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Arvies

STATEMENT OF INTENT

This is the story of a mother, and a daughter, and the right to life, and the dignity of all living things, and of some souls granted great destinies at the moment of their conception, and of others damned to remain society’s useful idiots.

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CONTENTS

Expect cute plush animals and amniotic fluid and a more or less happy ending for everybody, though the definition of happiness may depend on the truncated emotional capacity of those unable to feel anything else. Some of the characters are rich and famous, others are underage, and one is legally dead, though you may like her the most of all.

#

APPEARANCE

We first encounter Molly June on her fifteenth deathday, when the monitors in charge of deciding such things declare her safe for passengers. Congratulating her on completing the only important stage of her development, they truck her in a padded skimmer to the arvie showroom where she is claimed, right away, by one of the Living.

The fast sale surprises nobody, not the servos that trained her into her current state of health and attractiveness, not the AI routines managing the showroom, and least of all Molly June, who has spent her infancy and early childhood having the ability to feel surprise, or anything beyond a vague contentment, scrubbed from her emotional palate. Crying, she’d learned while still capable of such things, brought punishment, while unconditional acceptance of anything the engineers saw fit to provide brought light and flower scent and warmth. By this point in her existence she’ll greet anything short of an exploding bomb with no reaction deeper than vague concern. Her sale is a minor development by comparison: a happy development, reinforcing her feelings of dull satisfaction. Don’t feel sorry for her. Her entire life, or more accurately death, is happy ending. All she has to do is spend the rest of it carrying a passenger.

#

VEHICLE SPECIFICATIONS

You think you need to know what Molly June looks like. You really don’t, as it plays no role in her life. But as the information will assist you in feeling empathy for her, we will oblige anyway.

Molly June is a round-faced, button-nosed gamin, with pink lips and cheeks marked with permanent rose: her blonde hair framing her perfect face in parentheses of bouncy, luxurious curls. Her blue eyes, enlarged by years of genetic manipulation and corrective surgeries, are three times as large as the ones imperfect nature would have set in her face. Lemur-like, they dominate her features like a pair of pacific jewels, all moist and sad and adorable. They reveal none of her essential personality, which is not a great loss, as she’s never been permitted to develop one.

Her body is another matter. It has been trained to perfection, with the kind of punishing daily regimen that can only be endured when the mind itself remains unaware of pain or exhaustion. She has worked with torn ligaments, with shattered joints, with disfiguring wounds. She has severed her spine and crushed her skull and has had both replaced, with the same ease her engineers have used, fourteen times, to replace her skin with a fresh version unmarked by scars or blemishes. What remains of her now is a wan amalgam of her own best-developed parts, most of them entirely natural, except for her womb, which is of course a plush, wired palace, far safer for its future occupant than the envelope of mere flesh would have provided. It can survive injuries capable of reducing Molly June to a smear.

In short, she is precisely what she should be, now that she’s fifteen years past birth, and therefore, by all standards known to modern civilized society, Dead.

#

HEROINE

Jennifer Axioma-Singh has never been born and is therefore a significant distance away from being Dead.

She is, in every way, entirely typical. She has written operas, climbed mountains, enjoyed daredevil plunges from the upper atmosphere into vessels the size of teacups, finagled controlling stock in seventeen major multinationals, earned the hopeless devotion of any number of lovers, written her name in the sands of time, fought campaigns in a hundred conceptual wars, survived twenty regime changes and on three occasions had herself turned off so she could spend a year or two mulling the purpose of existence while her bloodstream spiced her insights with all the most fashionable hallucinogens.

She has accomplished all of this from within various baths of amniotic fluid.

Jennifer has yet to even open her eyes, which have never been allowed to fully develop past the first trimester and which still, truth be told, resemble black marbles behind lids of translucent onionskin. This doesn’t actually deprive her of vision, of course. At the time she claims Molly June as her arvie, she’s been indulging her visual cortex for seventy long years, zipping back and forth across the solar system collecting all the tourist chits one earns for seeing all the wonders of modern-day humanity: from the scrimshaw carving her immediate ancestors made of Mars to the radiant face of Unborn Jesus shining from the artfully re-configured multicolored atmosphere of Saturn. She has gloried in the catalogue of beautiful sights provided by God and all the industrious living people before her.

