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The Great Nano Canyon
“Cold murdering bitch. Damn, just one night with her, one hour!” muttered Jeemo, as he wiped drool from his chin and took
off the white robe. The orange spikes on his head stood straight up like sharp erections.
Jeemo Roosenvelt would gladly have taken the sexclone’s place if he could have fallen to his death with his brain fresh full of sex with Bella and the smell of her cruelty seeping into his gray flesh.
He stared at his naked body in the wall length mirror. “Perfection!”
Vast folds of flesh rolled over thick layers of fat. Seven feet, seven hundred pounds. Jeemo loved the symmetry of
the numbers. Somewhere under that mass his penis twitched crazily. He could feel it. “Yes. Throb my hidden toy, throb for the goddess Bella, psycho lust kitten of the emerald palace.”
He turned sideways, looking up and down the bulk of his body, at the gray face bulging out of his shoulders,
and the fan of orange hair spikes forming a line from one ear to the other. His hands and feet were small and delicate; his movement as he turned before the mirror, fluid and graceful. He loved to watch
himself move. He loved to watch himself standing still. He loved to watch himself eat, sit, lying down. Every wall of every room in his mansion, except one, was a mirror. Through the mirrors he could
watch his enormous girth stretch into an infinity of reflected images.
A tuxedoed serverclone—one of the lower orders of clones, bred without legs, but equipped with anti-gravity
boots so that their footsteps would not irritate their owners—floated to his side with a glass of red wine on a silver tray. It was reflected thousands of times over in the walls. "Dinner will be
ready in ten minutes, Mr. Roosenvelt."
Jeemo whisked the wine glass to his lips with a single motion and the serverclone floated away. Sipping wine,
Jeemo bounced lightly, mounds of skin shaking like sickly jelly, to an arched window. The glass in the window could withstand the force of an F7 tornado—and it had.
Outside, the moon spilled over a Mid-west gutted like a war zone, spreading into the darkness, deep into the
New Tornado Alley leading right up to the edge of the Great Nano Canyon. In the distance, strange light played in the air over sections of the canyon, dancing in bursts of blue and orange. This was
normal.
The canyon wasn't.
***
Less than a hundred years into the new millennium, the human race came close to becoming cheese soup. It started with the
world's smallest computer, a computer so small, it could only be seen with an electron microscope. It was the first assembler nanobot, a concoction of seven atoms that had been circuited, programmed and
instructed to build—though what the nanobot was supposed to build was never known. In the process of building, it killed ten million people, including the people who had programmed it, and the last
communication with them had been from the project's lead Nano-applications Specialist, Milton Nadd.
His pallid face had filled the phone monitor as he whispered, "My god, it's cheese soup..."
Then the screen had gone blank.
No one will ever know why it was cheese soup, but here’s how the nanobot was supposed to work: it was supposed
to visit neighboring atoms and nudge them around until it had built another nanobot exactly like itself. Then the two nanobots were to visit neighboring atoms and nudge them around until they had built
two more nanobots exactly like themselves. Then the four nanobots…
It was much like E-bola, only faster. In fact, it was so fast that, by the time Milton Nadd had said
"cheese soup", he was cheese soup. And his videophone was cheese soup. The other researchers and scientists and administrators and computer technicians in the room with Milton Nadd were all cheese soup. Desks, computers, chairs, paper clips, Far Side calendars, pencils and papers and books were all cheese soup. A million dollar electron microscope shook twice then collapsed into a splash of cheese soup that turned most of the floor into cheese soup. The walls literally flowed into the floor and the ceiling fell and bubbled into the yellow-orange liquid. Within minutes, the entire underground high-security maximum-containment, fool-proof, fail-safe, absolutely accident free and "Senator-Jonz-you-won't-ever-have-to-worry-about-anything-e
scaping-from-this-place-or-my-name-isn't-Doctor-Milton-Nad d" facility was cheese soup, and it was working its way up through the ground, turning layers of red granite, quartz schist and an
elevator containing junior research assistant, Jaqui Wright, who, strangely, had always wanted to be cheese soup, into cheese soup.
Now the assemblers were in gear, revved up and ready to rock, rarin' to chew into the atoms of igneous and
metamorphic rock, bite into the neutrons of trees and grass and asphalt and spit out cheese soup. Highways, lakes and towns, swimming pools and rivers, airports and trains, canoes full of frothy cold
beer, and entire cities all churned into cheese soup. Hundreds of square miles of North Dakota were cheese soup by the time the news began to spread. Around the world, people panicked and rioted while
others prepared quietly to become cheese soup. Jerry Springer was thawed from cryostasis and hosted a special on people who had sex in vats of cheese soup. Leaders of the Unified Global Village pondered
and debated over international chat forums and concluded that it was time to try something new, and soup was always OK. Just when the world was ready to accept cheese soupness, the assemblers stopped.
Just stopped.
There was no apparent reason. They just stopped, after having created a mass of cheese soup that stretched
from Winnipeg to Fargo and from Williston to Duluth. The whole planet held its breath in unison, as the ocean of cheese soup trembled like gunky jello without advancing a single atom in any direction. It
stayed like that for three days. Then the giant mass of cheese soup went "ping"—not a loud ping, but a barely audible "ping", like two expensive champagne glasses toasted by ladybugs.
By the time the "ping" had "inged", the cheese soup was gone. In its place was a perfectly round bowl in the earth, its walls polished and smooth. Millions of people who had flocked
to the edges of the cheese soup stared quietly, their faces a wall of open-eyed non-expression around the massive hole left by the cheese soup.
Nobody knew why it disappeared. Nobody knew why it stopped. Only the handful of Nanotechnologists Milton Nadd
had called just before he became cheese soup knew why or how it had started, and they later restricted all nanoresearch to space stations far from the Earth's orbit until the research was proved safe. Or
at least somewhat reasonably safe.
Of course, there were those who thought a giant empty bowl was a big improvement over the former
landscape.
***
For the briefest flicker of time, Jeemo’s mind drew him back to the failure of nano-treatments to change his body,
rejecting him like a bad odor. Then the rejection by his parents, as though he were an insult to their DNA, and then his childhood spent with serverclones and software. Other than his parents, he’d never
been in the same room as a real human, never touched real flesh other than his own. But that was all he’d needed, to feel himself real and nano-resistant, so perfect even the bots couldn’t improve him.
He was the new standard of human perfection, and he loved every cubic inch of space he occupied.
But he’d gladly die for just a brush of Bella’s cold touch.
“Hot damn! That crazy woman’s going to fuck my brains out and flush me into the ocean.” The throbbing between
his huge legs went into hyper drive at the thought of plunging into the ocean with Bella’s acid love fluids burning into his body. All he had to do was get the woman and the girl for her.
He sipped his wine as he stared into the sky over the Great Nano Canyon. The pink hole that was his mouth
curved into something like a smile. And there’s the key to it all, he thought, why didn’t I think of that sooner? I’ll move it later. He’ll never find them now.
A sweet aroma curled into his nostrils. Mmm, honey glazed ham. There would be Poinsettia Eggs en
Gelee. Potatoes Savonnette and watercress soup. And none of it would taste like chicken. Oh, it might hint of chicken on the aftertaste—chicken was inescapable these days—but the glazed ham would taste
like glazed ham on the first few chews.
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