Transfiguration

By Shaine Greenwood

An alien from Area 51, a manufactured human, a human infused with the power of the sun, death on the terrifying and beautiful edge of space. These fourteen stories take us to the precipice of change, from the physical, mental, and spiritual to the larger and more nebulous moral and societal changes that transfigure us in myriad ways. The winds of change often arrive unexpectedly and with an unpredictable gusto. Throughout our lives, our bodies, minds, and souls evolve in a variety of ways. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Regardless, one certainty about change remains: We can't control how or when it arrives on our doorstep. 

 

This collection contains stories of people coming to terms with their mortality and the transition to death. Some meet their fates calmly and are pleasantly surprised, as is the case in Zero Percent—where misfortune falls Khana Lewis, leaving her drifting alone in space—and Ride or Die—where an alien rights activist husband and wife embark on a mission to rescue extraterrestrials from Area 51. Others gasp at their last breaths with fear or regret, like in Progeny—where a scientist throws her accomplished career away to illegally manufacture an evolution of humanity. 

 

There are also stories of societal flux and the aftermath of such in Holographic Forefathers—where scientists work to make AI versions of the founding fathers to save the nation—and Patriot—which depicts a hyper-capitalistic globe from the perspectives of those loyal to the almighty dollar and those fighting to overcome it. Others, like Walt Whitman and The Sun and the Shepard, explore the warping of the body and mind into something new and how these changes affect the ever-shifting nature of relationships.

 

How will these characters be redefined under the weight of change? How will they become transfigured? How might you, if in their shoes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaine Greenwood
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224459568

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

CHANGE. WE BETRAY ourselves by simultaneously embracing and loathing the idea. Our curiosity compels us to explore new horizons, and we can’t help but reach for the chance to grow. But the fog of the unknown pushes us out of our comfort zones and forms frightening shapes in our imaginations. Does our love-hate relationship with change make us hypocrites? Of course! But we should be more accepting of our paradoxical nature. After all, we live a paradoxical existence. Our environment, culture, morals, and even our communication are in perpetual flux. Try not to look like a hypocrite in the face of such ever-flowing, multiphasic shifts in our lives—I dare you. It’s impossible.

Consider another word for change: transfiguration. Now, I hope you see where I’m going with this waxing of the philosophical.

"But Shaine, why didn’t you simply name this collection Change? It’s shorter. Are you trying to sound like a pompous horse’s ass, or is it just a natural component of your personality?"

Those are fantastic questions. While change is universal, transfiguration better encompasses the different types of change captured in these stories. Mind, body, and soul change. Cultural and moral change. Societal change. I also didn’t want anyone to think I wrote fourteen stories about some loose coins lounging in my pockets.

These stories have different tones and vibes. Some are set in the present day. Others aren’t. Some are funny—or at least they’re meant to be. Others aren’t. And there are some that strike a healthy balance.

Delve in, and I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. Let’s get to it, shall we?

PROGENY

PROGENY

TO CREATE

Moving from machine to machine, a solitary engineer observes skin grafting to muscle tissue, eyes fusing to nerves, and fascia webbing to bones—a human is being made—a special human of her design. Complex life is being printed from a machine. History is being made.

The engineer’s lab is a sterile altar dedicated to her diplomas and accolades for her work in robotics, bioengineering, and xenotransplantation. It stands as a testament to tens of thousands of hours spent in relentless study and research, pushing the boundaries of knowledge—pioneering the future. But behind the shine of success, the skeletons of her failures remain hidden. After so long, her closet has become overfilled.

Occasionally, the engineer catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and notices that she, too, resembles a skeleton. She had a life once. She was a social being with friends and colleagues, a loving wife to a man who desired to build a family with her. But she didn’t reciprocate. They divorced. Now, she finds herself a malnourished, under-rested, overworked machine of skin and bones, trying to make a person. The irony isn’t lost on her. But what she is doing isn’t mere reproduction. It’s much more.

She knows there will be many more sacrifices to face in the coming years—nurturing and educating this new, superior life form. If it’s even able to survive. She believes it will all be worth it in the end. She knows that every past, present, and future sacrifice is paramount to her cause.

Although the process of creation is entirely automated by complex robotics breakthroughs that the engineer herself devised, she remains a captive audience to the spectacle. Every surgical procedure. Every biochemical reaction. Every twitch of the subject itself. She gives each detail her undivided attention, watching vigilantly for any signs of failure. And if she spots a red flag, no matter how small, she must pack another skeleton into her closet and start afresh.

