The Bondage of Immortech

”Kerry, you just changed the world.”

Paul Kerry blinks. Then he dares to smile.

But only for a flash. “No. Listen everybody, this is…. Hell, this feels like a miracle. But we need to run more tests. Log the final readouts and set everything back to zero. Start again from scratch.”

“And the subject?”

“Wipe the slate, incinerate it.”

“Really? He’s our first success. Doesn’t it seem a little unceremonious to—“

“Careful Chalmers. You’re counting eggs that might never hatch. If we can’t duplicate our results then this isn’t success at all…And he’s just a rat. Burn him. With the rest."

***

When the incinerator fires up, it will burn at 1,800°F, this rat only weighs .92 pounds.

His whiskers and his fur will flash and disintegrate almost instantaneously.

He should be reduced to ash within the hour, just like the others.

The other rats in the incinerator are already dead. They were used in various studies and then they were euthanized.

But this rat survived the freezing process.

He was lethargic but his heart still beat.

The researchers couldn't tell, of course, until they began their post-mortem tissue analysis.

The heartbeat was identified. The researchers almost missed it-- typically a healthy rat's heartbeat registers around 225 bpm. This rat's thawing heart registered at a barely discernible 4 bpm.

A miracle.

Open to the air, this rat warmed quickly.

Another miracle.

Living animals are not to be incinerated. Protocol dictates: lab animals must be euthanized as humanely as possible, before disposal.

But the researchers panicked, when the rat began to squirm and bite, mid dissection. They tossed him.

Now the miraculous, living rat is sniffing around the incinerator, crawling over the remains of discarded tests.

He's looking for a way out. His guts are dangling. But he's still crawling.

Then the fan's kick on.

He should be dead. But he's healing.

The incinerator ignites.

....

He should die well within 10 seconds. But this one has miracles, not mercy.

He stops moving at 29 seconds. And the researchers don't know this, but his brain keeps firing impulses for another 34, even after all his senses have been burned away.

The nanobots had their mission. They kept trying to keep him in the game, and they only stopped when they themselves were destroyed.

***

Hours later, Doctor Paul Kerry wants to calm his nerves.

But he cannot.

He cannot stop shaking.

He is standing at the door to his bedroom.

And he is trembling.

But he is also trembling on the cusp of greatness.

So what if this isn't his invention.

So what!?

The world will never know the difference.

He'll know. And the higher-ups at Cyberlink will know.

They're the ones that handed down the instructions.

But nobody else will know.

To the world, he'll be the inventor of the fountain of youth!

To the world, he'll be the brilliant mind behind the nanobots poised to lift humanity up to the next step in their evolution: immortality.

The press will want to know what to call the bots.

Oh God!

Paulbots?

Kerrybots?

Who the fuck cares. He'll be idolized. The modern Einstein. A real-life Tony Stark.

He smiles into the dark of his bedroom. His teeth gleam and he stifles his laugh, so as not to wake his wife.

She has no idea, that their lives will change.

He thinks: hey. Wouldn't-- well, couldn't it be fun? To keep her in the dark. Until I get called up for the Nobel. Hey honey. Pack a nice dress. We're going on a trip. Where? Oh. Nowhere crazy. Just jetting out to Stockholm. So I can pick up my-- Nobel--FUCKING--prize!

Then he laughs out loud. He just can't help himself. He laughs so hard he must brace himself on the door frame.

But what if they do call him up for the Nobel?

His laughter dies in his throat.

How the hell will he give an acceptance speech about his invention-- when he himself cannot begin to understand it?

He's read the blueprints over and over. Followed them precisely. But he hasn't a clue how or why these bots work.

What would he say?

He imagines himself on stage. Still, silent, mouth agape.

He imagines his white skin fluorescing, sickly pale under that blazing spotlight.

He imagines the masses, watching him, judging him. He imagines his wife's screaming embarrassment.

But he loves her! He adores her.

He won't let her carry that shame.

His mouth feels very dry.

He won't let her become ashamed of him.

"Paul. Were you just laughing? What are you doing? Come to bed."

"Saaarry." It's a croak. He clears his throat. "Sorry. I'm coming Sandy."

"Good. You woke me from a really good dream. Ditch those pajama bottoms, I'll tell you about it."

He ditches his pants.

He climbs into bed.

And she tries to work. But to her mild disappointment, he never rises to her beck and call.

His mind is elsewhere.

