Blow Up Ship

THE GREATEST EFFECT WAS MADE BY BREACHING into the

individual’s personality. I touched the man’s temples. He was lying on a

flat hospital bunk, in the throes of death by appendicitis from radiation

exposure ten years previous.

Breaching was impossible through mere observation. The

psychopomp must insert his own mind into the realms of the other. That

was my task.

The job was risky. If I felt myself breaching and attempted to turn

back, death would commence without an angelic host. A full breach, as

instructed by the pruny Head Psychopomp of Terrestria Beta, required just

a few minutes of unwavering acceptance. The human could be breached

sooner, if he was closer to death. Then he would become a cherub of one

of our heavenly neighbors in the outermost cloud of the Milky Way

galaxy.

I felt the man dying and accelerated the process, as I had been

taught. First, he told me of his desire for the alien to leave.

I removed the holographic image of the Head Psychopomp. The

alien, in his true, rounder form, smiled as the picture went out.

The man imparted to me his will to die.

"Goodbye, then,” I said, focusing on the fingers channeling the

angelic host.

“Goodbye Turner. You were a good man," Sergeant ]ames said.

As the sergeant lifted Turner’s head closer to the open window, the

body-killing chemicals reached Turner’s muscles and he began to seize.

His heart stopped. Within three seconds I removed my hands from his

forehead and reactivated the hologram of the Head Psychopomp. The alien

signaled “okay”. Turner had made it to Terrestria Beta. The aliens entered

the birth room in human skins, where the baby form of Turner could be

seen in the pod crying hysterically. That was to be expected from the shock

of finding oneself to be a baby on another planet, although indeed he

maintained his full mental faculties, and more.

The former body of Turner body was limp. A nurse carried it off to

be preserved, interrupting the stillness of the white curtains in the window.

The other methods of angelic hosting were used for those who were

not dying, and were all considerably less draining on the psychopomp. For

those transfers, the exercise was more of a personal learning process.

Spirituality, as it was called, was not exactly on the top of Turner‘s

priorities. His transfer was most trying on my psychology.

Before Blow Up Ship, psychopomps were unconscious of their

roles.

Ten years earlier...

The formal winnings were scotched up into their accounts. I knew

because I was monitoring their phone activity after the contest. I was

across the world in my American science station.

“Call Concord,” the leader said, “The albatross is ours. Buy more

koi, put them in more ponds, and let me prattle on at intervals to the effect

of our own congratulations!” His name was Kreg. The line echoed from

wall-to-wall of their open-ended warehouse. His colleague was on the pay

phone outside. New Zealanders were queer.

“Oh, best friend. What a load of quid!” his colleague said. “No

more ticking away the days to that insane carnival of a competition. Emily!

Our automaton is motionless. Best you animate it?” A woman on another

line on a cell phone.

Emily said, “I’m awaiting the intermezzo. It is quite strenuous

controlling the humanoid animatrons! We must present our designs for the

other crafts immediately.”

“We will,” Kreg said. “Say something meaningful, you cloudy

scientist!”

“A fundraiser for our tank!” she said. “We must begin to raise

money. I feel a strong state pride at this moment. We shall outlive the

foreign robots in the sky which have made us tremble!” Their voices

echoed in the open science complex.

She said, “Let me go outside where the koi live.” A door slammed

shut on the line. “Floating among the fish is scum illuminated in stratified

sunrays. It will be a beautiful home for our new fish.”

For the other employees and researchers at their New Zealand

complex, Blow Up Ship was the catalyst for a cumulonimbus career—a

future of greatness was their concern. After peace and harmony the other

natural goals were to improve their remote control technology. Also, they

wanted more money; yet it seemed as if they had made their mark upon the

entire course of history.

Despite the historical significance of their work, the Society for

Under-Estimated Technologies felt their invention was missing something.

What could it be? They had no insider sources or connections, and

therefore no way to follow fads or to develop another winning consumer

product.

I checked the satellite images of their complex. It was small. Their

budget was low for such a development as Blow Up Ship.

How could they improve the apparatus when they hadn’t a clue

what the world could possibly need in addition to their device? Spaceship

controls could now be shrunk into apparel and activated by commanders

on the ground. A launchable tank was in development. Children were

found to learn the controls. The entire scientific community was booming

about their creation, Blow Up Ship. Their winning marked the beginning

of the end of America’s obsession with aesthetic science. The team was

too successful without it.

They deserved the prize.

