I drift in and out of sleep. Sometimes it’s a dark room I greet, at other times it’s piercing rays of light, dust rising, or falling and with this constant noise in the background, grinding, whirring, small machinery being put to work. But when I stare at the ceiling, the shawls of the peeling paint forming a texture of softness, I feel warm inside, cocooned, and I close my eyes, the blue and sometimes red color of the back of my eyelids pushing me to drift back into sleep. Dark cool sleep.
My dreams, vivid for the first time in a long time, stay with me, a continuous stream hardly interrupted by my moments awake.
The smell of flesh screams through my mind and I awake. The last scene of my dream was my wife, cold, disapproving, saddened by my presence. Shaking her head at me, and me, huddled in a corner feeling every criticism of hers in my bones. That feeling lingers, but I remember the smell, and as the dream fades into nothingness, I realize that I’m still on the couch, and that all the light comes from the corner curtained off area with Khalid’s body. The whirring sound is still humming. Louder now, because paint leaves are falling from the ceiling, the vibrations hitting a perfect note. Then I notice some more writing on the wall. “A nation so pure by cleansing its sins in the blood of others.” That jars me awake, and before the thought settles in, I remind myself that it’s just graffiti.
The curtain parts and Mathews walks towards me. He has a surgical mask on, surgical robes even, and dark splotches on his face and clothes. He tears off two latex gloves, throws them on the floor, though he might have been aiming at the frogs, and sits down in front of me.
“You awake, huh?” he says, his voice aged in the time I slept; his voice, low and gravely; his voice, needing a stiff drink.
“Yeah. How long was I out?”
“Don’t know. I slept some, then Turing woke me up to help him.”
I turn back to where the curtained off area, which now has a slit, stands. I can see someone moving back and forth with all the dexterity of a machine. I tear the sound of a knife cutting through flesh, getting stuck in bone. I’ll know that sound anywhere.
“Time?” I ask.
Mathews shrugs and points at his watch.
“Analog, 24 hour watch, eh?” I say, trying to make conversation, trying to gain my bearings and not hear the continuous sound of metal cutting into flesh, hacking at bone, accompanied by the smell of marrow, now infiltrating my nose, making me sick and making me forget my dream, though it enhances the cold gut feeling I had when I awoke.
“Thanks. Love their design.”
I think on making small talk about his elegant watch, now covered in blood and nondescript pieces of body, but I don’t.
“What’s he doing?”
A glaze returns to Mathews’ eyes, and he leans back. “Fuck.”
I remember Khalid and flinch. I close my eyes.
“What is he doing?” I ask again, but Mathews still doesn’t reply, he just stares at his clothes with all their dark splotches.
“What do you make of Turing?” I ask, softly, because I don’t want to be heard by that machine chopping away at a man I once knew. Yet I still hear a slight pause in all the commotion, if only for a nanosecond, when I mention the name Turing.
Mathews thinks for a second then leans forward, his face now smeared with the look of conspiracy, the kind of that people turn to only as a last resort for hope, rather than one of luxury. “Whoever programmed him...” Mathews shakes his head. “Well, he’s a masterpiece, but if we figure out his program...”
“Perhaps. He is good at learning.”
Another chop, this one strikes metal.
“He’s got human anatomy down.”
I look at the curtained area and push down the dread building up in my heart. Anatomy. That was useful in a sniper course. But I’m being melodramatic. Turing could, as a machine, merely be using one of many algorithms that will replace doctors. I walk to the curtain. Silence falls on the room. It’s a prickly silence.
“George,” says Turing, his back to me as he’s hunched over Khalid’s body. He steps back.
What have you done, Turing? Oh, the gods won’t be pleased with this.
Khalid lays there, and now Turing is pumping gel into different parts of the corpse’s body. Turing, sees me staring, mouth open, and decides I need a step by step description of what’s being done. He says that the gel is being pumped into Khalid’s bone marrow. It will revitalize his ability to produce blood. And all the other blood he’s lost? Turing points to the bags of blood in a corner.