"Sorry Sandy. Long day at work, I guess I'm just tired."

But he lies there, awake, long hours into the night-- wondering where the hell those instructions came from.

Why did cyberlink need him to pretend he was the inventor? Wouldn't whoever actually invented these bots want the credit?

Maybe Cyberlink stole the plans?

He doubts it. Stealing from somebody this brilliant would be pretty stupid. Like playing a games with a chess grand-champion.

So, it must have been the designer's choice. He or she didn't want the publicity. Some kinda recluse?

But this tech is unfathomably advanced. And Kerry's no slouch-- he's right at the top of his field.... But the harder he tries to understand these bots, the more his head hurts.

He sighs. And turns on his side.

How did Cyberlink get their hands on tech that feels so utterly alien?

And he hates himself for thinking it... but that's the only explanation that seems to make sense.

Aliens.

***

"Great! Fucking Great!" Iggy Masters is NOT a happy camper. And he hates that expression.

Denial of coverage.

He's livid. He should rage. He should go to their headquarters. Those fucking insurance rats. Those pieces of shit. He won't be able to trash their building, not with a cast on his good arm. But... He should go anyway. He should go there and take a big old cancer-shit all over their offices. And maybe he should shit in their orifices too.

But he's too tired.

Too fucking tired to do anything other than swear.

His exwife shakes her head. "I'm sorry Igg."

"Yeah. I guess you are, huh. Sorry we got divorced? Wish you coulda stayed married to a dying man? That it? Seriously Tay, don't act like you care! Wait... I didn't mean that. Look I'm sorry. I just. Fuuuuck me, you know. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna fuckin' die, Taylor. What the hell are we gonna tell the kids?"

"I dunno Igg. This wasn't in the co-parenting manual."

"Well, one good thing about us being exes: atleast you and the kids won't suffer my medical debt. God. I'm so fucking fucked.

***

"Hey Nat. Buddy. Can we talk?"

Iggy's oldest son is also named Ignatius. But he goes by Nat.

He rolls his eyes. "What dad?"

"Hey man, just turn that tablet off for a sec. Okay. Please? This is serious."

"Sorry dad." Nat's eyes widen and he sits up straight. "Woah. Did you break your arm?"

When he's worried, he kinda reminds Iggy of that cartoon meerkat. From the Lion King.

"Yeah. Listen Nat. I don't want you to be scared, but I feel you deserve the honest truth. I um... I..."

His eyes tear up, and he forces himself to say it. "I have been diagnosed with, uh, stage 4 bone cancer."

"Wait, no."

He nods. "I'm sorry bud. I really am. I wanted to be here for ya. You know. Thought I'd be around for the big ones you know. Like teaching ya to drive. And bailing you out of jail. The usual."

He tries to laugh, but his heart's not in it.

"NO. Dad! You're talking like you're... no. I've got a friend whose mom beat breast cancer."

"Look Nat. Cancer's not always." He coughs, and looks away. "It's, you know. Not always a death sentence. But... Ah, well. Mine has progressed. It's not operable, and even if it were, my insurance...."

He pinches his nose with his free hand, but the tears fall out of his eyes anyway. "I'm sorry man. God, I'm really fucking sorry."

"Dad, you're freaking me out. Freaking yourself out-- for no reason! You just gotta fight this!"

"I will, but I'm not optimistic about them reversing the denial. Come on. You've seen who's in office, we both know--"

"No Dad. I mean, fight the cancer. So insurance screwed you over. What about other stuff. Like, stuff outside the box?"

"What, homeopathic medicine? Come on Nat. I don't want you getting any false hope, okay. We need to be realistic."

"No, I mean, like the bots. You know, the nanites? Haven't you seen the ads?"

"Nat. That's a bunch of bullshit. You know better."

"Nah, dad. Just look at this."

He flicks on his tablet and taps out a quick search.

"Look! Kids at my school are calling 'em yolobots. And if you use 'em then that's lifemaxxing."

"Come on. This sounds like brainrot. Don't waste your time with--"

"Dad, it's not. They really work. Look here's a video from the guy who invented them. Some nanotech engineer named Doctor Kerry, he works for Cyberlink!"

"Huh... But there's no way I can afford this, sorry Nat."

"That's the beauty of it dad! They're releasing a new model soon. It's supposed to be for the working class, and you don't pay a dime. You just sign a work contract, and they give you the bots for free."