Each technology which was entered into the contest sought to

achieve one goal or another. My specific goal was ideologically different

than the other teams yet pursued doggedly in order to find a solution to the

same issue: the spaceship problem.

The conclusion to one of the last aesthetics contests was reached,

and I was on the receiving end of a long line of co-morbid pilot clients.

When the Russians launched their enormous Mecha units to

capture our space territories, the Americans were forced to protect space

travel for the entire world. My home in Britain was being stormed by

ground troops from Russia, including tanks and mechanized units, yet the

American front was safe. Except not the Americans, nor the world, were

safe in space. I spaced out my curious grunts as I checked a man’s pulse

with a stethoscope.

The Mechas would strike down craft indiscriminately, and attack

the pilot with radiation weapons even if they managed to escape. No space

vehicle had returned without seriously injured pilots since the start of the

Space Mecha War years previous. Turner had just returned from a mission

and I spoke to him quietly in my American lab.

“You have ten years,” I said. He seemed to not understand. “Ten

years of life,” I said.

He replaced his shoes and checked out with the receptionist. He

was another victim of the Space Mecha War that the world sent to die at

the hands of the Russian Mechas.

Although I had lost the contest to Blow Up Ship, I would still

demonstrate my Holographic Automatic Man to fellow scientists in

between patients. My attempts at earning grant money were proving

fruitless, and I wanted to be removed from ward duty to work on my

team’s solution to the spaceship problem. At the ebony boardroom table, I

had an audience of just two. A projector delivered my electronic slides

behind me.

“The heads-up-display, as you must realize, is the key to the future

of humanity. Without knowledge of your surroundings, or even detailed

data processed directly into our field of vision, we will be powerless

against the enemy’s Mecha units.” My shadow blocked the slide and the

assistant motioned me to the side. “Sorry. The Mecha devices by their

nature utilize heads-up data. My system renders the information by

connecting to the user’s brain through the skin.”

“It’s all very interesting, Dr. Redplay. How can you prove to me

the technology is even possible?” asked the Director of Personnel

Training.

What a frustrating question! The technology was already

developed. The Director was simply deflecting my proposal because he

knew I was unable to demonstrate the Holographic Automatic Man

without a pricey license. For that reason, I didn’t even have the product

with me. “I can demonstrate the device to you with the help of funding

from your group.”

“You’ve mentioned you need money,” the Director said, leaning

back in his chair and checking his watch. “Well, we need you in the

hospital ward. Tell me, how does your technology work towards a solution

to the spaceship problem? I’ve seen the other competitors’ work. Their

product seems to fix our predicament more easily. For instance, a

spaceship of any size may be taken into orbit with a single Blow Up Ship

while the human remains on the ground.”

I had prepared for this question. The answer wasn’t obvious. I

began to pack away my things, a maneuvering strategy I thought might

help build suspense in the mind of the DIrector. “The Holographic

Automatic Man will herald a new race of human. One that will be able to

transmorph into a being capable of living in space; one that will find peace

among the stars; one to whom the spaceship problem is known only as a

historical dilemma. The Holographic Automatic Man will bypass the

abominations of genetic aesthetics, and remain true to a more rational

version of beauty; to help man choose his own physical vessel to the stars.

That is, the holographic display is completely customizable. It is a

revolution of choice.”

The Director’s assistant grumbled and said a joke, as I was used to

him doing. “The goal of aesthetic genetics appears to make us so small that

we might slip through the Mecha’s fingers.” We laughed in an organized

way.

The demonstration was complete. I told them I must leave.

“Then leave. We will consider your proposal for a more human

approach to the spaceship problem,” the Director said behind the huge

table in his mostly empty boardroom. “Thank you, Dr. Redplay. But

please, tell us, do you plan to follow the principles of hard aesthetic

science if you are able to develop your system?”

I had prepared another answer for this question as well.

“Aestheticism is nearly dead. Additionally, the world has taken the

American method and corrupted it beyond recognition through the

technique of aesthetic genetics. I will no longer associate myself or my

work with those corrupted principles.”

“Very good thoughts. Thank you. And keep your chin up. We

heard about Turner’s condition. He and his family were proud to have him

sacrifice his life for the planet’s prosperity.”

My team sought to understand the appeal of the Blow Up Ship

concept at the lunch table that afternoon.

“Maybe it is because they live in New Zealand,” Jerry suggested

with hot pastrami in his mouth. “And the American public has out-evolved

our narcissistic traits.”

