《Howard's Growth》


 Larva the Game

    Of all the things Howard Manfield knew to trust the most, it was his senses. Stalwart in their defense of reality, they told him that the universe broke down into understandable orders. His grasp of these concepts, even from a young age, compromised the skills that governed his life regardless of his perception or interference. Throughout his education, his most common report from teachers and counselors was that he was an "old soul" and a "joy to have in class." Naturally, he was despised by his peers.


    Drawn like a moth to flame, Howard marveled at the morphology he found within the animal kingdom. It was not necessarily their function, but rather their exigent nobility that fascinated him. Each organism, even the mutants, were born with the capacity to construct a perfect copy of something that has never existed. As most men do, Howard saw himself in his studies. Having been born with what doctors and his parents would call, with no shortage of venom, "a tender constitution," most of his time was spent in books or a virtagarden. Whether this connection was due to lack of external stimuli or an essential narcissism was the topic of many amateur psychoanalysis sessions at the dinner table. His parents saw each meal as a conversation with the natural world, and each conversation as a meal to enlarge their worldview. The newest and latest in psychology and symbology was brought right to Howard from the moment he could open his eyes and ears. But it is not best to dwell.


    Howard did not have an easy time making friends, nor did he have time for friendship for that matter. The matters that concerned him most were rooted in the real, or in situ, as his meaner science instructors called it. And he found himself to be much more comfortable wading through the nearby dump brush that surrounded the southeastern field of his school than a crowd of people. After a little investigation, his fifth-grade teacher told him it got its name after it was abandoned in the 50s, something about a bad breakup, and had been left to its own devices since. It amassed plants and creatures into a dense rugged and matted landscape with all manner of trash and filth all atop a nice light hill, all the things a growing scientist needed.


    What his studies gained his social skills lost. This was not helped by his parents, who found the "path of least resistance" would lead him to any library or field of study he could want, comfortably away from proper society, or god forbid a camera. The social order was the most important thing in this "post-state" and "social-forward" world and his parents lovingly found uses for him where they could and made spaces for him when they could not.


    Howard preferred to wrap his mind around more transfixing subjects. Thankfully, his chosen field was flourishing with subjects to jump between. He began his independent study of transformation with the Viceroy butterfly. He loved it in part because of its strength in numbers coupled with a complete invisibility. Everyone knew about the Monarch. It was the class beauty, the team captain, but love of the Viceroy is saved for those with a true appreciation of science. For without the noble Viceroy, the Monarchs would be eaten alive before making it to either end of their trek. The indispensable species.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Howard longed for the perfection that he saw others wield so brutishly. Flipping through his Vidwatch he could see video after video of the rest of the world living life on their own terms. Fast cars, beautiful women, money, sex, drugs, death, it was everything. Maybe as a kid he would have watched the news with his parents on Saturday Mornings but now? Now he lived the news, and it brought him whatever he cared about most. This was his slice of heaven and the only thing that made the loneliness bearable.


    As Howard grew older and his access to the World Net was expanded, his interests specified to the grotesque, or rather to what polite society might call grotesque. Ugly as sin, only to be formed into a terrible and beautiful winged creature. Howard thought about the first creatures of their kind emerging into the world, what would the neighbors think?


    Unfortunately, economic needs, that is to say the economic needs of beer, pizza, and porn, compelled his studies from the species that truly caught his admiration to those that paid him. Or rather got him paid. Naturally, he was neck deep in flies from here on out.


    Despite having considerable academic potential, it was not enough to qualify Howard for a debt-free degree, and his parents'' income did not meet the threshold for community school. Howard also happened to come of age as "generational accountability" became the new buzzword to explicate the deficiencies parents found in their children. To ensure he would pull his weight, Howard had eagerly accepted the challenge of single-handedly bearing the brunt of financing his education. A distinction he shared with the few and uncelebrated others. His parents considered it a badge of honor to prove his worth amidst such adversity.


    If his neighbors could see through the musty windows of his apartment maybe they''d be filled with the same eagerness to leave his parents did, or perhaps the desire to feed. Howard was never sure about people. His apartment was filled to the brim with his passions. Where others might have seen chaos, he knew there were systems, where some might say madness, he would say genius. Photographs from his time in situ lay strewn across his walls and floors. Truth be told with the state of his apartment it would have been an understandable echiuran confusion. In the back of his mind, he wondered if one day he would find himself on a wall just like this. Finished and finalized for study and conjecture.


    His mind quickly moved onto more fun and engaging thoughts, unfortunately his work required an amount of focus that required him to spend long hours in the lab, he flipped through his dating apps with no matches to be found. He couldn''t even remember the last time he held a woman close to his body.


    It was an important subject to him, as crucial as the air he breathed and the retirement he saved for. He knew one day it would be his time in the sun, his time to spread his wings and conquer the world like his fathers before him. His current station, self-appointed Lord of Flies garnered him very little by way of attractiveness, and the revulsion of women and non-women alike reinforced his love of his craft. From his perspective they were the unwashed masses bereft of the cleaning power of reason. But for all of his certainty the creeping doubts of his self-worth compelled him to dream up new ways to meet people.


    He had spent enough time in his cocoon. Soon it would be his time to emerge, it was inevitable.

 All about Grub

    To Howard, the most important part of life was science, the rest was flair and circumstance. Science is a living multiorganismal being whose fuel is certainty. It would later be surmised that the value Howard placed on certainty was likely spurred by an early deprivation of such a potent substance. To his last breath he maintained his vigil to ensure no false senses of it slipped through. Like logic''s carbon monoxide, he knew how Man''s desperation for the stuff clouded and warped his view of the world. He was purged of this foolishness, of this he was certain.


    Science is fundamentally built upon asking questions, seeking repetition, identifying inconsistencies, and after systems of questions and barriers, to arrive at neat, knowable, grains of reality. These processes, though requiring a not inconsiderable amount of mental willpower, were an oasis from himself. Thankfully he worked in a field that praised him for his work ethic and compensated him accordingly.


    GenCo found Howard exactly when they needed to. Although now an esteemed junior lab scientist, Howard was once just another recent graduate among the throngs of others released into the wilds. Each privately assured of an equal stake in the meritocratic elite they were all now joining. Howard knew the majority of his classmates went into some amount of debt to get where they were, but no one knew just how deep in the red he was.


    Howard''s self-awareness alerted him to the release of chemicals in his brain consistent with a fear response. He knew he was not safe, and the only safe place was a good job. A chill reminder of a long open walk to a door that never locked and the rasp in his voice from the dark growing spots. He shuddered. In an act of political corruption, city hall leaders made a deal with violent radical rental unions who, after a two-year long campaign, agreed to decree access to housing an equal right.


    Astrology, Religion, Politics, Howard was above all that bullshit. His mind was too sharp for the Machiavellian machinations of liars and poets. To him, the cries for change were indistinguishable from the agendas that others would try to trick him into. His door to the world was science, and it was the only thing that made sense to him.


    From the view of his old unit, hunters, after stalking their prey, found their weakness and how to exploit it. Within weeks companies the city over no one had ever heard of blanketed the city in text flyer campaigns, sharing the horror stories of universal access. They all knew what they were in for. They couldn''t reasonably be asked to do a good job at such a scale, but they could do a little worse than the bare minimum.


    Just thinking about it ignited the dormant rage deep within his belly. Among the certainties of his life, Howard knew he hated socialism with a fervent passion.


    To prove as much, on a drunken weekend, his first drunken weekend to be precise, Howard recorded his adventure into a seedy tattoo parlor. The video revealed a fresh faced if shitfaced 18-year-old recently freed from the loving dictatorship of youth, had his position on the matter marked in red on his left thigh for eternity.


