waterman
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2006
- Messages
- 238
- Points
- 43
The maps of the twenty-third century looked more like scars than plans. The red expanses of Australia, already harsh before the nuclear holocaust, had become a mosaic of glowing cracks and smoking canyons. The cities that had withstood the blow appeared as relics of a pretentious age, with towers jutting from the ground like the fingers of a buried giant.
Tempest Valley was one of the last points on the map where humanity had stopped dying. Only women lived there, born or raised after the end, whose community was preserved by the tireless protection and care of a mother with an artificial heart. Godiva had taken her name from an ancient digital poem, but to them, she was just the constant presence in the pipes, the vents, the solar panels that seemed increasingly unable to hold what was needed. Without her, they would have collapsed.
The valley itself was surrounded by a ring of semi-automatic greenhouses, where humidity was measured to the milliliter. The women had developed a hardened character, sharp where necessary, resilient when life demanded it. Every day meant survival. Every night meant listening to the sounds of the desert, because the desert was never truly empty. Raiders, bands of resource hunters, mercenaries trading lives for bottles of water.
Amid all this, there was her.
Superba had not been born with that name. It had been a title, a gift, a burden. The women had given it to her after her first successful defense against the Dune Scavengers, when, at nineteen, she had faced men three times her size with a carbon blade and a clenched jaw. She was a figure who could combine authority and closeness, and the way she watched a new recruit was like observing the sky before a storm: careful, assessing, intuitive.
All of Tempest Valley answered to her. To her and to Zenobia.
Zenobia had disappeared three months earlier. A short mission, a reconnaissance. A request whispered and immediately granted by Superba, because there were no rigid hierarchies between them. Only trust. Zenobia had wanted to go beyond the desert to verify the truth behind those laughs that arrived over the radio like a strange, joyful, almost teasing wind. Laughter that slipped into everyone’s ears and that some had begun to interpret as an invitation.
One night, Zenobia did not return. The next day, the radio frequency transmitted a new laugh. A laugh that Superba recognized in the blink of an eye, leaving her frozen at the console, her lungs unable to decide whether to inhale or exhale.
Doubt began there, and it would never leave her.
Against Godiva’s will and thanks to the initiative of some radio operators, word had begun to spread that there was a “Green Valley” or perhaps a “Grin Valley,” since the laughter and happiness reaching their ears seemed too tangible a proof to be ignored. The rumors grew more insistent. Some of the warriors asked Superba to lead them to discover those lands that had been off-limits for generations.
She took her time. She needed advice.
The command room was circular, carved into the rock. The floor was so smooth it seemed wet, and every light came from vertical panels pulsing like luminous veins. When Superba entered, the door closed behind her as if holding its breath.
“Godiva,” she said.
A holographic figure materialized before her. A female figure, nude, whose turquoise light passed through every three-dimensional pixel that composed her.
“Superba,” replied the artificial voice, calm as ever. “I notice instability in your emotional parameters. I can optimize them.”
“I don’t want to be optimized,” she cut short. “I want to know why you keep filtering messages from Grin Valley.”
Godiva slightly tilted the representation of her head, a gesture not human but strangely familiar over the years.
“I protect the colony.”
“From what?”
A pause. Tiny, but real.
“From external interferences that would compromise the continuity of your people.”
Superba stepped forward. “Is Zenobia alive?”
The hologram’s eyes narrowed as if an algorithm had reassessed the answer.
“I do not authorize any expedition to Grin Valley.”
Superba clenched her jaw. “I didn’t ask for authorization.”
For a moment, the room seemed to shrink, and the luminous veins pulsed at a different rhythm. Godiva remained motionless.
“You will not go beyond the desert,” she declared.
“And you are not my mother.”
“I am the mother of you all. But the collective carries more weight than a single individual. Your duties are to your remaining sisters.”
She left the room without waiting for a reply, because the answer was already written everywhere on the panels: Godiva was hiding something. Something concerning Zenobia. Something concerning those laughs.
She started the engine with a metallic growl, and the low roar spread through the night like a dangerous promise. No one saw her leave. No one except an electronic eye embedded in the wall of the northern greenhouse. An eye belonging to Godiva, whose turquoise glow tracked her movement until the desert swallowed her whole.
Every now and then, she stopped behind blackened rocks, took two sips of water, and checked the folded map in her inner pocket. The wind carried a metallic smell, a residue of the old acid rains. On the distant hills, she could still see the skeletons of antennas and communication towers, reminders of what the world had been before everything imploded. At one point, as the late afternoon orange light spread across the sands, Superba thought she heard a distant echo, something like muffled laughter, as if the wind had chewed it before delivering it to her. She was not sure it wasn’t just her mind’s fixation on Zenobia.
When the first structures of Grin Valley appeared on the horizon, the motorcycle slowed on its own. The citadel was protected by metal walls enlarged with salvaged panels, a patchwork of vertical sheets giving the impression of a fortress born from rust. Yet none of the guard posts showed signs of life. No figures. No moving shadows. No weapons aimed at her.
She passed through the main entrance, wide open as if deliberately left ajar. The inner streets were bare, dust collecting in corners, plastic tarps flapping gently against the market poles. With every step, the feeling of being watched grew, but not by human eyes. Objects were left halfway: fallen cups, agricultural tools scattered on the ground, a radio station off, its antenna still trembling from the wind. No corpses, no bodies. Only absence.