Throughout all this she has been blessed with vision far greater than any we will ever know ourselves, since her umbilical interface allows her sights capable of frying merely organic eyes, and she’s far too sophisticated a person to be satisfied with the banal limitations of the merely visual spectrum. Decades of life have provided Jennifer Axioma-Singh with more depth than that. And something else: a perverse need, stranger than anything she’s ever done, and impossible to indulge without first installing herself in a healthy young arvie.

#

ANCESTRY

Jennifer Axioma-Singh has owned arvies before, each one customized from the moment of its death. She’s owned males, females, neuters, and several sexes only developed in the past decade. She’s had arvies designed for athletic prowess, arvies designed for erotic sensation, and arvies designed for survival in harsh environments. She’s even had one arvie with hypersensitive pain receptors: that, during a cold and confused period of masochism.

The last one before this, who she still misses, and sometimes feels a little guilty about, was a lovely girl named Peggy Sue, with a metabolism six times baseline normal and a digestive tract capable of surviving about a hundred separate species of nonstop abuse. Peggy Sue could down mountains of exotic delicacies without ever feeling full or engaging her gag reflex, and enjoyed taste receptors directly plugged into her pleasure centers. The slightest sip of coconut juice could flood her system with tidal waves of endorphin-crazed ecstasy. The things chocolate could do to her were downright obscene.

Unfortunately, she was still vulnerable to the negative effects of unhealthy eating, and went through four liver transplants and six emergency transfusions in the first ten years of Jennifer’s occupancy.

The cumulative medical effect of so many years of determined gluttony mattered little to Jennifer Axioma-Singh, since her own caloric intake was regulated by devices that prevented the worst of Peggy Sue’s excessive consumption from causing any damage on her side of the uterine wall. Jennifer’s umbilical cord passed only those compounds necessary for keeping her alive and healthy. All Jennifer felt, through her interface with Peggy Sue’s own sensory spectrum, was the joy of eating; all she experienced was the sheer, overwhelming treasury of flavor.

And if Peggy Sue became obese and diabetic and jaundiced in the meantime—as she did, enduring her last few years as Jennifer’s arvie as an immobile mountain of reeking flab, with barely enough strength to position her mouth for another bite—then that was inconsequential as well, because she had progressed beyond prenatal development and had therefore passed beyond that stage of life where human beings can truly be said to have a soul.

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PHILOSOPHY

Life, true life, lasts only from the moment of conception to the moment of birth. Jennifer Axioma-Singh subscribes to this principle, and clings to it in the manner of any concerned citizen aware that the very foundations of her society depend on everybody continuing to believe it without question. But she is capable of forming attachments, no matter how irrational, and she therefore felt a frisson of guilt once she decided she’d had enough and the machines performed the Caesarian Section that delivered her from Peggy Sue’s pliant womb. After all, Peggy Sue’s reward for so many years of service, euthanasia, seemed so inadequate, given everything she’d provided.

But what else could have provided fair compensation, given the shape Peggy Sue was in by then? Surely not a last meal! Jennifer Axioma-Singh, who had not been able to think of any alternatives, brooded over the matter until she came to the same conclusion always reached by those enjoying lives of privilege, which is that such inequities are all for the best and that there wasn’t all that much she could do about them, anyway. Her liberal compassion had been satisfied by the heartfelt promise to herself that if she ever bought an arvie again she would take care to act more responsibly.

And this is what she holds in mind, as the interim pod carries her into the gleaming white expanse of the very showroom where fifteen-year-old Molly June awaits a passenger.

#

INSTALLATION

Molly June’s contentment is like the surface of a vast, pacific ocean, unstirred by tide or wind. The events of her life plunge into that mirrored surface without effect, raising nary a ripple or storm. It remains unmarked even now, as the anesthetician and obstetrician mechs emerge from their recesses to guide her always-unresisting form from the waiting room couch where she’d been left earlier this morning, to the operating theatre where she’ll begin the useful stage of her existence. Speakers in the walls calm her further with an arrangement of melodious strings designed to override any unwanted emotional static.

It’s all quite humane: for even as Molly June lies down and puts her head back and receives permission to close her eyes, she remains wholly at peace. Her heartbeat does jog, a little, just enough to be noted by the instruments, when the servos peel back the skin of her abdomen, but even that instinctive burst of fear fades with the absence of any identifiable pain. Her reaction to the invasive procedure fades to a mere theoretical interest, akin to what Jennifer herself would feel regarding gossip about people she doesn’t know living in places where she’s never been.