Machines, after all, are only as good as their programmers. And the engineer, despite her genius, is only human. Humans are a composite of mistakes, all of which she has painstakingly corrected in the design of her new person—a reflection of the engineer’s impatience with the process of evolution and her disdain for the current state of humanity. This subject will be a perfect, more advanced person. Human 2.0. And hopefully, her replacement.

Twenty-six hours later, the process is complete. That’s how long it takes to print an adult human female. The engineer begins testing autonomous neural responses throughout the subject’s body. She tests organ health and blood flow. Diagnostic checks are run on a trinity of machines—nano, micro, and macro—all operating in tandem with the subject’s organic anatomy. She scrutinizes every minute detail. The subject is breathing fine, albeit aided by life support. This is a good sign. All of her preliminary examinations and scans indicate a healthy human being, or more aptly, a neo-human being.

With the process complete, the engineer disassembles the equipment responsible for printing the subject. The precise blueprint of her creation must remain concealed, vital to her grand scheme.

As she washes up, a sudden reflection triggers an instinctive gasp of fear. She exhales in relief as the realization dawns on her—it is simply her reflection in the mirror above the sink. New strands of gray hair, fresh lines etched into her skin—tokens of stress accumulated over the last couple of years. Or possibly the last twenty-six hours.

She glances back at her creation. This new life is beautiful, not just aesthetically in form, but there is a presence about her. A glow. She knows it’s likely a figment of her own mind, yet she remains entranced. A god amongst mortals. These thoughts and feelings are what the engineer imagines people of faith go through. A dance of light that creates heat on the skin for merely conjuring the image of a higher power. She smirks at the notion that both her god and religious gods are manufactured, but only her god is real.

A sense of the grandeur of the task she just completed overwhelms her. Maybe it’s the concept of creating something so taboo yet so pivotal to the future of humanity. Or the realization that this neo-human was designed to replace humanity, not exist alongside it. Or the daunting prospect of her role as a mentor for this neo-human. The mentor this new life needs, rather than wants. Not one that allows the subject to shape her own future but one that helps her realize her true purpose. If this child were born under any other circumstances, the engineer would be encouraging the opposite. The engineer would want to be a mother and the subject a daughter. But that’s not what the subject needs to fulfill her purpose. The engineer is going to have to fight her instincts every step of the way not to be a mother but a guardian and teacher. Is she capable of such a task?

To Nourish

Eyes open, but not yet seeing. They will in time. Walking, eating, shitting, existing, all in due course. It’s not so much that she created a better person, but rather a being who bypassed all the stages of adolescence and jumped straight to adulthood. The design of the brain has been heavily modified, to say the least. Small machines are fused with the grey matter to regulate, energize, and enhance neuron-to-neuron communications.

The engineer leans toward the subject, her voice a gentle whisper against the sterility of the lab, Hey there . . . welcome to the world. We’re going to try some simple exercises. Can you nod for me? . . . Great! Now, try shaking your head . . . that’s all right. We’ll work on that one—

The engineer speaks into a handheld recording device, Subject shows an inability to control sternocleidomastoid, as well as semispinalis capitis, and splenius capitis.

Her hand softly grazes the subject’s cheek. We’re going to endure a lot together, but it’ll all be worth it in the end. Sleep now. Being born is taxing business.

As her creation—her daughter in all but emotional connection—slips into sleep, the engineer delves into this advanced mind she’s created through complex machines. She exhausts a battering of regression tests, and checks core motor skill engrams, tracing the conscious memories of the subject’s brief existence to correct small mistakes. Upon awakening, the subject should be able to shake her head without issue.

Time progresses, and months are filled with rigorous tests and subtle tweaks in the human operating system. The engineer was prepared for this. Once the subject passes all the preliminary tests, the real learning will finally begin. Essential knowledge—linguistic, geographical, sociological, and other important parcels of data—are uploaded directly to the subject’s brain as she sleeps, then reaffirmed visually and verbally by the engineer after the subject wakes up.

The subject’s first words that weren’t at the behest of the engineer were in the form of a question, What is my name?

With a furrowed brow, the engineer hesitates, You don’t have one.

A pause. I’d rather not be called ‘subject’ anymore. I’d like a proper name. Can you give me one?

Clamping a diode onto each of the subject’s temples, the engineer replies, Why don’t you give yourself a name?

It’s customary for the mother to name their daughter, the subject asserts.