“Turing,” I say in a mix of anger and resignation.
Turing freezes, then looks up. He’s covered in blood. He wears nothing but the clothes he had on earlier. Tilting his head he takes a reading of me. “Oh...” He steps over to me. “It’s not like that, Georgie.” He looks over my shoulder as if to make sure Mathews can’t hear. He whispers, “Remember when I said I could hear the screams of the victims who died in the bombing?” Turing points at the flesh he’s cloaked in.
“I remember,” I say.
“This is a way. This is the way to make them live on. Think about that. No more screams, just a person living on.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, when I mean to say you don’t know what you’re talking about, machine, silly fucking nuts and bolts that don’t understand the soul that is a human. But Turing is trying, so I don’t want to burst his bubble. Still, whatever he’s doing won’t bring back Khalid, I’m sure of that, and even if he manages to eliminate death, which I’m sure he’s doing, I’m not sure that will mean no more screams. Perhaps he’s only trying to stop the screams that he senses, and that I cannot say no to, after all isn’t it what all of us are doing? Isn’t that what most of us are doing? Trying to stop some sort of screaming somewhere? By either denying them of confronting them. Now I feel sorry for Turing.
“You seem unsure,” Turing says.
“That’s our nature,” I say.
“Tell me... You’re holding back, aren’t you?”
I look over to him. He looks like he’s breathing now, like he’s one of us, uncertain. “Not all of us are uncertain, but it’s really the worst way to get things done.”
“So I shouldn’t be uncertain?”
I stare at him. It’s no different than dealing with a human, I think to myself. But it is.
“George, remember what I said.”
“That you want to learn from me? You want me to teach you as much as I can?”
“Yes,” he says, then lowers his head just slightly. “But it’s more than that. I want you to know... I trust you, George. I want you to know that I am here at your behest. Do you understand? You want me to stop? I’ll stop. You gave me my name, remember? You are my father.”
The damn machine’s voice damn near cracks at the end. That’s how it learns? I trust him, however, I trust him to tell me the truth, and I trust that he will listen if I want him to stop.
Silence. Mathews comes in. “What’s the deal, Turing? You getting this Frankenstein up?”
Turing looks over to Mathews. He, the machine, seems somewhat perturbed, or even annoyed. “It’s not a Frankenstein. That story was something else entirely. It was not about a beautiful future, in fact it was about a horrendous future. Perhaps it was being a little pessimistic, but it was—“
“Ah,” says Mathews. “I never put much stock in literature.”
A slight tension that lasts all of a second and Mathews looks over to me. “Oh, sorry.”
“Well?” Turing asks.
“It’s nothing,” I say to Mathews, though the residual of a sharp pain still pricks my heart. I look over. Turing is stroking Khalid’s cock again. I remember that I have questions for Khalid. That I would love to see him back home. “Fine. Do it.”
“No issues?” Turing asks.
Mathews seems humored.
“None.”
Turing nods, and starts injecting something into Khalid’s chest cavity. He then expertly inserts an IV and starts to transfuse b
lood. Again his hand goes to Khalid’s cock again. This time, it seems like he’s stroking it good and proper.
Mathews lets out a stifled laugh, he’s turning red. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised. I don’t respond. What ever it is that Turing has injected, it’s a vile chemical, and the smell, something like a rotten melon, infiltrates my nose and forces my mouth to salivate. I spit.
“You a gay machine, Turing?” asks Mathews, with remnants of a frat boy scoff.
Turing glances over, really annoyed. “No. I’m not. This specimen is being brought from the dead. Do you gentlemen know what the first thing a patient in a coma does? Even if they don’t have any physical abilities?”
“They jack off,” I say.
That metal hand points at me. “Precisely, George.”
Soon Khalid’s cock is at full mast. Turing lets go of it and pulls out another needle. Khalid takes over and starts to stroke himself.
