Algorithmic Mutation
A story with no heroes
Algorithmic Mutation
Part 1 of 3
Part 1
No Heroes
Induction
Broken Beak Plaza
Mitchell collapsed to his knees. The robotic particles caused a searing madness under his skin. From his eyes to his toes. The tiny machines dug into him, seeking leverage. He wanted to call for help, to scream until his throat gave out. Instead, he grit his teeth and blinked away tears.
The crowd won’t do anything but watch anyway.
The news cameras filmed, notches and clicks beneath their dark exterior adjusted focus and angle. The crowd murmured about the time it was taking. Ace was smiling slightly. His earpiece blinked, an indication of active connection. Mitchell used all of his strength to lift his head and stare directly at Ace. The veins in his neck bulged so much, he felt they might burst. Ace’s face changed quickly, from a placid half smile to biting his lip and a curved brow. He held his ear piece and spoke low enough to not be heard.
The veins in Mitchell’s neck burst. Followed by several more. Medics rushed to him from either side of the crowd. They put their gloved hands all over him, checking vitals and triaging what they already knew to be a corpse. The bursting vessels were secondary damage to “catastrophic rejection”. General sounds of disapproval resounded from the horrified crowd, who were gathered in a circle around the scene at the plaza’s center.
Mutation failed.
Noon
The Farebloom Estate
Audrey threw the papers off her desk. The documents flew and twirled in every direction, feathers of a shot bird. Shannon threw her hands up, shaking her head. Audrey gave her a wide-eyed look, challenging her remaining presence. Shannon put a hand to her hip and smacked her lips.
“Feel better?” Shannon asked.
“I would, if you left.” Audrey challenged.
“Do you think this is my fault?!”
“I never should have tried this way. I told you from the start, it wouldn’t work out.”
“This is the official process!” Shannon said. Then made unintelligible noises dictating her frustration.
“It doesn’t. Work.” Audrey scowled.
Shannon finally scoffed and turned to leave the room. She stopped halfway across the grand office, the heat in her head challenging her to say something.
“We’ll get an-” Her phone started to ring.
Audrey was already typing furiously on her laptop, ignoring Shannon’s presence. Shannon tapped her earpiece to pick up the call, without turning around. A small blue light appeared.
“You’re sure?” She said. “When?” Then, after a breath, “I’ll be in touch. Soon.” Shannon turned to face Audrey with a humorless smile. “Lucky you.” Mirthless. “The candidate didn’t survive the mutation.”
Audrey looked past her screen, jaw agape. She tried not to smile, but failed. Then, she went back to her laptop and started to type. While hitting the keys at a fevered pace, she said,
“If you still can’t get me an interview after this, don’t call.” Waving Shannon away, who took the hint this time.
Shannon stormed out of the room, her mint suit jacket billowed as she turned the corner into the vast hallway of dark wood floors, covered in embroidered rugs that ran its length.
The Farebloom mansion smelled of roses and sandalwood, her nose twitched in the face of its sweetness. The sconces were bolted high along the walls, bearing electric light on Shannon’s form as she passed. Her shadow grew and shrank between them, her pace was as wicked as her plot. She clicked the earpiece again to start making calls.
The Press Conference
Broken Beak Events Center
Ace stood behind Reynard, who stood at the mic. They were before a crowd of hundreds, on a makeshift stage. A short way from where ‘it’ had happened. Reynard had just finished the condolence speech.
“Ace, do you take personal responsibility for Mitchell Majeris’ death?” A journalist blurted out from the inner ring of the crowd.
Ace controlled his expression, remaining neutral, relaxed. Reynard quickly leaned into the mic and gave the standard excuses of training, licensure and the inevitability of algorithmic mutation having a less than 100% success rate.
The rest of the press conference was sickeningly placid. Platitudes and routine in the face of a gruesome death. Ace snuck away at the first opportunity, when the camera flashes became slightly more rare. They still captured him diligently, the articles tomorrow would still remark his departure as ‘out of shame’ due to the question.
They wouldn’t be wrong.