Molly June drifts, thinks of blue waters and bright sunlight, misses Jennifer’s installation inside her, and only reacts to the massive change in her body after the incisions are closed and Jennifer has recovered enough to kick. Then her lips curl in a warm but vacant smile. She is happy. Arvies might be dead, in legal terms, but they still love their passengers.

#

AMBITION

Jennifer doesn’t announce her intentions until two days later, after growing comfortable with her new living arrangements. At that time Molly June is stretched out on a lounge on a balcony overlooking a city once known as Paris but which has undergone perhaps a dozen other names of fleeting popularity since then; at this point it’s called something that could be translated as Eternal Night, because its urban planners have noted that it looks best when its towers were against a backdrop of darkness and therefore arranged to free it from the sunlight that previously diluted its beauty for half of every day.

The balcony, a popular spot among visitors, is not connected to any actual building. It just sits, like an unanchored shelf, at a high altitude calculated to showcase the lights of the city at their most decadently glorious. The city itself is no longer inhabited, of course; it contains some mechanisms important for the maintenance of local weather patterns but otherwise exists only to confront the night sky with constellations of reflective light. Jennifer, experiencing its beauty through Molly June’s eyes, and the bracing high-altitude wind through Molly June’s skin, feels a connection with the place that goes beyond aesthetics. She finds it fateful, resonant, and romantic, the perfect location to begin the greatest adventure of a life that has already provided her with so many.

She cranes Molly June’s neck to survey the hundreds of other arvies sharing this balcony with her: all young, all beautiful, all pretending happiness while their jaded passengers struggle to plan new experiences not yet grown dull from surfeit. She sees arvies drinking, arvies wrestling, arvies declaiming vapid poetry, arvies coupling in threes and fours; arvies colored in various shades, fitted to various shapes and sizes; pregnant females, and impregnated males, all sufficiently transparent, to a trained eye like Jennifer’s, for the essential characters of their respective passengers to shine on through. They all glow from the light of a moon that is not the moon, as the original was removed some time ago, but a superb piece of stagecraft designed to accentuate the city below to its greatest possible effect.

Have any of these people ever contemplated a stunt as over-the-top creative as the one Jennifer has in mind? Jennifer thinks not. More, she is certain not. She feels pride, and her arvie Molly June laughs, with a joy that threatens to bring the unwanted curse of sunlight back to the city of lights. And for the first time she announces her intentions out loud, without even raising her voice, aware that any words emerging from Molly June’s mouth are superfluous, so long as the truly necessary signal travels the network that conveys Jennifer’s needs to the proper facilitating agencies. None of the other arvies on the balcony even hear Molly June speak. But those plugged in hear Jennifer speak the words destined to set off a whirlwind of controversy.

I want to give birth.

#

CLARIFICATION

It is impossible to understate the perversity of this request.

Nobody gives Birth.

Birth is a messy and unpleasant and distasteful process that ejects living creatures from their warm and sheltered environment into a harsh and unforgiving one that nobody wants to experience except from within the protection of wombs either organic or artificial.

Birth is the passage from Life, and all its infinite wonders, to another place inhabited only by those who have been forsaken. It’s the terrible ending that modern civilization has forestalled indefinitely, allowing human beings to live within the womb without ever giving up the rich opportunities for experience and growth. It’s sad, of course, that for Life to even be possible a large percentage of potential Citizens have to be permitted to pass through that terrible veil, into an existence where they’re no good to anybody except as spare parts and manual laborers and arvies, but there are peasants in even the most enlightened societies, doing the hard work so the important people don’t have to. The best any of us can do about that is appreciate their contribution while keeping them as complacent as possible.

The worst thing that could ever be said about Molly June’s existence is that when the Nurseries measured her genetic potential, found it wanting, and decided she should approach Birth unimpeded, she was also humanely deprived of the neurological enhancements that allow first-trimester fetuses all the rewards and responsibilities of Citizenship. She never developed enough to fear the passage that awaited her, and never knew how sadly limited her existence would be. She spent her all-too-brief Life in utero ignorant of all the blessings that would forever be denied her, and has been kept safe and content and happy and drugged and stupid since birth. After all, as a wise person once said, it takes a perfect vassal to make a perfect vessel. Nobody can say that there’s anything wrong about that. But the dispossession of people like her, that makes the lives of people like Jennifer Axioma-Singh possible, remains a distasteful thing decent people just don’t talk about.