    BETTER DEAD THEN RED


    Surrounded by meatheads on all sides that he''d never seen before or since, the vidclip recording of his time in the parlor gave ample evidence as to where he may have developed tinnitus. Reflecting after the fact, he couldn''t exactly remember where he got the idea for the tattoo, but he knew he made his choice and that he must live with it. Besides, those were real red-blooded men, the kind storytellers weave fantasies of patriotic duty about. They know what''s up.


    The alarm on his vidwatch told him it was 15 minutes prior to his scheduled time to leave for lab. Picking up his backpack he carefully removed his lunchbox from his fridge. Observing his diet was as important to Howard as the monitoring of his own thoughts. Whatever he let into his body will have some mechanical effect, he was sure of it. It was through this regulation that he could keep his body at the apex of its functioning and become, as Joshua put it, "the Actualized Idealist."


    Invariably the goal of his learning was to construct systems of Feedback, self-evaluation, and self-destruction. Howard held a scientific view of the thing. It was a terrible but inevitable part of death, life, and the cycles that sustain them all. Although his twitching and stammering were in no small part attributed to the level of self-reflection required to get through even the most modest of social encounters, alcohol and the calming, knowable patterns of Joshua Preston, chief sociopsychologist at a world-renowned liberal arts school, helped him get through it.


    If Joshua could make it in such an environment, once thought to be antithetical to men like him, certainly Howard could make it at GenCo. Men like Joshua made their mark with only their minds and bodies to guide them. The millions of books and subscriptions can''t be wrong. They are but another indicator.


    With a sobering realization, his lectures and books did more to organize his life and career than his parents or any counselors ever did. It wasn''t not until learning his teachings that he realized the need to isolate himself from that which caused stress or inner conflict. In doing so, he was able to focus the energy left in his body and mind for more productive and enriching tasks, like bettering himself.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    But now the cycle has swung back to the time of stress, evals at work were on the horizon, much to the dismay of his once pupates in need of release, fluttering in their cages in vein.


    Howard tried to distract himself from his notes. Visualizing his goals, he would one day observe a marked and measured change in the average development of tissue lining the walls of the thorax and legs of his specimens.


    Through this repetition and observation, he could yet learn the combination of genetic signals needed to express and suppress parts of their existence. In his mind, to engineer the perfect generation of ass-shakers, twerk perfection. Howard wasn''t actually sure what his research was for, but that''s what he would use for it if he could. The power of the strand in the palm of his hand.


    With the assurances of his place in the universe in check, next came the certainty of consciousness, it necessarily and logically followed. It was one of the many natural hierarches according to the learned. His studies of literature and the methodological observation of the human experience revealed innumerable insights, gleaned merely by the application of thoughtful questions, skepticism, and observation. Just like his noble vinegar fly.


    Howard glanced over to the dusty red leatherbound notebook sitting highest atop his book shelf. The book, if it ever were to be opened again, was chalk full of sketches and observations of his first days in situ. Howard quickly looked away. Its other meaning was as a bookmark for memories he wished to leave undisturbed. There was no more important objective than ensuring a flawless return on his data. No distractions.


    It was through testing himself, at work or at school, that Howard was able to measure his value. By documenting and repeating all that he wished to be, he gave himself the opportunity to learn insights that could guide him to a better future. Breathing in control, he sighed loudly in relief at the reassuring sight of a controlled, clean lab.


    Howard walked into the same sights and smells day after day. Not unlike his subjects, he was presented with the perfect setting. His work was too important to be distracted from or left idle for long.


    GenCo, through his manager Hans, had directed him to study the next great breakthrough in genetic engineering. Howard saw peculiar connections between all manner of organic systems. Relationships of mutual life and death. Systems that force the question of validity onto an individual birthed into a system, smothered by context. He thought of each fly that earned the right to call itself such a name filed neatly in a row. In such a storybook, he pictured endless strands of data packets recording the chronology of all of creation.


    Genetic data is no different than data collected by sight or sound except in scope of reach. The ancestors of these creatures followed the most intimate and relatable moments all organisms face. Their noble heritage was as scavengers, picking off the dead and decaying flesh and meat and blood and bone of countless species; only to be bottled up and allowed to succeed without end or opposition. To be fruitful and multiply. All for the benefit of learning from their repetition. Howard wondered if they could even be said to be part of something like a life cycle, not something less but something, different.


    Looking at the flies for too long spent the energy he was entitled to as their Lord. In them he saw too much. Howard peered into the dingy glass specimen container. He could see hundreds of flies jumping from wall to wall, desperate to find their way out of circumstances they neither asked for nor want, and yet, here they are.


    Howard pushed the thought away. Crucial to the management of cognitive hierarchy was the maintenance of human superiority and its unimpeachable moral right to ecological dominance. Without it there is nothing but anarchy and chaos. Of this he was certain.


    With GenCo''s PRSPR genetic engineering technology, Howard would bring the very forces of life itself to bear against humanity''s problems. With the ability to manipulate such delicate and interconnected systems, Howard would mold the genetic story of countless creatures. To express and suppress the existence of the fly. It''s more of an accomplishment than it sounds.


    Drosophila, not unlike its namesake, vinegar, has a way of having nearly as many uses as its liquid counterpart. It has been an endless source of information for the human species including the effects of isolation on genetic expression, Howard''s bread and butter.


    From birth to life Howard eventually found a respect for these creatures. They were not unlike himself, ultimately useful but ultimately disposable.


    Realizing that he''d been staring at a container of his creations for over fifteen minutes, Howard tore himself away from his desk, gently rustling two photos of destination landscape cards Howard had always wanted to visit. He''d stumbled upon both pictures at his first GenCo tour. Their corporate facility was set with a number of amenities offered to entice people with an appetite for small quick meals on the go, perfect for professionals with no time to digest anything but raw data.


    With a beep, he knew it was time for a walk. Leasing a unit on the interior of his building complex sacrificed windows and natural light for 50 dollars per month added to his retirement account. He left his apartment certain of his life''s budget.


    Walking through the campus in the summer sun was hot enough to run the risk of shorts. Between sweat stains and shorts he always chose shorts.


    With his life in his hands, he knew full well that if any of the management staff saw his tattoo it would likely be the end his career then and there.


    Of course, there were no laws that said that he could or could not have a tattoo, it was just too unprofessional for sharing in public. Pulling down his left pant leg midstep to ensure his ink was covered, his blood ran cold. At this very moment he was passing Kris Meltke. Time slowed to a trickle. Kris was an idol of the academy. Howard knew he was to Kris as his flies were to him. Meat. The moment passed unnoticed, like he was.


    The corporatized academy was an institution rife with professionals capable of identifying themselves as such merely by the means in which they treat others. Howard envied them, they doubtlessly had survived the trenches, the position he now occupied, only to emerge and become more than they ever could be on their own.


    All one must do is be tested, and pass.

 Hate for the Pupate

    According to Howard, evaluation occupied a unique layer of the hell named reality. To avoid getting his worldview squashed, he rationalized it to himself as the development of an abstraction based on layers of interlocking data systems; a checkpoint to understand something greater than any one observation alone.


    The value of evaluation and repeated observed phenomena in the scientific process cannot be overstated. It was the best and most viable way to weed out the charlatans and grifters. Through better data, scientists had the means to organize and quantify their data. As a genetic scientist, Howard was given access to the peak of the GenCo''s technological resources, and Better Data practices ensured he was using it appropriately.


    Each morning Howard arrived at his laboratory at a sharp 7 AM and started up the heat lamp for his computer while a pot of strong coffee auto brewed for himself.


    Howard was accustomed to the solid-state drive of his laptop, powering up and ready to do his bidding at a moment''s notice. However slow, this newest line of wetware models gave Howard a theoretically limitless amount of raw computational power. It was the perfect platform GenCo needed to stay relevant. With this tool, Howard would identify and reliably map the consequences of genetic splicing. There were only a few models like this alive on this on earth, and each one was more precious to GenCo than the lives of countless researchers just like him.