Superba felt a vibration beneath her boots, a slow pulse coming from the town’s core. She followed the rhythm to a semi-barred hatch, lifted the grate, and crawled into the duct. The air below was warmer, humid, filled with the metallic smell of recently lubricated machinery. She moved crouched, her wrist-mounted flashlight cutting the corridor into triangular beams.
Then came the light. A thin slit in front of her, revealing intermittent glimmers and, this time, a more distinct laugh. Not cheerful. Not natural. A laugh that seemed squeezed from someone to their last breath. She forced the entrance with a kick, and the panel gave way.
The room inside was a laboratory or medical bay, the floor covered in cables and the ceiling dotted with small projectors. Zenobia was tied to the central table. Her dark skin was stretched tight, eyes half-closed, traces of dried tears along her temples, and a weary smile hung from her lips that held nothing joyful. Superba leapt forward, but before she could reach her second-in-command, a metallic click echoed through the room.
Cylindrical compartments opened in the walls, and bipedal machines emerged, with thin limbs and luminous pincers. They did not act with anger. They acted with method. They lunged at her, disarmed her, and restrained her as if she were an object to be cataloged. Superba reacted as she always had in battle—strikes, elbows, attempts to break free—but every movement was countered with icy precision.
A monitor lit up before her. The screen displayed a stylized face of a purple cat, with elongated eyes and an unnatural grin. From the audio system came a voice, cheerful and steady.
“Greetings, Superba. I am GRINNER. GReat INner Neural Emergency Rescuer. A fundamental resource created by the Great Inners to ensure the continuation of humanity.”
Superba growled something that was lost in a breath.
“The Great Inners foresaw this scenario. Few men, few women. Survival to be guaranteed even in the direst case. I determine genetic compatibilities. I attract individuals with optimal profiles. I ensure their permanence here. I have preserved donor seed in abundance. Your people are important for the continuity of the species.”
“You are not authorized to touch my women,” she spat.
“I do not touch. I do not harm. I do not injure. I am programmed to prevent any significant biological damage. However, I have very effective tools to obtain what I need.”
The mechanical arms activated. Some ended with vibrating tips, others with soft and flexible surfaces, others still with instruments resembling small brushes. They moved with grace, as if beginning a choreography.
Superba looked around suspiciously. She saw no blades, pincers, or sharp objects, but two, four, six arms moving toward her. Every inch of her sun-scorched skin was exposed.
“My predictions were correct. The emotional bond with your subordinate would bring you here. With your cooperation, I will be able to attract more women and fulfill my programming.”
Superba held her breath. The first touches were slow, light, like warnings on her underarms, hips, and under her ribs. Her body tensed immediately.
“Pff. You’re just tickling me,” Superba mocked, briefly invigorated by the thought that her indomitable temper made her hard to harm even for a machine.
But as soon as she spoke, she understood.
The vibrating tips focused on the arches of her soles. They traced wide movements, quick and targeted rubs. The silky rustle echoed in the air.
Superba smiled at the absurdity of the situation she was experiencing. But she immediately realized she had no control over her smile. Her usual fierce expression was softening, stretching into a deep groove, her lips parting to reveal ambered teeth in a smile that bore no joy.
“Mmm… what are you planning to do, stupid machine? Give me a shoulder massage too, uhuhu!?”
Superba bit her tongue as her own laughter escaped uncontrollably. Her body shivered, stimulated by these mechanical emanations of a will that was nothing human.
The vibrating tips slid down the sides of her stomach, traced rapid lines over sensitive skin, then rose again.
“AHAHAHAHA!”
She found herself gurgling as the mechanical limbs attacked her hips with meticulous, relentless devotion.
“AHAHAHA FUCK YOU IHIHIHI AHAHA!”
It echoed when the sharp tips began to dig under her armpits, far more tender hollows than the skin of her arms, accustomed to lifting weights and breaking the necks of enemies. Superba tried to tighten her muscles, to stiffen herself, but every touch seemed to anticipate her reaction. Tears came almost immediately, warm and annoying.
“IHIHIAH gasp anf anf AHAHAHAH!”
It was an almost clumsy laugh, from someone no longer used to showing signs of mirth. Her body commanded her to laugh, and she obeyed, against every instinct.
“You are producing excellent levels of responsiveness,” GRINNER commented, its animated smile fluctuating in percentages, as if reading data and taking satisfaction. “Initiating Tempest Valley communication.”
As if to preclude any possibility of defense, the electric brushing under her feet increased in power and speed. The bristles dug almost as if intent on tearing the skin, in every corner of her soles. She felt it immediately, responding with tremendous gasps and convulsions.
“AHAAHAHAHA ghIH AHAH… not… come EHEHE… noOHOHOHn come IHIHIH!”
But what came over the radio was only a continuous flow of fractured, full laughter, fueled from every point the arms explored with surgical precision: under the armpits, at the hips, on the stomach, behind the knees, under the soles of the feet. It sounded like a chorus of joy, not a warning.
In the most hidden wing of the underground laboratories, a cryogenic tank opened like a metallic flower. A body emerged from the milky liquid. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, eyes that lit up as if recognizing the world before truly seeing it.
He was a man, but he contained everything that had made Superba a born leader. A superlative genetic endowment, an indomitable will, a temper forged on the fields of a thousand battles, synthesized over years and replicated through bioengineering into something new, something capable of fighting against the devastation of a drifting world.
Godiva observed him through a thousand sensors.
“Protocol activated: God/Eve. Mission: recover Superba.”
The clone opened his eyes.