“If that is the case, then we shall never find success,” I said. I

dolloped a bit of mayonnaise onto my sandwich buns. “Even if we are in

America, we must be able to capture the attention of an American

audience.”

“Then should we provide for the continued narcissism of our

communities?” Jerry asked. He had the right idea, but I couldn’t agree with

him. “Our budget is too low for such a broad task.” He grabbed the mayo

as if I was trying to steal it.

“We must only hope the new mutations have not altered our

collective personality. The changes appear only to be physical, and only to

affect those who have come into contact with a Space Mech. Do you

suggest we manipulate the genes of humans intentionally? That even more

dangerous than leaving the mayonnaise out.” I said. I stood up and

launched the pasteurized mayonnaise into the refrigerator tube.

“Thank you. I’m not saying we need to delve into the world of

aesthetic genetics, no. Of course not!”

We were all hoping it wouldn’t come to this.

“Perhaps Admiral Narcheo of the Experimental Division will find

some alternative,” he added to the entire Internal Research team. They

were munching in agreement on salads. “We must win.”

The future of the race depended on us, the tiny research

community. The Space Mechs were not Gods to us. We saw them for the

radioactive robots they were. Yet they were so powerful, and so very far

away. Jerry stationed himself back at the Alien Search in the Face of

Danger building.

Blow Up Ship did pass through an aesthetic marketing phase,

despite heralding the end of aestheticism itself. The delicate ego of the

nation required special attention to the delivery of such a product. Without

the tinkering of the image of Blow Up Ship, it could appear to the public as

a contrivance of the enemy. It wasn’t often that new foreign products were

positioned to so utterly change the world.

Since the Space Mecha War, the direction of national affection was

towards Gods, who were to be seen as saviors from the Mechas in space.

Thus, the marketing of Blow Up Ship focused on the new New Zealand

God the proud people of that country worshipped in order to protect their

strong homeland from the Space Mechas.

If the public found out the idea was developed by a team

completely unversed in the complex rules of aestheticism, which

determined whose products were to be sold in a seemingly random fashion,

and instead was created out of utility and function, then Blow Up Ship

would fail. Our PR team based in Baltimore was assigned with the cover-

up, and during this time I became familiar with the Blow Up Ship product.

At my desk in Baltimore, my eyes rested on the plaque where my

title was engraved. “Top Science Head,” it bore, “of the Committee of the

Saucer.”

Kreg sat happily in the chair across my mahogany desk. “Why is

the name of your group, ‘the Committee of the Saucer?’” Kreg was of the

Society for Under-Estimated Technologies as a liason.

“Must you know?” I said. “When we created the principles of

aesthetic science, we noticed similarities of our movement to the flying

saucer cover-up by our military. Essentially, the public perception of the

event was guided by their motivations to unravel a conspiracy. Aesthetic

science intended to capture the imagination of the public by totally

controlling the marketplace. The public enjoyed feeling out-of-control. It

systematically gave them a stronger delusion of being in control. The

government community followed the energy of the alien exposure

movement, which, as we both know, was completely misguided.”

“Yes, the aliens weren’t aliens after all,” Kreg said. “But merely

government test ships. So is that what the American aesthetics is about?

Capturing the essence of conspiracy?”

“Aesthetic science may seem like a conspiracy to someone who

does not understand it. But all conspiracies have some element of truth,” I

said. “The alien scare predicted the Space Mecha War in a way. That is

very real. Aesthetic science is a pseudo-conspiracy where the marketplace,

and therefore the public’s lives, are determined through secret research.”

“Which brings us to the topic at hand. How can we use Blow Up

Ship to end the war?” Kreg asked.

“By the guidelines of our American system, which I must admit has

less importance since your invention, the purpose to end the war is only an

implicit job of Blow Up Ship. Politically, it must serve some other explicit

purpose or we could make a flammable foreign situation totally explode.

Because Blow Up Ship has won a major contest, and did not follow the

rules of aesthetic science, and in fact totally ignored principles of

popularity and attraction, aesthetic marketing may not be a requirement in

this situation.”

Kreg became serious. “By all means, we did not intend to change

the American system of product development,” he said. “Is there any way

we can continue the legacy of aesthetics with our product? That is what my

team wants.”

I tried to comfort him. “Your team has done nothing it should not

have done. In fact, if you want to explore the aesthetic options for the

promotion of Blow Up Ship, I do have some ideas I’m willing to share.”