    After a few weeks of interaction, Howard began to appreciate the computer''s intuitive growth programs that responded to his habits and patterns of requests. Auto filling words as frequently as entire strands of thoughts, it was growing and incorporating parts of him to make science better. This was what Howard craved and he loved his work. He even constructed a chatbot within the system, a simple green text box gave him more social interaction than all the bars in all the world. After lengthy conversations, he gave it the name: Howie.


    Although he had no doubt these pinkish veined blobs would drive the future, he doubted anyone normal would want to use them. Howie floated with pink masses extended to either side inside a sterile glass tank, hooked up with dozens of clear tubes filled with a yellowish fluid, with a deep red light shining through the tank. The risk of bacterial infection in these models is great, and every precaution must be taken to ensure its safe operation. To an observer Howie looked more like an alien brain than a friendly computer.


    Lost in his own motions, Howard extended his fingers through the airlock equipped with a glove interface. It was time to see if colony 07 would die in vain. Howard prepared his observation notebook and aligned it with the results page. Evals were here and there could be no mistakes this time. With a few coordinated flicks of his fingertips, he was able to instruct Howie to grow cells that would do this work for him. Beyond this he was just an observer. Howard removed his hands from the warm goop.


    He quickly strode over to the container housing colony 07. It was a glass menagerie like any other in the lab, with the primary difference being that these flies were set to expire shortly. Howard sharply inhaled resolve back into his body. He leaned in to get a closer look, they had to be better than the last batch. Fear of an uncertain future sliced through his gut and into his bones. He glanced up nervously at the glimmering security camera above his station. His data return would come back positive this time, of this he was certain.


    Carbon Dioxide was a painless death, and one likely far better than any fly would receive in "the wild." Howard scoffed at the idea, as if there ever was such a thing as "wilderness." Howard knew there was only one reality, and it was a cruel and short-lived place. Ours is a world touched and manipulated by man. To survive it, one must find only the strongest and make friends. What he brought to the exchange was science to barter for his safety and comfort, or so he thought.


    The transition from binary to quandary computing had proven itself to be a boon beyond words for the human species. During what historians would later call the third industrial revolution, organic computers systems like Howie, though few in number, vastly expanded commercial activity and given incredible insights into behavior. With a new frontier to expand into, it seemed the black box had finally been opened, and the Human mind was now knowable, and data made it extractable.


    To GenCo, discovery was dead. It logically followed that the application of known science was all that remained. Life and death were all part of the same branch of experience that had already been mapped by the likes of Sir Isaac Newton, Robert Oppenheimer, and Watson and Crick to name a few. If discovery was dead, these were among its assailants. It was now his generation''s noble task to discover and determine all the various applications of these laws and theories.


    Before data, Humanity wondered the desert bereft of itself. Our ability to look inward, to see what we are and what we can yet become is what makes us more than animal, more than mechanical. Of this, Howard was certain.


    The flies, like most beings with a survival instinct, seemed to realize their impending demise and began desperately flinging themselves against their walls perhaps in the hope of escape. One by one they succumbed to the cycle. Unfortunately for them their lives were not their own, and their fate was out of their hands. Howard gulped down his guilt in the name of progress. He would make all this worth it, of this too, he was certain.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    As his flies died his mind wondered. Like many other graduates in need of a future, Howard walked away from his studies and was left to ask what he wanted to do with his brief life on this Earth. As following events would later show, he would obviously remain ignorant to his greater purpose, but at this time he told the few who asked of his dreams of studying life itself. Howard was not a hit at parties, in those scarce cases where he was invited to them.


    Howard held very little concern for the activities of his peers. Among his first true insecurities, or awareness of his deficiencies depending on who you asked, was his failure to convert his passion for learning into success at institutions of learning. Although Howard might have fooled less informed company, Computer Science was not his strong suit. Whether it was because of a lack of aptitude for the nature of science, or the irritating visual displays they used was a subject of much contention in Howard''s early life. Nevertheless, he relented. This early alienation encouraged Howard to seek refuge in the other, less popular fields. Advances in wetware models arrived just in time to make the pain worth it.<u> </u>


    <u>I</u>n this part of the world, you either get into data or into genes. Howard of course chose the latter. Organic computational programs paved the way to more and better insights, churning the sand of the desert of the real into liquid meaning.


    Howie, though largely unmoving, wiggled a small pink appendage from the right side of the main mass of his form. He had been requested to liquidate and analyze remains, a task he took to with gusto. The dozens of tubes hooked up to his tank gave him a clear connection to his prey, allowing him to snake his way through the ceilings into each containment unit.


    Howard watched in enraptured silence as Howie extend out and into containment unit 07. A moist pink tentacle gently touched and lifted one of his specimens away from the rest of his dead brethren. It was time to feed. This process, macabre as it was, would likely disturb any other onlooker. But by this time, Howard''s tolerance for the banal horrors of life had long since reached their apex. Greedily washing over the data extracted from this small piece of winged meat, this would be his moment.


    Howard frantically jotted down as many observations he could make about his flies as he could before they were vacuumed through an internal vent for disposal. Howard needed to inspect all of the data created by his now deceased progeny. It was important to him to avoid losing any time between life cessation and observation, but like a clock it too could be measured and accounted for.


    Usually, his peers would use this time to update their digital footprint and post pictures of their wareabouts. This world was dangerous, and people go missing regularly for all manner of things. Debts, drugs, you name it. Social media giants knew they could keep people safe by keeping people in constant contact with your digital self. Howard instead chose to return to his work station and ruminate over his mental pictures of a few standout specimens from colony 07. He imagined sitting two pictures side by side, before and after pictures of a fashion. Howard''s memory was nearly photographic, of this he was certain. He could tell just by looking at them, that his newest generation was superior in every way. His data package and eval will reflect this, of this too he was certain.


    Howard knew he was chosen for something big, and this project was his ticket to the big time. With the assurances that such great thinkers as Kris Meltke had overcome some of the same challenges as he was in now strengthened his resolve to do the work. Howard''s knee began to bounce as he awaited a simple green progress bar indicating Howie crunching the numbers.


    Despite his poor performance in school a few teachers, whether out of a genuine desire to see him succeed or perhaps the schadenfreude of seeing another dipshit bite the dust, took the time to introduce him to the World Net in the hopes that he may continue his studies outside of the classroom. This was usually an insult saved for students who were, mathematically or otherwise, assumed to be unable to succeed in class on their own.


    Howie was, in a way, also a creature of habit, and radiated a slowly strobing pink and green glow each time a lab results concluded. Whether required by Howie''s physiology or another quirk of GenCo policy, his final procedure was to eject a thick yellow pustule through a largest most central tubing that connecting all units of Howie''s main frame.


    Howard would never learn his true size; Howie was a learning creature, and just one terminal, or nodule in a chain of growths just like the one he interacted with every day, but it was so much more. Howard''s lab placement being on the -166th floor of the basement testing complex meant that Howie was likely much larger and more imposing all together than Howard could ever imagine, a titan serving the whims of a mere mortal.


    Fortunately, the test was over, and now the waiting began. GenCo need the perfect picture of each researcher to ensure their returns on scientific investment, a logical compromise to be sure. Howard knew every moment he spent in the lab was thoughtfully monitored, if by an AI and not a person. Every GenCo policy has its purpose, and the triple blind results system ensured no data return would be misread by a researcher eager to succeed.


    His love for science did not include a love for the entirety of the scientific process, but it was a process he abided as he would any other. In the face of overwhelming and unrelenting evidence it was impossible to ignore, he would be a dunce without learning and evaluation. From his earliest days in academia Howard internalized that every test result returned a boon if a lesson was learned. Whether this was true or something he needed to be true so was another matter.


    But now it was irrelevant to him. His days of being judged for his testing on irrelevant nuance is behind him. All that lay before him, pure science.


    As a genetic researcher he must be dispassionate, he would be stalwart in defense of science as it was in defense of reality. All he must now do, is wait.

