Tourist Trap - a short story
Here's a short story I found on my hard drive, one I'd written a year or so ago.
Tourist Trap
Tourist Trap
The signal echoed throughout Dyrinian controlled space. Come to Earth, it said. Visit a beautiful, unspoiled landscape. Observe the unusual inhabitants of one of the last known level 3 civilisations. Activities for all ages and all skill levels. The usual marketing lure, followed by the address of the hyperspace gateway.
And it worked. This simple message drew crowds by the hundreds, making Earth one of the most famous planets in the Empire. For Earth possessed a rare and fleeting resource, something more precious than any physical material or technological marvel.
Colonel Rick Matthews woke up, his head pulsating. His body ached with a dull pain, creating a resistance to his movements that was already beginning to reside. He swallowed experimentally, expecting to taste the familiar ether of alcohol - as what else could explain his current predicament? - but instead his tongue met with an unusual taste, something foreign yet instantly recognisable. Something he couldn’t put a name to.
After a few minutes he was able to open his eyes and even lift his head a little. There wasn’t much to see. He was in a small, dark room, with rotting wood and dust filling his nostrils. It was not somewhere he recognised, nor could he recall how he wound up here.
Must have been drugged, he rationalised, though that explanation didn’t answer all his questions. If he were in a hostile environment, why couldn’t he see anyone? Where were his guards, his captors, his interrogators?
He wasn’t even on duty, he realised in a flash. He had spent the last months of his life behind a desk and sitting for psych evaluations, so how could he have wound up like this? And more importantly, why?
Memories of his life began to return to him, though none held any clues for him. He sat up, flexing his muscles experimentally. Apart from stiffness and a sharp ache right behind his eyes, he felt… well. Really well, physically healthier and more energetic than any time since his early 20s. Or maybe he was too out of it to be able to tell properly.
Comfortable clothes, he noticed. Loose fitting jeans and a T-shirt, enough to keep him at a nice temperature. The air was cool but only just, and a little dry. He got to his feet, stretching to get the kinks out while taking in the room. No furniture, no windows, a door over to the side. The door had no handle, just an indentation big enough to fit his hand. Seeing no other option, be cautiously nudged the door with his left foot.
The door swung open without resistance.
Outside was not what he had expected. The room reminded him of the sort of thing you’d find in the depths of the woods, not in the middle of an urban jungle. Steps led down to a cracked pavement which seemed to link to dozens, hundreds of other buildings just like the one he was in. A deserted, empty road lined the space between the towering structures, the essence of any one of many cities he had seen.
And yet it was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. The road was dark, almost jet black, and devoid of any markings of any kind. Not was it entirely straight, the edges undulating chaotically into the walkways. There were a few signs, even some graffiti, but none of it made sense. The letters, even some of the words, were clearly English, but the rest was like some outsider’s attempt at a best guess.
An outsider… the thought made him shudder.
This entire place seemed like an attempt to recreate the world he knew, but a poor attempt at best. Even without its haunting emptiness, this street was clearly not a street in any normal city. Colours, designs, nothing quite matched up. But the overall effect was something vaguely convincing.
Which just made it all the more unsettling.
Distracted as he was, he didn’t notice the shuffles of padded feet on hard concrete. The empty city was full of sounds, of creaking buildings, tumbling garbage and the whistle of wind caught between alleyways. The soft, rhythmic footsteps were difficult to hear over the background symphony, and almost impossible for his confused senses to identify.
Rick began to head towards the street, eyes peeled in all directions, each step as calculated as if striding through a minefield. Steady, slow, as though the ground beneath him would disappear if it noticed him standing there for even a moment.
The soft footsteps followed him, now matching his rhythm. He was too blind, too deaf, too slow to notice. It was these failures that cost him his life.
Sarlahm shook his head in disappointment as he watched the hunt culminate in its bloody end. “Director, it seems that Colonel Rick Matthews is no longer the man he once was. Time was he could evade the hunter for hours, even days, but his latest neural scans lack the initiative of the old ones.”
The Director nodded, accepting the remarks of his advisor. He could see the truth in what he was saying before him. “Shame, he was quite talented at navigating and surviving the arena,” he agreed, shaking his bristles at the memory. “He was skilled enough that I am tempted to still use clones based off an old scan. Thoughts?”
Sarlahm bore his teeth in disapproval. “He was talented, yes, but the thrill of the hunt comes from the novelty of the hunt. Even a child could bring down a clone he had seen operate in combat. Regrettable though it may be, I think we have to stop using his clones, at least for now.”
“Correct answer,” the Director said. “These hunts we organise must be of the highest quality, otherwise we might as well use synthetics.” He paused, rubbing at his face with the smooth underside of his dominate claw, the right one. “It is important to remember why we do this, why we go to the considerable effort of cloning subjects and regularly scanning neurology.” He paused again, waiting for Sarlahm to provide the answer.
