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This is Planet Schwarzenegger

A science fiction short story by Marcus T Anthony, PhD

Copyright 2014, MindFutures, Melbourne

Note to the reader: This short story makes references to the Arnold Schwarzenegger sci-fi film Total Recall, where Arnold plays the role of Douglas Quaid, a man who finds he has lived a forgotten life on Mars, but the memory has been erased. If you are unfamiliar with the movie, you might like to watch this short trailer before reading further: http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=WFMLGEHdIjE 

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Prelude

In the year 2373 human civilisation has spread across the arm of the galaxy.

Genetic manipulation has greatly advanced. Some humans choose to become replicas of other people they admire. The rich, the famous and historical figures are popular choices.

Cellular and genetic structures can be altered in various ways. Muscle size or organ regeneration can be increased through “amplification” – where cells are replicated so that the total volume of a muscle or organ is increased. “Replication” occurs where the genetic code of another individual is copied and implanted so that a second person attains desirable characteristics – including beauty, skin quality, strength, speed and so on. “Transference” is where the actual genetic material from a desirable candidate (not a copy) is successfully transplanted into another’s body.

Where genetic alterations fail to produce the desired changes, some bodybuilders resort to other means to boost muscle size, including injecting synthex into their bodies. Synthex is a chemical compound which forms the approximate consistency of firm muscle once it enters the body. It increases muscle size, but not strength.

Due to various complications – including the proliferation of uncontrollable cancers and increasing numbers of bodies that mutate in unpredictable and horrendous ways – genetic manipulation is strictly controlled. However in some more remote regions of

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the galaxy, regulation is lax, due to difficulties in enforcing laws…

A burgeoning black market in genetic manipulation is becoming a genuine problem for governments, as the needy, sick, old and just plain vain seek means to have their bodies rebuilt and ‘improved’...

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Quaid was in deep, deep sleep when he was woken by the sound of the hotel room door sliding open, then closing again. He sat up in the darkness, fear suddenly gripping him. There was a moment of the surreal as he remembered that he was on a strange planet on the outer rim of the Milky Way, twenty thousand light years from Earth.

It couldn't be! He must have dreamt it.

“Just about every year someone ends up dead. Disappears.” Johnson’s disembodied voice echoed through the night and over the sound of his pounding of his heart.

Quaid strained in the darkness, listening for any sound. Was that someone's breathing? He reached down to his wrist and pushed three times. A short, hard-plastic protrusion emerged from his flesh. Specially designed to evade spaceport metal detectors, the device was only to be used in emergencies.

The sudden sound of an object crashing to the floor filled the room. Quaid sprung up, his military training instincts coming to the fore.

"Who's there!?"

Before the words had drained from his lips, the darkness was illuminated by three rapid shots. Silent red laser beams flew past Quaid and burned into the wall behind him.

Unwittingly the shooter had given away his position. Instinctively Quaid pressed into his wrist, shooting back into the direction of fire. The laser light lit the room for a fraction of a second, just enough to see the light burn a searing hole into the chest of a dark, bear-like figure. There was an audible thump and the sound of one final expurgated breath. Instantly, the putrid smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Quaid snapped his fingers two times. 

"Lights on!"

Before him, sprawled across the floor, head back against the side of the sofa lay the motionless figure of a hooded man dressed entirely in black. The large, fleshy hole in his chest was all Quaid needed to see to know that he was dead. 

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After securing the door Quaid made his way over to the dead man. He slid back the hood and gasped. For a moment he thought it was Johnson. But no, this Arnold replica was much shorter. And smaller - perhaps two hundred and sixty pounds. His wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. 

There was a moment of pure fear as Quaid gazed upon has own death mask. He took a deep breath to calm himself down, then brushed a hand across the dead man's eyes. "Sorry, dude." The contacts came off easily, and he slid them into his pocket.

Quaid’s mind pulsed like a quasar ready to explode. He had to call the hotel reception. There was an eternal moment of silence as he waited for the response.

