Ferals of Kennedy Space Center
The Ophelia Stories

This is another tale of the Kennedy Space Center's multiverses, both in the distant past and the far future.
Follow ghosts, demons, gods, AIs, tourists, DNA experiments, vamps, and witches as they travel the multiverse only to discover their interconnections as allies and enemies across an endless history or future.

Every story is the true story.

The Ophelia Stories

He followed the pattern of her last footsteps, considering her final words, a bitch to the end.

The recording played in his neuro implant, "My assistant, Mark Hawk, associate professor of brain and cognitive sciences and the junior author of the paper 'The Ophelia stories' was one of the original Neuroscientists, who during the trepanning process of the winged Ophelias, discovered the 'silent synapses' that when connected to AI implants and seizure level voltage applied to the relevant neurons, the effect was to induce recordings of dreams and even genetic memories directly to the AI.

The Ophelia stories, as we at NASA call them."

Assistant no more, Dr. Mark Hawk scowled as he inspected the giant wall of video feeds, reviewing security, health, breeding schedule, feed times, hybrid mixes variations, danger threat assessments, and dream states.

Some of the minor screens replayed the forced dreams captured on brain implants. The dreams themselves provided valuable information on which hybrids would be able to survive the stress of the harsh Martian climate and which should be euthanized.

The level of insanity was high when mixing species.

He pushed the button marked SET Superficial Euthanasia Termination.

We cannot have batty monstrosities loose on either the blue or red planet.

The remaining 359 LED symbols glowed bright carmine red, representing the current adult population in the aviary. The shape of the symbols was the eye of Horus-someones joke, "Comedians everywhere," he muttered and double verified all symbols were carmine, indicating all the hybrids were forced into dream seizures.

The blood has been cleaned up, he thought.

With a deep breath, he placed his palm on the inspection pad for DNA recognition and typed in his implant code, with random numbers only visible and superimposed on his vision.

The electronic bars powered down to allow him entry into the adult aviary, and the bars buzzed to life once across the barrier.

He walked through the adult aviary, past the rows of Ophelia-bird-bat experiments. In their forced unconscious dream story time, they muttered or chirped, whimpered, or kicked their clawed feet and vibrated wings in dreams of the chase, flight, or hunt.

The recorded stories ranged from the fantastic to simple hunting. Even stories of love, a disturbing reminder that the experiment subjects were still primarily composed of human DNA, despite wings and mobile ears for echolocation.

He stroked the fur-feather down on the Ophelia experiments while his implant recorded the tattooed bar codes and displayed the degree of human mixture.

In a sense, I am their father and paused at the empty sleep boxes as his brain implant repeated the lecture-his supervisor's last words.

"The Ophelia-mix program is the largest, most successful genetic experiment that humanity has ever attempted. Successful creation of 426 Ophelia prototypes beginning with one volunteer from the space force offering up her DNA for use," said senior director Alaine Slingstone, founder of the Mars Colony Genome Project at the National Human-Mix Genome Research Institute.

"Learning to fly is a complex task," explained Alaine, holding up a foundling with immature wings, dimples, and red curls.

The baby cooed at Alaine.

"Fight requires the subject to read the environment, generate movement of lift, and monitor thermals and winds. Add the skill to hunt and the auditory and tactile feedback of teeth and talons.

Our findings suggest allowing practice flights and hunting has a significant, positive impact on how the brain processes audio-visual information and learning abilities. Their survival on Mars will be intimately dependent on adapting to new environments, even tasks such as hunting by scent versus day sight or infrared. Much of the Mars canyon systems are in near-permanent darkness."

Mark stopped again to touch the red hair of another Ophelia mix. The down-fine hair reminded him of something, an itch he could not place. Something. A memory of a barge on a tropical night?

If it weren't for the security cameras recording his actions, he would sniff the red hair for purely scientific purposes. Have to lay off the 5-HTP and MDMA, he thought with a shiver.

His implant continued with Alaine's recording as he stroked the red braids. Is that a tear on my face? He shook his head; the wing dust, you could not escape it.

"We have identified unique behavioral tendencies among the ten original Ophelia-mix lineages based on the degree of non-human DNA mixture. For example, as expected, behaviors associated with increased prey drive were associated with the falcon admixture. The attempt for the night-vision and echolocating had some unexpected results, including increased intelligence, nurturing, and a preferred diet rich in O-Negative blood plasma."

The Director of the Genome project paused as if considering admitting failure on the echolocation lineage.

"For Mars colonization, the O-Negative desire may have to be erased with a new DNA admixture." said the Director at length.

Mark entered the non-aviary area of the laboratory; he almost thought of the word 'Prison,' but that would not be fair.

He followed Alaine Slingstone's last steps as he replayed her final commentary.

The recording in his implant continued playing, "Let us now enter the Feral cage area. We were particularly interested in the escapee feral subjects. The ferals are uncontrolled test subjects that somehow added more human DNA to their lineage. As should be expected, they display near-normal hominid behaviors yet possess unforeseen characteristics such as unique camouflage abilities and a hunting process that uses enriched brain circuitry to project fear responses.