“Fuck this,” Mathews says, walking off.
“You may want to leave,” Turing says, injecting another liquid into Khalid’s temple. “It’s going to get messier.”
“I can handle it. I want to see someone being brought back from the dead.”
Turing straightens up. “Standing at the footsteps of history and all that?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I shake my head when Turing looks away. Over my shoulder, Mathews is trying the door, but when he realizes that he’s stuck, he walks to the sofa and lies down, face first.
Turing pulls out a defibrillator and starts to charge it up. Khalid gasps and comes, a spray of blood flies into the air. I step back, no knowing where the terrorist has been. That initial horrendous smell gives way to the more bearable smell of blood.
“Clear,” yells Turing and hits Khalid with a jolt. I stare as Khalid sits up, his eyes open and they’re full of terror. He stares right at me.
“Say something,” Turing says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Khalid.
Khalid gasps, then looks down at his body. He doesn’t seem... well anything, his expression is blank.
I step forward, almost slipping in some of the blood he just spewed. “Khalid...” No reply. “Khalid?” I say louder. This jolts him, and he stares at me. Now that I’m closer, I realize that one eye is not human. It’s slightly too big, and doesn’t blink. It looks electronic. And there are two wires hanging out from the back of his head. Thick fiber optic wires.
Khalid freezes, then sucks in air. Then again. He keeps sucking it in, pausing in the middle of each inhalation to taste the air, his tongue moving about and his mouth wide open. This goes on for a minute, before his head starts to swivel. “Water,” he says in a low rust-grinding-gears voice of a monster. I jump back.
But Turing, with his all metal smile, stuffs a glass of water in Khalid’s—I suppose that’s his name—face. Khalid sucks it down then hands the glass to Turing. Turing hands him another. Then another. This goes on until Khalid stares at his final gulp of water, then throws the cup. I watch the cup fly over me, over Mathews who is peering over the sofa and shatters on the door. Khalid, now full of movement, growls at us. He turns and starts to piss all over the floor. I look at Turing, who just takes this all in with that silly smile of his. The more I see Khalid’s movements, the more I see a monster. He’s like an animal now, and I step away slowly. I don’t like that he can’t communicate.
Back at the sofa I feel the same restlessness that was before. But now that I’m no longer younger it comes out as me wanting to sleep. Mathews has his hands on an iPad.
“What you looking at?”
“Nothing,” he says, “just the news.”
“Have we found a savior?”
Mathews looks at me like I’m some child. He shakes his head and slightly scoffs. “No,” he says slowly.
Mathews now looks hard at his iPad, like he knows I’m staring him down.
“What?” he says looking up.
Am I really going to fight for no reason? I clench my jaw and look down at my hands. Fight the anger. Fight that and you can be a little more than an ape.
I look up and see Turing leading Khalid around with a collar and a chain.
The anger takes over. “Turing!” I yell, angry again. I walk over. “What are you doing?”
“Showing him around!” Turing says, smiling.
“Christ,” I say and look at Khalid, stooped over, his hands in front of him like a creature from the Jurassic age. “You can’t do this. This is wrong.”
“Why?”
“He’s no slave.”
“Isn’t he?”
“No,” I say, almost yelling, to which Turing only smiles. “You wanted to bring back Khalid, then bring back back that independent man, not a slave.” Something rises up in my throat. “Not this.”
Turing tilts his head. I’m starting to hate it when he does this; it’s obviously contrived. “Whatever you say,” he says still holding the chain. “But can you explain why? I mean... you want him dead?”
I look over to Khalid trying to formulate a proper reply to this seemingly proper question. Khalid gives me a stupid grin. He’s still naked, and here and there I see the parts that Turing has sowed on, the wires in the head. That fake eye. He breathes, taking in his surrounding. By all looks he is alive. But what do I know? Could he just be a corpse being held up with machine parts? And if so, what’s it to me that he’s being walked about in a chain? Not like that’s not done to human prisoners today. “You can’t,” I say, knowing that’s not going to be enough of an explanation for Turing or even for me. I glance over at Mathews, but he’s concentrating even harder on his iPad. Coward. He was touting Turing, and now he doesn’t want to even look when the creation he loves does something wrong?