Jennifer’s hunger to experience birth from the point of view of a mother, grunting and sweating to expel another unfortunate like Molly June out of the only world that matters, into the world of cold slavery, thus strikes the vast majority as offensive, scandalous, unfeeling, selfish, and cruel. But since nobody has ever imagined a Citizen demented enough to want such a thing, nobody has ever thought to make it against the law. So the powers that be indulge Jennifer’s perversity, while swiftly passing laws to ensure that nobody will ever be permitted such license ever again; and all the machinery of modern medicine is turned to the problem of just how to give her what she wants. And, before long, wearing Molly June as proxy, she gets knocked up.

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IMPLANTATION

There is no need for any messy copulation. Sex, as conducted through arvies, still makes the world go round, prompting the usual number of bittersweet affairs, tempestuous breakups, turbulent love triangles, and silly love songs.

In her younger days, before the practice palled out of sheer repetition, Jennifer had worn out several arvies fucking like a bunny. But there has never been any danger of unwanted conception, at any time, not with the only possible source of motile sperm being the nurseries that manufacture it as needed without recourse to nasty antiquated testes. These days, zygotes and embryos are the province of the assembly line. Growing one inside an arvie, let alone one already occupied by a human being, presents all manner of bureaucratic difficulties involving the construction of new protocols and the rearranging of accepted paradigms and any amount of official eye-rolling, but once all that is said and done, the procedures turn out to be quite simple, and the surgeons have little difficulty providing Molly June with a second womb capable of growing Jennifer Axioma-Singh’s daughter while Jennifer Axioma-Singh herself floats unchanging a few protected membranes away.

Unlike the womb that houses Jennifer, this one will not be wired in any way. Its occupant will not be able to influence Molly June’s actions or enjoy the full spectrum of Molly June’s senses. She will not understand, except in the most primitive, undeveloped way, what or where she is or how well she’s being cared for. Literally next to Jennifer Axioma-Singh, she will be by all reasonable comparisons a mindless idiot. But she will live, and grow, for as long as it takes for this entire perverse whim of Jennifer’s to fully play itself out.

#

GESTATION (1)

In the months that follow, Jennifer Axioma-Singh enjoys a novel form of celebrity. This is hardly anything new for her, of course, as she has been a celebrity several times before and if she lives her expected lifespan, expects to be one several times again. But in an otherwise unshockable world, she has never experienced, or even witnessed, that special, nearly extinct species of celebrity that comes from eliciting shock, and which was once best-known by the antiquated term, notoriety.

This, she glories in. This, she milks for every last angstrom. This, she surfs like an expert, submitting to countless interviews, constructing countless bon mots, pulling every string capable of scandalizing the public.

She says, “I don’t see the reason for all the fuss.”

She says, “People used to share wombs all the time.”

She says, “It used to happen naturally, with multiple births: two or three or four or even seven of us, crowded together like grapes, sometimes absorbing each other’s body parts like cute young cannibals.”

She says, “I don’t know whether to call what I’m doing pregnancy or performance art.”

She says, “Don’t you think Molly June looks special? Don’t you think she glows?”

She says, “When the baby’s born, I may call her Halo.”

She says, “No, I don’t see any problem with condemning her to Birth. If it’s good enough for Molly June, it’s good enough for my child.”

And she says, “No, I don’t care what anybody thinks. It’s my arvie, after all.”

And she fans the flames of outrage higher and higher, until public sympathies turn to the poor slumbering creature inside the sac of amniotic fluid, whose life and future have already been so cruelly decided. Is she truly limited enough to be condemned to Birth? Should she be stabilized and given her own chance at life, before she’s expelled, sticky and foul, into the cold, harsh world inhabited only by arvies and machines? Or is Jennifer correct in maintaining the issue subject to a mother’s whim?

Jennifer says, “All I know is that this is the most profound, most spiritually fulfilling, experience of my entire life.” And so she faces the crowds, real or virtual, using Molly June’s smile and Molly June’s innocence, daring the analysts to count all the layers of irony.

#

GESTATION (II)

Molly June experiences the same few months in a fog of dazed, but happy confusion, aware that she’s become the center of attention, but unable to comprehend exactly why. She knows that her lower back hurts and that her breasts have swelled and that her belly, flat and soft before, has inflated to several times its previous size; she knows that she sometimes feels something moving inside her, that she sometimes feels sick to her stomach, and that her eyes water more easily than they ever have before, but none of this disturbs the vast, becalmed surface of her being. It is all good, all the more reason for placid contentment.

