Johnny Winger and the Great Rift Zone by Philip Bosshardt

  ***Reading normal activity, Dr. Falkland…solution parameters within tolerance. EM levels normal and in the green range…all configurations holding…***

  As before, the swarm filled the containment cell and began disassembling poor Simon, atom by atom, molecule by molecule. Falkland had sometimes wondered what that would feel like…would it hurt, did it happen too fast, what went through your mind? During the earlier runs, he had avoided peering into the compartment…not wanting to see his subject’s face half-eaten away or in some unfinished state of disassembly. This time, he couldn’t help it and took a look.

  Mostly, there wasn’t much to see. The mist that was the swarm filled most of the view inside the porthole. He could catch occasional glimpses of a shadow; presumably that was Simon’s body. He seemed remarkably calm for Simon, not squirming and fidgeting around like he usually did. Maybe, his neuromuscular functions had already been--

  Then he saw the face. It was still recognizably Simon, but grayed out somehow, washed out and devoid of features. He had whiskers, a mouth, a hint of beard and his nose wiggled, but texture was missing…almost as if Simon were unfinished lump of clay, waiting for final touches. Then the mist covered his face and he was gone.

  Falkland shook off a brief shiver and concentrated on the displays, showing the progress of deconstruction. “Memory field stable, we’re scanning now, Doc…looks like everything’s stable, within range.”