Three Weeks Later
The Department of Metamorphic Studies
Underground Facility #6, Quarters
Audrey’s consciousness started to fade. The drugs were having a fantastic effect. She focused with all of her wherewithal on the mission. She thought of; clouds, the sensation of floating, fast and slow currents of wind tormenting the upper atmosphere. She imagined control of those torrents, experiencing them in the first person. Audrey’s waning mind grew tired of forced images, it faltered. Eventually, the darkness robbed her of cognizance completely.
***
The dream began with her too close to the floor. Audrey looked at tiny hands, before a great shout shook her to the core. She recognized it as her mother. This small version of Audrey looked up in fright at the belligerent outburst. Spittle was flying her way. She had forgotten some inane etiquette, again.
She panicked, searching the room for shelter. Trapped, it seemed, in a gargantuan mimicry of the dining hall. There were people filling the many chairs, all looking in her direction. Some laughed as her mother continued the chiding. A few guests adjusted, looking intently at their plates, as if they could escape into them. Her mother’s cold, jewelry littered hand gripped her frail chin and steered her face back into eye contact. Crimson, freshly manicured nails dug painfully into her skin. With each screamed lamentation, her mother took the liberty of shaking her head. Enough to hurt her pride, not so much as to be perceived by onlookers.
By some miracle, Audrey remembered, she was meant to be somewhere else. She grasped onto the thought, some poignant meaning just outside of her recollection. The air in the room shifted. A shovel pierced the dirt of her traumatized mind, hitting something solid. The air was the point.
Audrey looked up to the high ceilings and focused on a single vent. She hoped it would do something on its own. The mechanical slits remained unperturbed, dumping air into the rooms volume. She willed it to strengthen, to appear. As her intent grew more fervent, the shouting dimmed. Her small body was left behind. Audrey’s vision was solely on the vent now. She began feeling the air. The currents became the totality of her sensations. Cold, streaming, alive with particulates of invisible matter.
The wind stream cowered under the table, rushing across the legs of patrons, floating off of them, silk crossing silk. Without friction, the stream continued, hitting the far wall, dark wooden planks refracted its momentum and pressed it into new channels. The torrent approached the nearest door, a gap at its base sucked at its opposing pressure. For a bare moment, Audrey was partially a girl again, joyful. Then, she was free, set on the labyrinth of the house as an unknowable gas.
Audrey ran the distance of the house, in remembrance of a former state. Old rooms reared up in her perception and she recalled them in ways her waking mind pushed away. Forgotten toys entered the stream, memories that slipped through the wind. Things she left abandoned as she passed over them. When she saw her living father, a very human notion plucked her from ephemeral wandering. She woke up with a rock in her gut.
The dread became a passable pebble. Her joy overcame it as her waking mind realized she had been successful. Within a week, Audrey was dreaming of the power she sought. She looked around the dim bedroom with a smug grin, the others remained asleep. The drugs still clung to her neurons, everything was forgettable. Except that she had succeeded.
The Next Day
The Department of Metamorphic Studies
Underground Facility #6, Training Field
The grass made Audrey itch. Proof that it was real, even this far underground, under these white lamps. The walls were painted in acrylic with a whimsical aesthetic. The pictured trees and scenes were meant to offer a sense of nature without realism. She supposed that’s what the grass was for.
“We have a couple of claims. Three days in, that’s promising.” A man in gray military garb claimed, with his hands behind his back, at ease.
He looked back and forth between the candidates, eyeing each one, like he knew something terrible about them. Audrey resisted rolling her eyes. The absurdity of having them line up just to get “dressed down” with half conceived compliments was at minimum, a waste of federal funding. He went on,
“And if you’re lyin’- well, you can talk to Mitchell Majeris about that.” He smirked, but drew his eyes down, shadowing them under the wide brim of his hat. “Those that claim they dreamed of their designated power, head to the lab.” He jabbed a thumb behind himself, toward a steel door, which broke the painted whimsy of the wall right in the trunk of a swirling tree trunk.
***
In the lab, they started with blood tests. The nurse drew the syringe closer to Audrey’s arm, she asked,
“How does this have anything to do with dreaming?”
“It doesn’t, you’re just past stage one. So, the real stuff starts.”
“What’s the real stuff?”
“Couldn’t tell ya.” He said casually, still focused on the vein.