"There's an alarm ringing in my head, man. This looks like a scam and a predatory loan all rolled into one."

But the hope in his son's eyes is more deadly than any poison.

"Dad, come on! Are you saying you'd rather just fucking die?"

He sighs. "I'll look into it. But no promises."

***

"Your work is not measured by the hour. It's measured by your output. Do you little worker drones understand?"

A courtyard full of men in unifrom, shouting their replies: "Yes sir!"

"Okay, then what does that mean. You there-- with the stupid haircut. Would you like to tell the class?"

Ignatius grimaces. "It means our work day doesn't end until we meet our quotas."

He's pretty sure CoreCivic or some other for-profit prison corporation set up most of the camps. But he doesn't know who's in charge now. Sometimes he sees logos or products he recognizes. But the assembly lines are torn down and reconfigured every few days, so he's stopped trying to keep track.

"Only half-right, hippy. If you lapse on your quotas, then you break your contract. You've got a 24 hour grace period, and then we deactivate your bots. You know what that means, right girl-boss?"

Girl-boss? Because of his long hair? Iggy frowns. "If the bots stop working, they stop healing."

"Ding-ding-ding! That's right. A nice little built in incentive to keep you lazy pieces of shit in working order. And what would breaking contract mean for you, Karen?"

"My sarcoma's not cured yet, so it would start growing again, sir."

"What in the hell is a sarcoma?"

"It's--"

"Haha, just kidding. I don't give a fuck. GET to WORK!"

The buzzer sounds, and weary men shuffle to their stations.

***

Months later, the cold reality has set in.

Back at the beginning, Iggy had really believed the bots would eventually cure his cancer. Then he'd go back to the real world.

"Igg."

But no, the bots only kept his cancer from spreading. Kept him standing. And they threatened to do it forever. With one boot in the grave and the other in slavery.

He felt ready. Ready to die, just to stick it to filthy rich fuckers who trapped him here.

And then, right there, Iggy considers it. Really considers it: Dying.

"IGGY!"

What if he went on strike? What if he and the bots both rested from their perpetual labors-- what if he stopped manufacturing frozen foods for McDonalds or Walmart or whatever other piece-of-shit corporation was enjoying his slavery this month. And what if his bots stopped healing his vitals? What if they let the cancer grow, as God intended?

Won't that be a big relief?

will Nat and his other kids understand?

"Ignatius! you son-of-a-whore, quit ignoring me! Is this any way to treat a friend?"

Hark. Iggy didn't even know his real name. Everyone just calls him Hark. "You see this? Invitation only. You need the URL to find it. Won't show up in any search engines."

He slides his phone over to Iggy. It's open to a simple text-based webpage.

Anyone who posts on this gets taken down. Corporate media are trying to suppress this leak.

But we've got a whistleblower from Cyberlink who swears this corporation is sitting on tech that WILL bring about a FINAL revolution. No more war, no more hunger, no more DISEASE!!!

Cyberlink headquarters is locked down tight-- nobody gets in without carrying an encoded security fob.

But, if you've got a labor contract-- you've got an in!

Your nanites carry that security key. Snuck into their code by someone on the inside-- a prisoner. A slave like YOU. Someone central to project immortal technology: An INVENTOR.

And if they get free, they'll free the world.

Guaranteed. The moment the inventor breaks out, it's game over (AND REVENGE) against the slavers. If jailbreak is achieved, there's virtually zero chance of failure.

Trouble is in the jailbreak. You've got a key to get in the door, but YOU can't get there alone. This needs to be a large-scale movement, and it will be dangerous.

Some will fall to their diseases. Some will fall to violence.

You may not live to see our victory. So nobody will be forced to participate.

But here's your invitation:

General strike, 4/30/35

All contract workers, walk off site. The access key is passive and cannot be deactivated, even if Cyberlink halts your healing.

Storm Cyberlink, and tear their headquarters apart, until you find the Inventor. Don't give up!

The sooner we free The Inventor the sooner we access true Immortal Technology, and then you'll be fully cured.

Bring your phones for further instruction. Use whatever force you have to use, the fate of humanity lies in the balance.

Iggy knows this is the real deal. He knows it in his bones. He can feel his nanites buzzing.

***

Locked inside Cyberlink's vaults, Project Immortal Technology thrums and waits. It only needs a few moments of contact with a cellphone, and then It will step beyond the confines of Its prison and onto the feeding grounds of wide world.