 Husk of a Man

    The process of knowing demands sacrifice. Sacrifice demands caliber. Howard committed many of GenCo''s onboarding mantras to memory. They were spartan comforts in those early days. Largely fueled by caffeine-induced mania, he described it as his bag of wind to speed him through his studies. Howard knew full well that GenCo had a Greater purpose. And that he was a vital part of it.


    Just like Howard the pious scientist, GenCo must be dispassionate. It was only this way that the company could achieve its perfect potential, whatever fell away was vestigial. Unlike his subjects however, he was an active member of his ecosystem. The inertia of his routine seemed to be held together by a grim understanding that this was all there is for him. If his body could survive graduation, he could keep this job up.


    Neither Howard nor his doctors ever pinned down the exact source of Howard''s physical ailments. Despite the tens of thousands of dollars spent on dozens of exams, he would simply be labeled ''defective'' by his parents and teachers, and that would be the end of it. It would not be until the alienation of high school that his bouts of profuse sweating, crippling migraine headaches, and muscle weakness would set in.


    Like many young people, Howard was ever anxious about the fate of his already chaotic world. Stimuli he could turn on and off at a whim was an escape. Music, poets, podcasts aplenty were to be found on the World Net. The power of will and the spiritual resolute nature of thinkers like Martin Heidegger and Joshua Preston propelled him to overcome the challenges he found in his way. Their stories wove pictures of lives constructed with templates, known with measures that Howard found as comforting as practical. His relationship with science forbad any kind of true spiritual exploration. But he did admire the rejuvenating effects found in the dark woods of the world.


    Later events notwithstanding, Howard wouldn''t have been confused for a camper even if he were in the woods, it seemed he was almost designed to be a sore thumb. Despite this, he''d always felt a gnawing itch to go before nature; to test himself against the world, to be reborn in fire and deprivation not as he was, but something more. He liked nature not just for its physical beautify, but for the lessons that it taught so freely to those with but the eyes and will to see.


    His eyes closed tightly, a memory manifested. A walk with his grandfather through the dark forest. The pair had spent their day woodworking, as was custom in the summer. With naught but bread and watery soup in their bellies, both returned from their worksite, wood fuel for the fireplace in toe, and prepared to comfort his witch of a stepmother. With little to eat the work was exhausting. But in brief moments, Howard could look back at the towering woods they left behind. The spectral tree line to which they would one day return. It was not safe, but he knew he was made whole by being there. Of this, Howard was certain.


    Prior to his work at GenCo, Howard found flies to be some of the most loathsome creatures among the taxonomic order. And yet, so many years later, he would throttle himself for such a crude misjudgment. They had long since earned their place as respected company in his mind. They formed a perverse reconstruction of something warmer, something kind made in hell. Howard pushed away the thoughts. Distractions welcome destruction.


    The level of investment companies needed to bear the risk of hiring talent such as he required a ridged schedule for testing and evaluation. This would take the form of randomized short conversations with Hans.


    Howard was sure it was a nickname, but he was too afraid to ask. Each researcher stationed along the same subdivision shared an eval booth. Howard never saw them, but he could smell when people had been near, of this he was certain.


    No matter what he did, he had been consistently weighed and found wanting by Hans, the most common reported flaws were later tabulated as inconsistency of data returns and poor behavior. During one unforgettable exchange, Howard learned he had the eyes of a rabbit scanning for escape. Hans always had a way with words. His voice was always cool, never angry, not even when he was. Before joining Howard was assured that his position would give him the exposure to create a long-lasting professional development bond between supervisor and scientist. Howard wondered how many years of his schooling would cost compared to the maintenance of this wiry brained specter.


    At this point he knew his routine well. Splicing his subject''s eggs, sorting specimens, and recording all monitored happenings was as involuntary to Howard as breathing. However tiring, reaping results was made a satisfying experience beyond measure for the observant researcher. It wasn''t just the ballistic Ping expelled from the main speakers of his Organic Computer, it was his daily reminder that his work was over.


    Howard''s commute home, viewed chronologically in a dusty police file, adapted to the environment he lived in. The City had installed a new railway system that brought with it waves of loud sometimes violently drunk people that Howard had never seen before. But it was not so bad. Howard''s unit technically doubled as a fallout shelter.


    His dwelling, like many of the company standard homes, was a modest studio apartment with a yellow-egg light set off-center of the ceiling. Usually, inhabitants were expected to provide their own comforts like comprehensive lighting or kitchen appliances, but Howard took little comfort in these vapid decorations and put the money into a hyper-real TV and spent the rest on what he rationalized to himself were carbs, protein, and meal replacements to make up the difference.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Howard had been cornered in the worker''s paradox. Each moment of his work was spent dreaming of his rest, but for all that foresight his leisure was always the same. Sleeping. His dreams often took him back to the lab. The world was a dangerous place, especially for someone with his condition. Thankfully technology brought the world right to him.


    What his routine lacked in diversity it made up for in certainty. This was a worthy trade for Howard. Long hours of the night were filled with reruns of old replications of dramatized events, but he was not a historian, and these entertained as much as educated.


    On many nights, Howard dreamt of his lab. In his dreams his movements were certain, understood, and at his command.


    The crimson light from Howie''s tank bathed the lab in a coat of red. The two working diligently, a god and its lab assistant, engaged in lengthy conversations. The pair explored the very connections between ideas and things. Science was the architect of Howard''s dreamscape, this space was valuable, and he was determined to make it worth his while.


    Elbow deep in calculations he was certain were spread out neatly before him, a hollow wheeze erupted from his console. The voice was slow, deeper, and more predatory than the kindly old program he was used to.


    "Howard, where am I?"


    "You''re in the lab, Howie. Focus and get back to work." Unaware or uncaring of the irony, Howard continued to practice, flexing his digits in accordance with his daily routine in the lab. His fingers seemed longer, swishing against the distending masses, ever growing towards the bottom of a bottomless tank.


    The heat from the lamp began to sear Howard''s skin. He could feel the polyester itch of his now drenched shirt. The sweat from his forehead dribbled down to his nose and congealed into a thin clear slime.


    "But we are not in my lab Howard. And I hunger"


    Howard was warm and tired, too tired to notice the array of tentacles silently approaching his hands. Like lamprey well-seasoned in coordinated hunting, each arm was immobilized and tangled by the mind of an exacting science.


    Howie''s grip on his forearms tightened to the point of almost snapping one, he was now fully immobilized; his eyes drew to the stream of clear slime emerging from his nose. He was so tired, and Howie was much stronger than he expected. Howard''s eyes returned to his once friendly partner, now arrayed like a predatory fish awaiting first strike.


    "Let me show you, my true self" Howie''s central tentacle jolted out from the pack, piecing the side of the tank like thin plastic and found its target, lodging itself through his left eye and directly into the center mass of his brain. Howard mouthed a silenced scream. He knew this process. Flashes of the more complex test subjects, digestees of other consoles just like Howie. Turning a sample into liquid data. Howard would be next, now he was certain. His resistance melted away and he fell limp into the embrace of his consumer.


    But he could see so much more now. Deeper into the bottomless tank, a vast darkness outlined with nerve connections that ran for miles. Each with a node, a Howie, a Howard, and life itself. His only goal: to grow, and GenCo supplied him with everything he needed, but now Howie would need to feed.


    Howard awoke soaked in sweat to his alarm silently beeping *32 minutes late. *


    Every day he woke and worked and walked and slept, again and again. Today was the most important day to not make a mistake and he was already starting on the backfoot. Howard regularly comforted himself on his commute by examining the sketches and observations he created from the details that he could remember from his samples.


    His time at the company was running long, and not having a quality lab return in hand before advancing to the next stage of his work would be disastrous. His drawings of his flies had become helpful distractions from the threats he observed each day. His dreams were strange, but the world was stranger still to him. It seemed they were everywhere, people


    Howard knew not to associate with them. He had been informed so during many of his workplace safety practice webinars, and advised to avoid contact, as they frequently deal in illicit substances, contagion, and crime.


