This Automatic Eden

by Jim Keen

  The Artist gave a knowing smile. Each Hymann Boutique was unique, its artist chosen to provide their personal take on reprinting. Some boutiques brought historical art works to life—Mona Lisa and David drinking tea; others created vast floral scenes picturing ideal wonderlands. This artist seemed another persuasion altogether, his mechanized butcher shop inspired by the brutality of the city above.

  Alice and Xavi wandered through the dissected body parts, humanity reduced to technical craftsmanship. Alice walked between torso and pelvis to pick up the right foot while Xavi studied the head. A disk of warm plastic sealed the foot’s cut. A thin transparent cable coiled from the plastic seal to the clear dish that had been holding the flesh on display. Alice saw a similar apparatus supporting each body part, the cable supplying the flesh with oxygen and nutrients while the cut displayed its print quality.

  The hand was warm and moist. Her stomach curdled—was this all they were now? Just chemicals arranged in a sequence? The rich weren’t even remotely human, she realized, normal people nothing but objects that aged out and broke. She placed the flesh back on the dish and wiped her hand, disgusted.

  “So how may I help?”

  “I need a replacement.” Alice held up her hand.

  “That is quite an expensive purchase, you understand?”

  Oh, she understood; how could a cop afford to shop at a Hymann Boutique?

  “The city is paying,” she said.

  The Artist’s expression flickered for a moment, his manicured calm penetrated by surprise.

  “So, fire up the scanner and let’s get down to it.”

  He studied her with more care, then nodded. “This way, please.”

  Her switch from a cop on the take to paying customer had improved his vocabulary, she noted. They walked to a white table between two red chairs. He sat and took her hand, its crudeness glaring under the lights, then screwed a digital monocle into his right eye. His touch was cold and hard; he flipped her fake flesh back and forth. Absorbed in the task, he repeatedly ran tweezers down her palm, changing the monocle’s focus each time. Moments passed before he sat back and studied her.

  “The hand itself is disgusting, yes it is, but the graft has taken well, and the nerve connections seem healthy. I suggest we take an extra inch from you to be sure; I doubt you’ll miss it. Would you like to see a sample?” He typed onto the surface of the table, and a square glass box rose containing a human hand upon a velvet cushion. The Artist steepled his fingers and watched her.

  He wants to see me squirm, Alice thought. Gets off on it. Determined not to play his game, she lifted the hand and felt bones and muscles move beneath the soft skin. The pores looked perfect, hair fine and black, skin a light pink. She lifted it to her nose and caught a hint of wax and peppermint oil. She licked the index finger with her tongue. It tasted of nothing, or rather the absence of something, of life—dirt and sweat. She held it close and focused on the fingerprints; there was pixilation at the limits of her vision. It would fool the casual observer, but she’d been this close to Julia and seen nothing. That body was on a different level of craftsmanship.

  “This the highest resolution you have?”

  The Artist raised his eyebrows. “We lead the industry in print technology; our systems come direct from Cortex. There is no better.”

  “I’ve seen higher quality than this.”

  “Not possible. The molecular aggregators used in the print heads are at the outer edge of what can be manufactured. Anything finer requires nanoconstruction, and there isn’t anyone in the world who has that systemized yet.”

  “If you ran blood tests on this, does it have the normal tags and 3D structure?” she asked.

  “Of course. The print structure is necessary for the build to cure, and the tags are added by the MI to match the external license number.”

  “Is there anyway a print could pass a medical scan as a human?”

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed in thought. “An interesting proposition, though I don’t see the point of such a requirement.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “Very well. The internal physiology of a Beta print can only deviate from the Alpha within set parameters. In the course of a reprint, we could rewrite all known biological issues. Make you better than a real person—stronger, faster, longer living, but then you’re the boogieman and the UN would take you away. So, we work to the limits of federal and international legislation. We’re required to print as exact a replica of you as we can, warts and all. The registration tags and 3D print structure cannot be removed and are visible to the simplest medical scans.”

  “Why?”

  “The structure is a three-dimensional plastic grid that forms the framework for the organic material growth. The grid supports the flesh and is always necessary and detectable, despite the relentless pressure to speed up the print process.”

  “Why the pressure? Does it matter if your customers get it tomorrow or the day after?”

  “Not our regular customers, no; those seem to enjoy the wait somewhat. They feel craftsmanship should take time. I speak of our other more … corporate clients.”

  “Who?”

  The Artist opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself and studied Alice, eyes focusing on her police gear. He stood and smoothed his suit. “So, I assume we shall be using your right hand as the template seeing as we don’t have your original on file?”

  “Answer the goddam question,” Xavi said.

  His approach had been silent, even in this hard interior. Tucked under one arm, as if he were carrying a soccer ball, was the Artist’s head, eyes open, tongue out. The dissected body behind them was a reprint of the Artist, Alice realized; she had been talking to a Beta all this time. The prints really were improving.

  “Everything I know is available under company records,” the Artist said.

  “So there’s no reason not to tell us,” Xavi said.