“Because he only listens with this chain. I was trying to talk to him earlier.”
I look back over at Khalid, who locks eyes with me. His pupils widen, and suddenly he gives a slight smile. It’s not much. A smile that would normally be forgotten, but this smile pricks my memory and consciousness and I know Khalid is this man, or somewhere in there. “He’s been through enough. Let him go,” I say.
Turing nods. “But why?” he says loosening his grip on the chain. “Most humans are fine with being led on a chain. They need that certainty.”
“Turing!”
“Ok,” Turing says, raising his metal hand. “That smile could have been programmed, you know. It might not mean anything.”
“Might?” I’m not sure what he means, but I think on what it is that drives me to want one Khalid free, and another version not so free.
Turing smiles.
It’s my turn to tilt my head, contrived a movement as it may be.
“Then let him go. Now.”
Turing looks at me and smiles. He does as he’s told. When he’s done he looks at me. “Better?” He grins. “Your lot only wants invisible chains, eh?”
I ignore that, reach out to Khalid, and pat his shoulder. Khalid jumps back, snapping his teeth at me.
Turing smiles. “See?” He steps towards Khalid and raises his metal hand in a fist above his head.
Khalid whimpers and bows his head slightly, keeping an eye on the fist.
Turing lifts the chain.
“I said don’t use it,” I say.
“I’m doing this for your protection. He can’t harm me.”
Khalid looks at me, his eyes filled with hate. “Maybe,” I whisper, knowing that Turing is right. Hard to separate what’s known historically about humans and trying to unsettle that gut feeling.
“So throw away the chains?” Turing says.
“Yes, please.”
He tosses the chain away. Khalid straightens his back and gloats. An odd cry comes out of his throat. I’m not comfortable near him. But maybe that’s because he’s not completely human.
“What’s his thought process like?” I ask.
“It’s human, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But that must be an approximation, at
best.”
“No...” Turing looks at Khalid who has now squatted in a corner, straining, and the tip of something brown is coming out of his ass. The accompanying stench is overbearing.
“Khalid!” I yell out before I see that there’s already a whole pile below him. He stands up, a more relaxed mask comes over his face.
“Well, anytime you want him back in his chains, just let me know,” says Turing.
The smell grows stronger. I hold down my gag reflex and try my hardest to breathe through my mouth. “Is it supposed to smell that bad? I mean... he just came back to life...” My stomach curdles up and I can smell the shit, the rotting inside of a hyena really, through my mouth now. “How can he shit?”
“He was metabolizing before he came alive,” Turing says, his face goes back to that caring look of a father as he stares at the moving corpse that is Khalid.
Khalid sniffs his own ass, or as close to it as a normally flexible man can, and sniffs his own shit. Deep inhales like he wants nothing more. Perhaps he’s coming into being and needs some reaffirmation of himself.
“What about his memories?” I say. I know that his brain was mostly scrambled and that must mean that somewhere in the rebuilding of his nervous system—really the most important part—would have been close to impossible. “We need those, or how can he be the same person?”
Turing studies Khalid then studies me. “That, contrary to popular opinion, has nothing to do with his personality. His memories are merely that, some randomized view of the past. His personality, however, is set, as I reconstructed the brain with nearly hundred percent accuracy.”
A painful truth, perhaps. I know the fact that my memories are important to me make me want to think that I wouldn’t be me without them, that without this life lived I wouldn’t be standing here with the thoughts as they are, but I also know of case studies with people who have no more memory but still have the same personality have shown as much. But... Well that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s a bit too fateful for my tastes.
The Labyrinth of Souls Page 23