon from some quasar or something?'

'I am very sure, the probe is in orbit around the moon, taking radar images and it comes off very strongly around Quadrangle 8.'

'We've been picking that signal up for a while – just a regular, slow beep, yeah?'

'The probe cannot tell us what the sound is, but it has been receiving it often, so I would assume this is it.'

'Jesus Philippe, this doesn't make any sense – Europa is a damned iceball! If there's life there at all it would at most be a few crabs and fish, not a god damned TV culture!'

'I do not know what to say – but perhaps we should talk to our colleagues about this – I will start making some calls and we will organise a meeting. I will call you back soon.' He hung up. Eve could barely believe what she had just heard. I can't get too excited, its possible that there's something else. Cause I want you ba-a-aby yes you know its true... Her phone began yelling at her again. She glanced down at it: Number Unknown. “Dr. Eve Darcy speaking?” A small pause, and she heard some papers being shuffled. 'Dr. Darcy – this is Admiral Harrison. Every single Coast Guard, Navy Station and all the boats in-between are picking up some sort of distress beacon, but we can't pin down a location, and it's not coming off of any civilian frequencies, so we thought we'd give you radio freaks a call.' Eve hated the reputation SETI carried. Calling SETI for an anomalous signal was fairly down on the Pentagon's call tree, which made her more willing to accept the Admiral's condescending tone.

'You mean its a US military vessel?'

'We would say so, but the beacon doesn't sound like any beacon we have, it just managed to set off all the alarms because its being broadcast on precisely the right frequency. Now, its not a secret entirely what frequencies used by the military, but... this signal isn't on those. This signal belongs to a set of frequencies reserved for, well, we call them “weather balloons.”'

'Weather balloons? What, you mean like Roswell? UFOs? Alien spaceships?'

'Anything experimental that we put in the air is just called a weather balloon. Nothing special, anything from a toy helicopter made of clear plastic to a robotic high altitude spy camera array.'

'So what's the problem? Did you lose one?'

'Well, no. That's the problem – all our projects are accounted for. And the range is immense – its broadcasting at the same rate and same time all across the globe.'

'What's the frequency?'

'114Ghz'

Eve stared down at her computer screen. The signal was blasting out on a number of frequencies – but none low enough to register on the usual HAM frequencies or civilian channels. It was quite possible that it'd activated the distress beacons, but she'd have to make sure. 'You're sure you didn't lose one?'

'Positive – it'd've been reported to me immediately. I head our Special Projects Search and Recovery team. I know when and where something goes missing almost before it goes missing.'

'You're not going to like my answer.'

'What, the Chinese are using the same frequency? It's a solar flare? Some jackass programmer set up about a thousand HAM radios across the globe? Just tell me what it is. You know, don't you? If you don't, let me off the phone so I can find someone who does.'

'It's coming from Europa.'

'Europe? Some rich Swiss asshole? A bunch of French guys? What do you mean “Europe?”'

'Not Europe, Europa. An icy moon orbiting Jupiter.'

'I swear to God Dr. Darcy, don't shit with me.'

'Our system's been picking up this signal for a while now, and the actual Europa team just called to tell me that the probe is picking up strong radio signals from Quadrangle 8 on Europa. We just started receiving it here, but...'

There was a pause, and then 'You're sure.' He sounded uncertain.

'It could be a reflection of a pulsar or quasar, but its extremely unlikely – the moon is in constant rotation around Jupiter, and the probe is in a short term orbit around Europa, and they say its not coming from anywhere besides Q8. In a few hours we'll know for sure that its not a reflection – it will have orbited so much that there is no chance it will be reflecting anything. It will have to be coming from inside the moon itself.'
'So there's something inside Europa sending out a distress signal that just happens to be on the exact right frequency as US special projects?'

'Yes and no, it's broadcasting on a range of frequencies, so you guys just got lucky, or unlucky, however you prefer to see it. Just in case though, I have to ask – you guys, um, didn't send anything there did you?'