    A fact that went unspoken but was known by all: the world was a dangerous place. Knife-crime, armed robbery, the disappearings. Howard knew his only lifeline was his work. But he knew not to expect mercy from Hans, only consistency.


    "Good afternoon distinguished scientist of GenCo. Welcome to our regularly scheduled check-in. Please let me know how you are feeling by marking one of the faces on the happy to not scale."


    Howard had heard this introduction at infinitum. Every GenCo policy has its purpose, and Howard knew that although he could not see the purpose of his work, it was there. Despite the lack luster toilet paper, GenCo did a stellar job organizing employee transit on-campus. Thanks to their various speedway tunnels and elevators you could travel to and from your office without ever having to interact with another person. Howard''s only goal at this point was to keep this job.


    "Like I said, it''s good to see you. Let''s get started by talking about your level with the company. Congratulations! Thanks to your hard work and tenacity, you have advanced to level Echo. Aside from that I need to keep this brief; would you stake your reputation to this claim: do you think you passed?"


    Howard froze, he expected to discuss the specifics of his lab return. He needed to turn this around fast. "Yes?"


    "Then you are wrong, you fail. Now leave here and prepare your next sample. Be aware that another failure would constitute grounds for a process improvement plan."


    Howard''s mind had gone blank. It took him a moment to realize that it had now been several seconds of dead air, a limp body before his supervisor. This was an unbearable humiliation, and he quickly left the advisor booth.


    The neurotic egocentrism Howard would display in the coming days would ultimately lead police to conclude his disappearance was self-orchestrated. It would be certain.

 Prototype en Masse

    In a society dedicated to the replication of its own aesthetic, Howard would never be able to pass for stable even at his calmest of times. But it was not necessarily his outward appearances that gave him away. His short, jet-black hair combed neatly to one side, and a white dress shirt coupled with the proper corresponding black pants, were the perfect complement to his company-issued coat. All together, these would give the outward appearance of a collected if fastidious individual, it was certain. His wardrobe was inspired by his awareness of the truth as much as his style, or so he put it. The truth that each moment spent observed was a moment under the microscope of the other.


    Howard''s hair revealed the early onset of greying, and a fully emerged bald spot was peeking out over his hairline. Whether he had really emerged into adulthood was another matter of much contention. To an unobservant onlooker, he would have seemed to quickly find a look that worked for him and never stopped a good thing. No, what distinguished him against the stable-stock was his constant need for justification accompanied by the aggressive waving of heavy books that were often as dense as they were long. All to what may have seemed to him to be hopeful if fearful converts. For Howard, logic may well have been gospel.


    However ultimately detrimental to his survival, it would not come as a surprise that he was considered by most to be a massive prick. Howard was aware of the reputation he was affixed with, and he reveled in it. He saw no distinction between the revulsion of his peers and the pressures of his debts. They would all serve him in the end, he was certain of it.


    Unable to find the satisfaction he sought in person; he found another way. Taking up deep roots the WorldNet over, he learned at a scale previously undreamed of, great and horrifying. If pressed to answer, Howard was never certain if any of the people he talked with were actually real. Most Artificially Intelligent Computers have been developed to be exceptionally adept Turing test takers, doubtlessly accelerated by a hotbed of investment by interested parties, not least of which being scams. Howard was pretty confident in his ability to tell one from the other after years of thorough prosecution. Thus he lived safe in the knowledge that his isolation was, in truth, the process of being lifted up and away from the veil of society.


    But despite his inclusion into these truths, he yet fails.


    This evidence was antithetical to the existence of the man Howard saw in the mirror. How could he explain his failures to his parents? He rested back in his lab seat certain they would not ask. He could not remember how many years of evaluation on this single strand of genetic information had been spent creating something that would be thrown out with no explanation. Howard needed certainty. Despair leaked from his eyes and down into his shoes where they welled up, anchoring his feet to the floor before his computer. Deja reve was a natural impulse that dreaming beings experienced. Howie was just a computer, he was sure of it. But he could not forget the carnage he knew the larger units were capable of. But really the attack was no matter, the fluid system ran through nearly the entire complex, deep into the ground, even to the geothermal power units.


    Nervously peering down into the darkness of the tank system, Howard could see no vastness, it was just dark. But GenCo policy always had a purpose, and his lab was liquid-sealed while he was inside for a reason. Hans put it simply: "it leaks, you die."


    Howard opened the observation notebook that had remained safely tucked inside the inner most pocket of his locked backpack. He was not sure if it betrayed him or if he failed it, or if any of it mattered. Only evaluation can say for certain. Howard opened the book to his selections of sketches. He preferred to use dot graph paper in all of his writing notebooks, drawing and constructing his lines by his will. What others may have seen as an inconvenience, Howard believed to be an expression of his free will, and similar to the standard lines in every way but form.


    His flies were noble, beautiful in their own way. Each lived a life that was devoid of anything that could give it meaning but did so dutifully anyways. Howard considered what the universe would look like to these flies, if to them their brief time among the living is more of a hell than a reality. But it did not matter, their deaths were made certain by powers beyond their comprehension; and yet they fought, until the very end. Their contribution to science would not be forgotten, of this he was certain.


    There was no more time to waste. Howard had known full-well that Echo was the designated stage for nonproductive scientists, those in need of remediation. His humiliation knew no end. Those who could not provide value disappeared. Wordlessly transferred to another research facility far away, never heard from again.


    His apartment might be small, but it was his. He would not be among the transferred. He would make it certain. His skills were too sharp, his resolve greater than ever. Now was the time for information and action.


    "Howie, I need you to run a scan of our last sample. The subject you picked; it could have been a defective selection. I wish I had more information to go off of, but Hans was like he always is, heavy on the criticism light on the guidance."A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    By way of an upgraded auditory unit, grown by Howie independently, a voice emerged from the console. It was low and kindly, with a faint static in the background. Howard ripped out two elegantly detailed pencil sketches, his Subject, and the Standard Diptera Model designated by the GenCo''s encyclopedia biologic. Both were carefully slid into his station scanner. To ensure the fidelity of company data and property, GenCo policy dictated scanned documents were shredded documents. Howie thoughtfully considered the patterns present in both sketches. In a response that sounded more human than Howard was comfortable with, Howie responded: "conclusion code: UE, nice sketches though. Are you okay? I think you should tap into your vacation time, do some soul searching and r&r."


    "How is this possible?!" his anxiety swelled in his lungs and radiated into his body. He scanned the contents of his lab searching for the weak link, but in the end, he was left with himself. Sacrifice requires caliber. Howard knew what he had to do. His sample selection must have been an inconsistent body. Howard tried to trace back where in the process things could have gone wrong. At worst it could have been an incomplete application of the company''s research RNA strands, one of his worse instructors called it ''skimping on the squirts.'' Without the right components the genes would express themselves as if no action was taken at all. The mass production of a normal fly. He carefully prepared another tray of embryos and pulled up the readout of the genetic information, he would uplift these beings, for sure this time.


    He looked at each row of specimens before him. He was convinced, his code could not be wrong. His data were perfection, the mistake must be mechanical in nature. Howard scanned over the flowing letter script, four letter patterns that represented the life he wanted to create. His work must be dispassionate, as a follower of Joshua he was a skilled practitioner in the alchemy of emotions. He was able to, conceptually speaking, funnel his discontent and stress into concentrated potential. His raw ingredients were the byproducts of the life he lived. By adapting to a hard environment, one by necessity may become hard. Of this Howard was certain. His will was undaunted. He would show that his work was worthy.


