Mission 51, p.27
Mission 51, page 27
“Tell me about your work,” Zeemat said, hoping to change the subject.
“Have you asked yourself why we would even want to connect our Torkiyan people to these miserable humans?” Gerra asked, inspecting Zeemat’s reaction.
“Of course we want to connect,” Zeemat replied. “That’s the whole reason we’re here!”
“Connecting our worlds, yes, but connecting our peoples? Now that you’re here, after how they treated you, after seeing how they behave, do you still think we could use these humans?”
“What are you saying?” Zeemat asked, with a crackle of color in his eyes transmitting his confusion.
“We can’t work with them!” Gerra proclaimed. “They’re too volatile, unpredictable. They’re prone to anger and hostility. They destroy themselves. They are not of one mind.”
Zeemat sat motionless as Gerra continued to rave.
“I know Earth has copper,” she said. “And I also know we can’t use these humans the way they are.” She pounded her fist on the table again. “But maybe we could use them if they were . . . different. And that’s the nature of my work.”
Gerra stood up and paced back and forth within the confines of the small room, speaking with an animated voice and broad gestures, like a roaring, agitated tiger about to strike out after its prey.
“If you study human history, you learn that humans created many successful civilizations and societies, but none of them lasted. None of them became the one true human civilization. They all rose and fell. The simple reason is that humans haven’t evolved. They’ve done the opposite—they’ve devolved. They remain trapped in their primitive way of thinking, focused on self-survival or the survival of their particular tribe, not of the entire species.”
“I’ve seen them work together as a group, accomplishing complicated tasks,” Zeemat countered.
Gerra shot Zeemat an angry look. “You can’t deny it. There are too many examples of violence in their history and at this exact moment. Too many examples of humans hurting one another. How can we control a species like that?”
Zeemat understood her logic but didn’t share Gerra’s view.
“I’ve met several good humans, and one in particular,” he said.
“Grrk! You sound like one of them!” Gerra shouted, chiding Zeemat with guttural clicks and harsh buzzes.
Zeemat remembered the years of abuse he’d endured. Yet he still didn’t feel as anti-human as Gerra did. He had strong feelings for Deltare, and he remembered how he’d felt when he saw Dooley die.
“They know how species survive—the universal concept of ‘survival of the fittest,’” Zeemat argued. “And they’ve been successful. They colonized the entire planet. Their population grows. Maybe their behavior is exactly what it should be.”
“We can’t work with them!” Gerra interrupted. “We aren’t compatible. If we’re ever to connect our worlds, something has to change.”
“And what might that be?” Zeemat asked. He suspected Gerra had an answer. She was the Science Officer of Mission 50 after all, one of the brightest scientific minds of her generation. She was an expert at identifying problems and finding solutions.
“They have to change,” Gerra said. She picked up the pile of human-brain drawings and turned to Zeemat. “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll show you my work.”
Fifty-Six
Same But Different
Gerra led Zeemat to the barn. She inserted a key into the sturdy lock holding together the heavy chains on the outside door.
As soon as Gerra opened the door, Zeemat heard the muffled sound of a man screaming.
“What is that?” Zeemat asked.
Gerra escorted Zeemat down a wide hallway, passing a row of cow stalls along the way. The stalls were dirty and emanated a foul stench, like food gone bad. Two of the stalls had fresh hay on the floor and chains with shackles attached to the wall. They kept walking until they reached the center of the barn, stopping at a large metal door.
“This was once a refrigerated room. I like it because it has no windows and is nearly soundproof,” Gerra said. She worked the lever to open the heavy door. Instantly, the screams grew louder. Once inside, Gerra turned on a bright dome-shaped light on a mechanical arm positioned over a wild-eyed man strapped to a gurney in the center of the room, struggling violently against his restraints. A metal halo wrapped around the man’s head, preventing any movement. The halo was secured to his skull with screws.
“Welcome to my research laboratory,” Gerra said, raising an eyebrow and beaming with pride. Zeemat was speechless.
“After my recovery in Roswell, I disposed of my human hosts and wandered the area for a while. My options were limited. I concluded that the best way to serve my mission was to learn more about these humans—how they think and behave, and I soon realized they are deeply flawed. They are not at all ready to accept Torkiyan Knowledge, Wisdom, and Truth. Unlike you, I couldn’t advance their technology. So I decided that my job, difficult as it may be, was to help humans evolve to a point we can use them.”
The man in the gurney continued to scream for help, struggling violently against the heavy straps that bound him. As Gerra continued talking, she walked over to the man and placed a cloth gag inside his mouth, holding it in place with a length of duct tape.
“The first thing I did in Roswell was to study their behavior and the workings of their brains. I practiced certain techniques on local cows. Then I gathered my first human specimens and got to work.
“As you might suspect, my first efforts failed, but step by step, I discovered the areas of the human brain that changed their behavior. I improved it and released several of those first specimens back into the wild. In retrospect, that was premature. They didn’t function like I had hoped, and I exposed my presence. I became a target. They nearly caught me, and I had to change locations several times. Finally, I realized I had to leave the area and reestablish myself somewhere farther away. At about that time, I learned the humans had started a space program in Florida. So I left the Roswell area and settled here, so I could continue my work and keep an eye on the space program, like they’d instructed us at the Academy.” Gerra seemed pleased at the retelling of her story. Zeemat was stunned, bewildered by how their common missions had taken such different tracks.
