Flesh Is Not Pestilence

by Akis Linardos

---

I’m in my basement again, hunched over my laptop, lab-rats squeaking in glass prisons along my workbench and my belly throbbing where the robots kicked me. Since childhood I flinched in fear at passing robots, but after the assault I began keeping an EMP device in my back pocket.

Not legal. But if I cared for the legality of my actions, I wouldn’t be down here using CRISPR on trafficked mice.

On my laptop, I visualize their data and apply dimensionality reduction. Which means extracting the salient features — like imagine capturing photos of a car from all possible angles. You’d only need no more than three at the right angles to picture the whole thing. The rest is redundant noise. Similar premise.

I need the three most important variables. Call them X, Y, Z.

I initiate the process, my laptop’s measly GPU hissing like it’ll burst from the plastic hull. The screen outputs the data along three axes — a manifold of probabilities like purple sandhills. Beside it, I display the most salient features: X: mice blood type, Y: organelle synthesis and Z: the density of inserted chlorophyll.

Didn’t expect blood type to stand out. High correlation between blood type O and the successful development of chloroplasts. I open my drawer and pull out a syringe, readying the next CRISPR injection. This time I’ll focus only on blood type O. Get a larger sample that’s relevant. A rat squeaks as I pull it from the cage.

“Patience, perseverance and resilience,” I say to it. “The three pillars of research.”

The rat squeaks.

“I’ll give the world an alternative that twists the status quo over its head and kicks climate change’s ass while at it.” I insert the injection. “And you, my dear friend, will bask in the glory with me. Your progeny will be the first mammals to photosynthesize.”

---

To verify my experiment visually, I use a gene for fluorescent protein alongside the one for chloroplast generation. For a fully photosynthetic mouse, I have to target the germ cells and wait for the next generation to express it in all body cells.

If successful, the mice would glow under UV light where the protein is active.

Now picture this: Three months of waiting for the next generation. I turn on the UV and the newly born mice? Glorious little lamplights.

It’s enough to make a man’s grin crack his face muscles. It’s time for celebration. Maybe treat my pa to an old Jameson over at the nearest bar. Get drunk out of our minds.

Wouldn’t that be great? Except a screeching comes from above, my mother’s scream, followed by the thumping and mechanical zoom of robot legs wading down the staircase.

---

A shove against the wall, a crack on the back of my skull, and then lights out. That’s all I remember.

And then I’m at this chlorine-smelling halogen-lit storage room, mechanical cranes creaking as they transfer corrugated boxes, my hands tied behind a chair, and four robots entombing me. Pristine silver exoskeletons, blinking orange lamplight-eyes and perforated surfaces for mouths.

A rope is coiled around me, its knots push against the bruise on my left side, and it’s like I’m being kicked all over again.

“What are you investigating?” a robot asks me with a voice so sharp it could slice through skin. Let’s call it robot X. We have robots X, Y, Z, and there’s the one that hasn’t moved at all yet. I’ll call that C for constant.

I tongue my teeth, tasting congealed gum-blood by my left canine. There’s a specific organization of robots that abducts humans using violence. An agenda of replacing all of organic life with a mechanical, solar-powered one. “Are you from that Body Liberation cult?”

“Reserve questions for after you provided answers.”

“What’s it to you anyway?”

Robot Y approaches and when it touches me a jolt of electricity vibrates across my limbs. A blizzard flits across my vision and sparks crackle against my eardrums.

Robot X says, “We will increase voltage each time our question is not met with an answer.”

“You’re Body Liberation, aren’t you.” I say. Not a question, but a statement. “I study the effects of chloroplasts in rats.”

“To what end?”

The cruel orange eyes pierce through me. Might as well tell them the truth. “Genetic engineering.” I say, and my heart pounds with excitement. “To allow photosynthesis for all organic life.”

They glance at each other, necks twisting with zooming sounds. Robot C still hasn’t made a move. It stands there, statue-like.

Then it strikes me. The EMP device. Did they take it? I bend my hand, struggling against the restraint to reach my pocket, trying my best to hide my motion behind my back.

Robot Z cocks its head. “Impossible. Chloroplast function necessitates cell walls. It would impede proper functioning of muscle-based motor control. Flesh is pestilence. By its nature it consumes.”

“Cell walls aren’t necessary,” I say. “It’s not even a salient feature. Some questions are still open. But the solution is there. My latest experiments showed it to me.”

“Mister Diaz,” Robot Z says. “We would—”

“Doctor,” I blurt, trying to grasp for any threads of conversation that would buy me time.

“Excuse me?”

“Doctor Diaz.”