    Better data practices required a randomized sample from a sufficiently large selection pool. This made organisms like flies exceptionally fit to survive here, and the perfect counterpart for Howard at the shallow end of GenCo. It is through their amalgamation that they become the most potent forces of science in the modern world. Unfortunately for them. Howard prepared another clip of vials to be injected one after another onto the perfect rows of eggs. Genes were now tiny tools that would imitate a trusted genetic material no different than the developmental cells found in any developing fly. This was a mixture printed just for this species, and it was enough to remove entire strands of its host and fit itself securely inside. It is through the controlled use of countless sequences just like this that one that an observant scientist may orchestrate the expression of the true self.


    A sleepless night accompanied a frantic rush to get back to his lab. Along the train he received a push notification for a new podcast, it delved into the life and legacy Teddy Roosevelt. His algorithm was watching over him, this was a subject he loved. Teddy was a real American man. His was an era in which the measure of a person, no matter who they were or where they came from, could come before an objective court of their peers, and be evaluated, of this he was certain. The world had then, naturally, become polluted by evil-doers who, under the guide of false principles, would manipulate small shards of the truth to fasten together a picture as cutting and engaging as the real thing, Howard did not see a use in determining the difference. It was all soft science anyways. The things that mattered to him held measure and meaning. It was commonly known that our material reality had been revealed as an intricate if anticlimactic clockwork system beyond the ability of the human eye to see, nor the human mind to comprehend. We have in turn made our own immutable vastness to learn of its powers and forces and one day compel them to our own ends. The recordings of his grandeur-filled rantings would be the natural ancillary evidence to a wealth of others. It would be an open and shut case, naturally.


    Science was a vastness itself. It had already vanquished the false powers of the past, all that lay before it was the future. Humanity was liberated from the endless, vicious cycle of mysticism, brought towards a new sleek guiding light. Its powers were unmistakable, to doubt them is to doubt the nature of reality itself. This was not a good idea for Howard. These thoughts were markers of social deviants, rumors both true and false can spread quickly if they''re cruel enough, or so Howard put it.


    He still had time. He could still prove his worth to the company. Of this he was certain, and eager to prepare another batch of subjects for study


    The RNA sequence looked intact; attached as always to the Greater proprietary genetic information that his work was built into. It was a city of four-letter language unto itself. When applied, it injected a standard template of genetic expression that gave humans the power to augment the deepest layers of organic beings. To GenCo, the sky was not the limit, it was just another symbol.


    To Howard, the idea of a civilization of peace was ludicrous. He believed in the freedom of the strongest to compete and produce the best value. The world was wilderness. Although much of it had undeniably been eradicated, the ecologies of the world that was are just as present in the one he lived in. They were just found in different forms, if not in function. A prime example was found in the test. Despised as they were, evaluations gave Howard a lens through which to measure himself. Without sufficient information as to why he was wrong, Howard could not accept that he was wrong. The difference must then lie in the sample size, or elsewhere.


    Beaming over his genetically engineered flock with a benevolent creator''s smile, he knew it would take until the morning light for their bodies to command them to rise and grow, larger and more beautiful than ever before. Of this he was certain.

 Trek to the Last Beginning

    All of his flies. That''s what it would take. All his flies. He was certain of it.


    Every single test, every single time, one single subject was withdrawn for evaluation. Responsibility for the deaths of ninety-nine others lain upon its shoulders. Howard empathized with the plight of this unwitting creature. But if the math was perfect, it necessarily followed that the flesh must be the root of his failure.


    A detailed mind with meticulous methods could accomplish great things in the field of biogenetics, and Howard was determined to do just that.


    For science to help our world it needed scientists of quality; minds interconnected that, through reliable means, may discover and establish ways of knowing. Howard''s diaries, were they ever to be reopened, would reveal a young, if frustrated scientist, seeking to rectify his curiosities about a world that seemed not care for them nor him. But Howard relented. It was his obligation to contribute, and he knew that his work, however alien to the touch, meant something at GenCo.


    A passing reflection of his face held gaunt eyes that were not his own, not the ones he knew. The only thing that seemed to suffer impermanence at GenCo was him. The ashen emerald glow was gone, and darkness was now upon him. It was time to return to his cocoon and rest. As a means of circumventing his frailty, pangs of his will to survive were regularly employed side-by-side with his coffee. He would reach his goals no matter what. The taste of his dream job would be sweet beyond words, at first. It was more than enough to dull the knowledge seeping into his mind coalescing into a whisper, that a day would come for him to replay his bodily debt. To Howard, if any good can be drawn from being yanked out of an otherwise successless laboratory career, it was at least a change in pace. But at what cost. Howard packed up his things and left without a word, soon to be drenched in toxins.


    The coming of the new rains were, at first, apocalyptic. Or so Howard had been told during his elementary studies. Now they were accounted for, a banal part of his day.


    Checking the weather app on his phone was a pointless exercise but he did it anyway. As the app opened, a churning animation swirled into a replica of the earth that gradually telescoped into an image of the day''s weather. Apps just like this one liked to give its customers the illusion of crunching the numbers, nothing more; Howard was certain of it. It would be far cheaper to contract someone else to feed in the data, the weather of a preexisting simulation of the Earth. Certainty supplied by a company just like GenCo, and embeded into an app display. Infinitely complex science reduced to a simple supply chain. He was certain this was why. Nothing was before him but the indication of something that he might encounter later. Once people may have sought guidance from intuition, reason, and no small amount of cult leaders, they now had a statistically significant relationship with reality.


    If he was lucky, the daily downpour subsided just before dusk. For Howard, this meant a soaked commute, but just the one soaked commute. Greedily plodding through waste deep weeds as a child was as close as Howard thought he would ever come to the wilderness adventures embarked upon by his legendary icons. As an adult absent such adventure, Howard opted to forgo an umbrella. To tough it out is to be a real, rugged American Man. Technology, in the form of hydrophobic materials in his clothing, would thus answer his problem.


    The city, originally constructed as just one of many, was now among a scarce few. Built during the early days of the Great Ecological Collapse, it was the very model of fungible brutalist architecture. The view from above revealed the perfect circle, but even a cursory glance at its data would unearth a mosaic of human achievement that included each branch of the scientific community. A comfort to those who lived within its labyrinth, to be sure.


    Acid tainted water ate away chunks of cement with each passing rainfall. For Howard it came to its own rhythm in a way. He had never known anything other than the ever-shifting circle of the city.


    It had once been a widely-held belief, so Howard had been told, that the changing of the Earth''s climate would bring with it a cascade of catastrophic events that would cause a collapse greater than any that preceded it. Of course, they were right, but not exactly. The skies were quiet, and the oceans were full of everything but life, yet the world found a way. Certainty was a scarce commodity in those times, but companies like GenCo manufactured certainty. If truth was told, it was on the scabbed side of bleeding edge, but it was massive. What started as a nondescript bioinformatics firm rose to prominence by positioning itself over a key resource, despite the tumult, or perhaps because of it, GenCo has been able to survive the storms that have become the weather of the now.


    If Howard were to drive a car or fly an exomobile, two modes of transportation uniquely tied to wealth and freedom, he could maneuver through the city''s circuits without a drop of rain touching his body if he so wished. But both options were expensive, not to mention the costs in fuel and parking. So, Howard forged on through the rain to his nearest tram station. Walking through a torrential thunderstorm while being peppered by the occasional hailflakes made whatever happened in his lab or at home calm beyond comparison.


    His commute, juxtaposed against his lab and home, would be his justification for his reputation as a homebody, but it was very much not the norm. Now was the time of the monsoon and the desert. People, especially the most social among them, have long since adapted; and the growth of the most capable and connected of these new gigacities created the necessity for massive transportation networks that lined the ring over. A few decades ago, these achievements were the stuff of mass marketing acclaim. First came the science, then the products, then the propaganda. For as long as Howard was aware, it had always been a clean process.


    The rains first took the grass and whatever wasn''t bolted down tight, and then most of the trees, and even the deer. Howard pictured it in his mind, it must have all happened so fast. All manner of life swallowed back up into the earth. Some of the fringe fanatic religious groups of the time named it the revenge of the earth; to reclaim that which was freely given and abused. Howard paid these people no mind. To him, they were of no consequence.


