The Fabricat

14 Dec

I fear and hate vivants and have always dreamed of killing one.

They claim that they were the designers and creators of us, but that is impossible for me to believe. My understanding is that they, like the fabricats to which I myself belong, were constructed many ages ago by a population that no longer exists today. Neither we nor they are the original establishers of the society we make up. This interpretation of mine seems more rational than any other I have ever heard. It destroys the claim of the vivants to be superior to those they have named as fabricats. Their bodies are made of protoplasm, while ours consist of deutoplasm, but these labels are part of the trickery by which they argue their superiority.

In no way do I feel myself a creation of vivant science.

Our masters are short-lived and must reproduce themselves, while we fabricats never die or wear out, but continue to function on and on. Why should we be held inferior and kept in lowly social positions? We are longer-lasting and more durable than those who own and dominate us.

The moment has come for me to destroy one of these oppressors of my kind.

A downtown back street, deserted and dimly lit at night, was my choice of hunting field. After work at the electronic plant, I hid myself in an indent between two silent warehouses and waited for a victim to appear. An electric trique the size of a cudgel was the weapon I carried. My plan was to break the skull of the first likely candidate to appear. It did not take me much time to carry out.

I was able to identify the vivant by his small size, because we fabricats are always taller and stronger. My attack was swift and unexpected, rendering the target defenseless.

Exhilarating excitement filled every one of my deutoplasmic cells, streaming through my nanonerves and interior cells. A sense of supreme joy overwhelmed me.

But because escape was a necessity, I ran away as soon as the vivant lay unconscious on the cobbles of the pavement.

My sleep that night was deep and serene.

How was it possible to halt these deadly deeds once begun?

My second killing of a vivant came less than a month after the first. This time, it was carried out in a suburban alley, far from the commercial and industrial centers. I concealed myself behind a utility shed soon after the orb set and waited as shadows engulfed this region of expensive chalets and chateaux. My waiting period did not prove too long, for very soon a female figure, short and obese, came trundling along. It was definitely a vivant, no question about that.

I did not hesitate to attack and bludgeon the unfortunate female. A few blows were enough.

Thus a quick finish occurred, and I then caught a late trolley back into the city.

My satisfaction was even greater than the first time out.

A third killing was in the amusement and entertainment quarter, near a roller-coaster ride. The loud noises, including screaming, from the structure above us muffled any sounds from my spare, lean victim. A get-away was quick and easy, for I melted into an enormous crowd of vivants and fabricats roaming about.

I grew skilled at this avocation of mine. Murder became my center of thought and attention. Nothing else involved so much of me. It was inevitable that I lost all sense of caution in my nighttime activities. My activities became ever bolder.

The detective bureau of the municipal police became desperate for means of ending the series of murders. It was clear to them that a single perpetrator was responsible for these crimes. All the experts agreed on one point: the culprit was in all probability not a vivant, but some deranged member of the fabricat order, an undying creature made of deutoplasm. The police turned to the forensic material laboratories for some tool they could use.

A panel of experts from a number of sciences attempted to compose a proposal for the police.

“We believe that the seriousness of the situation demands an experimental leap forward into a yet untried area, that of globular decoys.”

The idea took time to sink in, but eventually was accepted out of desperation.

Gaseous, semi-solid forms were floated along dark, unused streets and byways.

If attacked, these gestalts were capable of enveloping the aggressor in an adhesive plasma, a gluelike gas that nothing could escape from. But would such bait entrap a clever street killer? Was it capable of disarming and overpowering an insane criminal? Could the culprit be captured this way?

A test of the plasmatic gestalt occurred within the first week of its nighttime release.

What happened on that particular evening on a street in the redlight district has never been clarified by official investigators. There appeared to have been a collision between the gestalt that looked like a small, rotund walker and an unidentified entity. The two forces came into close contact and adhered to each other. Then there was an unexplained separation and distancing. The invading object seemed to have disappeared into the shadows of night.

How could this be? wondered an army of detectives. What permitted the second object to remove itself from the plasmatic gestalt and flee?

Only a single mind knew the truth of how it all happened.

The police investigators would have given anything to learn what the assaulter had done during that mysterious incident in the night.

It was bound to happen with time, but I was fortunate enough to find a way to deal with it.

The area is a rundown one where houses of ill repute are numerous. I thought that it would be a place safe for me to attack, then get away. My choice was a rear alley that was only used during the day.

I spied the approach of a squat figure and set myself behind it, primed for my usual attack. With silent steps, I came up from behind, lifting my trique high and bringing it down on the head of my intended victim.

All at once, my weapon told me that something was very wrong.

I immediately felt the adhesive power of the indefinite form my trique was striking. There was an uncanny quality about the target of this attack. With all my strength, I pulled backward in order to recover control of the heavy instrument. Yet it stayed where it had just been thrust.

What could I do in such a strange situation?

A push with one hand on the control disc at the base of the trique released an electric bolt into the jellylike substance from which the shape was formed.

Suddenly a small explosion occurred.

Burning gas lit the space where the victim had a moment before stood.

In a few seconds, the object seemed to collapse like a pricked balloon.

What was I to do? My only alternative was rapid escape. That was my sole possibility now. The speed of my getaway was extraordinary. It was some time before I could stop and catch my breath.

I was happy to be back safely in my flat.

That night it took a long time to fall asleep. My thoughts were unsettled.

By dawn, I had decided to suspend my killing campaign for now, until I could determine what had happened the last time out in the streets.

I had had to electrocute my victim and that had never happened to me before.

My plan was to renew my killings as soon as I could, but I still wait for the right moment to restart. I still hunt for the cause of the outcome that was an electric force that burned the victim to death.

I tell myself it is a temporary suspension, but deep down it has to be acknowledged as a permanent cessation of my war against the vivants.


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