'Not to my knowledge – and that covers everything. But I'll make some calls. What does it mean if we didn't send anything there?'

'Two options: Somebody else did, and they wanted to freak us all out and make for a global scandal or... there's some sort of intelligent life on Europa. Or at least some other intelligent life form sent something to Europa.'

'The first one seems more likely – I'll make some other calls. Keep watching this signal. If it is the second one, I'm sorry about the budget cuts.'

'Admiral, if it's another life form – we need to get out there. We need to communicate with it.'

'So try calling it back – in the meantime, I'm going to talk to our friends in the EU, Russia and China. You talk to our friends from way out of town.' A click told her the conversation was over. 'umm, Eve?' she jumped – she'd totally forgotten about Frank. 'Yeah Frank? Sorry, what is it?' Her heart was pounding. There's no way this is a reflection, the magnitude of the radio signal makes it nearly impossible to come from any sort of satellite, unless someone's developed a miniature nuclear power plant and shot it into space – which would have been detected by NORAD. 'Well, um, what's going on? This signal isn't really coming from Europa, is it?' She looked at him – his hands were shaking, wringing the towel he'd brought her, and his eyes were wide open. He looked like he was going to have a panic attack. 'Right now, that's what it looks like. Are you ok? Why don't you sit down, have some water.' She walked over to him, put her hand on his shoulder and sat him down in one of the chairs. 'Right now, we don't know what it is, so don't get too excited – it could just be an anomaly. Now, can you tell me when all this noise started?' He looked at his feet and tugged on the towel. 'Um, well, see, I'm not sure... I was in another room when it started, and as soon as I came in and saw it on I, um, tried to wake you up.' She looked at him sternly. 'Well, whatever, just check the records and see when exactly it started and if it looked the same this whole time or if something changed. I want to know everything about it when I get back, and you better not wander off.' He nodded rapidly and turned towards the computer station. 'Um, Eve?' He turned. 'What are you going to do? What if it is something alien?' She stopped, and sighed. 'Frank, I'm going to change my clothes and shower, because if I don't, then I don't think I'm going to be able to keep the thought that we may have just gotten the first real sign of alien intelligence in my head without collapsing. Besides, this could all still be a hoax of some kind.' I swear I'll kill Phillipe if he's pulling my leg. She walked out the door into the hallway. The hallway was extremely short, and only attached to three other rooms – a bathroom, a meeting room and a small personal office where Eve essentially lived. She slumped down the hallway, speaking softly to herself 'don't get too excited – it's probably nothing, there have been mystery signals before and nothing's come of it – remember the Wow! signal? That was never confirmed, this could be something like that. Just gotta work through it, figure it out... I wonder where I put all those contingency plans for contact? Her thoughts began wandering – she believed in wandering thoughts, felt it helped bring those Eureka! moments more easily than focused thought. She pushed the door open to the bathroom and flicked on the light. The bathroom itself looked like something from another world – pristinely clean in the surrounding mess and disorganisation of the office. The toilet was as clean as it had come on the first day, the sink had a brand new bar of Dove soap and her toothbrush and toothpaste neatly placed on the countertop and the small shower in the corner was pristine and white. This is why I'm such bitch about bathroom cleanliness. She smiled. Cleaning was sort of a ritual for her, and rejuvenated her spirits – but she had to bathe in a perfectly clean environment for the ritual to work – otherwise she never felt clean and would remain in a bad mood until a suitable shower or bath could be acquired. She stripped off her clothes and threw them into the clothesbin she kept by the door. Closing the glass door of the shower behind her, she turned it onto her favourite temperature – blazingly hot. Everyone who knew her thought her crazy or suicidal with the temperature water she used for bathing – especially in Nevada. The near-boiling water ran over her skin, and she shivered with pleasure. The hot water relaxed her – helped her think. She stared down at her feet as the water pounded on her head, thinking. We have to get to that moon – if we don't, we won't ever know for sure what the hell is going on there. I just hope they don't decide its crap before we bother trying. A smile crossed her face. At least this will probably let me get away from Frank for a while – this worship is getting to be too much to bear. 'Europa... I hope they change the astronaut requirements – either that or I'm getting a pilot's license now.' she sighed. She reached for the shampoo, and suddenly stopped 'what the fuck am I doing in here? Showering? Relaxing? There's no god-damned time! Aliens, woman! Aliens! Your whole life leading up to this point, your raison d'etre fulfilled! Fuck being clean, time to become the most famous woman in history!' The shock of what had actually just occurred nigh-slapped her in the face, and she realised the actual situation she was in. It was the Admiral's call that had set her down this depressive path – his assumption that it could be a human hoax was blasphemous! She slammed the water off, and leaped out of the shower. She grabbed the towel and pressed it to her face. Time to find out if we're really alone! She looked in the mirror. You're about to change the world – lets find out what that signal is! Then the door slammed open. Frank, sweaty and gasping for breath lurched into the bathroom with a phone headset in his hand. 'Eve! Something's going on! The signal's started repeating much more quickly! It's fluctuating too and there seems to be something interfering with... it...um...' He stared at her naked body. His plump face turned dark red and his eyes went wide. 'Me Madre! Sorry Eve!' He almost fell out the door, slamming it behind him. Eve barely noticed. More signals? Is someone else communicating with it? Astronomic phenomena interfering? She grabbed her shorts and a shirt and lurched out into the hall, throwing them on, running into the data room. The speakers were emitting a rambunctious cacophony of tones, ranging from every scale and chord. What is this? Close encounters of the third kind? And who the hell is talking to it? 'FRANK!' she turned towards the door 'When the hell did this start?' He came stumbling back into the room 'I came to get you just after it started! Honestly! I was in the room trying to find out more about the signal and it went crazy!' She frowned. 'Did you, well, do anything? Ask anyone to do anything?' He shook his head rapidly. 'I didn't do anything – I was just analysing the data.' She picked up her cellphone and dialled Phillippe. Beep. Beep. Beep. 'Allo? Pardon, but is this important, I am extremely...' Eve interrupted. 'Phillippe? It's Eve. The signal's gone insane over here, what's going on?'

