Not all stories have happy endings

Not all stories have happy endings, just some, mine didn’t. As all stories start there was a main character, a setting, a plot, a happy endings where everything comes together and the hero and the heroine ride off into the sunset on a the back of the magical white steed. My story didn’t have a hero; my story didn’t have a magical white steed carrying me off into the sunset. My story is of people and their struggles for life.

Like all stories mine started out with a birth, an ordinary, sweaty, bloody birth not unlike those of all animals here on earth. But what was different was the person who was born, me. What was an unordinary about this birth was the person who was born would change the earth as we know it, through her desires. It was that fateful day on October 13, 1990 that I was born. My parents christened me Elizabeth Margaret Sarah Smith good strong name as my parents would say later in my childhood as I bemoaned the plainness of those letters. It was the name of my childhood, nothing more and nothing less, for it was to be changed in my later years.

I grew up in the rural regions of Vermont with a barn out back and a swayed back out mare which I would sit on for long periods of time, musing over the questions of the universe and daydreaming. Little would I know that the naïve dreams of my childhood would shape my future. It was from the book Dune, from whence my dreams sprang. For as I grew older I became obsessed with the avoidance of death, I dreamt up elaborate schemes in which I eluded death again and again. I shall dwell little on the memories of my early childhood for they are somewhat superficial to my memoirs though we could spend long hours in happy remembrance of my earlier days, that is not why I am writing this. I had a happy childhood I shall suffice to say, full of happy hours filled with love and laughter my family and friends. I was a model example at school, getting straight A’s and involved in all sorts of programs meant to form a better community. I had many friends, though none of them close enough that I could divulge my inner secrets and obsessions.

As I entered my teenage years I became an even more avid follower of my fore mentioned daydreams and obsessions. It was in this stage of my life which I became sure that was what I was going to spend my life in different schemes to avoid the ever looming threat at the end of the line. My main idea to avoid becoming cosmic dust was to separate my all-important brain from my weak and fallible body, though now strong and vigorous, it would someday fail me. With this thought in mind I began to set my course in life, dropping all things that I deemed superficial to my quest for eternal life. Among these where the friendships and loves I had cultivated in my short 15 years of life. I became distant from my family who became worried over my unknown obsession and started taking me to psychiatrist whose advice I shrugged off like a snake does its skin. My friends one by one left me as I delved deeper into the complexities of neuro surgery; the intricacies of the brain, and the what it needs to survive; robotics; computer programming; and the quest for a useable power source.

As I grew to the age in which people usually went to college I was already one of the leading experts in the fields I had started to study when I was 15. As I left the house of my childhood I opted not to go to college, as I thought I had all the knowledge I needed to succeed in my plan. Besides once I had gained eternal life, didn’t I have all the time in the world to learn what I wanted to know?

I knew that I was not going to get the money I needed to go through with my plans from the impoverished USA government now involved in its 5th war on so called “terrorism”. I figured I was going to have to go underground if I wanted cold hard cash to fund my obsession. I mean, weren’t there plenty of rich corrupt businessmen who wanted a chance to become immortal? Who cared where the money came from as long as I had that long sought after chance to seek immortality? The key thing though was that they had to be corrupt. After all the discussion over the issue of simple cloning, no way were the governments ever going to let me rip my brain from my body and place it in a machine.

As I began my search for a sponsor, many problems faced me. Number one, I had no contacts in that shady world, and number two I was a young eighteen year old woman who many in the circles I would have to travel in wouldn’t hesitate doing things to me I would regret. In answer to these problems I formulated a formidable reputation based on several bogus lies. To enforce this reputation I altered my name; Elizabeth Margaret Sarah Smith was no longer suitable for me. Pulling on my hazy knowledge of Greek myths which I had studied in school I renamed myself Artemis, the virginal cold goddess of the hunt. While she had hunted after deer and other game, I was after the technology of immortality, it seemed fitting at the time. In a year of searching and running I found my ideal sponsor, a handsome man who called himself “King”. I soon became a close friend of my benefactor, a good enough friend that I was willing to give my gift of immortal life freely to the man. My research was continuing well for the next several years. I had got through the arduous part, and now I was on to the stage when I began experimenting with creatures. Soon I had a whole menagerie of animals whose bodies had been stripped away and replaced with the better mechanical bodies I had given them. I was now ready for my first human subject. Out of my many staff and helpers I chose a boy I was rather fond of. His name was Chris, and he had reminded me of my little brother who had passed away when I was young. Chris had been an orphan living on the street before I took him in. Now he worshipped me and I was quite sure he would do anything for me, including being the first human to be given this wonderful gift.