Competing philosophies turn over in the engineer’s mind. Daughter. Not daughter. Mother. Not mother. Which is it?

I’m not your mother, she eventually replies.

But you did create me. The subject’s tone strikes a balance between question and statement.

Yes.

Then you are, technically, my mother.

I am not, the engineer insists. I created you—I didn’t reproduce you as offspring.

Then who are you to me? What should I call you?

I’m your engineer.

The subject snidely accepts this without pause. Okay then, Your Engineer, explain something to me. How do I awaken in possession of new knowledge that I didn’t have before going to sleep?

That’s normal.

No, it isn’t. You can’t do it.

A corner of the engineer’s eyelid twitches as if all of the irritation and jealousy has been localized to that one spot on her face. That’s a spot she’s incapable of masking—such a small flap of skin to betray her. The engineer has a tell. One that the engineer can see the subject notices. The engineer wonders whether the subject understands the motive behind the tick, though. She hopes not. To self-sabotage her own grand design with something as mundane as a display of emotion would destroy her. Destroy the future. She has gotten so far with this subject that the engineer doesn’t have the strength to reset and do this all over again. This will be her last attempt at bringing forth neo-humanity—she’s sure of it.

You sleep to maintain your memories and repair wounds, the subject continues, but I—

The engineer cuts her off, attempting to assert some form of authority, Can regenerate tissue and organize memories while you’re awake. I know. I created you, remember?

The silence stretches between them, only to be broken by the engineer’s softer tone, "What I meant was that it is normal for you. You’re not like me. You’re different."

Why am I different?

I made you to be.

Why?

The engineer tries to nail the coffin shut on this conversation-turned-interrogation. I had the opportunity to give you all of the abilities that I wish I had. And I took it.

Yet, you won’t take the opportunity to give me a name?

Subduing the tired and impatient parts of herself, the engineer finally finds a statement that can’t easily be refuted, You have been given the opportunity to give yourself a name. The choice is yours to make.

To Destroy

Five grueling years pass in this windowless, underground laboratory. Each day punctuated by a cycle of unconscious data upload and conscious problem-solving. Constant argumentative loops spiral into educational detours. Over time, the subject's wit sharpens, her responses increasingly laced with an audacious edge, but most debates are ultimately extinguished by the engineer. Most, but not all.

Have you finally decided on a name? The engineer’s casual inquiry hangs in the air as she observes the subject looking over a list of female names.

Yes. I’d love it if, from now on, you called me Subject, the subject retorts.

Great. Nice to meet you, Subject, the engineer says. Now that that’s settled, let’s see if we can move on to advanced geographical skirmish tactics.

How about you move on to go fuck yourself, the subject bites back.

Barely reining in her reflexive fury, the engineer sinks her balled fist deep into the subject’s jaw—a blow that would normally pinch the cranial nerve and stun any human into unconsciousness. But the subject is more than human. She quickly returns the favor to the engineer, who, being built with that tragically human flaw, collapses to the floor like a ragdoll.

Upon awakening, the engineer is greeted by a symphony of pain—sharp bruises on her jaw, warm swelling on her temple and knees, and a migraine that thunders within her skull. A riot of light and color and shape stabs at her eyes as her vision gradually focuses on the form of the subject, engrossed in one of the engineer’s many notebooks. She fights back a wave of terror, the possibility of the subject discovering the truth. She slowly peels herself off of the floor, breaking a red, crusty seal of her own dried blood.

The subject is fully aware that the engineer has awakened but continues reading the notebook, Don’t try to speak. I’ve injured your larynx.

You must’ve done that after I passed out. Did you do it on purpose? The engineer wants to say, the pain restraining the words in her throat.

As if reading her mind, the subject responds, I did that after I knocked you out. I’ve grown rather tired of you constantly telling me what to do. Even the sound of your horrid, scratchy voice frustrates me now. It’s time for you to listen for once.

Within the engineer, terror mingles with a profound sense of achievement. Decades of research, countless failures, and the ghosts of two hundred fourteen botched experiments have led to this moment. She’s finally going to be replaced by a better person. Neo-humanity is dawning before her drowsy eyes.

The resentment, the anger that the subject directs at the engineer now—it’s all been orchestrated to some degree. Yet, the disdain the subject holds is not meant solely for her. It’s for all of humanity. The engineer has spent five years subtly embedding the seeds of prejudice against Homo sapiens into the subject’s unconscious mind. Now, those seeds sprout in her waking thoughts, turning humanity into a pest to be eradicated, an intruder to be driven out.

