“Rolling in five, four, three, two…”

And the producer throws to the reporter seated on a plush white crash couch, in the middle of a small studio. The reporter is dressed in a bulky beige jumpsuit, capable of near instantaneous release of her atmospheric helmet and respirator re-breather. Not used to being in the studio, this intrepid reporter usually reports live from location, out on a ships hull, the outer surface of a far off space station or in a war zone. The reporter, named Janet Hawke, is about forty years old, slightly graying down her part line, with her salt and pepper hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. “Good evening, this is Torus station news, channel seventy three. I’m your host this evening, Janet Hawke. Tonight we are welcoming a very special guest, an historian on the emergence and use of our current biometric interface. Welcome, welcome. Please have a seat.” Gesturing off camera, the view pulls back to place the older gentleman in frame, as he steps through a dark purple curtain, to cross the few steps and step up onto the dais to his pristine white crash couch, under intense white lights, from a rig overhead. After a brief musical interlude the man scoots up into the raised gel couch and makes himself comfortable. “No!, thank you, it’s a real pleasure to be here today. I was told I’d be interviewed by Rosie Reyes, but YOU, the one and only Janet Hawke wow!, you’ve reported on some truly auspicious events. I’m positively tickled pink, I am. Wait until my husband sees this!” With a charming giggle, he affixes his game face, and cues the producer with a subtle gesture that he is ready to proceed. “Now, dr. Benjamin Hoyt, as I’ve come to understand the history of our current technology stretches back more than five hundred years.” “Oh, yes, it really is a marvel, we have so much documentation, patents, interviews and research dating back to the nineteen fifties if you can believe that.” The two, on camera appear to be talking directly to one another, but in studio you can see the fancy white gel couches are actually on gyroscopic frames, and are about three meters apart. Safety, and precaution preclude the old fashion face to face interviews of centuries gone by. The magic of editing, and camera work. Do wonders never cease. “That is truly astounding.” “Quite, but things weren’t always so compact, nor non intrusive like they are now… ah, may I?” Gesturing to a media monitor, cutting back to Ms. Hawke. “Oh, visuals!, please do.” She says, leaning back into her couch and out of frame. A water bottle at her side, she carefully unscrews the lid and takes a sip. “Here you see, are the originals… most archaic huh! A waist band, held with velcro and button snaps, loaded with only a few simple sensors and outputs, with leads to ECG Electrodes, attached to the heart, lungs, kidneys and a power source. This design stayed virtually untouched from the nineteen fifties until two thousand twenty one.” Panning backwards the camera then fades to black, then comes to life as a voice over, with the archival video playing of ancient astronauts talking about their medical devices. “After this period, the devices were miniaturized but still held in place externally with a waist belt. That lasted from two thousand twenty one until roughly twenty sixty.” A new slide show is queued up by the producers and the staff in the editing suite behind the cameras. “Things then start to get very exciting, now we enter the first draft of the wrist control. Though these units were bulky by today’s standards, it was a massive leap forward in technological advancements. We now had a modicum of room in which to affect the body at the atomic level. By all accounts painful to wear, and we have numerous stories of people cutting themselves, and tearing through suits while maneuvering in eva. These units didn’t last much beyond four or five years, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty sixty to twenty sixty four… Yes, yes, we have a clip of one such incident. Sit back and watch.” Dr. Benjamin Hoyt’s feed is cut short, so that he might grab a quick drink, or flush his old suffering bladder. It always makes him pull a funny face as it happens. Makes his husband laugh hysterically every. Single. Time. The producers welcomed the insight given by his publicist Danielle, and built in several such cues into the segment. His inner ear piece clicks on. “We’re back in three, two….” the voice fades out. “From this we leap forward to the first ever capsules designed by oh my, I can’t quite recall…” From off camera the Doctors chipper publicist named Danielle Del Veccio prompts him with the requisite information. “Flight commander Neil Todd and his wife Jen.” Closing her binder, she steps away from the dais the crash couches are upon, and out of the field of view of the studio lights overhead. With a slight flush in the cheeks, Dr. Hoyt starts in again. “Flight commander Neil Todd and his wife Jennifer Todd. Though their work on the Non Sequitur was seminal, they opted to have the sensors removed from their person and integrated thoroughly into the ships systems. Ugly hard shell yellow boxes were placed through all crew areas, and had redundancies built in that are the framework of the systems you see in use today. In my professional opinion I think going external was a mistake, as when their cascading catastrophic failure happened, we weren’t able to get a full diagnostic on his state for well over three weeks. But they were brilliant, so they must have known something I don’t. However, given the era, and what was going on at the time politically, there was very little that could be done.” A sweeping camera shot of the studio as the show moves to commercial break. The lights go up, as an indistinct murmur pervades the room. Notes are added to the script, and portions of the slide show are clipped and tightened up for the repeat cast in several hours time. A large red countdown clock ticks over, as the seconds drop away. The bright studio lights dim.