'We are not sure, but the signal has become totally fous – the signal has gone crazy, and the probe itself has started acting strange – it has begun a slow descending orbit over Europa – eventually it will hit the surface. Another thing – it is sending out a signal towards the moon itself, and indicates that it is receiving additional signals. We are trying to stop this behaviour, but nothing seems to be working – it is just not listening to us.'

'How long do we have before it crashes?'

'Well, it is looking like whoever is causing this wants the probe to land lightly enough to almost be recovered – so it will take a while for it to slow down enough – we've probably got a month or more.'

'Can you figure out where the second signal is coming from?'

'Maybe, but we will need more time to triangulate it, see what the moon passes behind so we can see what blocks the signal. It's still communicating fully with us, so we will know everything that it is doing.'

'Ok, well, keep on that and I'll investigate around here and see if I can't dig up anything from our data. Call me if anything changes on your end.'

'Of course.' The click of the conversation ending sounded almost indignant and Eve stared at her phone, suddenly distrustful of it. This wasn't quite what she'd had in mind with joining SETI - her dreams were filled with hearing some sort of distant signal, barely coming through with some strange alien tongue that only she could decode. She would work feverishly around the clock trying to understand their speech, and after figuring out the secrets of their language, would send a message back saying 'We are here! We want to meet you!' It would take decades to reach them, of course, but in that time they would pick up more signals, and would learn untold amounts about their extraterrestrial friends. They would be socially advanced, and have very little hatred or crime, even though they all looked very different from each other and had different cultures. Eve, understanding them the most, would be elected as an international diplomat, who would change the world and make it far more peaceful and understanding, so that when she was old and grey, and her message was received by the aliens, she would be remembered as the woman who united the world and made the first steps towards intergalactic contact. This was not her dream. It was not that the situation was awful, but that it was just so different from what she had imagined. The Cassini team would be the highlight, with their probe being somehow controlled by entities unknown, and the whole thing could all just be one big hoax. And the signal itself wasn't any radio station from a distant solar system, it was all some beeping coming from an icy moon that should have just had a bunch of space lobsters on it! It was all too strange. She shook her head. This wouldn't stop her – she could still be someone who changed the world. She sat back down at the data station and began to tear apart the signal.