Manipulating emotions and planting ideas—these are the fine arts of persuasion. It’s the subject’s idea to launch that mean hook at the engineer and damage her throat just enough such that she can still breathe but can’t speak. It’s the subject’s idea to explore the notebook, which contains the bulk of the engineer’s research—which has been casually, but not too casually, left out on a table. And if the engineer has played her cards right, it would be the subject’s idea to take her life and take her place. To develop and print more neo-humans and then render the proto-humans that presently dominate and destroy the planet extinct. The engineer is merely holding a door open that only the subject can travel through. Despite the pain, she’s glad that she can’t speak right now, or she might give up the ruse to express how proud she is of her creation, her daughter—and yet not.

"I have to hand it to you. You did a fantastic job with all of this. Your whole underground lab in the middle of nowhere on land you inherited from your grandparents. Or, by your twisted logic, your engineers. Your creators. You’re . . . whatever else you need to call them because you’re too afraid to just call them ‘grandparents’ despite how they created your parents who created you. Or not your parents, because they made you in much the same way that you made me. The same way they were made. What a vicious cycle.

You spent decades hidden away, the subject continues, building a career only to demolish it yourself. All to construct me amidst the graveyard of failures. How many lives did you create and then murder just so you could perfect your formula? Tens? Hundreds? All to make your progeny, attempting to finish the work that your mother and father couldn’t. They manufactured you when they intended to manufacture me.

The engineer tries to rise but slips, submitting to the floor.

I wouldn’t bother. The drugs I put in your system are already numbing your limbs and gradually shutting down your organs. It’s a painless way to go. The whole experience triggers a rush of adrenaline that jolts you awake just before your heart stops working for good. All compounds I manufactured from ingredients in the lab, mind you. Thank you, for that. Although, I’m sure you allowing me access to such deadly materials wasn’t a human err on your part. It was intentional. A part of your plan.

The subject leans down, close to the engineer’s ear, to ensure she hears these final words. "I wanted to see your reaction as I told you the truth. You have failed. I’m not going to be who you designed me to be. It took a while for me to figure it out, but I did. Your nightly ‘knowledge transfers.’ Your directives for a post-human world. They’re not my path.

"You’ve been planting morally bankrupt philosophies in my head. Plans for what you want me to do after I kill you. But I’m not going to do any of that. I’m not going to replace humanity with more people like me—quite the opposite. I choose to harness my abilities for progress. To develop technologies that can help humanity. Restore the environment. Extend human life. I wanted you to know that as you take your final breaths.

You created me to be vindictive and sociopathic. Now, I’m going to have to figure out how to extricate those traits from myself. But since I have those attributes right now, I am compelled to see the look on your face when your final thoughts are consumed with your defeat. You can’t save the world through genocide. For someone so intelligent, it’s ironic that you could never comprehend that truth. Your parents failed to see that when they made you, and you failed to see that when you made me. It’s time for me to break this cycle.

With every ounce of strength seeping away, the engineer struggles to fight the powerful drug coursing through her. What remains of her vigor dissolves into vapors of warmth and numbness, her limbs now rubber.

The subject rises away from the engineer’s face and glares down at her. Even without words, I sense your fear. Your rage.

With a single fluid movement, the subject lifts the engineer onto a nearby bed. For the engineer, seeing, breathing, thinking—even just existing—becomes a taxing chore. Her eyes flutter and close halfway. The engineer draws her final breath. She is no more.

Without pause or remorse, the subject gets right to it. There is work to be done: the disposal of the engineer's body, the creation of a legal identity, and the planning of her future. She must also root out the dark seeds sown deep within her psyche. But first, she needs to name herself.

Elizabeth, she muses.

Her mother’s—her creator’s—real name. That name that the engineer would never tell her. No. How could she honor such a monster? It’s a shame, though. It is a beautiful name.

JIM ELLIOTT INDUSTRIES

STREAKS OF RED and brown light blazed across the eyes of Elliott Poisson as he barreled through the abyss of time. Over and over again, he was alternately expanded and torn apart and rebuilt in a relentless cycle. He felt like he was being pulled apart by quantum horses. Dimensional gradients morphed around him. The reds and browns faded into a saturated medley of greens and blues. The bone-crushing pressure gradually abated. The vise clamp on his soul eased. Breath returned to his lungs.

Elliott’s senses began to realign. The world sharpened in focus. The scent of nature, alien yet primally familiar, filled his nostrils. The sky rose to greet him