“Live prey, Director,” he replied confidently. “Live prey has always proven more popular than other forms of sport.”
“Half correct, though the question of ‘why’ it is popular remains. What we do is not like any other enterprise, not like any ‘sport’ as you put it. Every sentient carnivore needs to hunt live prey, needs it. We require to feel a living creature die in our grasp, just as we need oxygen and marrow to sustain us. What we do isn’t about entertainment, it’s an outlet for every predatory instinct we have.”
The Director eyed his advisor carefully, waiting for his reply. “The humans might not see it that way, Director.” With a roar of regret, Sarlahm continued. “We may have to shut down the cloning program.”
Agitation filled the nostrils of the Director, his own, mingled in with the submissive fear of his advisor. Sarlahm was lightly stooped, enough to convey apologies without appearing weak. “I trust,” he intoned slowly, “that you have some reason for this bizarre notion you are suddenly having? Something to justify abandoning our work, especially after the speech I just gave you?”
The advisor suddenly felt very warm, with twin urges to either fight to regain the upper hand, or slink away and sleep, battling through him. Channelling the former into his power of will, he said, “Director, with respect, but this is no sudden notion. I have been having my doubts for a while now, and lately I have made up my mind. It is my official opinion, sir, that humans will not forgive us for what we are dong to them when they inevitably discover us.”
A stamp of a powerfully muscled foot made the urge to sleep stronger. It took everything he had to listen to his superior’s response. “And what, exactly, is it that we are doing to them that is so unforgivable? Are they sentimental about the skin they shed within their homes from which we harvest their genome, or is it the harmless reading of their brains?” He shrugged.
“Well, some of their cultures do value the privacy of the individual… duplication of neurological patterns could be seen as a gross violation of this.” Sharlahm coughed. “But I don’t think that is the main problem,” he added quickly. “I think they would find the idea of us hunting their clones… offensive.”
The Director brooded on this for a while, his hefty chest rising and falling in time with his rumbling breath. “I recall you mentioning an aspect of their religions… what was the word? The part of them which is impervious to damage.”
“The soul, Director.”
He nodded, licking his teeth. “Yes, that’s it. Preposterous idea, a mind living without physical support. Can a computer perform operations once its hardware has been smashed? What would be the point of such a feature, biologically speaking, and how could it evolve? Unless their scientists have detected something which has eluded every civilised race in the galaxy.” He shuddered with amusement. “But is that it? Could this cloning be seen to impact on their souls in some way? Or, now that I think about it, are they concerned for the souls of the clones?”
“I don’t believe so, Director, or at least that is not the entire picture. Recall that many humans have the sanity to disregard the impossible notion of the immortal consciousness, and yet I feel that even they would find what we do emotionally unpalatable.”
The Director let out a roar, hot breath and spittle blasting Sharlahm in the face as the urge to sleep returned. “Then what is their objection? I grow weary of trying to second guess these… fools.”
Sharlahm straightened up, fighting his natural instincts. “It is their bizarre interpretation of empathy, Director. It is my belief that humans would sympathise with their clones, and be unappreciative of the suffering that they were created to endure. According to my theorising, they would consider the creation and destruction of their clones for sport little better than if we were hunting the original creatures.”
Silence. He could feel the Director’s mind ticking over, considering the implications. “You’re sure about this?” he grunted. “You are sure they’d consider the clones on equal footing to their own kind?”
“Their feelings of empathy are strong, but misguided,” he replied. “Consider that they value some beasts as equals, not to mention the almost comical notion that their young are more valuable than adults. They can relate, or at least believe they can, to things in a way logic can’t explain - by the claws, they even routinely claim that weather patterns have emotions, even the non religious among them. Due to this empathy, I can only conclude they would see our operation as equivalent to murder.”
The Director shook. “I trust your assessment, even though it will change the entire way we handle this operation.” He scratched at his skin, drawing blood. “Shut down the vats and the neurological databases. We won’t be doing any more cloning here.”
Sharlahm bounced. “At once, Director.”
Alone, he once more considered the implications. An allegedly intelligent race so neurotic they would assign significance to a duplication, a copy to be discarded while the original remained unharmed…
“The cloning operations have been suspended, Director.”
He growled in approval. “We have only this course of action, though it pains be to stop a tradition which has gone on for generations.”
“I agree, Director.”
“But still, young assistant, this will make things much more enjoyable in the long run.” He shuddered, rubbing the smooth side of his claws. “No more cloning, no more scanning, no more replicated cities. It will be good to see the end of all those complications.”
The Director opened up a new screen on his computer, hesitating before making the drastic change. “If they view our cloning efforts as murder, then we may as well not bother. Tell all contestants on file that we are opening up the planet. Time to hunt the humans where they live.”
“At once, Director.”
With a few strokes of his hard claws the file marked “Humans” was altered for the last time. With a thunderous leap he raced for his transport. After all, he wanted to get a few kills in before the irrational sentients below were wiped out for good.