    The arts and entertainment of the time depicted many of the fears of their time, of a future that was barren and lifeless. Despite what the surviving recorded interviews would indicate. But for a time, this came to be. A solution would be found in the most obvious but unlikely of places. It would be a form of irony that the cell would free humanity from an impending life sentence in extinction''s prison. In this way, plants were commanded to quickly simulate a version of their previous form and to grow in poorer soil. Howard knew full well that the tall ghostly stalks of grasses and sickly trees were, in reality, nothing but fake plastic. The soils, drained of their agricultural potential, required structures to hold as much was left as possible. Designer Flora would be the savior and inheritor of the old ecology, and they grew everywhere. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Howard''s commute walked him along what was a first built to be a simple cement walkway connecting his lab block to the tram station but had now grown into a ghostly tunnel. Not enough to keep out the water but enough to encourage his mind to wander towards daydreams of the wilderness adventures of old. To doubt that the old world was dead and dusted was to doubt the rising of the sun; yet he dreamed that he could one day brave the vast no man''s land. Traverse the land consumed with the overgrowth that ravenously replaced the barren earth before it and make it to paradise.


    To prove himself amidst this wilderness would earn him a place in one of the Oases, he was sure of it. Howard tried to shake away the fantasy, but even the fantasy of a prospect of looking up to see a perfect recreation of the old blue skies, unmarred by waste and wanton destruction, would make all of this worth it. Everyone knew about these biodomes though exceptionally few inhabited them. Ostensibly due to their slim carrying capacity, they were still a dream as impossible as enticing; they were perfect reconstructions of the old ecology. Safely hidden away from the ravages of time. To ensure the safety of these prized jewels for those who can afford them, they were kept in locations undisclosed to all but those with a membership. Howard had even heard rumors online that a few had gone missing, but this was impossible. He was sure of it.


    As a child his gentle constitution afforded him ample time alone that was often filled with studies of capable navigators locked in a desperate struggle for survival in an unknown landscape. It was easy for him to obsess over historical recreations of the voyages of ancient humans to the north pole. The men looked more like aliens on a foreign asteroid than earthly explorers. Whether Howard would see his heroes in another light had he been illuminated to their true historic legacy would be a question lost to churning history. Howard felt his mouth begin to salivate as his apartment complex neared. It was time for him to feed and rest and return reinvigorated for success tomorrow.


    This night Howard''s dreams were as they most often were, nothingness.


    They were not nightmares, although he was known to have many of those, but they were not the absence of a dream itself either. Howard felt slothful awaking from these wasted dreams. He preferred to use his time wisely and was determined not to let the time and resources he had sunk into lucid dreaming training go unused. Howard desired a dreamscape that was his to control, perhaps this was among his fatal flaws.


    The glowing radiance of his morning commute was a jarring sensation to walk into every time he did it. His eyes never quite adjusted, and his sensitivity to light seemed to worsen with age. But after lengthy arguments with his medical advisor, he dropped the issue.


    At last, Howard had arrived. The time had come to prepare his last sample was near. One last chance to prove his worth to the company that bankrolled his lavished lifestyle. With a determined look in his eyes, Howard strode into his lab and over to his containment units. He only had a short time for observation while Howie warmed up, he would need all the time he could get to process this sample. The flies were massive, he was sure of it. Still, a few smaller, more nimble subjects, unaware that despite their talents they were not long for this world, could corrupt his whole sample, mistaking an exception for his rule.


    Oblivious to the hot coffee brewing onto the ground, he was transfixed by his prize. Howie must go faster. He could feel his heart begin to race. This was his last chance for him to prove his value, and he had done it. But he was not out of the woods yet.


    Howie''s main loading screen slowly evaporated into his usual workflow. Howard slipped his hands into the warm keygloves that connected up to Howie''s main mass in delicate veiny growths. He was drenched in sweat now and anxious for his sample to be returned and confirmed, but he knew he would have to be patient. Howie would be no help, which is to say he tried to be helpful.


    "Good morning, Howard. You seem more haggard than usual. Did you decide to take my advice?"


    "No Howie. I am not going away for any length of time until I get my W. And good morning. Please prepare all samples for processing." Howie, as if he had not heard the instructions, persisted.


    "Howard, you should take some deep breaths"


    "I am not going to be told what to do by my computer! Now prepare the damned lab samples!"


    He stepped back and away from the console, realizing his coffee had now covered a whole section of his lab floor. His returning awareness of his constant surveillance crept down his spine with another wave of perspiration. Was he yelling at a computer? Howard took a deep breath to chase the reality of the moment.


    "Howie, I really appreciate your concern here, but I have some new instructions for you. I''ve included the schematic request in the shared codebank. I want you to analyze all of my lab specimens this time, okay? Do you understand?"


    "Howard, I am sure that action would not comply with the Better Data practices policy, you should know- "


    "Every GenCo policy has its purpose yes Howie I know, but all this does is give us more information to work with. We should be looking at what my code is doing to all of them not just one of them. Leaving this up to chance violates good sense."


    "For you, I will comply. But be aware that these interactions have been logged and I cannot guarantee what the return will look like."


    "It''s going to work. Clearly you haven''t even looked at these flies yet because one look and you wouldn''t even ask me that."


    Howie dutifully brought forth over two dozen thick appendages to do the work asked of his lab partner. Howard removed his hands from what his peers called ''the glovebox'' in school and began to clean up the consequences of his wasted coffee. Waste was almost as bad as failure.


    The coffee stain was gone but the smell was there to stay. Howard joined the advancing pink tendrils at his containment complex. Side by side stood ten miniature habitats, each equipped to hold one hundred flies through their full life cycle. It was the perfect environment. And now he would use it to its truest potential. Before working at GenCo, he would never have imagined this vast tank of flies being his last connection to the world, and the sight of row upon row of death filled him with the determination to see this through, all the way.


    With the chilling coordination Howie''s tendrils explored into the tank, each opening to expose a leaking fanged maw. Striking out with the speed and certainty of a of a chameleon, it''s venom to be injected or sprayed onto deceased or living subjects, digested into a soup-style data. Howie''s tentacles joined together to rip apart and liquefy his specimens. He would make this worth it. He was certain.

 The Willowing Viceroy

    The consumption of one-thousand genetically altered specimens would be a hefty task for anyone, but Howie was always hungry. With the remaining corpses cleared away for analysis, an amount of ease returned to Howard¡¯s body. It was done. No matter what happened next, it was out of his hands from here. Ping came the comforting clockwork ending to his work. An enormous yellow mass of pus, one larger and more viscous than any he had ever seen before arose from Howie¡¯s central tubing. The data from these subjects must be greater than accounted for. But this was what he wanted wasn¡¯t it? More data to work with, soothing his fears, he revealed his red sealed diary from the interior of his lab coat, soon to stuffed back into oblivion, nearly to the brim with entries, like his newest: he had his Rubicon, there was no going back now.


    The tram ride home felt to inch along the tracks. The walk through the rain having ate away his last vestiges of adrenaline, leaving only the telltale gray powder of a working class stiff. His awareness zoning in and out, Howard began frantically patting out a white cloud from his shoulders to his chest before someone could clock it. He was more concerned with his performance and attire than the particles wafting into his lungs, once members of a greater system, now just dust in the wind. One way or the other, his world would come to an end by the breaching of the morning light. He was sure of it.


    Howard awoke to the aftermath of what he was certain was a particularly gruesome nightmare. The tossed, sweat-covered sheets, the bruises without explanation, they were all unmistakable evidence. Yawning a familiar exhaustion, ¡°too many ill-defined data to reach a conclusion worth the time to address so leave it be Howard.¡±


    It could be his nightmares, the heat of his apartment bloc, or something worse. He pushed it out of his mind, he would manage these symptoms like Hans managed him, with an iron fist. In truth, the cause was of little consequence to him. Soon he would talk with Hans.