His sharp features scowled as he pierced her. Thin pale lips disappeared as he drew them in. With a barely audible ‘pop’ he announced his success. A black vinyl gloved hand drew the plunger back and blood began to fill the syringe.
“How long does all this testing take?” Audrey asked, looking up at the ceiling from the ugly brown chair. Its arm wrapped around her, a restraint. The shade of brown beckoned to an eighties aesthetic.
The nurse shrugged his shoulders, “People who come in say they’ve been around for two weeks or less. People who get chosen are usually announced on the news less than three weeks after they see us here. One time, I took the blood of someone who was chosen!” He bragged.
“Was it Mitchell?” Audrey retorted dryly.
“No.” He countered, looking away from their curtained booth to portray his sudden disinterest.
His jaw clenched while his mouth moved to the side. Audrey could see muscles flex under the skin indicating gritting teeth. He spared a peek at the syringe as he continued to draw it back. When the container was filled, he pulled it out swiftly and pressed a gauze to the pierced skin. With his free hand, he grabbed Audrey’s and placed it on the gauze. Without another word, he left the booth with the sample.
“Oops.” Audrey lamented sarcastically.
A nurse with no patient on the right side of her curtain laughed exactly once. Audrey tried to peer over, past the ugly brown restraint at her stomach. Noting this, the middle-aged woman rolled a wheeled chair slightly over, so that they could see each other. Her tight curls were pulled into a tighter bun. She wore the same navy scrubs as the younger man that had taken her sample.
“Maybe I took Mitchell’s.” She stated with a lilt of humor.
“Any tips on not exploding?” Audrey jested.
The nurse drew her features tight and looked at Audrey through half-lidded eyes, “What makes you think you’ll get that far?” She said.
Audrey refrained from showing any affect. She pulled the restraint up herself, with a jolt of embarrassment. She hopped from the pedal-operated chair and looked at the nurse directly.
“If I don’t get chosen, I’ll be back.” Audrey said.
“Oh, they don’t do that here.” The nurse responded, shaking her head. “If you get this far and don’t finish, that’s that.”
Audrey attempted to hide the negative emotions again within a poker face, but faltered. Her breath caught in her throat and her right cheek pulled up involuntarily. She wanted to ask how they could have so many legitimate candidates that they would just discard, despite showing talent. Instead, she refused to give any satisfaction to the nurse.
“So, where do I go now?” Audrey asked, brusquely, looking around the thin room.
“You’re not going to get very far like that.” The Nurse responded. A sadistic grin grew across her face.
Audrey was trapped without further instruction, having already displeased the nurse that had been assigned to her. She took a moment to breath, before saying something she would regret.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“If you can’t put on for the cameras or get along with people you dislike, you won’t pass press training. You won’t be told why, either.”
“How would you know?” Audrey asked, snark dripping.
“Because I was standing on the other side of this conversation once.”
Audrey’s jaw snapped tight. She took a beat to consider her words. “So, they won’t tell me I have to play nice. They’ll just send me away?”
The nurse responded with an affirming grunt.
“Are they going to ask that nurse about me?”
“Mmhm.” The nurse drew out the first ‘m’.
“Why are you trying to help me?”
“Am I?”
“You’re the next instructor.” Audrey said, defeat in her voice.
The nurse stood, raising her hand to shake Audrey’s.
“Druscilla.” She said. They clasped hands.
The Nomination Conference
Independence National Historical Park
Philadelphia, PA
Ace stood in front of a hundred journalists and staff outside of the old Congressional Hall. The crowd was piled into the street outside of the modest brown brick building. He felt nude, vulnerable, as there was no room for a podium, his suit was the only thing between him and the eager eyes snapping his image dozens at a time.
“Hello all, thank you for gathering today, for this momentous occasion.” Ace began. The flashing lights intensified. He fought the reflex to close his eyes. “Today, for the first time, I’m happy to announce that we were unable to reach a consensus on the next Metamorphic candidate. Today, ladies and gentleman, I want to introduce you to three candidates.” Ace paused while the crowd’s reaction grew to a deafening roar on the small street.
