Conjectural Figments Feb 2012

For aeons, the Fleshers have been manipulating methods of DNA replication, bridging the reproductive paradigms that separate the uncountable species across eight galaxies, engineering those aspects of the human genome to cull the weakest traits and dilute all life forms into a single species.

All to one end: the creation of the ultimate human. The thought that the Queen would reverse all of their ‘progress’ and begin a ruthless campaign to return humanity to her own vision of human perfection must be as abhorrent to a Flesher as it is to me. I could never go back to an organic state. It is a constant horror to me that we must... I must endure: that last piece of brain matter within this silicon shell festering like a tumour that cannot be eradicated. I am still a human being. Not because of a tiny piece of wet gristle, but because I feel that I am, and I will not submit to the Queen’s barbaric plans. I would rather be alone.

“Well? Are you going to get me out or stand there calculating forever? The Hive must already have dispatched a team to recover and repair you.”

I stare for a moment longer at the Flesher. Now that the moment has arrived, do I really want give this thing its freedom? After all, it was put in there because it was dangerous, and I doubt that I can conceal my squeamish fears when it writhes out of its prison. Would some sort of animal instinct take over when it smells my phobia?

“Well?”

“Of course, but our plan must be executed quickly once I smash the glass. Sentries will be here in seconds, so there must be no delay.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“There will be a span of two minutes and twenty-six seconds in which we can use a genoplant to transfer to the flight bay, and then you will pilot us out. My disconnection from The Hive means I will not be able to access the navigational charts, but you have a conditioned instinct that will guide us to your homeworld. I can use that as reference to plot a different destination.”

“Where do you intend us to go?”