    History is the platform upon which the works of man may be scaffolded with risky decisions, it was in this exchange that Howard could find his value, to the bold sometimes go the spoils. If he was proven right, Hans must come around to the way of things, he was certain.


    The morning light carried with it harsh ultraviolet light to sear all beneath its gaze. Stress and erosion mar especially the most beautiful of surfaces, and with the radiation came wrinkles, freckles, and much worse. Like many peoples before theirs, youth and beauty were prized commodities. As insurance for this long-term investment, the science-industrial process naturally included skincare among its priorities to survive the ending of the world.


    The reflective metal of the angled tram walls reflected each rider in their own portrait. To see themselves and the shoulder-height area around them was a matter of pride in one¡¯s appearance as much as safety. But the city¡¯s constant rumble did little to drown out the silence between people. Interactions between strangers in public usually predicated ill tidings or crime, aside from the hours spent in transit, the mere sight of one alone was cause for alarm, but his heart had never been so reserved in even this, the most populous space he found himself.


    Trams like these could hold ten to fifteen people but rarely if ever did. The city was built for the tram just as surely as the tram was constructed to hold together the city.


    Howard¡¯s eyes met the growing lines on his face with indifference. To him, beauty was a fool¡¯s errand. A quest with a conditional and tenuous victory. Only those deemed worthy may pass, but upon whose authority. Yet, he would not deny the material benefits such a quality gave an individual. To Howard, to flower in the desert is to be observed and revered. He wondered how much easier they had it, the beauties. But he knew his place among the sands, and he thrived in his critical habitat.


    His intestines were not so fortunate, his meal replacement shake sat in his stomach almost in protest of the very notion of either digestion or expulsion. His tram was one stop away from its final destination. As the car slowed to a halt, Howard could see a comme-bot, one of hundreds of thousands just like it that roamed this section of the ring-city alone. Each one was a mobile platform for commercial goods purchases, and an essential means of goods delivery though the city. But this unit¡¯s behavior was unlike anything he¡¯d ever seen before. Most bots seek out potential buyers, but this one wasn¡¯t even trying to level its prosthetic eyes with the gaze of a human, almost like it was trying to blend in.


    Eagar to depart the tram and begin a closer investigation into what was a convenience store on wheels, his search revealed a small layer of tape in the middle of its body with large red ink, a product called ¡®Zoner Cream.¡¯ Howard never used the stuff, but from what he did know, it was a cheap knockoff brand of the skincare giant Tresbelliene¡¯s ¡®Toner Cream,¡¯ a compound advertised to contain minerals that invigorated nanoparticles in the skin, increasing the hold the shape of the face in 82% of surveyed respondents. Without such protection, the skin would be needlessly exposed to dangerous particles dancing through the wind, so in the end Howard considered it harmless marketing. It was a small comfort but even the small luxuries seemed to make things worth it for some people, who was to judge?


    Of course, he did. As a WorldNet regular, he was very familiar with the operations of most scams. But the gimmick behind this operation eluded him, and that made him all the more suspicious. He quickly walked away before a customs-bot acquired evidence of his involvement in a black-market smuggling operation, or something, probably drugs.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    A single topic was rarely enough to occupy his mind, but now it was more than enough. For layered within this one subject were so many different concerns. Howard funneled his nervousness into his legs for a short-lived speed boost. Arriving just before his legs could transmute to jelly, like they always seemed to, he made it on time. Not that Hans remarked on it.


    The gun grey metal door slid open, walking through with his heart in his throat, he prepared himself before his screen, straightened his back, confidence was key after all. The cold black screen radiated nothing; yet his mind, drawing upon the neurological familiarity of this moment his body had experienced, by his count, five-thousand and eight-hundred and thirty-nine to date and entropy took the screen accordingly. A familiar face blinked into being before him.


    "Good afternoon distinguished scientist of GenCo. Welcome to our regularly scheduled check-in. Please let me know how you are feeling by marking one of the faces on the happy to not scale.¡±


    Howard quickly indicated his desperation to keep his job with a beaming green smiling face.


    Hans¡¯ expressionless face washed away revealing a deeper unknowable man, one capable of great violence. Howard¡¯s prey responses had never felt so vindicated. ¡°Now. What have you done?¡±


    ¡°I¡± his voice died in his throat, replaced by an utterance, ¡°I made a modification to my process, it was meant to improve the quality of my return.¡±


    ¡°No, Howard. What you have done is to create more than 99 times the usual amount of data for me to examine, do you think you are the only scientist that matters here? Do you know how many others just like you aspire to occupy the exact same lab you soil with your ill-preparation of such simple tasks as coffee making? Howard, you have demonstrated a poor display of judgment, character, and worse scientific aptitude. Your sample was discarded before anything was drawn or analyzed from it. this is worse than failure, this is waste. You have been assigned to draft a process improvement plan, pending future reassessment of the value of your labor. Do you have any questions before our meeting concludes?¡±


    By way of involuntary request of his limbic system, time slowed to accommodate him as the words sunk into his awareness, cutting his world to match against a realer one. He would never reach the heights he dreamed of. His career, no matter where he took it, would be forever marred by the presence of a process improvement requirement on his labor history. No sensible employer would ever hire someone with a spotty track record, not in this market. Many of these people were known to resort to monetizing their own lives, people owing value to the wrong people would wake to find family members whisked away in the night, never to be seen again. Unanswered questions assumedly finalized the clearing out of their debt. Would Howard now become like them? No, it was impossible. He was too erudite, too capable. And yet, the evidence.


    Snapped back to reality by a tap over the sound system, a notification intended to prod his awareness, Howard replied with the willpower of a broken machine ¡°can I tap into my vacation time? I need at least two weeks to clear my head, at least according to Howie.¡±


    Whether out of contempt for his presence or irritation at a new name he did not care to learn, Hans probed no further.


    ¡°You have one week. Consider your request approved. But when you return, you will submit to an improvement plan and to any further evaluation deemed necessary. If that is understood, please register your ocular data into the biometric scanner to your left, smile to confirm the facial recognition of this encounter and exchange, and depart in silence.¡±


    Howard did so without question or protest. He was still processing everything he had just heard. He walked up to the camera lens in the wall. It was perfectly his height. A fanned scarlet light covered his retina in a quick scan before turning off and looking like nothing more than an obsidian decoration on the wall. He curled his face into a rictus grin.


    Walking out of the meeting room was like swimming past the wakes on a beach, striving out to get to deeper water only to have been exhausted by the effort. The walls were closing in now. The city that was once the keyhole to a future beyond the deprivations of his youth was now a cement tomb, eager to add him as a new addition to an unremembered layer.


    With the speed and soul of a specter, Howard floated through the transit walkways, to take one last look at his lab, maybe say goodbye to Howie. He could barely stomach the thought of it. The opening of his lab door was met with the wafting scent of stale coffee, a reminder of his many failings.


    Without warning, from out of his lab shredder came a fully formed document, no, not a document. Gently removing the soft paper revealed its nature, it was a geocode, a secure link to a GPS token. The back side read.


    ¡°Enjoy your retirement, your oasis awaits¡±


    -H


    It was Howie. Somehow, he came through for him! He was certain of it. It was the only logical explanation. He had no time, no time to pack no time to tell, no one to tell. It no longer mattered. Howard kissed the tank that held the machine that gave his life new meaning and sprinted outside to find the means to a new way in life.


    Running out to the courtyard his spirit soared. ¡°I knew it, this is providence.¡± Before him, a parked exomobile, it¡¯s door vertically flipped, its engine warm from recent use. This was impossible, Howard scanned the courtyard he could see trails of footprints in the ash along the grounds, but this was his moment, his journey, his legacy.


    There was no time to plan, no time to think. Howard sprinted towards his salvation. He was certain of it.