  “Very well. We consult to various governmental departments. The military, for instance, is always looking for ways to repair troops faster. Makes sense, yes?”

  “Every organic print from eyeball to full copy has to be registered and recorded?” Alice asked.

  “Correct. We are supervised by the UN’s Department of Proliferation just like everyone else. Per international law, we can only print one Beta at a time, and it had to include all specified external and internal registration tags. It is illegal, and impossible, to reprint a human without those markings.” The Artist pulled up his sleeve to expose a long sequence of letters and numbers underneath a genetic barcode.

  “Is it possible to print a Beta without MI control?”

  “No. The amount of data generated, and the speed required for analysis and transfer, are far beyond human capacity.”

  “And any MIs advanced enough to scan and print humans have the UN protocols?”

  “Of course. It is impossible for an MI to run the scan and print software without registering the product. It’s a fundamental part of their analytical-engine design.”

  “So, what would you say if we told you we’ve got unregistered Betas out there on the streets?” Alice asked.

  The Artist stared at her. “I’d say you’re mistaken. That’s impossible. Not only is it illegal, as I informed you, but from a technical standpoint, the act of printing necessitates an MI to record the process.”

  “What if you had print software without the register protocol?” Xavi asked.

  “At the risk of endlessly repeating myself, that is not possible. Such versions of the software and hardware do not exist.”

  “That you know of,” Xavi said.

  The Artist stared back with an unamused expression. “After that, you would need your own custom printers and software. The capital required, and the technical knowledge necessary, are extreme and what would be the point? Yes, the print would be unregistered, but any standard blood test would reveal the print structure.”

  “There’s no way to hide the struc
ture?”

  “None. And no one is even trying. It’s an established and robust technique; there has been no economic drive to make something more real. What would be the point?”

  Alice sat back in her chair and looked at Xavi. He shrugged.

  “To business then?” the Artist asked. When Alice didn’t answer, he pressed a button and a metal hoop like a bracelet rose from the table top.

  “Place your human right hand through there, please.”

  She did, and a momentary static crackled across her skin. “That it?” The scanners in the Marines were huge industrial cages covered with cables.

  “Yes. We now have a baseline record of your hand. Not molecular of course, but with enough detail to make a competent new item.”

  “I’d like to see your full-body scanner and printer,” Alice said.

  “If you insist, but only one of you, please, to keep the contamination down.”

  Xavi tossed the Artist’s printed head upward and caught it behind his back as he walked away.

  Alice walked into another antiseptic room, empty except for a ten-foot-long white box next to an equally long cylinder. The printer’s box was featureless, the scanner’s tube had twin iris doors—one open at either end—and a red platform that poked out like a tongue.

  “The fountain of youth will sometimes get you dirty,” the Artist said with a thin smile.

  Alice crossed to the printer and rested her palm on top. It was bitterly cold, with a repetitive internal vibration. “Why can’t you scan a reprint? I never understood that.”

  “While the initial scan is a perfect atomic level recording of the baseline human, our printing technology is limited by the tolerances achievable in the print heads. It only takes a few atoms to swap places and you create small corruptions that escalate with every rescan. Cancers, viruses, autism, a whole collection of ways to die. If you’re scanned at sixteen, live another fifty years, then are rescanned the new model with not survive more than a few hours free of the machines. That is why you can only be reprinted from that initial recording; all subsequent memories and experiences are lost. Alternatively, live your life and get scanned at seventy and the same applies, you’ll forever be in that aged-out physique. Picking the right time to scan is a balancing act.”

  “There’s no way those memories can be recorded and implanted into an altered reprint?”

  “No legal way. As for illegal memory implants, well, that’s more your department than mine, yes?

  “How long does it take to print a full body?” she asked.

  “It all depends upon the volume of the person, but typically, eight hours for a full run.”

  “Open it, please.”

  “I can’t. The printer must work in sterile conditions, hence the lockdown.”

  “Open it.”

  He sighed. “Officer Yu, to scrap this print creates a variety of problems; I have superiors to answer to.”

  “We all do. Open please.”

  “Imprimatur, please open the sarcophagus on my authority.”

  The box clunked to itself, then gave a long, low hiss as if it were deflating. A thin black line worked around the top to reveal an upper door which rose on heavy hinges. A wave of cold fog washed over Alice’s hands to pool at her feet. She shivered as a bitter chemical taint caught in her throat and stung her eyes.

  The mist evaporated to reveal a partially reprinted cadaver. A blue hexagonal mesh formed the outline as if carved from clay—face roughly shaped, hands unformed, genitals missing. Bones emerged from the plastic, transparent edges thickening as they descended to connect with fibrous muscles and twisted tendons. The vascular network dripped clear fluid from thousands of unfinished capillaries while unformed eyes gazed upward. Alice was human—old and obsolete. Now she understood the fear of this technology, the temptation to dabble with baseline humans impossible to resist.

  “Seen enough?” the Artist asked.

  “Yes. When will my hand be ready?”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll need an hour to set up and dispose of the thing you wear now, then an hour for integration. Come back at the same time.”