He feigned interest in the officials standing to either side of him with professional smiles and nods, to avoid the blinding flashes that now worked in synchrony to appear as one flickering supernova. He lifted a hand and wobbled it in the air to indicate for the crowd to quiet. When Ace began to speak again, it took two false starts for the crowd to obey.
“Inductions will be in Break Beak Plaza, as is tradition, next week. They will begin on Monday the sixteenth and be complete by the afternoon of the eighteenth. While this breaks with official policy, the Metamorphic Research Society and our friends at the National Institute have come together on this matter to bolster our country’s defenses in this new War on Terror. Foxhead will take a few questions.” Ace finished. He bowed slightly toward Reynard at his left hand and moved back to allow Reynard to approach the center of the stairs.
Reynard looked around at the begging journalists and officials. More than a dozen hands were raised. He nodded at a journalist with an ACD ID slinging from a multi-colored lanyard.
“Mike Hopkins, ACD News.” He introduced himself. The crowd quieted around him. “Has Mitchell Majeris’ family been notified of the candidates?” Reynard shook his head slightly.
“Please keep your questions to current events. We are going to offer the Majeris family privacy and respect at this time.” He waved Mike off and pointed to a different hand, many shot up.
“Alicia Bailey, NRD Publications.” She looked around as she introduced herself. She was from a small syndicate that knew they were only allowed here by sheer luck and a plethora of called favors. “The survival rate.” She gulped, voice dry. The question tickled her throat and raced through nervous limbs. “The survival rate has dropped below 50% for the first time, despite publicly released estimations. Which are consistently ranked above 80%. Will you adjust, in the face of the most recent…data?” She sighed. The mic picked it up. Her face burned red.
“The rate is- decided by the algorithm on a case-by-case basis.” Now, Reynard struggled to swallow in a nerve-swollen throat. “There’s no need for adjustment, it isn’t...” Multiple hands shot up from the crowd. “Our licensing program is very thorough and fully transparent with candidates. We act with full faith and credibility.” He stumbled through the words.
Alicia started to speak again as Reynard continued through his policy-official response, “Why can’t we adjust the algorithm?”
He stopped the canned response and blinked hard. The attention and focus of cameras suddenly gained an oppressive gravity. “It’s- The algorithm..is fully self-correcting. It updates and calculates vectors on a case-by-case-” Reynard was interrupted by a small group suddenly shouting from the back of the crowd.
“Mitch had no chance! Mitch had no chance!” At least five individuals started chanting at high volume, two of which produced protest signs, now held high.
Ace smiled and put an arm around Reynard’s shoulder, pulling him away from the building’s center. He used his free hand to wave politely and nod at the crowd in a swift exit.
Induction
Broken Beak Plaza
First induction, January 16th
Suparna knelt before Ace, as was custom. Tradition was more important now than ever. Ace placed a hand on her shoulder. She reached up to grip it, painfully tight. His eyes rolled and moved rapidly back and forth. His neural chip was calculating. Suparna focused on her imaginings.
“Wings. Big beautiful wings.” She chanted under her breath.
Ace finally focused, his eyes directly meeting her upturned gaze. He stepped away, out of the circle. It was light with a rainbow of small LED lights at its perimeter. He walked around and behind the official new “Metamorph Project Podium”. It was a new design, with a grand seal affixed to its front. Picture perfect and portable for future events. Anything to garner legitimacy right now.
“39% odds of survival.” Ace spoke, clearing his throat nervously. “I recommend discontinuing the procedure.” That was new.
Suparna’s eyes went wide and the crowd let out little gasps. Whispering conversations picked up suddenly and moved through the onlookers, a tidal wave of gossip. Ace had never suggested ceasing before, only offered the option. Mitchell’s chances had been lower and yet it was allowed to go forward. Suparna shook her head vehemently. Ace lowered his face and nodded solemnly.
Invisible orders passed between his neural chip, to his ear piece and finally lit up in Suparna’s veins. The injection had taken, she could feel a flame lit in every nerve.
“Big beautiful wings.” She repeated. Her volume increased corollary to the sensations.