Her only truly bad moments come in her dreams, when she sometimes finds herself standing on a gray, colorless field, facing another version of herself half her own size. The miniature Molly June stares at her from a distance that Molly June herself cannot cross, her eyes unblinking, her expression merciless. Tears glisten on both her cheeks. She points at Molly June and she enunciates a single word, incomprehensible in any language Molly June knows, and irrelevant to any life she’s ever been allowed to live: “Mother.”

The unfamiliar word makes Molly June feel warm and cold, all at once. In her dream she wets herself, trembling from the sudden warmth running down her thighs. She trembles, bowed by an incomprehensible need to apologize. When she wakes, she finds real tears still wet on her cheeks, and real pee soaking the mattress between her legs. It frightens her.

But those moments fade. Within seconds the calming agents are already flooding her bloodstream, overriding any internal storms, removing all possible sources of disquiet, making her once again the obedient arvie she’s supposed to be. She smiles and coos as the servos tend to her bloated form, scrubbing her flesh and applying their emollients. Life is so good, she thinks. And if it’s not, well, it’s not like there’s anything she can do about it, so why worry?

#

BIRTH (I)

Molly June goes into labor on a day corresponding to what we call Thursday, the insistent weight she has known for so long giving way to a series of contractions violent enough to reach her even through her cocoon of deliberately engineered apathy. She cries and moans and shrieks infuriated, inarticulate things that might have been curses had she ever been exposed to any, and she begs the shiny machines around her to take away the pain with the same efficiency that they’ve taken away everything else. She even begs her passenger—that is, the passenger she knows about, the one she’s sensed seeing through her eyes and hearing through her ears and carrying out conversations with her mouth—she begs her passenger for mercy. She hasn’t ever asked that mysterious godlike presence for anything, because it’s never occurred to her that she might be entitled to anything, but she needs relief now, and she demands it, shrieks for it, can’t understand why she isn’t getting it.

The answer, which would be beyond her understanding even if provided, is that the wet, sordid physicality of the experience is the very point.

#

BIRTH (II)

Jennifer Axioma-Singh is fully plugged in to every cramp, every twitch, every pooled droplet of sweat. She experiences the beauty and the terror and the exhaustion and the certainty that this will never end. She finds it resonant and evocative and educational on levels lost to a mindless sack of meat like Molly June. And she comes to any number of profound revelations about the nature of life and death and the biological origins of the species and the odd, inexplicable attachment brood mares have always felt for the squalling sacks of flesh and bone their bodies have gone to so much trouble to expel.

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CONCLUSIONS

It’s like any other work, she thinks. Nobody ever spent months and months building a house only to burn it down the second they pounded in the last nail. You put that much effort into something and it belongs to you, forever, even if the end result is nothing but a tiny creature that eats and shits and makes demands on your time.

This still fails to explain why anybody would invite this kind of pain again, let alone the three or four or seven additional occasions common before the unborn reached their ascendancy. Oh, it’s interesting enough to start with, but she gets the general idea long before the thirteenth hour rolls around and the market share for her real-time feed dwindles to the single digits. Long before that, the pain has given way to boredom. At the fifteenth hour she gives up entirely, turns off her inputs, and begins to catch up on her personal correspondence, missing the actual moment when Molly June’s daughter, Jennifer’s womb-mate and sister, is expelled head-first into a shiny silver tray, pink and bloody and screaming at the top of her lungs, sharing oxygen for the very first time, but, by every legal definition, Dead.

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AFTERMATH (JENNIFER)

As per her expressed wishes, Jennifer Axioma-Singh is removed from Molly June and installed in a new arvie that very day. This one’s a tall, lithe, gloriously beautiful creature with fiery eyes and thick, lush lips: her name’s Bernadette Ann, she’s been bred for endurance in extreme environments, and she’ll soon be taking Jennifer Axioma-Singh on an extended solo hike across the restored continent of Antarctica.

Jennifer is so impatient to begin this journey that she never lays eyes on the child whose birth she has just experienced. There’s no need. After all, she’s never laid eyes on anything, not personally. And the pictures are available online, should she ever feel the need to see them. Not that she ever sees any reason for that to happen. The baby, itself, was never the issue here. Jennifer didn’t want to be a mother. She just wanted to give birth. All that mattered to her, in the long run, was obtaining a few months of unique vicarious experience, precious in a lifetime likely to continue for as long as the servos still manufacture wombs and breed arvies. All that matters now is moving on. Because time marches onward, and there are never enough adventures to fill it.