“Even though I hate this miserable planet, this area has proven to be an outstanding location for my work, and I’ve gotten better at identifying subjects. There’s an endless supply of Mexican migrant workers and Cuban refugees around here. No one seems to care if they disappear. My work has proceeded without interruption.”
Gerra was still standing over the struggling man. She pointed to a mark on his head. “I am using this primitive stereotactic equipment to place pinpoint lesions in specific parts of their brains. That’s not exactly what I want to do. I would prefer to change things at the genetic level, so they can pass characteristics on to their offspring, but they don’t have the genetic technology yet, and I don’t have a Trangula. When I do, I plan not only to diminish certain functions but also to enhance certain others. And I will do exactly that someday, but for now, I have to start somewhere.”
“So you’re hurting these humans, placing targeted lesions in their brains, for what you believe is the greater good?” Zeemat was trying to wrap his mind around Gerra’s concept.
Gerra scoffed at his use of the word “hurting.”
“All progress requires hard work and suffering,” Gerra replied, quoting ancient Torkiyan wisdom. “It’s for their own good and the good of this planet.”
“Yes, but the suffering is theirs alone, not yours.” Zeemat bore a questioning look on his face, and it irritated Gerra.
“Of course it’s their suffering. This is their problem, of their own making. Either these few will suffer now, or the entire human species will suffer until the day they destroy themselves and their planet along the way.”
“You know we are more advanced than they are, and you believe you are wise enough to change their essential being,” Zeemat said.
“Exactly. Their genetic makeup is changing anyway, by the random forces of mutation and by infestation of viral particles. It’s created a wide diversity in their species that promotes tribal behavior, which no longer serves the purpose of ‘survival of the fittest.’ Quite the opposite—they’re on a path of self-destruction. So what do you think is better—random mutations and viral infestations of their genetic code, or the purification and improvement of their genome by an agent of superior Knowledge, Wisdom, and Truth?”
Zeemat remained silent as he pondered Gerra’s rationale.
“I’ll demonstrate,” Gerra said. While she spoke, she manipulated the stereotactic equipment to position a fine drill at a precise point on the human’s head. The drill was attached to a complicated set of levers and mechanical arms. The man’s eyes opened wide with terror.
“This apparatus allows me to reproduce identical lesions on different subjects,” she explained.
Gerra turned on the drill. The man struggled even more violently, but his head remained motionless inside the metal halo and its attachments. Gerra brought the screeching drill up against the man’s head and pressed in. The man’s screams were muffled by the gag in his mouth. The duct tape held firm.
Once the drill pierced the entire thickness of the skull, Gerra felt the resistance give way. She stopped and removed the drill. Then she passed a thin wire through the tiny hole in the skull to a predefined depth within the man’s brain. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Now that the wire is in the proper depth and position,” Gerra explained to Zeemat, “all I do is give it a small jolt, and this part is done!” She closed her eyes and focused energy into her hand and fingers holding the end of the wire. She grunted and a small electric charge from her fingers sizzled through the wire and into the man’s brain. He remained awake while his body suddenly relaxed and went limp.
“Zzzt. What just happened?” Zeemat asked.
“The subject is no longer resisting. I found a single site in the frontal lobe that accomplishes this. At first, it took me several jolts in different spots to achieve this result. Now I can consistently reproduce this effect with just one jolt to one spot.” Zeemat noticed how proud Gerra was to demonstrate her accomplishments.
“So what now?”
“Now we jolt another spot in its brain, in an area they call the hippocampus. After that, it won’t remember any of the things that happened here.” She repositioned the drill and repeated the same maneuvers.
Zeemat nodded, trying his best to hide his horror, while memories of the miserable, conquered Senechians flooded his brain.
“And finally, we jolt several other brain locations, spots which have taken me years to identify. These will render the subject more compliant, more willing to follow orders.”
“Will he be able to follow his own path?” Zeemat asked.
“To a degree,” Gerra responded. “It’s been difficult to find just the right combination of lesions to allow them a certain degree of free will and self-direction, while increasing their willingness to follow orders and assume a group mentality.”
“Do you think you’re on the right track with your approach?”
Gerra snapped her head around to look carefully at Zeemat’s face, trying to determine the intention of his inquiry.
“Do you disagree with what I’m doing to these humans?” Gerra asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Zeemat responded. “I just wonder if this approach can ever give you the results you envision.”
“Ah. Then that’s an astute question. No, I don’t think this is enough. I need to not only inhibit certain areas, as I am doing with targeted lesions, but to also stimulate certain others, which I will eventually do with implanted generators.”
“Very creative,” Zeemat said. He certainly disagreed with what Gerra was doing, but he didn’t want to tell her so. He wanted to get a precise idea of the entirety of her plan.