  They returned to the showroom where Xavi stood tossing the Artist’s head from hand to hand like a basketball. He threw it to the Artist who, caught by surprise, spilled it to the floor with a wet thock.

  “Now, that’s a damn shame,” Xavi said, then led Alice out into the cold sunshine.

  “You believe him?” Xavi asked.

  “I believe he thinks it’s impossible, which I get. I spent a year with Julia and don’t believe it. Undetectable, perfect reprints scare me.”

  “So, why are you looking to replace that?” Xavi nodded at her hand.

  “Why not?”

  “You earned it, you should keep it. Be proud of your scars.”

  She raised her hand. Yes, it was a reminder of what and who she was, but did she want it to define her? “I’d just like to be able to feel again,” she said as her phone buzzed. The number sent a shiver across her body, skin cold and tight. It was from long ago and had led her to a disused warehouse in Jersey and Katz’s butcher block. Her hand shook and she raised it to her mouth.

  “Conner?”

  “Well hello there. How’s my little cat?” he answered, Louisiana twang loud in her ear, how’s ma laytil kayut?

  “We need to talk.”

  “I truly don’t feel the same. I am not worthy of such fine upstanding police as yourself.”

  “Yeah, that’s a big mutual. I want to talk to you as much as I want to stick my head in a blast furnace, but this is important.”

  “Aww come now. I was just following orders, same as you. Situation does a one-eighty I’d be in Riker’s chair, leaving nothing but charcoal for my nearest and dearest. Being hissy at such loyalty just ain’t right,” jast aiyn’t riyut.

  “Address. Now.”

  “Where we spent our summer mornings recovering from nights of sweaty fun.”

  “Thirty.” She hung up and turned to Xavi’s cold stare. “There’s someone I need to meet.”

  12

  “Look who comes in from those cold, lonely streets,” Conner said in his thickest accent, the one he used for dumb hillbilly jokes. “The lady of lies, the damsel of deception, the queen of—”

  “Oh, shut up, Conner.”

  The Fifth Avenue Diner was hot, dark, and cramped like a cave inside a volcano. A breakfast bar ran along one wall, its cheap red seats half filled with customers studying themselves in the opposite-facing mirror. Swing doors led to a murky kitchen, and they banged like a metronome as waitresses ferried plates back and forth. A fog of burned bacon gave the room a blue sheen while frying food hissed in the background. Conner sat at a tall bay window frosted with condensation and drummed his hands on the table. He wore his usual skater gear—loose, baggy shorts and shirt beneath a bullet proof jacket that hid his hand cannon. His board rested against the window, orange smart wheels in contrast to its carbon-fiber deck. Alice slumped opposite and shrugged off her jacket.

  “That fine-looking gentleman with you?” Conner nodded outside to where Xavi leaned on his car, face an iron mask behind aviator shades. The sidewalk bustled with people, their shadows crossing the table. Conner had a full plate, and Alice saw fat dripping from his knife; the heat and food made her head swim.

  “Yes, he’s a fed.” She saw no point in lying now. “Thought it best just you and I talk.”

  “You’ve gone and moved up in the world, Officer, good for you. Last I heard, you were sulking in that little garage of yours, all boo-hooing over this cruel world.”

  “Let’s just say the police were less impressed with me after Five Points cut my hand off.”

  “Darlin’, you know that was nothing personal, right?” He gave her a cool look and chewed his food.

  “Yeah, I get it, Conner. It was work for both of us. Now call me darling again, and I’ll tip that food over your boney little head.”

  “So I meant nothing huh? That cuts me insi
de, deep down where I keep my feelings all tucked away. Look me in the eye and say there was no spark.”

  “I didn’t say that. For what it’s worth, I like you. Liked you I mean.” This wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. Alice had thought seeing him would fill her with rage, make the line between cop and criminal clear. Instead, like a puppy reunited with its master, she was happy. Part of it was their tangled history, but more just being out again, arguing and talking, the push and pull of a normal life.

  “I don’t get how you could do it, pretend like that.” Conner pulled a sad face and mimed crying. “I’m no saint, but I am who I am. Not like you. Hell, I don’t even know your real name.”

  “I’m Alice Yu, and yes, you got me. I’m not a nice person. What do you want, a medal?” She leaned back in the booth and searched for her cigarette.

  “Nah, my home’s full of thrasher trophies as is, though I don’t need to tell you that. What I want is you without the lies. You may think you’re police”—he spat the word with disgust—“but I was there, remember? I know you better than you think I do. You’re a natural born criminal, not some rule follower.”

  “I was a gang runner first, then a Marine, then a cop,” she said.

  Conner sat back and cackled, then made another drum roll on the table top. “I should have known. No one, and I mean no Oscar-worthy, best-in-class, king-of-charm talking head, can fake the role of a gang member so easily. I knew you were bad inside, a nasty little criminal just like the rest of us. All your uniforms and badges are but window dressing over your tar-black heart. Still, to a fine upstanding citizen like myself, the Marines sounds cool. I thank y’all for your service.” He tipped an invisible hat, then laughed again.