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AFTERMATH (MOLLY JUNE)

She’s been used, and sullied, and rendered an unlikely candidate to attract additional passengers. She is therefore earmarked for compassionate disposal.

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AFTERMATH (THE BABY)

The baby is, no pun intended, another issue. Her biological mother Jennifer Axioma-Singh has no interest in her, and her birth-mother Molly June is on her way to the furnace. A number of minor health problems, barely worth mentioning, render her unsuitable for a useful future as somebody’s arvie. Born, and by that precise definition Dead, she could very well follow Molly June down the chute.

But she has a happier future ahead of her. It seems that her unusual gestation and birth have rendered her something of a collector’s item, and there are any number of museums aching for a chance to add her to their permanent collections. Offers are weighed, and terms negotiated, until the ultimate agreement is signed, and she finds herself shipped to a freshly constructed habitat in a wildlife preserve in what used to be Ohio.

#

AFTERMATH (THE CHILD)

She spends her early life in an automated nursery with toys, teachers, and careful attention to her every physical need. At age five she’s moved to a cage consisting of a two story house on four acres of nice green grass, beneath what looks like a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. There’s even a playground. She will never be allowed out, of course, because there’s no place for her to go, but she does have human contact of a sort: a different arvie almost every day, inhabited for the occasion by a long line of Living who now think it might be fun to experience child-rearing for a while. Each one has a different face, each one calls her by a different name, and their treatment of her ranges all the way from compassionate to violently abusive.

Now eight, the little girl has long since given up on asking the good ones to stay, because she knows they won’t. Nor does she continue to dream about what she’ll do when she grows up, since it’s also occurred to her that she’ll never know anything but this life in this fishbowl. Her one consolation is wondering about her real mother: where she is now, what she looks like, whether she ever thinks about the child she left behind, and whether it would have been possible to hold on to her love, had it ever been offered, or even possible.

The questions remain the same, from day to day. But the answers are hers to imagine, and they change from minute to minute: as protean as her moods, or her dreams, or the reasons why she might have been condemned to this cruelest of all possible punishments.

© 2010 Adam-Troy Castro

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Adam-Troy Castro

Adam-Troy CastroAdam-Troy Castro is currently best known for his middle-grade series about the macabre adventures of a very strange, very courageous young boy named Gustav Gloom. The most recent volume, Gustav Gloom And The Four Terrors, was released by Grosset and Dunlap in November of 2013. Adam-Troy’s short fiction has been nominated for 2 Hugos, 3 Stokers, and 8 Nebulas. His novel Emissaries From The Dead won the Philip K. Dick award. Adam lives in Boynton Beach, FL, with his wife Judi and a collection of insane cats.

Stories by Adam-Troy Castro

34 Responses »

  1. Very, very interesting story – loved it! Trying to turn the pro-life argument on its head, I’m assuming?

  2. For me this story, while very interesting, made me very sad. All Molly wanted was to experience the beauty of bringing a baby into the world the old fashion way, despite all the pain and discomfort that comes with pregnancy. Then once Molly becomes a mother in the real sense of the word, she is thrown by the wayside and then destroyed. Is this what we can expect from our future? No holding your baby in your arms, watch them grow and share with them all their achievements and all their sorrows? I, for one, hope not!

    • That’s just the thing, isn’t it? That Jennifer DIDN’T want to experience the beauty of bringing a baby into the world — Jennifer just wanted a firsthand experience of childbirth. Along the same lines as the time she wanted to be a glutton, or the time she wanted to be a masochist and deliberately designed an arvie that would be hypersensitive to pain. She cares only for the experience, not the aftermath — so she eats until her host dies, and she doesn’t care about the baby at all.

      I think what I found creepiest was the treatment of the daughter afterwards. She wasn’t designed for anything specific, and she hasn’t experienced the years of emotional conditioning to be impervious like Molly was. She didn’t even get protected until she was 15. The thought that a child could be born as a byproduct of performance art and then continue to be used by a variety of people who only live for narcissistic experience tourism is terrifying.

  3. It was Jennifer, the fetal passenger, who wanted to experience birth; Molly was just the convenient womb.

  4. oops my mistake but does the name really matter? My comments would not change due to using the wrong character’s name.

