Debian Orphanage - Chapter 2

Leigh, I made a few grammatical and stylisitc changes (see below) that I thought might be a help. As a thought, when you delve into esoteric or complicated subjects like this, you have to be very careful that the reader follows and understands what you are saying or you lose them. "You know what you mean," but sometimes, we do not get it. It is a a failing that I watch for in my own works. Other than these changes, I found your subject matter and story line interesting enough. I was weaned on Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heilein stories. It is an interesting genre that allows for fanciful flights of the imagination. Good luck on your continuing efforts.Let me know when your team finds a way to get us all to Titan. J.X.M ChapterTwo _______________________________ The lab resumed shutting its doors, placing the corpse in a Test Sheet and then following their usual procedures. The living half of the team was beating against the miserable. Disheartened from scientific defeat, they parried and swayed to their domicile settings. Callum was sobbing in despair from the loss, more so than the rest. Arch, bemonaing the failure, and Sinclair feeling nothing but lack of sleep. The night rested with them. “It is not the loss of a team member that makes me take this journey home, using this emotional setting, Sinclair. It is the simplicity of failure.” “Failure is merely a learning tool. From failure only mistakes can be learned and honed into a manageable success.” Sinclair crossed his arms and watched the final embers of Callum’s essence exit the streets horizon. “Science should fall into the category of trial and error, heroes emerging seconds after a mistake and not even realising their victory.” Arch stared at the moon. “This reminds me of my loss. We will leave it be under the guise of sleep and wiat Until tomorrow Sinclair.” And he walked away. “Until tomorrow.” Sinclair replied. _______________________________ Arch held the memory of his son closer than most... Alex had been the embodiment of, a promise of perfection, designed by the engineers. Arch had believed them. From test tube to walking male, Alex propelled himself, from child like states, through the machinations of adulthood. He cross examined every known constellation and proved himself the best at what he actually was. He is a clone of Arch, with very few female cells for good measure. Alex scaled the ranks and died. Arch found him in the early hours of the morning, near the boat house on the bay, swinging rhythmically from side to side. His tongue was swollen and aloof, his eyes grand and glaring. “These genes I passed down to you,” Arch spoke to him hanging there “ Do they reflect how I feel about my self, an ambulance, in stasis,a Man who puts his work above the welfare of his child?" _______________________________ Sinclair’s apartment ached with the lack of female touch, a style of living he wished not imitate. It wasn’t, the waste that love and lust can be, but rather that his career was his one true love. Discovery was a route well walked. With every step he took, post arrival, a peppering of bubbles travelled up the cylinder tubes that traversed the walls around the apartment. This was caused by the Sonoluminescent Array, a cheap and effective means of lighting the abode. High frequency microphones, strategically placed around the home, pick up the sounds of breathing, footsteps and ambient noise. It then transfers the sound into the cylinder tubes, packed with well water, aerated with a noble gas like helium, argon, or xenon. The bubbles implode, after a short space of time, and send out shards of light to the surrounding space. There is no waste or fuss, just the economic utilization of sound. Sinclair had placed the settings at “static level,” so that the level of footprint sound, perhaps a smashed dish, would be replicated at different levels within the array itself. Most families leave it at one level for a sombre approach. The bubbles imploded downwards towards a decorous hush, as Sinclair’s head hit the pillow. He is fast asleep. Slumber held for him, the almost and the nothings. There were no dreams breaking through the barrier inside of Sinclair’s sheets. And the bubbles, within the tubes, flustered forth rays of discrete sunshine as the Communication Relay went off. The entire wall flashed and stuttered a static outward, until Sinclair awoke. “Accept!” he shouted, eyes encrusted with the morn, to the overhead the communications modem. It was Callum. Her face was pretty much beetroot, due to the contrast on the relay being set too high. It is a common fault, made because of her excess in overdoing the Face Application settings. “Something very strange has occurred.” “Oh? At this time in the morning? Is it a result from your statistics?” “No, its Amstrad. He’s alive.” Sinclair rushed down all the winding wet streets to get back to the lab. There were no transport facilities, due to a predestined strike. The streets seemed as jam packed with traffic as