“And we’re back. If you are just joining us now, expert historian Dr. Benjamin Hoyt is giving us an in depth look at our current state of biometrics, and how it came about.” Reporter Janet Hawke, once again smiling into the camera, her poised position on her gel couch a welcoming visage on the late hour news program. “Well, as I stated before the break, the Non Sequitur and all of the following designs are fairly similar, except that now you find our fully realized subcutaneous implants, with nano bot technology. These units, buried just below the skin, the size of a match book, are now interlinked with nano bots that infiltrate every organ and tissue fiber within the body. Just remarkable technology. We can now keep everyone from catching the common cold, flu, sinus infections, simple blood borne infections, ear aches, tooth aches, blood clots and even regulate the bodies temperature to stave off hypothermia, and hyperthermia.” The camera pulls back to show the good doctor with a massive grin upon his face. Cut to video feed of crowds oohing and aahing, as though they were in the studio. “Though the system is great, we still have to go to medical bay for treatments for Cancer, Aids, and a few other radiation related maladies.” “That is truly, truly remarkable. Man kind has achieved so much!” Janet is gearing up for her closing remarks, but Dr. Benjamin chimes in. “Oh, for the layman, the best thing about the nano integration is that the body sock waste system has been interfaced with nano’s, so no more catheters or Colostomy bags for waste expulsion!” “Can’t forget that! , and with that bombshell, this is field reporter Janet Hawke signing off for channel seventy three news. No exceptions, and no exemptions!” Stepping in front of the cameras the producer announces. “Ok, and we’re out, that’s a wrap people…” the sight of sound boards clacking, lights coming up to full strength, and studio personnel begin to walk about the small studio space. A very tall Venetian walks over to Janet to say. “If we have any pick ups, or pre-roll we’ll come find you in your dressing room. We might have to do a promo or two with Dr. Hoyt, so we’ll keep him out of the green room, and prepped to go on short notice.” Without waiting for a response, the large individual from the Venus science base is heading back to her booth, to triple check the data, and facts on the time lines. Over Janet’s ear piece she can hear her say, “We’ll need to interject some graphics into the slide show that Flight commander Todd’s Non Sequitur and subsequent classes of capsule ran circa twenty two forty until twenty two sixty. Let’s make sure our time line display really pops this time.”

 

PART XIV

“Dude… don’t lump me in with THAT fucking Martian…

Come on man, don’t do me like that. Tsk. Dumb ass mother fucker. I’mma tag you back, you little punk ass bitch.” The argument sounds heated, but those programmers are twin brothers and are just really into their game of robot wars. Honestly, they are probably only ninety pounds when all suited up in their cyan student grade coveralls. As a bunch of truly gifted people, this group of students don’t leave the university grounds much, if at all. Building miniature fighting robots and holding tournaments on the weekends is how they unwind. A few brave souls have gone up to the green sector for some sexual encounters, but it took a real long time to get up there from the university dormitory, and they got lost a few times on the trek back. That green sector is humongous, those labyrinthine corridors will mess with your mind. The GPS on their moded biometrics came in real handy the fourth time they wound up crossing the main concourse from yet another direction. Truly maddening.