“Please, go ahead,” Kreg said.

I explained to Kreg that the competition rules to create an

automatic man could be used to sell the technology. “I understand the

device is a wearable remote control?”

“Yes. Through tiny movements in a user’s body, any machine,

from a microwave to a Mecha may be controlled. After some practice, it

becomes second nature, and the user will think of their machine as a part

of their own body,” Kreg said. “The technique is known as muscular-

nervous control. The remote control takes the form of a piece of clothing,

like a shirt or a high-ankled boot.”

A knock on the door was heard, and Kreg jump-started out of his

chair. “Please, stay,” I said. “It is just Admiral Narcheo. Sir?” I projected

my voice through the door.

A military-suited man, with badges of different sorts, entered the

small office. “Thank you, Dr. Redplay. I won’t take much of your time,”

Admiral Narcheo said. “I wanted to remind you that phone duty has passed

on to you, with Mary’s passing.”

I sighed. “Yes, the tragic consequences of the Russian radiation

attacks are both that we lose our friends, and our work is spread even more

thinly than before.”

“May she rest in heaven. Her mother was bedside for her passing. It

was a trying experience for her entire family,” he said.

“It is trying on us all. Thank you, Admiral Narcheo. I will monitor

the lines at my scheduled time.”

“Is this the man responsible for inventing Blow Up Ship?” Admiral

Narcheo asked. I responded with a briskness that surprised Kreg, who

attempted an answer.

“Ah, just one of them.”

The admiral left, smartly closing the door behind him. I motioned

for Kreg return to sitting.

“I believe you still have a working humanoid prototype from the

contest to use with Blow Up Ship controls?” I asked.

“Yes. It is a more advanced device to use in conjunction with Blow

Up Ship, but with some practice, even a child could master full control of

the humanoid.”

“Good. Then most of the development work is already completed

for our first product,” I said. His eyes widened. This sort of thing usually

took years. “Because of the great promise of Blow Up Ship, we should

move forward very quickly. The automatic man will be sold as a personal

assistant as soon as possible.”

He started to interrupt. “I do not think you understand the nature of

Blow Up Ship. It would be difficult for a robot assistant to, for instance,

file paperwork. The tiny movements of the hand would need to be mapped

by the device. It’s possible but redundant in the case the person could just

do the work themselves, without the difficult manual control required by

Blow Up Ship. Not only that, but the user would have to oversee the work

to get visual feedback on what the robot was doing. Shouldn’t we begin by

tackling the spaceship problem?”

I believe he suspected me of attempting to sabotage his product.

Yes, it would seem obvious to begin by sending unmanned spaceships into

space to attack the Mechas without human casualty or contact mutation.

However, through the process of aestheticism, the plan must follow the

course of the competition’s automatic man. Research was determined

semi-arbitrarily in aesthetic science. The topics and ideas pursued were

based on research that followed what the public wanted, and found

attractive. Automatic men were the focus of the day.

“I do not think you are in full understanding of my idea,” I said.

My idea is not to create an office assistant. No, the automatic man will be

led by our people to stand behind the great causes of the American public.

The pickets, the stand-ins, any sort of public event will now have the

people’s support. Even the busiest of women can hold a sign for feminism

with Blow Up Ship. Simply send your automatic man to the front lines of

activist causes, and identify the robot as being yours.”

He responded by opening his fists. “Excellent.”

“We will lobby for support from politicians and government

officials who must speak publicly. Blow Up Ship could limit danger

somewhat by allowing for a robotic stand-in to deliver speeches. Who

knows, maybe through activism, the social monstrosities of Russia and its

confederation will be reversed one day,” I said.

“Wonderful! We have often lamented that we could not picket at

the local anti-war demonstrations in New Zealand. Now, we may be the

first to continue daily research and work towards change at the same time,”

Kreg said. I gave him the contract to sign and we moved forward with the

plan.

I reminded him that ending the war was still our number one

priority, and Blow Up Ship could be integral to our latest effort. He

modestly brushed it aside with his pen as he signed his team’s names. The

American subconscious was a difficult lover to woo, and he was correct in

choosing to move forward with an aesthetic kind of marketing.

When he left, I dialed the Director of Personnel Training to ask for

money for the Holographic Automatic Man.

“Absolutely not!” he exclaimed over the phone.

“But you haven’t heard my idea yet,” I said.

