The Attrition Initiative

Author: Kazicht Cixit

Original post: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Be0Ucnsptv6qGILP0n_3MUR-6Lp300b_QJxRmxcpqwU/edit

Entry for the YC114 Pod and Planet Fiction Contest in the Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden category.

I died last night, didn't I? I don't remember very well. Distant, muddied sounds and dreamlike sights are my only memory: darkness, a low hum and distant chatter. Moving, oppressive blurs that must be people and the chemical stench of sterility. But even through the haze, the feelings from dreams always seem to linger with an unsettling clarity. My entire body ached and I don't know if it was fatigue of mind or muscle. A great sense of weight anchored me as if I had been forcing myself to stay awake for longer than I could remember, fighting exhaustion, and I finally allowed myself to sleep. A moment of pleasant submission as leaden eyelids triumph over my will and everything fades to black.

But here I am. I don't know where "here" is. People I don't recognize come and go at intervals I can't determine. They stick auto-injectors in me and check instruments around me and I don't know if hours or days have passed since I arrived at wherever this is. They all look the same, clad in white. I can't tell if it's one person or many and the harder I try to focus, the more muddled my senses become. Existing is more painful than usual and even lying motionless in this bed seems to require far more effort than is ordinary. Calling for help seems so daunting and hopeless that I try to curl into a ball, but the movement proves too difficult. I settle for doing nothing at all.

Eventually, I try to speak. My lips feel glued together and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I peel it away from my palate bit by bit; what little saliva there is tastes like rot—it would make sense if I really am a corpse. It's funny, but my face contorts to cry. No tears come. I need an antiseptic rinse and something to drink. I don't care enough to do anything about it.

"Where am I?" My voice sounds ragged.

After a moment of silence, a voice comes from somewhere I can't see. I hadn't directed the question at anyone in particular, but I receive an answer nonetheless.

"You're in hell." The voice drones, devoid of intonation, as if it is a simple matter of fact.

I cough out a laugh, this time without the urge to sob. "We're all in hell. If you don't believe me, you haven't been diagnosed yet." My mouth dries out more as I speak and the fetid taste worsens.

"We're all in hell." I say again.

There is no response and I assume whoever spoke a moment ago lost interest or left. Exhaustion grips me and I close my eyes. I dream of dying again.

/////

It feels like a long time since I was last awake. My heart pounds and my leg spasms, shifting an IV line. I trace it to where it is inserted painlessly in my thigh. An unfamiliar anxiety speeds my breathing.

"I've injected you with a mild stimulant and a serotonin modulator so that we may speak."

To my side, a stone-faced doctor is studying me. His white jumpsuit and datapad have no distinguishing features.

"It will make you feel better for a little while, but don't get used to it," he says. "The effects will wear off soon."

Yesterday I would not have cared what is happening to me, but my usual apathy has vanished; the drugs he gave me must be working. The putrid taste in my mouth is a fading memory, so I try to speak.

"Who are you? What is this place?" My voice trembles somewhat, but it is an improvement from the last time.

"I am an expert in informorph biology and cybernetics. You are in a research facility focused on studying the effects of emerging technologies on the Disease." he says. His tone is measured and lacks affect. He moves very little as he speaks.

"I don't remember consenting to any such study. I don't even remember how I got here. What's going on? What are you doing to me?" Indignation sharpens my voice.

"You did not give consent. No one here has. We take people in the terminal phase of the Disease who have long since stopped being able to care for themselves and re-purpose them for study." He holds my gaze as he speaks and he does not blink very often.

"You take people without their consent? This isn't legal. Why are you even telling me this?"

"It is not part of our testing protocol, but I feel that it is important for you to understand what your sacrifice means for our collective future," He looks down at his datapad and makes a note of something before continuing. "The research is for the good of us all. You are right—this endeavor is not strictly legal, but our financiers are not especially concerned. There are promising technologies that have real potential to alleviate our suffering." He looks at me as though expecting a response.

"What have you been doing to me?"

"We are investigating the effects of cloning and cognitive state transfer on the progression of the Disease." he answers.

I squint and open my mouth slightly and try to understand.

"Cognitive state transfer is not an emerging technology. Even a layman like myself knows that the research on it has been unsuccessful. The cloned brain structure propagates the Disease, and since the clones are based on our own biomass, the genes will express sooner or later and the clone will fall prey to them, even if the Disease is not present at the moment of transfer. It's just a matter of time."

"You are quite right. The burning scanner has its issues."

"I haven't been connected to one. I don't have a clone entangled and we don't use them outside of pods."

He stares at me for a moment before responding, face impassive.