The whole operation had to be staged very carefully, for if even the smallest thing went wrong I would have to start over again and much of my equipment would be lost. I had the subject come to the lab; the key point was for the subject not to panic, for it the subject did the operation would be jeopardized. For the chemical imbalance in the brain would cause the sensitive machines I used to read the chemical balance within the brain would misread the balance. Thus when the subject’s brain was inserted into the mechanical body it would be in a state of eternal panic. This happened to the first animal, a pigeon, I had operated on, and within a few short hours the pigeon had beaten its body into a state I have dubbed machine death, where the machine is so damaged it can no longer support life. After I sedated the subject he is placed on the life support table that ensures the body lives while the brain is removed. This is a delicate process, too delicate for human hands, so it has to be by machines that the brain is dissected, machine hands do not tremble with excitement. After all the brain has is removed, nerves are reconnected with the mechanical converters that will enable the subject to control his new body; the brain is placed in a container filled with a protein fluid that provides the naked brain with its sustenance. After the exhausting and tenuous connection with the new body is made and optimized for peak performance the new body’s power source is inserted, and the subject’s brain becomes aware of his surroundings, a padded cell to keep him from damaging his new components.

After may many operations I find this still the hardest part for the unaware subject, whose consciousness tries to reject the idea that his skin is now fluid metal and his heart no longer beats, but a power source ticks off inside him. They often go mad at this point, tearing themselves apart, or at least trying to, for in the later subjects I have inserted controls into the bodies that don’t allow them to harm their new cyborg bodies. Next they enter a stage of resignation, this is the time when they shout at the ceiling, “Why me? God, Why me?” After this stage is when they become angry, very angry, often we have to strap them down to keep them from ripping out of their padded cells. I find this stage most intriguing, for I have thought once I set the machines strength limit it stayed set but the anger of the human mind is pushing their machine bodies quite beyond the set limits. Next they enter the stage of resentment; this is the time when the subjects attempt to harm those around them seeing us as the ones to blame. The last state is the stage of curiosity, which is where I come in and inform them on their new state and offer them a choice. Stay in the lab and help me with the project, or go back on the street where we found them and where they will soon die without a power source. Most choose to stay.

After approximately fifteen successful operations, I decided to undergo the procedure with my benefactor, King. We had reached the stage where the machines no longer needed my direction to perform the operation. I grew weary of this prison of the flesh I resided in, it required too much attention for my liking and as I entered my thirties my reflexes began to slow, yes it was time to move on. After the transaction of bodies I resolved to go public, to give my gift to others. In the end that was the worst choice I made in a series of bad decisions.

When I first came out, the world didn’t believe me but when I showed them they went mad. Everyone wanted it done; the affluent, the politicians, the starving, the old, the young, everyone. The rich blackmailed me, the politicians threatened me, and the religious ranted at me, saying humanity shouldn’t do the work of god. I refused them all if they were going to take the gift I offered in this manner, they didn’t deserve it, and I vanished with all my work back underground. For the next forty years I constantly ran from country to country, seeking a reprieve from the hounds that ran on my heels. Finally I gave them what they wanted. I gave them my work.

After a lifetime of running and work, I believed it was time for a well earned reprieve, but unfortunately that was not so. For when I gave the world my life’s work the world’s leaders took control of it as they are wont to do, and kept it for themselves. This anger of the masses led to revolutions and a group who have, much to my chagrin, captured me in my own heavily guarded home and now are keeping me hostage for the knowledge I posses. It has been three months now, and the guards are growing impatient. I tell them to seek the heads of their governments not me, for I have given them the secret once and they chose not to share it, the affairs of mortals is not my business, books are. I have recently taken to reading the fairytales of ancient cultures and find them fascinating. They pass the long hours spent inside my old farm house listening to the pacing of guards passing the library door. They have prompted me to write these memoirs that you now read. This imprisonment will soon end for I have taken measures to end it, forceful measures, and I will be left to read in tranquility while the world devastates itself. I could really care less