My recommendation is to capture all ferals for spaceflight and Mars colonization projects. Begin collaboration early with human normals and ferals trained in interdisciplinary work and continue transfer of the winged Ophelia's to Mars in light of the resources discovered on the walls of the Valles Marineris canyon system."

It was at this point that Alaine ceased speaking. Her scream was relatively brief; the AI circuitry had not been able to translate the final words exactly. There was terror, which was all the AI could decipher.

Mark Hawk, the new Director of the National Human-Mix Genome Research Institute, studied the empty suite of rooms outside the aviary. It was impossible for any living creature to escape these cells.

A dozen of the ferals materialized from the walls, and the largest one struck Mark in the mouth, shattering his teeth.

Mark slowly became aware he was lying on a cold floor while memories of his affair with Alaine played through his mind, their dancing and ecstasy pills; she liked scotch; the older, the better.

Mark opened his eyes to see his teeth spread out in front of him and a cool breeze where his teeth should be.

The feral leader, Greenstone, squatted before him, licking his fist. The other ferals hovered around, aroused by the odor of blood.

"You did not have to strike me," lisped the new National Human-Mix Genome Research Institute Director.

Greenstone licked his fingers in contemplation, his green eyes staring at Mark.

"You know, Director, your flavor is so familiar. You contributed your DNA to your winged bitch project? We are cousins or more!"

The ferals around Greenstone laughed.

"El Malachite, give us a taste of him, just a little, a cup to share!" said a female feral, her fangs strangely attractive.

"No, wait," said Greenstone. I can taste an even closer connection; we are brothers. Father and son somehow?"

Greenstone's eyes bore into him like a trespasser, "I can see into your thoughts, and you do not know who your father is?"

The green eyes flashed at the security cameras. Greenstone snarled, "We are close, so close, you and I. I could be your father! And you human normals call us wildlings?"

Mark closed his eyes and ran his tongue along broken teeth and swinging dental nerves. My DNA in a feral? In this animal? Who was really in charge of the breeding program? Alaine behind her pretty face?

"Ah," said Greenstone, "I understand now; you are a clone!"

The new Director fumbled for his pistol, and the ferals tensed for the kill or camouflage.

Greenstone snatched the pistol and twirled the gun around his clawed digit; a smile crossed his face, features that indicated he was not a pure human normal.

"Such a tiny little tool for such an important person!" The ferals laughed. The feral leader pointed the gun at a camera and shot out the lens.

"Good shooting," beamed Greenstone, and his family-gang nodded to their leader.

A long sssssssssh of appreciation for the shooting accuracy.

"A cup, yes, I suppose? Mr. Hawk can spare a cup! All clones can share a cup; they have no rights. How did you lie your way into proper society?" said Greenstone.

Groans of anticipated pleasure escaped from the ferals' mouths.

"El Malachite! El Malachite!" they hissed, the words leaking into the mind of Mark Hawk.

Mark switched on his hidden white noise generator while the creature twirled the smoking pistol.

Assured that the noise generator obscured the cell sound system from recording his words, he lisped, "You did not have to hit me so fucking hard."

The pain was spreading from hairline to neck.

Greenstone shot another camera, but he knew he would not blind all of them or wanted to.

"Really?" said the leader, holding the pistol up. "This size pistol is good for stopping what?"

Greenstone's eyes blazed green in amusement, reading the Director's mind, "You would shoot me, I who may be your father, for breaking your teeth? For speaking words aloud that you are a clone? Such vanity!"

The ferals laughed, "El Malachite has a pup!"

A wave of terror flooded the Director's mind; dark, hungry creatures, ravenous for flesh, fluttered around him with soft, caressing wings.

A shaggy cave bear too large to have existed caught his scent with a hungry whine; somehow, in another memory or time, he had fought the impossible bear until hot breath and yellow fangs were next to his face.

Worse, Mark saw himself in a cave; the Director Alaine Slingstone, dressed in furs, dancing seductively around a blazing fire wearing the tanned facial skin of the Ophelia-hybrid.

Alaine dropped the last of her pelts and stood naked in the firelight.

Mark groaned in anticipation until a set of wings emerged from her back. Love in her eyes, she whispered, "You had the ferals kill me for my job. You woke a friendly Ophelia to take the blame for my murder."

Alaine pulled the tanned mask over her head to show a helmet with a partially charred face. One good eye followed Mark, who was trying to crawl backward. A growl came from outside the cave, confirming no escape in that direction.

"You left me in the space shuttle to burn," said Alaine, and the wings settled around him, fur-covered breasts cutting off his ability to breathe or to scream.

He voided his bladder.

Greenstone lifted the new Director from the floor, spinning him around, so the cameras recorded the missing teeth and soaked pants.

Mark Hawk, Director of the most well-known genome project in human history, whimpered in terror.