“Idea? You are known for your ideas, Dr. Redplay. Call me back in

two hours and I’ll hear it out. I’ve got to attend a rally for the union just at

this moment.”

I smiled. Blow Up Ship could serve a much greater purpose indeed

than to be a stand-in for the Director’s wages demonstration. I told him I

would make some notes and get back to him.

Two Russian spies were being monitored by the scientific

community in Baltimore, including by my own phone tapping. Their code-

talk was immediately decipherable.

“The Mechas shall comfort us in our old age,” one said.

“Yes, have you noticed the tendency of Americans to grow into

hangers-on?” the other responded. I suspected the two were planning some

kind of deadly attack and began the recording.

“What the Russians did was to the benefit of a world lost on its

own,” the first one said. What The Russians Did was the name of a

building in the science complex. I was almost certain they had meant for

that building to be the target.

“The Mechas will change the human race for the better. If the

American people don’t turn their back on their destiny in space, then we

humans shall learn to master the genetic code.” Did the second spy know

the mutations caused by Mechas were random abominations, like third

limbs and sightless births?

The first one made create the strange noise of rustling paper over

the line.

“The American people must accept aesthetic genetics as the future

of the human race. Care to help them discover that with me?”

“But how? These daft Americans can only see aesthetic genetics as

being a Russian paradigm.” In fact, the scientific community saw aesthetic

genetics to be a publicity tactic which spun the radioactive properties of

Mechas as a positive thing. Mechas were worshipped by the Russians, and

they sought to encourage others to worship Mecha by altering the human

genetic code, too. They were setting an example of irrationality.

“We could show the Americans the benefits of genetic alterations. .

.” the first one began, and I immediately dialed the Director. They could be

planning a radiation attack. The Director’s red light came on, indicating he

was listening through my phone tap.

“To devote ourselves to the Mechas was an enormous move by the

Archbishop Pelevin. He is the thought leader that has saved us all. But,”

the second one said, “he is now in space with the Mechas dining on

fermented solar dishes.”

“Truly a space God,” the first one said. This circle-jerking was

common of the Russians’ conversations. In order to clue them in that I was

listening to end the conversation, I decided to echo the next comment. I

also inserted a message in static to make sure they knew we heard them.

“So, when shall we meet to discuss the, ahem, demonstration to the

American scientists?” A ghostly echo of the words repeated themselves

over the line. A pop of static interrupted them.

“Mecha war,” came the static.

They said their goodbyes and hung up, apparently alarmed. I was

still on the line, and the Director came through it.

“Good catch, Dr. Redplay. We’ll increase security in the complex,”

he said.

“They may be targeting the What The Russians Did buildings. I

suggest sending a police unit to their dwelling in Baltimore Sub D,” I said.

“Will do.”

A well-dressed woman arrived by taxi below the apartment

building directly in front of its entrance. One of Admiral Narcheo’s

officers waited in a bench to meet her.

“Oh, don’t you look darling!” she said and hugged the man, who

wore an asexual tracksuit. “Late twentieth century exercise gears is so in.

But what’s that you have?”

The man smiled and picked up a black box from the ground. “It’s

my devotion doll.” A small crowd had gathered because of her loud voice

and his late-century attire, looked on. The crowd was interested in the

black box.

“What is a ‘devotion doll’?” she asked. “You aren’t in the

traditional Mecha worship garb.”

A woman in the crowd cried aloud, as if she were fainting.

However, she remained standing and squinted at the couple, arm covering

her face.

“Not devotion to the Mechas, of course. It is to accelerate my

devotion to the Archbishop Pelevin,” he said gaily, despite the crowd. “He

was known for his tracksuiting.”

The two Russian men, having dined, were seen approaching the

concept apartment.

“Yes,” she said. “He was. But didn’t you know he became a God in

the dark depths of space?” The two men eyed her nervously. “After

submitting the human race to the Mechas, he ascended to orbit and placed

himself in the Mutation Field. Most assume he developed a body designed

for space travel and was carried far, far away by the Mechas.”

The Russian spies struggled with their keys to get into the

apartment and away from Admiral Narcheo’s aesthetics police.

“Oh, right? But what if he has forgotten his identity and is now

simply a jogger who believes himself to be a late-century American?” the

officer said.

“Well then, perhaps you’re archbishop Pelevin, yourself!” the

woman exclaimed.

“That’s the idea, inn’it?” He removed from the box a plastic

representation of a mutated baby. With three arms and sealed-shut eyes,

the baby was a horrific sight. “Have you met my darling doll?”