I'm trying to write a book. It's ambitious, and probably stupid. However, I like the idea. I will put up the first teensy bit here - it might look long on the blog, but it's only a few pages long.


'Eve, you awake?' said her dinner plate. 'There's something coming in on the screen, it looks really weird – wake up!' Eve frowned at the dinner plate. Previous experience had taught her that dinner plates were surfaces on which food was placed to be eaten – not talking ceramic discs. 'Shh! I want to eat in peace!' she sternly told the plate. 'EVE! WE'VE GOT A SIGNAL!' her plate screamed, as it squirted gravy at her face – rather hot gravy in fact. The chair which had been holding her fell to the floor as she squealed from the hot coffee splashing her in the face, carrying her barely conscious body with it. 'JESUS CHRIST FRANK! You're supposed to splash COLD water on somebody's face to wake them up, not fucking hot coffee!' Her rage at the dinner plate was such that the painful burn of the hot coffee (hadn't it just been gravy?) was barely noticeable. It was then that she noticed that standing in front of her was not in fact a dinner plate, so rudely acting human, but the short, pudgy figure of Frank Alvarez, her co-worker and researcher at SETI. His tiny brown eyes were pointed at the floor, and he was holding his arms behind his back abashedly, as if doing so would cover up the fact that his coffee mug was visible and still dripping. 'Sorry Eve, I just got excited, I mean, we have a signal!' He looked up at her, a small smile touching his mouth. 'OK Frank, but we get signals all the time, they're always something else, you can be calm about it. I know you're new, and this is very exciting, but for the love of God, don't pour coffee on anyone to wake them up. Ever. Now go get me a towel.' She looked down at him, and pointed towards the bathroom. 'Go!' Frank's smile disappeared, and he scrambled over the chairs and desks to get out. 'Don't break anything!!' She yelled after him. 'And get some cold water too!' She touched her face lightly – it hurt, but as much as she expected it would. Must not have been new coffee, at least. She surveyed the room – like most of the older SETI offices, it was extremely disorganised, papers, coffees and beer cans strewn about, trash cans overflowing. She wished she could be in one of the new offices, with the nice servers and cleaners, where all the other radio astronomers worked. One of the old machines was beeping at her, pointing out a regular signal. They'd just upgraded the machine's software with a new program that rather intelligently picked out standard noise and supposedly only reported extraterrestrial signals. Of course, lots of things bounced around in orbit, and so the software still picked up the occasional TV show, distress beacon or even telephone call. Still, it was better than before, and had saved them a lot of money – which was good, because funding for the SETI program was at an all time low – Frank's “new employee” status was due to the fact that he was willing to work for almost nothing. She wiped her face off in her shirt and stared down at the screen. It looked like a standard distress beacon, from a ship or mountaineer – a jump in power, signalling a beep, every few seconds, except for the fact that whatever was emitting this particular signal was exerting as much energy as three aircraft carrier reactors just to push out one beep. Jesus she thought this thing could be heard by anyone on earth listening to the right frequency. She turned on the volume on the computer. The first beep sounded through. It wasn't like a regular distress beep, whose signals were high pitched and a single tone. This one began as a low D minor, raised itself up to a C major, and dropped back down to D minor within one slow, three second long beep. Booeeoop. Booeeoop. Booeeoop. What the