“For now, I’m just identifying the areas that need to change. After that, the bigger job will be to alter the human genetic code, so this same effect can be passed on to subsequent generations of humans. We’ll have to wait years for humans to develop that genetic technology, or for one of our ships to arrive with an intact Trangula. But I’m laying the groundwork now.”
“I understand,” Zeemat nodded, clenching his teeth as he tried to maintain control over his words. “Have you made any progress with the stimulators?”
“I needed a way to track the specimens once I released them back into the wild. I devised a simple radio-frequency transmitter that I implanted into their bodies to monitor them from a certain distance. I’m now developing a network of receivers so I can track their movements over a wider area. I plan to adapt that technology to use those devices as stimulators for certain spots within their brains. That’s the next step.”
“Unbelievable—the things you’ve done,” Zeemat remarked.
Gerra flashed a half smile of Torkiyan pride. Zeemat could see that her creativity and resourcefulness knew no bounds, and he could almost taste the passion she had for her work. In a strange way, he was impressed by her Torkiyan determination. But then he thought of Deltare—and he couldn’t imagine losing the essence of who she was, losing her humanity.
Gerra continued. “I’ve been implanting the tiny tracking devices in their perirectal tissues. It’s unlikely other humans would ever think to look there. I can show you that procedure later,” she said, pointing to a different set of tools on a table across the room.
Zeemat looked over to Gerra’s “specimen,” now resting peacefully on the table, awake and alert, with wires still protruding from his brain. He removed the gag from the man’s mouth, and the man didn’t squirm or scream, his eyes staring ahead vacantly.
“Do you plan to change all the humans, or to leave some of them as they are?” Zeemat inquired.
“Once we have altered the genetic code of enough humans, the original ones who remain won’t be needed. They would only cause problems,” Gerra replied. “When one of our ships arrives intact, I’ll use its Trangula to speed up my work, and we can start reducing the human population.”
Zeemat trembled inside.
“Now let me show you some results.” Gerra walked away from the human, leaving him strapped, haloed, wired, ungagged, and cooperative.
They stepped out through the cold room’s back door and entered another large stall area on the other side of the barn. These stalls were spotlessly clean. Zeemat stopped in his tracks, surprised to see two human beings plodding out of a stall at the far end of the barn. One had a broom in hand, the other a rag. They had bandages on their heads, one of them slightly bloody. Zeemat looked to Gerra, who didn’t look surprised. She observed the behavior of her specimens, now with a full smile spread across her face.
“Who are they?” Zeemat asked. “What are they doing?”
“They’re doing what I instructed them to do,” Gerra replied. “I keep the subjects here until they have completely healed. I keep them fed, clean, warm, and dry. They stay here until they’ve learned a useful behavior. Some of them are even learning several behaviors! If I’m successful, they’ll be ready to serve our fellow Torkiyans of future missions.”
Zeemat stood openmouthed, shocked.
Gerra beamed, understanding Zeemat’s look of surprise as a compliment, and she chimed a few gurgles of Torkiyan delight. She never imagined or hoped she would ever share her work with anyone.
She looked closer at Zeemat, gazing deep into his familiar eyes and studying the complex expressions written on his face. Suddenly she became concerned, uncertain whether she was seeing awareness and admiration or disgust and disdain. Gerra watched as Zeemat’s eyes relaxed into a pinkish orange, his frown easing into a sort of smile. She came to the satisfied conclusion that Zeemat approved.
Zeemat felt like he just passed the most difficult test of his life, successfully hiding his disloyal feelings. “Excellent work, Gerra,” he lied. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Deltare, and he worried about his new world, which he had just begun to explore and to love. He hadn’t even started painting again yet, and now he felt like all his plans were at risk.
Zeemat felt as if two versions of himself were fighting within. He and Gerra were fellow Torkiyans and fellow space travelers with a common mission, but he completely disagreed with what she was doing, and he hated himself for feeling a strong chemical attraction to her. He took a few steps back to separate himself from her dominant aroma. He didn’t underestimate Gerra’s skill, determination, and creative accomplishments—quite the opposite—he respected and even admired them, but he feared them. He knew she was wrong about the humans, and she was wrong to try to change them.
Gathering all the courage he could muster, Zeemat fought against her chemical attraction and against his communal instinct, which felt akin to trying to tear out his beating Torkiyan heart. He felt impossibly torn—he was Torkiyan, and he loved what he’d found on planet Earth. Right now, those things were not compatible, and he felt lost in a fog of confusion. He had to buy time to try to figure things out.
He glanced at the helpless man on the table and hid his feelings of pity. He shook his head to try to clear his mind, took a deep breath, and looked Gerra in the eyes.
“How can I help?” he said, rolling up his sleeves.
Fifty-Seven
Help Is On the Way
Zeemat felt trapped—again. His mind felt lost in a dream much of the time, especially when Gerra was near. The loss of control felt like a living nightmare. She acquired new specimens, and he did everything he could to take good care of them while they were held in the stalls before Gerra used them in the lab. He wanted to help them escape, but Gerra kept a watchful eye, and only she had the keys to all the locks. He tried in subtle ways to change her mind, to alter the direction of her work, but Gerra was single-minded and determined, like a good Torkiyan. There was nothing Zeemat could say to change her mind.