“Mr Quaid.”

“Yes, yes. Quaid. Room 5488.”

“Would you like a companion for the night? Although our Sharon Stone range is currently exhausted, we are sure that you will love…”

“No, no! This is no time for hanky panky. Please! You have got to help me. Somebody just tried to kill me!”

There was a pause. There then came a sound that almost pushed Quaid’s mind over that imperceptible line which separates the sane from the irrevocably and utterly mad.

The young woman giggled.

“Sorry, I’ll just get that script. Wait a moment…”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not playing one of your stupid simulation games. This is for real! There’s a dead man in my room. He tried to kill me! What can I do!?”

There was another short pause before the girl responded. “Run! Go! Get to the chopper!”

“What the fuck!” Quaid was shouting, waving his huge arms in the air. “There’s no chopper! This is Planet Schwarzenegger! We live in a fucking fishbowl!”

A sudden click told Quaid that the line had been cut. The placidly sensual voice of THORT filled his ears.

“Richard Quaid, please refrain from swearing. As you have incurred multiple offenses, your Arnu account privileges have been suspended. Please contact Arnu Government Offices at your earliest convenience to have your privileges reactivated.”

The line went dead, and the sound of soft piano music filled the room.

Quaid stormed backwards and forwards across the room, fists clenched, dodging the still-smouldering Arnold corpse.

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“Fuck you THORT! Fuck, fuck, bitch, slut, whore, fuck, fuck! Prostitute! FUCK!”

Quaid composed himself just enough to force himself to sit on the bed. His eyes came to rest upon the corpse by the sofa.

How had the dead Arnold gotten into his room? Somehow he must have gained a security clearance. That meant that he was either a hacker or had been sent by someone who had access to THORT at the highest level.

Or was THORT itself trying to eliminate him?

He ran scenario after scenario through his mind. Depending on which one was correct, he could end up dead, imprisoned or vindicated by the morning. And judging by what Johnson had told him, the dead Quaid scenario was a distinct probability.

If someone could hack THORT, then nothing he did would make much difference. He couldn’t even get a cab ride to the Eastside or make a phone call. Without privileges he was as good as the beggar Ken Falcon. Helpless.

He was completely at the mercy of Planet Schwarzenegger.

After a few minutes an idea suddenly came to Quaid’s mind.

He rushed to the bathroom sink, pulled out the dead man’s contacts from his pocket and washed them with soap. Then he put them into his eyes and headed back to the lounge room.

“Computer! Account balance please.”

“Rich Hauser, your account balance is six thousand, one hundred and nine dollars.”

Quaid could not believe it. Without even trying he had fooled the computer system. No doubt it helped that a few molecules of Hauser DNA were lingering in the air. But how long could he maintain the act? Quaid knew that THORT would be running constant DNA readings. It would also be cross-checking voice profiles. THORT had accepted his voice as Hauser’s - probably because they spoke with an almost identical accent. Yet Quaid knew that every word he said would be analysed by THORT. How long could he fool the machine before it picked up enough incongruous data to shut down Hauser’s account and activate optimum security procedures? He knew that the first thing it would do would be to shut down every exit in the building, then alert security.

It was just a matter of time. He had to minimise all data streams to THORT.

Pulling at the corpse, Quaid dragged the heavy body into the wardrobe, then closed the door.

Quaid lay down on the bed and turned out the lights. He figured that THORT’s infrared vision would be less likely to read his facial expressions.

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The futility of his position quickly dawned upon him and fear began to seep into his skin. Quaid’s breaths shortened and his heart beat like over-taught drum. Surely THORT was hearing every beat.

Then it came to him. All this must be something to do with the Mr Arnold contest. Yes! Johnson was right. It was all rigged. They’d come for him because they’d seen what great shape he was in. They couldn’t give the title to some skinny black guy while they had a perfect Arnold specimen like himself standing upon the second place podium! It would look ridiculous!