"The young capsuleers have discovered something they shouldn't possess, and it has thrown open doors that have been closed for a very long time. The Apocrypha Event led them to distant stars where they found our sleeping cousins." he says.

He is referring to the Sleepers, an old legend: an ancient society of humans who have slept for millenia and share a virtual reality dream as they drift through time.

"Their stasis pods were breached and their bodies were ripped apart for study. In their brains the capsuleers found an advanced but highly elegant alternative to the burning scanner. A miniaturized, implantable solution."

The gravity of his words renders me temporarily speechless.

"They are immortal without the pods?" I wonder aloud.

"They, and now you."

That's impossible. I raise a hand to the back of my neck and gingerly reach for my spine. The urge to vomit squeezes my stomach as my fingers meet the hard, smooth neural interface installed where flesh and vertebrae should be. I remember the feeling of release from the dream and all I know is rage. My teeth clench so tightly that pain shoots along my jaw. This body is a clone. Despite the stimulant, I cannot find the energy to strangle this man.

"The only thing I had to look forward to after my diagnosis was the inevitability of my death. The only solace in my life was the thought that it would end. You've taken that away from me?" My voice cracks and my eyes well with tears.

He says nothing, but continues to stare.

The years of my torment are all I can think of. My entire life before that crescendo of misery began is so distant that it feels like it happened to another person. Each day, less able to function. Each day, more suffused with despair. The bouts of psychosis had come and gone and I had finally settled into the wasting phase, and that was a dark comfort to me. I do not remember the last time I ate or drank anything. It seemed then as it seems now counter-productive to my goal of dying.

"It is for the good of us all," he says again. "I am sorry that it is you who was chosen for this torture."

He conveys sincerity despite the evenness of his tone, but I can think of nothing else to say or do. I look away from him and hear him exit the room. The stimulant is fading and a fine tremor takes hold of my arms and legs.

/////

I don't remember falling asleep. The room is dim and a hush pervades the facility. It must be night.

I sit up and take stock of my surroundings. Despite the low light I can make out a few basic biotelemetry instruments and storage containers. One of them is partially ajar; the doctor must have forgotten to secure it when he left. I hoist myself to the side of the bed and put my feet on the floor, sending a chill up my legs that I do not have the strength to recoil from. I shift my weight forward and attempt to stand, and it works for a few seconds. My atrophied muscles fail to hold my weight any longer and I fall forward onto my knees, next to the storage container. First aid supplies form neat stacks on the shelves: biofoam, anesthetic, bandages and antiseptic. Alongside them are a few auto-injectors of the stimulant I was given earlier. I take one and jam it into my upper arm.

Before I have even withdrawn the needle from my body, my heart is brutalizing my rib cage and my mind is screaming. My mouth dries out almost instantly and I feel the overwhelming need to occupy myself. To this end, I stand up and begin to walk toward the exit.

Instead of a door, a wide trapezoidal arch reveals a long hallway. No one appears from either end of the corridor so I stumble into the doorway directly opposite my room. Computer terminals hum faintly and more storage containers crowd the wall. I turn around and look back into the hall. What I can see of the passage confirms my suspicion: quarters with an adjacent office every few feet. This must be the data station assigned to me.

The nearest terminal glows to life as I approach it. The lack of security is not altogether irrational; if the rest of their subjects  are in the final stages of the Disease, they are not likely to cause any damage or even move from their beds. My hands are trembling and it takes me several tries to input my name correctly. A single file populates the screen and I fumble to access it. Charts containing incomprehensible experimental data and biotelemetry comprise its bulk, but a supervisor's log seems readable:

»»» ATTRITION INITIATIVE SUBJECT 8 «««

TIMELINE OF EVENTS FOLLOWS

ARRIVAL: Subject is catatonic, Disease diagnosis -53 months. Hippocampus, thalamus and brain stem surgically removed. Replacement with prototype "Sleeper" technology successful. Body is too weak to fully recover from surgery and is euthanized.

CLONE 1 (ACTIVATED ARRIVAL+3): Mental and physical state deteriorate rapidly, possibly due to generic clone. Euthanized when appropriate-quality clone is ready.

CLONE 2 (ACTIVATED ARRIVAL+5): Vital signs have improved, but remain unstable. New brain re-expresses Disease within 3 days. Euthanized.

CLONE 3 (ACTIVATED ARRIVAL+8): Malfunction in implanted solid state recorder results in minor data corruption. Unsalvageable portions of memory deleted via emergency backdoor access shunt. Disease re-expresses within 8 days. Euthanized.