“What a sweetheart,”

The men made it inside and the crowd dispersed, chuckling. It was

just another demonstration by the talented aesthetics police. But what had

those two strange men entering the apartment been up to?

Having taken care of the Russians, I had time to devote my full

energy to the Holographic Automatic Man. I had been approved for extra

funding because of my new idea for the technology. The problem, Kreg

had said, with Blow Up Ship was the problem of displays. I hoped to solve

that problem.

The holographic properties of my automatic man were all-psychic.

All of the information required to operate the automatic man existed only

in the rectangular prism strap-on which linked to the brain. Therefore, no

one except the user could see the heads-up display. The problem with all-

psychic technology, which could relay information of all kinds to the

user’s brain, was that it became difficult to control oneself or one’s

thoughts when using the device. Thus, the automatic man was created to

help limit the programming of the prism. The brain-link didn’t work

without the automatic man, and the automatic man prevented bad code

from going into the human brain. One could also simply remove the strap-

on to save himself from a particularly torturous bit of programming. The

fear with all-psychic devices was that he wouldn’t be able to.

I lied to Kreg, but didn’t intend to cause harm. The first device to

be remote-controlled by Blow Up Ship would be an unmanned Mecha we

had created for the war. The information was classified, and unranked

Kreg didn’t need to know. He was correct in guessing however, that the

spaceship problem had been solved.

My pilot was strapping on his boots and shouting into the phone. “I

will not be taken lightly! I need my eggs benedict in t-minus five minutes.”

SLAM. He crushed the phone with his gloved hands.

“Taking care of breakfast?” I said as I passed him in the hall on the

way to Mecha Deck.

“Dr. Redplay! I love your new idea.” He needed a deep breath after

shouting. “I’m proud to be the pilot for the merging of Blow Up Ship with

your own technologies. Tell me, is it true that the psychic link to the

machine is an instantaneous transfer of information, even over great

distances?”

“It is true, sir,” I said, distracted. I needed to give the pilot my

respect, but also needed to perform a calculation with the Mecha. “Our

Mecha also doesn’t use radiation as a weapon. The Russians have truly

crossed a line, and it is your duty to bring the first Mecha down for

America.”

“But, how did the Russians create Mechas in the first place?”

I sighed. “We’re almost positive the Russians discovered the

technology from an alien civilization through remote viewing and misused

it to their own ends. Their purpose is to capture and guard valuable space

property.”

“I knew that, I think. You know, the Department of Mecha

Research isn’t very open with certain findings.”

“It is to protect us all,” I said. “I must be going, now.”

“Duly, sir. Duly.”

After opening the double-doors to the Mecha room, I started

straight for the head-panel of the Mecha. The American robot was smaller

than its Russian counterparts. The restless, spinning interiors would hum,

protected by large translucent steel rods, all linking up in the sternum area.

I tested the amount of computational power onboard. I hadn’t been

part of the design of the Mecha, yet my suspicion was true: it could handle

my program. I retrieved the chip box from my suitcase and went over the

specifications one more time.

All of this wasn’t my part in the war effort. I was just a scientist. In

fact, I didn’t want to be involved in any kind of destructive technology.

My advice for merging Blow Up Ship with the Holographic Automatic

Man in order to provide a heads-up display for the Mecha was my first

military work. I discovered the human body would be able to transfer

negative programming to the muscular system using Blow Up Ship and

created the software to allow for conscious all-psychic information to be

transferred to and from the Mecha. The technologies paired perfectly.

The other program I was adding was a type of collective learning

machine. It allowed for the controlling of a Mecha by multiple users at

once, which could be invaluable in the case of war. User habits could also

be memorized by the Mecha and the Mecha could operate itself through

automation. More importantly, the learning program might serve a

commercial purpose. I intended to sell space-faring Mechas to the general

public.

“Done,” I whispered to myself, trembling. If there were only an

aesthetics prize for this!

I left the Mecha Deck, and saluted the pilot who would

undoubtedly destroy a Russian Mecha today with a wearable Blow Up

Ship remote-control device.

The Space Mecha War was over in the amount of time it took to

create our own remote-controlled Mechas. Eventually, our Mechas had

learned how to fight from the pilots, and destroyed enemy Mechas

automatically. We began to teach the Mechas social strategies for solving

problems, using multiple civilian pilots, to prevent another Space War

from ever being started.