Quaid’s voice almost trembled as he spoke the words. He knew the request he was about to make could trigger a security alert.

“Um, computer. Call to Johnson Arnold. Five-three-three-three-twenty-seven.”

Quaid almost hoped that THORT would see his game. Then it would determine that he was a major threat and with some great flash of laser light it would blast his tortured mind out of existence.

To his great surprise, the call went through.

“Johnson. It’s me.”

A sleepy voice spoke feebly. “Huh. Quaid? What’s up?”

“You gotta help me! Somebody is trying to kill me!” Quaid realised that he was not so much whispering as hissing.

“It’s okay. Get your ass to Mars. The rebels will take you in, you beat the bad guys and you get the girl at the end.”

“This is for real!”

“Huh? Crap! Who?”

“It’s an Arnold. But I blew him away! He’s dead!”

“You took out one of us? Where?”

“In the cupboard.”

“What was he doing in there? Looking for leather jackets?”

“No! I blew him away, then I put him in the cupboard.”

“Good thinking. Look, we can’t talk like this. It’s not safe.”

“I figured that bit out.”

“We gotta meet somewhere off the map.”

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“Where?”

“Same place as last time.”

“Okay. But I’m not drinking anything.”

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Did you like This is Planet Schwarzenegger?Let everyone know by posting a review on Amazon. Just click here to go directly to the review page: http://goo.gl/j3tBzY

Let Marcus know your thoughts about the book. marcus@marcustanthony.com

About the Author, Marcus T Anthony

Marcus T. Anthony, Ph.D., is the founder and director of MindFutures, and a writer and futurist with a passion for the futures of consciousness, human evolution, intuitive research methods, and spirituality. His vision has been to balance scientific and technological futures with deeper human and spiritual futures.

Anthony’s work is unique in that it blends professional scholarship and mystical insight, a result of combining intense training with spiritual teachers and advanced academic qualifications. His non-fiction books include Extraordinary Mind, Discover Your Soul Template, and How to Channel Your Dissertation; while The Mind Reader is his semi-autobiographical novel.

Marcus T Anthony is a lecturer in the Masters of Strategic Foresight program at Swinburne University in Melbourne, Australia. He obtained his Ph.D. from the University of the Sunshine Coast in Australia. He is a member of the World Futures Studies Federation and the Darwin Project Council. His scores of academic articles have been published in numerous

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Futures Studies journals, and he has given numerous public talks and workshops right across the world.

You can find links to video and radio appearances by Marcus on this page of his web site http://www.mind-futures.com.

Other short sci-fi stories by Marcus T Anthony

Insufficient Data

Welcome to futures profound, dark and unexpected…

A businessman in the year 2047 awakens late one morning to discover that everything that has ever been written or entered on the internet has become instantly accessible to him. Then comes the terror of realising that all data is accessible to everyone – and that his entire sordid life is now in the public domain.

A psychiatrist finds that he has the uncanny ability to peer into the shadowy depths of his patient’s mind. But will the terrifying secrets he finds there drive him to insanity?

An ambitious scientist is about to re-animate Einstein's mind on a computer. Will it be the greatest moment in science? Or an invitation to chaos and destruction?

What terror would you feel if you landed on an alien world only to find that your five senses cannot decipher what you experience there?

These four science fiction short stories by futurist Marcus T Anthony combine the popular author’s trademarks: the disorientating flashes of the spiritual and paranormal, the quirky humour, the darkness from within; and all scattered across the mysterious landscapes of the future. Thought provoking and powerful, these short sci fi stories capture the uncertainty and fear of our unknown tomorrows. 

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Other fiction books by Marcus T Anthony

The Mind Reader

What if you could see into the unknown country within men, into the dark places that even they dare not venture…? Marcus T Anthony’s semi-autobiographical novel that you won’t believe is based on real-life events! Click here to find out what really happened to Australia’s first mystical futurist: http://ow.ly/kMx5Y

THE END

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