CLONE 4 (ACTIVATED ARRIVAL+16): Memory integrity appears to significantly affect progression of neuronal reconfiguration. Finding is consistent with broader findings on placebo reactions and psychosomatic expression of mindstate. Clone allowed to deteriorate and is euthanized.

CLONE 5 (ACTIVATED ARRIVAL+30): Backdoor access shunt used to slightly alter memory. Final experimental goal is to cloud or delete as much knowledge of Disease as possible to monitor differences in clone re-expression.

A few more entries continue in the same vein. A chill creeps through my body. The log contained no dates and despite my best effort to remember, I do not know what day or month it is. According to the log, I have been here 98 days since my arrival at an unspecified date and died eight times. If I destroy the solid state recorder, perhaps nine will be the last.

The promise of oblivion tugs at my mind and it is with a manic anticipation that I drag myself back to my quarters. The anesthetic from the first aid supplies numbs my neck and upper back instantly. I do not fear the pain, but losing consciousness from shock would ruin everything. More rummaging through storage containers rewards me with a microblade scalpel. I cut around the interface on the back of my neck as carefully I can, trying to avoid my spinal cord. A stray nick could paralyze me before I can finish my work. Blood and spinal fluid trickle down my back as the blade glides through my flesh and the moment I sense that the interface is unstable I drop the scalpel and try to rip it out. My hand slips on the blood but on the second attempt it comes free. The room swims as I lose more blood, but I smash it into the ground as hard as I can. Cracks blossom across its surface. Another smash and it splits along them into pieces that scatter across the floor, streaking red in their wake. I collapse and it is with a profound sense of contentment that I lose consciousness.

/////

It has been three weeks since I was admitted. My body hurts a little less than it did yesterday. I'm grateful for the help that I'm receiving here and I'm very lucky to have such skilled doctors caring for me. It's a very rare neurodegenerative condition, I was told, but new treatments hold a lot of promise. They are still in experimental phases, my doctors suggested that I volunteer for the ongoing trials. I was happy to do my part to help this research along. It's for the good of us all.

"How are you feeling today?" My primary physician greets me. He is a strange man with a blunted affect, but he has been extremely accommodating. His assistants prepare to give me the daily nanite infusion through the special interface that they implanted on the back of my neck.

"I'm a little depressed, but there's less pain every day."

"Yes, that's to be expected. There's no cause for concern. The serotonin generating structures in your brain are under a lot of stress between your condition and the nanite infusions. It's a common side effect, really." He notes something on his datapad.

This makes sense to me. "When will we know if the treatment is working?"

The assistants roll me onto my side and deft hands insert a short needle into the socket. A chill runs through my body as the nanites enter my spinal fluid.

"It will be some time yet, unfortunately. The repair work being done to your neurons is extremely delicate and time-consuming. I'm afraid I can't give you a meaningful estimate." He checks to see that the procedure was completed correctly and the assistants vacate the room.

"Everything looks good. I'll be back tomorrow." He leaves and the silence of the facility makes my ears ring. Despite how I've suffered, I'm hopeful for the future.

/////

»»» ATTRITION INITIATIVE PRELIMINARY EXPERIMENTAL FINDINGS «««

DOSSIER 8

It has been long observed that mindstate seems to exert a physical effect on neuronal configuration and firing. These effects range from the mundane, e.g. psychosomatic expressions of a neuroses such as hysterical blindness or paralysis, to the extraordinary: spontaneous remissions of cancers without nanomedical interventions or gene therapy. The mechanism of this effect is still poorly understood, but methods of exploitation are simple and numerous. The modification is typically achieved through cognitive-behavioral therapy or brainwashing, but the direct access to hardware memory storage simplifies the process of mind alteration. If the mind can be modified to believe or expect that nothing is wrong, the brain propagates neuronal configurations and potentials that align with these beliefs and expectations. In this manner, a "wellness influence" can be conditioned.

In the case of Subject 8, an accidental transcription error in his solid state memory recorder slowed the progression of Disease re-expression in subsequent clones. While it is extremely unlikely that this will cure the Disease given its genetic ubiquity, findings suggest that its severity can be managed through manipulation of this effect.

**ADDENDUM: In light of Subject 8's attempted destruction of his implant, memory  alteration was expedited for his own protection. It is believed that his actions were a suicide attempt; following his access of an unsecured research terminal it is likely that he believed he could destroy his solid state recorder and eliminate the potential for cognitive state transfer. Despite his attempts, only the external neurosocket was destroyed. As per protocol, upon detection of physical tampering the implant released neurotoxin cocktail theta to euthanize the subject.

Subject 8 will be held indefinitely for further testing.