Up in the highest level of the technical program’s dormitory the gathered group of about twenty students are hard at work tweaking their entrants in the weeks bout. The fights aren’t exactly a secret, but due to the potential for catastrophic failure, the fights are frowned upon, but not entirely banned. A few professors like to swing by, place bets (usually based on hours to spend marking the robotics undergrads papers and assignments) in order to liven up the atmosphere. A bunch of asthmatics and robotics fanatics aren’t known for throwing ragers on a friday night. The room is twenty meters on each side, and four meters high. The desks have been piled up in a corner, and some mag lev fitted portable work bench, tool box combos have been brought in. There are bottles of oxygen and acetylene boxed up with a make shift welding rig. These miniature robots can kick up sparks and chew through the composite materials their shells and armor plating is made from. It’s as though Robot Jocks were taking place, if they were eight inches tall, and controlled with haptic gloves that link with biometrics, and wrap over a jumpsuit. Clunky, and definitely not sexy, but exhilarating all the same. Tiny LEDs, and sensor arrays beep, and blink and chime as the battles wear on. A thick layer of oil coats the floor, and the smell of ozone is thick in the air. Smoke swirls around the vents, seeming to hang near motionless by the cold phosphorescent lights. The room has no windows, and is located in the center of torus station. This part of the station has hundreds of rooms just like it, though most of them are dark. A few have intrepid students pulling all fighters, working on homework projects, or applications for Grant’s for professors. All very academic. A murmur of chatter and snark can be heard out in the halls. The security teams doing their rounds rarely come in here, they wave at whomever is at the door, usually it’s Paco. Paco is a very petite fellow born and raised on Mars. He has an odd sense of humor, but is one of THE best welders in the program. He has this dream to work as an ice hauler, just touring the galaxy, fixing mining gear and getting old. “Hey Paco, why the fuck you even bother with school mang, you don’t need a Ph D, just to work ice. That’s stupid.” Torrence, the local fire cracker, always stirring up shit. He’s not gifted per se, but he can get shit done just the same. Hates all the extraneous school work, but loves the program and his band of nerdy brothers and sisters. No relation. Turning back from his perch at the door, leaning on his work bench, Paco with his shiny red coveralls looks like an oversized child, but with amazingly strange facial hair. “Tsk… you know what mang, they brought me here fo’ free, mother fucker! I learn some shit, get a level three cert and it’s all cooked mang! I’m outtie. Find me a sweet wife, have a few kids, haul some frosty and settle down. No stress, big money. Yeah.” High fives and snickers of laughter all around. “You won’t catch me doing military projects for The Company, no way mang!, free range, long hauls for ice. Pirates don’t take down ice haulers. Those separatist goons don’t hijack your ship and jettison you out into space so your lungs explode, or your blood turns to gas and tries to RIP you apart. Nah-uh dude. Not for this Martian, eh Julian.” He pauses for effect. “I heard that shit. I’m not four meters from you by the door, dumb ass. I’m not a lifeless corpse out on the float hey, mother fucker.” Paco, turns back to the door, exchanging rude gestures with Julian, who is hunched over his bot on the floor. Foot steps can be heard down the hall, Paco pipes up. “Hey, yo! Who’s there. I see you man. Just cause you’re dressed in bla…” the sound of rapid fire gun shots echoes loudly through the room. Paco comes apart at the hips, cut entirely in two. Blood splatters across the door, and the tool bench he was leaning against. Ricochets can be heard pinging off the metal surface, with metal slugs punching through ceiling tiles, walls and bodies alike. One double strike catches a tiny robot in the center of the floor and ignites the oxygen tank at the rear of the room, which kicks off the acetylene bottle beside it too. With a boom the room erupts into flames. With no where for the pressure to go, it blasts out the doorway and down the hall. The covert shooter is ripped apart by the shockwave and resulting wall of flame. The heat is so intense that the room melts into molten slag. All that is left are trails of smoke, and incinerated entrails. The group will later be identified by their bones, and those without shattered teeth, their dental records.

A mile above, both decks of the observation lounge have just been breached during a live cast of the launch ceremony for the new starship Margot’s Fever. Many of the stations most famous celebrities have been sucked out into space, and died horribly.

 

PART XIII