    • No, and please don’t think I’m getting on your case about it. It really only matters as far as interpreting the specific character of Molly June, who didn’t really want anything.

  5. Well done! The first read was to sample the flavors, the second to immerse myself in the world. You managed to capture many of the physical aspects of pregnancy and birth, while presenting them in the frame of the ultimate renewable resource. the format served the premise and pacing, as did Jennifer’s one-sided dialogue. After all, this was Jennifer’s story. Or is it Molly June’s? No, no, the baby’s!

    Perhaps it is ours.

    That is the trick of good speculative fiction, presenting a fantastic frame for any number of current issues.

    Again, very well done.

    Sandra

  6. Masterful storytelling, interesting structure, and wonderful characters.

    Then again, the story leaves such an ugly bruise on my mind that I’m not sure it’s proper to say I enjoyed it. Yet again, how can one not enjoy the technical clarity of the writing, all arc light on alabaster dissection table?

    It’s certainly not the feel good story of the year.

    That was a joke.

    I never said I was any good at humor.

    Well done.

    (Recreational Vessel?)

  7. Cool idea, it gave me the goosebumps and I really enjoyed the “pseudo-didactic” treatment of the narrative.

    Thank you and keep it Lightspeed, nice to see another venue of quality SF emerge.

  8. Gut-wrenching, especially the aftermath for the Child. Excellent story.

    Rebekah

  9. Wow. It’s quite marvelously twisted and ideologically skin-crawly, if only because it’s true enough to human nature to be quite possible. I like that the format is suitably machine-like in its linear progression, adding to that cold, apathetic feel; it makes it that much more cutting. It reminds me a bit of Neil Gaiman’s “Babycakes” as well, which takes a similar set of moral ideas in the opposite direction. To summarize: babies and the way that people respond to them are both pretty creepy, especially if you get the right “what if” twisted around it.

  10. Really enjoyed the story and I’m super happy to have discovered this site. I hope to read many more interesting stories here. Thanks io9.com for the link!

  11. I was thinking I would like to see a continuation of this story. Would like to see the child as an adult, rebel, and try to escape her cage. Maybe she develops telekinesis (since this future seems much more powerful then her she needs leverage).

  12. Very interesting idea. Quite appealing to me as a woman, feminist, writer and science fiction fan. The writing is superb.

  13. What an appalling concept. Thanks for the story, and the shudder that accompanied the idea of such inhumanity.

  14. Well that was terrifying.

    Thanks! :)

  15. Fantastic story….a brilliant exploration of humankind as the ultimate expression of hypocrisy: Those who value the existence of the Unborn and fight to preserve it while they ignored, condone, and even sponsor the inhumane and brutal treatment of their fellow living humans. This story is a gut-punch to the Right-To-Lifers. People will march and protest to take away a woman’s right to control her body, but will casually accept the presence of child abuse, slavery, and torture as long as it doesn’t impinge upon t0heir own narrow sense of reality. If it’s far enough away, it’s not really happening, is it? This is similar to those who protest abortion but condone war. “We need them babies! We need ‘em to fight our next war!”

    Overall, a twisted yet accurate snapshot of humanity’s twisted priorities. This dystopic future reflects the sobering failures of the dystopic present.

    I also find it fascinating how the story relied on a minimum of image and characterization, yet manages to be completely compelling all the way through. As a previous poster said, it’s told in a decidedly machine-like style. Like a data report. A neutral tone oblivious to the horror of its own content. Which applies just as well to the Living fetuses that run this fictional hell-world.

    Brilliant!

  16. “A gut punch for the right-to-lifers”? Not at all. On one level it’s a cruel, creepy parody of the pro-life argument, but on another level it’s a satire about a society that puts choice first among all the virtues and distinguishes between “alive” and “not-alive” on grounds of being born and being useful. It’s a gut punch for everyone, including pro-choicers, because it makes every side of the debate seem monstrous. That’s why it’s such a good story – no one can read it comfortably.

    • My thoughts exactly. Excellent work, Mr. Castro.

    • Yes! No issue, in life or fiction, is all good or all bad, all black or all white, all hero or all villain. This is such a great story because it turns all the rhetoric upside-down and reveals the inconsistencies and horror of many of the arguments on both sides of several issues, most obviously the pro-life/pro-choice one. As Tim says, it’s so great cos no one can read it comfortably. It pricks all of us at different areas of our moral/philosophical inconsistencies.