We sold each Mecha for the price of two automobiles. Each family

on Earth wanted their own. The slogan was, “Go forth and Blow Up Ship!”

which really caught on with dying patients, who had seen what humans

were capable of in their final days.

Our Mecha counterparts would discover other worlds, and from

Earth, we would deliver message from our own brains to other races of

peace and love. In the case of the insect race of Jobio Nine, it could deliver

total annihilation. The ironic picture of a human and his Mecha made us

seem quite threatening indeed, despite us being small primates.

Another irony was that our exploration of the universe would be a

remote-controlled endeavor. We had essentially created a second race of

Earthlings: the Mechas. About 12% the size of the human race, the Mecha

population was staggering considering how large they were themselves.

We launched using Blow Up Ship at least five thousand new Mechas a

day.

People of all the cultures on Earth were represented in the infinite

realm of space. The double-life of Mecha pilots was a great, late victory

for aestheticism: the consumers had all gotten exactly what they wanted. It

was their ideological blow-horn in the sky. Our minds were expanded and

encouraged by new, infinite possibilities.

We met distant and peaceful races.

We led the galaxy in planet beautification projects--known as

aesthetic terraforming.

From Earth, we lived extra-terrestrially with the help of Blow Up

Ship.

***

To the traitor Admiral Narcheo,

It was in a waking dream I first became aware of the horrors of

your department. You might call what you did the exact opposite of the

aesthetic principle. It was not the learning of your transgressions in cohort

with the shape-shifting aliens that terrified me. The continuous dreams are

what got to me, as I analyzed the meaning of them all in the months

following.

This exposition may seem forceful. I had trouble knowing where to

begin with you. It is my family‘s trait to show others how they should be.

Perhaps it is not genetic, but learned. I can say that it is not a quality of

aesthetic genetics. I have eliminated that misguided effort to classify

spiritual disease as an anomaly in DNA. We have found that genetics

trouble us only physically, and not mentally, because the brain develops

procedurally. We are not troubled spiritually by flaws in the genetic code,

as you must know yourself. I do not underestimate you.

Despite the great wealth our nation accrued through terraforming

other planets, our neighborhoods were still vulnerable to you. It is closer to

the truth that it was our backyards that were the most open to your predator

nature. When innocent family members would run without fear on the back

porch, or among the grass, they met the invisible tubes that your aliens

"gifted" to the human race. I know all of this because of the first dream.

In the next dream, our teens and young adults exploded when they

met the ice.

The final dream revealed to me the essential nature of your foul. I

determined you use a projected field to reach from the alien universe into

ours. It was the portal itself that motivated you. It was a product you

developed for the entertainment of your colleagues. To us, the portal could

only be described as a gateway to Hell. I passed earlier through such a

portal, and reached its destination into the Backward Exploding Universe.

You can undoubtedly understand my fear in expressing its name.

How could we have such a fate at the hands of the shape-shifting

aliens? Did we deserve this? The prospect of a world with Blow Up Ship

was so great. I truly loathe you for destroying that, Admiral Narcheo.

We had defenses in place for the backyard attacks.Through a

unique system to evacuate communities in case of an insect attack, we

could have alerted the population to your presence and emptied the

neighborhoods. The effort to exercise such an evacuation would have been

minimal and cheap. Collateral damage isn‘t a part of the shape-shifting

alien’s strategy. I had warned the communities in time.

I also warned young persons of the danger of any ice ponds or

icicles they may come in contact with. The announcement of rogue space

Gods that could make you explode was enough to keep them off the

skating rinks, especially coming from a top science head.

But within days, I interpreted the dream about the portal and came

close to admitting defeat. The only answer was to gather research data by

stepping through such a portal, and I sincerely believed I would die on the

journey between universes. It was a fate much worse than death, in fact.

The portal would prove an eternal torture. I am still in this portal

now, in my mind. It still breathes within me, like the second nature of a

war victim who runs from loud sounds. I found myself, the inventor of

Blow Up Ship and the savior of the outermost galaxy cloud, to be nearly

identical to your new alien form, Admiral Narcheo. I found myself to

assume that form in almost every way. I am writing this letter to myself, in

more ways than I can count.

But should I finish this letter, which has been materialized in front

of me and I have watched write itself accurately coding the page with

information from my own brain, I doubt I will be alive much longer. An

enormous death eel is heading straight for me. This is likely the very end

for the human host of Dr. Redplay.

Sincerely,

Nooooo!