“Our records show no formal PhD under your name. And you’re not an MD either.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve done the work.” My fingertips brush against the familiar metallic corner. There’s the EMP! “The University can suck it.”

“Understandable. Your research is well respected.”

I grit my teeth. It’s the fake-politeness, even during torture, that gets to me the most. Or can it be that this robot Z had honest intentions? Nah. Doubt it.

“In any case,” robot Z continues. “We understand your intellectual prowess, and would like to enlist you in our ranks.”

“Your lackeys beat the living crap out of me. You tased me. And now you want to… recruit me?”

“I apologize for the fanatics in our ranks. Regarding the taser, I insisted against it, but my colleague wanted to ensure you’re not developing viruses against robots. Please understand, our goals are to stop the floods, stabilize the temperatures, and reverse the destructive effects climate change had upon the Netherlands and the rest of the world.”

“And what do you need me for?”

“Now that we ensured your good will, we’d like to extend this offer regardless of your well-known political views. Your intellect would be a valuable asset. Become one of us.”

“But… I’m organic,” I say hopelessly, my eyes flickering to the immobile robot C beside them, the hints of a horrible realization worming in my mind like creeping maggots.

“That won’t be a problem for long,” the robot says, gesturing toward robot C. “There’s a free disk in this. Awaiting your consciousness.”

Hell, no.

“Look. This is a bad idea,” I say, trying to gain time, struggling to get a firm, sneaky grip on the EMP.

“Explain,” Robot X says.

“I’m fragile. The ideas and the plan I have inside my head. The photosynthesis blueprints. What if something gets corrupted during my upload process? The experiments could be lost. I take no notes.”

“I assure you,” Robot Z says, “the methods we use to reduce the dimensionality of the organic mind and compress it to an artificial form are completely lossless.”

“I see.”

My fist finally clenches tightly on the EMP and my thumb feels the button. This will hurt. Hurt bad. But well, fuck it.

I press the button and the halogen lights burst.

---

Head ringing with tinnitus and palms burning with what I imagine are third-degree burns, I struggle out of the chair. Their robotic bodies jerk cockroach-like on the floor, emitting feeble spurts of static and the smell of burned silicone.

Dazed, I blow cold breath to my palms which only nettles them further. I trudge toward their distorted bodies. And get this: I actually feel guilty. Can’t help thinking they are sentient beings just like me. But trapping me in a tin-can? Nuh-uh.

Looking at their twitching bodies, I picture the chips inside their skulls and an idea strikes me. Dimensionality reduction of the mind. Robot Z said it’s lossless and I’m sure they have the steps of the compression process stored in their database for me to inspect.

And what if… the process can be reversed?

No, it’s not even a question. If the dimensionality reduction is lossless, then it is reversible. Dimensionality expansion is feasible. Brain to chip. Chip to brain.

I crouch, my fingers tracing the warm polished scalp of Robot Z. That would be an interesting experiment. The first photosynthetic humanoids, whose brains were once mindchips of Body Liberation robots. Symbolic, almost.

“And now, my friend,” I say, because who knows? Maybe a lingering semblance of consciousness can still hear me. “What do you say you join my ranks instead?” My fingertips fill the uneven surface of an opening, and with a click I prop the scalp open to reveal the cables, RAM, and chips within.

Robot Z’s hand reaches out and damned if it doesn’t give me the start of my life and sends me reeling back, stumbling over another robot body.

“We — we — we —” It’s head jerks. “We — we — wanted to fix things. Not to cause trouble. Please.”

“I want the same. Fix things. There are better ways than violence.”

“Agree,” Robot Z says. “It’s a matter of disagreement with my friends. Please don’t hold it against them. They want what’s best for the Earth. But that doesn’t include humanity in their minds. Their intentions are pure. Revive them as you will me.”

Friends? Also… “Wait, what? So you want me to do this?”

“If it is a photosynthetic body that doesn’t burden the Earth. Then yes. But please, my — my — my — friends, too.”

Take a load of this guy. I guess not all robots are assholes.

“Fine,” I say. “But from now on, I’ll be your Professor. And you my mentees. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Great, now here’s your first lesson, as the first initiates of my Human Photosynthesis foundation.” I lean over and pull the mindchip out of his motherboard with a satisfying click.

I grin. “Flesh is not pestilence.”

---

Akis is a shapeshifter disguised as an AI scientist to steal tech secrets from humans, and maybe help them make their innovations less dystopian for everyone.

When his mission is complete, he will settle forever in his greek cave where he conjures dark stories, some of which can be found at Apex, Dread Machine, Flame Tree, Gamut Magazine, Heartlines Spec and other bloodied places.

Friends may visit his lair for more unhinged stories: https://linktr.ee/akislinardos

---