"We have a pact, Director, and expect payment. For the dispatch of your lover-supervisor, you promised an escape for my gang from your Mars colonization project. An alternate universe where the cursed implants will not violate us anymore," said Greenstone.

Mark nodded his head, attempting to clear himself of the nightmare.

The genome scientists were still baffled by the mystery of the ferals' ability to project fear and terror into their prey.

Obviously a mutated hunting tactic. But what chimeras did NASA mix with to develop that ability?

How was my DNA placed into the ferals? The wildings roamed the marshes and swamps, the shipwrecks east of Kennedy Space Center, where the ocean had once rocked and stormed.

Mark switched off the noise generator for one sentence, "Please do not kill me, and I will help you."

Greenstone set the Director down, fixed Mark's jacket to cover the wet pants, wet past the knees, and all of the ferals smiled at the prospect of freedom.

Greenstone pulled out the package with the preloaded syringe that Mark, the Director, had pre-staged.

"Psychedelics allow me to break the human perceptual contiguity and open gates to....., the other. I have no other name or explanation. However, the drug is also an excellent resource for fun parties."

The pre-practiced line of non-feral humor fell on deaf ears.

"And they open gates....."

Mark Hawk, an associate professor of brain and cognitive sciences, the new Director of the genome project, rolled his sleeve up and slipped a rubber hose around his bicep.

"CIA grade LSD Lysergic Acid Diethylamide made from a fungus that infects rye. So, it is not gluten-free. It could kill someone," said Mark.

He laughed, and the ferals only stared at his arm.

With their enhanced vision, they could see the network of veins and arteries and the blockages, the damage.

Greenstone looked at the needle marks up and down the Director's arm.

"Done this a time or two, eh Director?"

"Science," said Mark. "I need a powerful dose to open a gate, and I am keeping my bargain. I have already inspected the other timeline. Picked a location, not too cold or hot, mountains for your gang to hide in. Some type of war is happening, Ottomans invading the Carpathian Mountains, and with the war, you can feed all you want, and the combatants will blame each other."

Greenstone squinted his jade-green eyes and pulled out a worn paper advertisement, 'Kennedy Space Center Visitor's Center.'

"Change of plans. We have decided, here, this place, no war and hordes of unsuspecting on the pilgrimage of the Rocket Garden. Give us this different space center, one where no AI exists."

The ferals smiled, fangs all around.

Mark Hawk nodded his head in agreement, "Just go."

When Mark could not find an unscarred spot to inject the needle, Greenstone interjected, "Here, let me help."

Mark handed over the syringe, and Greenstone jabbed the needle into the carotid artery.

"My favorite spot," said the feral leader.

Mark's eyes bulged out, and he began to scream, but Greenstone held him in his mind. "The gate to another Kennedy Space Center."

A gate shimmered into existence, and the ferals squeezed through; Greenstone grabbed the pistol as the gate closed, "This might be worth shooting an archduke, but that is about it."

And the ferals were gone.

Mark lay on the ground, his body alternately going rigid, his legs shooting straight out while screaming, then falling limp as if dead.

The AI Fred appeared, smoking a joint, calculating and learning Chaos Theory, while the demon Puma bent over the Director to give the syringe in Mark's neck a final push on the plunger.

It was good.

The implant in Mark's head recorded the stories to the AI database.

Other tails of the Space Center:

Vampires of Kennedy Space Center

Demons of Kennedy Space Center

Demons of Kennedy Space Center, corpus callosotomy

Ghosts of Kennedy Space Center

Dreams of Kennedy Space Center

Aliens of Kennedy Space Center

Director of Kennedy Space Center

Hitchhikers of Kennedy Space Center

Witches of Kennedy Space Center

Cave Bears of Kennedy Space Center

Chimeras of Kennedy Space Center

Gods of Kennedy Space Center and the Nile

Dinosaurs of Kennedy Space Center

Kayakers of Kennedy Space Center

Remembering Kennedy Space Center

Shadows of Kennedy Space Center

Virus of Kennedy Space Center

Starman of Kennedy Space Center

Gate Jumpers of Kennedy Space Center

Allies of Kennedy Space Center (Pt 2 of Gate Jumpers

Savants of Kennedy Space Center

Gene Splicers of Kennedy Space Center

State Security of Kennedy Space Center

Rescuers of Kennedy Space Center

Ferals of Kennedy Space Center

Return HOME from Ferals of Kennedy Space Center

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Author Bruce Ryba at Kennedy Space Center Launch Pad 39B & Artemis 1. "We are going to the Moon!"

Author's discussion (that's me) on You Tube of a book review on Amazon

For the video versions of information, please check out my YouTube Channel (Turkeys, Flintknapping, dive stories etc.)

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Struggle for the northern frontier and other lost tales of old Florida. 

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Desperate times call for bold action.
In a desperate move to retain Florida and protect the treasure-laden galleons on their dangerous return journey to Europe, the King of Spain issues a royal decree offering refuge to all English slaves who escape Florida and pick up a musket to defend the coquina walls of Saint Augustine.
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