      Great job, Adam-Troy Castro!

  17. Tim:

    What the story exploits/extrapolotes and takes to its most ridiculous extreme is the idea that “life begins at conception” and that fetuses are in fact “living human beings.” It takes this line of thought to the ultimate absurdity–for in this story the fetuses are the ONLY beings considered “alive.”

    I’m trying to wrap my head around what this story means to “pro-choice” thinkers…and perhaps it strikes a chord there because in THIS reality its the Fetuses “aborting” adult humans (i.e. condemning them to death or to be spare parts or to be Arvies). So it’s sort of a reverse abortion…now the Unborn run the show and destroy the lives of the Born.

    So, yes, on second thought I agree with you…it IS a gut-punch to both sides of the abortion argument.

    But it is SO much more…

  18. Congratulations, seriously!

    This story really struck so many chords with me as a devoted yet frequently dissatisfied mother.

    Reminiscent of Herbert’s axlotl tanks perhaps.

    I am unsurprised that this story received such praise from Harlan Ellison!

    Thank you!

  19. I’m glad a friend linked me to this. Worth reading and thinking about…. and perhaps re-reading.

  20. A-T C,

    Oh, man! At first I thought this was “just” going to be a variation on PKD’s THE PRE-PERSONS (I think that was the title) – which would have been fine and probably powerful enough at that. But this is SO much more, SO much better. Such a lovely indictment hammered home on so many levels.

    I just got back from a “vacation” where I photographed the last surviving building of a large Dickensian orphanage I was housed in for 14 months from ages five to six.

    http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=601084006&ref=profile#!/album.php?aid=220055&id=601084006

    http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=220131&id=601084006&ref=mf

    So, as you might imagine your AFTERMATH (THE CHILD) came as quite the short sharp sternum punch.

    Very VERY well done. Kudos.

    With tremendous respect – Barney

  21. This is a tremendously affecting story. Horror definitely – also, SF in the “If this goes on…” category as well as fantastic in its implications. I read Harlan Ellison’s post about it and realized that it felt like something that would have been published in one of his “Dangerous Visions” anthologies. It is a searing indictment of the ability we all have to be negligent of others, concern ourselves only with ourselves and just plain do not care. We are abuser, victim and oblivious all at once.

    It is a memorable short story.

    Thank you.

  22. Wow; this certainly pushed several of my sense of wonder/horror buttons at the same time. Arvies works on all sorts of levels at the same time, which is ALWAYS the mark of a great story to me.

    Congratulations, it’s a sensational story that deserved its Nebula nomination and, if there is ANY justice in this plane of existence, more nominations to come.

  23. Late to the party (but not the reading of the story), I just wanted to add my kudos on a story well told. While Barney was reminded of PKDick, I was mindful of Silverberg’s “Passengers,” and how he once said that many of his stories came about after reading someone else’s tale and expounding (expanding) on the notion that a particular author failed to see (or use) when writing said inspirational story (man, I hope that makes sense to anyone else but me).

    In any case, “Arvies”: Creepy, moving, disturbing and thought-provoking.

  24. Extremely late to the party here, but after hearing the story narrated on Starship Sofa, I was moved to write.

    At the outset I had low expectations for the story, expecting (as some readers seem to have read into it) a simple satire of the pro-life arguments, with all of the sensibility mainstream modern western liberal consensus.

    I was delighted to find the story in fact skewered that very sensibility. Julia Axioma-Singh is a monster, and yet she is the ultimate result of a culture for whom life has no purpose greater than personal gratification.

  25. This is one of my favorite stories of the past couple of years, period. I think of it and recommend it often. Truly gives the goosebumps. Congratulations, and well done! I’m looking forward to reading “Emissaries from the Dead,” which is coming (slowly) by post.

  26. I’m reminded of the Protectors of the Unborn, from James White’s _Sector General_ stories… except the Unborn weren’t decadent and evil.

    Well done, Adam.

  27. “Arvies” by Adam-Troy Castro is sci-fi horror at its screamingly absolute best! Imagine if the very pinnacle of human evolution and development is a monster called Jennifer Axioma-Singh? So rich, so powerful, and totally without a shred of conscience! Welcome to Hell on Earth, folks.

  28. How is Julia Axioma-Singh a “monster”? Not minding the context, everybody is like her.

    How many baby chicks are thrown to the shredders just because they were born with dicks instead of pussies?

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