ever. He knocked back a Refreshment Pill. This not only cleaned his teeth and freshened his breath, but lined the stomach with gentle proteins and bacteria. It also sent a small shot of adrenalin to his brain, to erase the sleep from his mind. The lab lights were at full pelt. It seemed like the entire building was alive and pulsing with in excitement. He assumed the Dante Cord admission, across his teeth, and ran to the Med Séance. The room was empty. The machine was off. Beside the machine, on the table, lay a full body bag. Sinclair’s inspected it. It was Amstrad. That made no sense. He ran down the corridor, passing the Questioning Area, and found Arch and Callum. They sat behind a steel desk, interrogating a little girl, pigtailed and perky at this time in the morning. The women nearest her, assuming to be her mother, was weeping softly into a Soothing Vial. “What the hell in going on??!?!” Sinclair barked. “When the body dies you would think that the soul goes to hell wouldn’t you? ” the little girl replied. “Its Amstrad.” Callum quipped “For some reason he did not die.” Sinclair gaped at the possibilities, Arch felt it too. Amstrad’s Wife removed the Vial from her lips and began screaming. Callum sat at the Minute Meeting Recording Unit. It was a handy tool. The quiet of the lab meant that she could easily focus on the job at hand. From the proceeding document, she would gain vital insights and statistics regarding the past events. In this way, she could proscribe enough project variables to sustain a workable answer for the team. The Basic Principle of the events has lead to this accumulation of data. In Old English, Sawol, Sawel.In Gothic, Saiwala. In German, Seula, Sela. In Saxon, Seola. In Franconian, Sela. In Old Norse, Sala. And now, Essence. The displacement, and following removal of the essence from the form, results in the ceasing to exist of the form at large. The essence itself, under enormous strain to exist, does not attach itself to any animate or inanimate object, but to its closest genetic counterpart. In Amstrad’s case, it is his daughter. You may say, why not the father or the mother or the brother? Maybe even the cousin or the uncle? There’s the catch. All of Amstrad’s known relatives are deceased. I certainly don’t want to get detailed or caught up in the genetic possibilities of this phenomenom. There is a gap in the research. There is something that we are missing. It is the gap between genetic values. How much is it worth? How important is it? My point is that beyond the skin and the flesh of the human being, the keeper of the essence, why doesn’t the essence throw itself back into the soil, Into the basic compositions of the periodic table? Why does it not go back to its original format? The essence cannot be measured, but it fits our form. The essence cannot be seen outside of the flesh mesh that is the form. The essence cannot be felt, but we know it is there. It runs through all organisms, regardless of speech capabilities and knowledge. Does the essence have enough self awareness, without a form, to convey all messages and actions? We understand that it has a pathway, that is the form, and relations to the form, but we do not know from there. Only Amstrads daughter’s death would prove that point. Of course we cannot test the validity of this claim but though calculations: BY using the equation FE#/SF~ = E1 – F0, We can come close enough to a workable projected answer. Further interrogation of Amstrad, now in his daughters frame, elicited a few answers, but left many gaps in our knowledge of the condition. Some of our observations are that: 1. He could not remember the space between leaving his body and waking up in his daughters bed. 2. Where has the daughter gone? 3. How long will this phase last? 4. His feelings on all matters. He appears to be numb, unfeeling, cannot seem to connect fully with his daughters frame. 5. The psychological effect on both their consciousnesses. 6. Can this process be reversed? 7. Intelligence and knowledge, of the previous incarnation, seems to be known. Are these things carried over or are they known facts of always? When the Process Examination was Complete, we deduced that “I think if we were looking for an answer to our problems, this is it.” Sinclair sat at the Med-Séance lab table and sipped a four score caffeine medley. “To leave here and find the nearest living atmosphere for this generation via essence severance.” He finalised the sip. “I don’t know what I fear most about this, the unknown or the damned waste of time in a debate.” Arch pronounced. “We had better get a start on this then.” Callum pressed the emitter against the ink jet. The minutes for the meeting were almost ready. Sinclair coldly points out that this is the answer, laid out before them. It represents a journey to Titan, an opportunity for the entire human race to be reborn and start anew. The report is written. The team decided that the next task would be to create, by whatever means that are necessary, a way to get the human race to Titan.