Science Fiction Short

I'm not actually a science fiction writer, and it has actually been a month or two since I've written a story, but Matthew posted a link to a science fiction short-story (and I mean SHORT) competition, and I decided it would be fun to write something.

Guidelines: 500-600 words (no more or less)
Appropriate for radio reading (still working on this one)

I wrote this piece this afternoon and it has not been edited as yet, though I have shared it with a couple of people. The story has to be set in the future in the genre of "hard science" which apparently means that it has to be reasonable. (hopefully copying into this keeps the formatting, otherwise this is going to be a mess)

Comments appreciated, but be gentle. It's a rushed piece. I have 5 days to tweak it.

Augmented Holy War

The ungodly biotics, Isaak thought, and spat into the sink. Augmentation, that obscene convergence of man and machine, should never have reared its ugly head. Ever since the scientific breakthrough allowing easy integration of circuitry and flesh, everyone with affluence or influence crowded in line to upgrade their fragile humanity into something… superior.

                And humanity suffered. Poor children no longer dreamed the American dream; the advantages of the rich were too substantial. Rich children ran quicker, thought faster, and engaged with data at artificial, computerized speeds – how Isaak loathed the Augments.

                Isaak finished brushing his teeth and straightened his tie before his cracked mirror. Satisfied, he strolled towards his typewriter and collected his editorial with a self-satisfied grin. If all went well today, it was the dawn of a holy war, the beginning of the end of these self-wrought monsters. Humanity must prevail.

                Across the interwebs, a vast quantity of the populace had read his well-articulated complaints, and he’d amassed a large, devoted following. And Isaak wrote with venomous strength: what was the worth of a man, if it came from the quality of his implants? And: when did it become metal, and not mettle, which determined a person’s enduring merit?

And they swallowed every word.

                The sun shone through his dingy windows with a brittle, glassy glaze, filtered through dust and grime. Long had he molded the populace of this state, turning the weak against the powerful. They seethed, inwardly, but lacked direction, a distinct target for their indignation.

As Isaak walked out his door onto the street, the manuscript tucked beneath his arm itched with purpose and fury, a righteous call to arms. He’d typed everything on his typewriter, leaving no chance an Augment hacking his systems might leak his prized works prematurely. Everything was calculated precisely, Isaak thought. Today, they’d have their target.

The streets were empty today, a national holiday, and everyone’s eyes were affixed on screens of all sorts, hungering for stimuli. The railcars that lined the streets sat like vacant coffins and hearses, devoid of life.

As Isaak stepped gingerly onto the street, he imagined how he’d celebrate with his lover tonight:  wines, cheeses, and perhaps a relaxing walk beneath stars. He’d earned that. A day of relaxation, for a change.

Lost in his reverie, he completely missed the midnight-black railcar that slid around the corner, accelerating in his direction, and because the streets were empty, no one was around to see the accident.

Isaak woke in a dark, dimly lit room, and he was not alone. His arms and legs were cuffed to his chair, and his mangled manuscript was piled on a rusty, iron table beside him. Across the table stood two dark figures, a male and female.

“What do you want from me?” Isaak asked.

The two figures glanced at each other, and the female responded while the male approached Isaak, pulling a scalpel from his cloak.

“We want you to see with eyes unclouded,” she replied.

Isaak squirmed in his chair. “You won’t gain anything by torturing me!” He saw the gleam in her eyes: augmented, the both of them.

“We will not torture you.”

                “Traitors! Augments!” Isaak screamed as the man began his surgery on Isaak’s arm.

                “It doesn’t hurt,” the female whispered.

                Isaak continued to scream, wrenching his body in his chair, until the man forced Isaak’s head down to look at his own arm. Isaak saw the incision, bloodless, and beneath the pallid flap of exposed skin, Isaak saw glittering lights, blinking circuitry.

                Isaak yelled again, in loud anguish, and he felt nothing.