From testimony, it always hurt. This time was no different. Her spine started to warp and extend. Bones crackled with new growth as thin new formations extended to either side of her. She held perfectly still, except the involuntary waggling of her torso as it mutated. The piercing of bone through skin was the least urgent sensation. Small streams of bright blood peeked through her uniform, until they were dense enough to roll down and drip onto the stone circle.
From the new bones, filaments began to form. Gold, red, blue and black. They twisted out from the marrow, pinfeathers like tiny spears. The largest ones toward the center of her spine began to unfurl. Within a minute, each bone structure was 9 feet long. They weighed her down. She began to struggle in her kneeling position. The feathers added surprising weight.
The circle continued to collect her blood. It rolled across the stone and pooled under her shaking limbs. One wing twitched, then the other. This caused many pin feathers to expand at once. In a picture of glory, both wings suddenly shot wide open. The early Sun caressed dark hues of red and blue. It saturated the golden edges of her growing wings. Suparna became a divine image, laden with the duty of blood. The wings stretched into the warmth cast on them and began to move gently with the soft breeze.
Blood encroached under one of her knees. Then, both hands. It became sticky as it dried, creating layers of new slick ichor over coagulated sheets. Ace closed his eyes tightly and looked away. The crowd began to hum and haw, some journalists speaking into cameras, noting its volume. The Sun finally peeked over the tree tops of the plaza and shone fully on the scene.
The flood of her essence against the ground, the weakness from losing its volume and the gesticulating of new limbs moving in the breeze all worked against her balance. Suparna’s hand slipped. She began to keel over to her left side. Both wings reacted on new uncontrollable reflexes. They flapped wildly, one against the ground, the other fruitlessly toward the sky.
Suparna screamed in agony as the fluttering wings began to flap incessantly. As if a separate creature within her spine was desperate to escape. They moved against her desperate commands for stillness. Crackling spinal growths snapped violently. hardened wing bones speared into the intervertebral foramina. Pectoral girdle bones broke away from her natural shoulders from within her body and continued to expand, as if searching for foundation. Within a breath, her heart was pierced.
Suparna grabbed her chest and tried to breath again. Her nerves were lit up with a wide electric pain. Her internal organs became littered with sharp growths which pierced and dislocated them.
Ace covered his face at the podium. He issued an internal order to stop the mutation, but there was no actual protocol that existed. He was met with a simple error code. The journalists spoke feverishly in high tones to their cameras. Some civilians screamed and begged for intervention. The medics rushed to her side, hesitating given the novelty of the induction’s failure. The first medic shook his head, observing the time on his watch once he had assessed her lack of vitality.
With acknowledgment between Ace and the medic, Ace walked around the podium and approached the circle, without entering it. He waved adamantly at the crowd surrounding them.
“Clear the perimeter!” He waved to the newly established security force and the few police officers present. Ushering them in.
The forces took to the orders and began ordering the crowd to leave. They established a new barrier with a line of officers and personnel that created a boundary around the scene. Urgent orders became yelling demands as some of the crowd defied them. Demands became shoves. Shoving succeeded in most cases, but not all. Once the officers sprayed the first journalist with mace, angry screams were exchanged from both sides.
Within a few minutes the heat died down. The journalists continued to creep around the new wider perimeter in defiance of the assault, but no more violence occurred. Ace looked at the corpse in silence. The events around him blurred into meaningless noise. Blood continued to pour out into the circle. Medics kept adjusting limbs and using tools to obtain parameters. Suparna twitched with the tugging. The right wing flapped once more before spreading out limply.
Ace’s life flashed before him. His focus split between the horror before him and the slideshow of all of his choices that led him here. Every death he had administered with stoic countenance for the sake of advancement. Of some brand. Regret pooled in him, a cold stream thinning his blood, weakening his heartbeat.
Reynard arrived after an eternity or perhaps a moment. Time was nothing to Ace currently. He thought he saw Reynard dealing with the crowd. Pushing them out or maybe giving statements. Handling. A hand clasped on Ace’s shoulder.
“Good, keep that face on.” Reynard whispered to him.
Thanks for reading! I also want to thank Suparna Chakraborti and M. Majeris for offering their pseudonyms for the victims! I wish no harm on these wonderful writers, the names are purely a fun mention.
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I love this so much! You even put the meaning of my name into it. You truly made my day!