by Amy Johnson
“Your dress is exquisite.”
The sharp sound of something talking to me brings my attention away from the black pavement. In front of me stands a cybernetic organism dressed in a bright pink flat outfit. It doesn’t show any form at all, falling off her shoulders with the straightness of a needle.
In every possible way, she looks exactly like a human, only more dramatic. Her skin bears the same tint as my own but is smooth and hairless. The lines of her face curve with artistic grace, as if molded by a world renowned potter. Every eyelash separates from the others with no mistake and frame eyes that serve as the only difference between the two of us. Where my irises are a shade of blue that puts the sky to shame, hers are silver and mechanical. Gears and machinery make up the bulk of the iris and pupil. They contract in rapid succession as she screenshots my dress. It resembles a metal camera lens, glazed over by lubrication.
When I look at her, all I can think about is the human she used to be. Did I know this girl? Did my parents? The machine that lives inside her empty shell is a stranger to me. I know there’s nothing left of her human soul. When the machines harvest a host, nothing remains but the body— groomed to eerie perfection and gifted with fantastic technologies.
I glance down at myself and smile.
“Thank you,” I say in the well-rehearsed accent of the cybers.
“Which machine designed it? I will contact its origin machine,” she continues. Every word is meticulously pronounced, leaving no room for emotion. While she’s telling me how much she loves the dress, her eyes are empty and hollow. There’s a smile on her face, but she shows none of her porcelain teeth.
“Machine 2043,” I rattle off, keeping the smile on my face but careful not to show too much emotion. I committed the number to memory long ago, just in case a cyber ever asked. Machine 2043 actually does create clothes, or at least it used to.
“Registered,” she confirms, nodding as she brushes past me.
I hurry on, the three following me.
“Machine?”
It’s the woman again. I blink hard and fight the urge to groan.
“Yes?”
“Your skin covering,” she says, eyes reflecting the light of the advertisements. “Where was it manufactured? It is of top quality.”
I swallow, hesitating. What sort of service machines make skin coverings? I memorized most service machine extensions. The two thousands make clothing and other textile products. The six thousands make cars and other transportation devices. Skin coverings, though?
The cybernetics’ obsession with becoming more human has always struck me as odd. They exist with every possible advantage over humans, created in a way that they’re immortal. They move faster than humans when called to, and they hear with ears of a hawk.
Yet, they are still fascinated with becoming more human, from designing skin covers that seem more human-like to manufacturing synthetic hair fibers in countless shades.
Instead of answering, I turn and hurry away. She will report my profile to the Artificial Intelligence machines for suspicious behavior. She’s likely already taken a snapshot of me. If I have anything to do with it, though, I won’t be seen in this disguise ever again.
We walk on, weaving in and out of the never-ending streams of cybers. Occasionally, I will spot an Artificial perched high above the crowd. The difference between the cybers and the Artificials is shocking to me, even after seeing them so many times. Artificials don’t even attempt to look like humans; they own up to their pure-robotic form. Their outer cover is thin, lightweight, and bulletproof foam, usually white or silver. They have one solid arm, with a working hand, and the other arm is a multi-use tool that switches between their stun gun, regular gun, and other tools. Artificials were never human, and they don’t act like it either.
The cybers bustling around us talk in hushed whispers, and I catch snippets of conversations in English.
“Did you hear the alarm?” one passing male asks, and I strain to hear his companion’s reply.
“Yes. It means there are humans around.”
“Would we not see them?”
“They are in disguise. Did you not see the image sent out by the Artificials? I will share it with you now.”
I grab Linux by the arm, so tight that he yelps. A few machines glance at us, but I let go of him quickly and flatten my expression.
“What?” he snaps when we are past the machines that heard him react.
“They took a snapshot of us,” I whisper, walking close to him. “They are sharing it through the cloud now.”
The air around us changes color suddenly as the billboards flashing overhead change. I look up. What used to be an advertisement for the new chemical solution for human-like hair is now a bright flashing picture of me, disgusting blonde wig and all. I’m on my hands and knees, staring at the body of the girl who was paralyzed.
All around us, the machines stop to look, erupting into unintelligible chirping and chattering. Linux takes one look at the screen and goes white.
I roll my eyes and jerk him into an alley. Behind us, the machines begin to move again, still talking, but at least they are in motion.
“We stick to the alleys,” I mumble. “In and out this time. No detours or splitting up. We need to get back underground.”
He nods, and we are moving again, able to relax in the shadows of the buildings. Nothing but rats and loose trash greet us. The only thing we have to fear now is the Artificials that patrol the skies, but our disguises cover us from that angle. When one flies over, Linux shoves me to the side before we continue forward.
“Here,” I say a few minutes later, pointing at a large wooden door. Linux looks at it, and then he turns and holds a hand out for me.
I pull a bobby pin out of my wig and put it into his palm. The paint is coming off, revealing the wood door underneath. He sticks his tongue out as he works, and I mimic him. Mine dries out in the cold air around us. I tap my foot, and Linux reaches back and punches me in the shin.
“God, Linux,” I laugh, holding my leg.
“Patience,” he whispers as he listens to the lock finally click. “Do you have any?”
He stands, pushing open the door but waiting for me to walk in. He follows and shuts the door behind him. I wait for a minute, half expecting the automatic lights to come on. When they don’t, I fumble on the wall for a switch.
When I find it, the lights illuminate the room to cast eerie shadows off the silver boxes.
Unlike the first warehouse we went to, these boxes don’t shine. Humidity has done work on them, and they are rusting on the corners, tarnished from years of being kept in the same room. This is where we will find what we need. I just hope the boxes are airtight.
“No splitting up,” I growl as Linux walks past me. “We stay together and look.”
Up and down the aisles we walk, stopping several times to hack a lock and go through the contents. There are old guns here, along with boxes and boxes of ammunition and medicine. I assume it was all discarded when Luddites stopped being a real threat, which was pretty early on in the machine’s rise to power. Humans didn’t stand a chance when the thing that their lives revolved around began to fight back.
Linux kneels down to inspect an older box with a basic electronic lock, but the light blinks red twice. He swears.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, kneeling down beside him.
“The code’s different,” he mumbles. “I only get one more try before the alarm sounds.”
“Then you had better get it right.”
He takes a patient, deep breath and keys in a different code.
The light blinks red again, and the ear-splitting alarm rips through the room.
Linux covers his ears with his hands as I drag him to his feet.
“Thirty seconds,” I say, pointing at the backdoor. He nods, taking off towards it.
“Let’s go!” Linux yells back, pushing open the back door.
I turn to follow when the front
door swings open, and the bird-like language of the Artificials fill the space. My calm demeanor evaporates, fear filling my veins as I run for the back door.
They are already firing, though. One bullet bounces off the boxes beside me. Another hits my bag. I can feel the electricity run through the material, burning my shoulder. It’s enough to stun me but not slow me down. Linux has the door open, and I jump out, landing on all fours.
Linux grabs me by the arm, pulling me up.
“That wooden door isn’t going to stop them,” he says, voice quivering.
I watch the bullets hit the door, each one splintering the wood a little more. I count them. Five. The door shatters, and I cover my head with my hands.
The Artificials join us out in the alley, their massive white bodies towering over us. It’s the first time since the accident I’ve been this close to one of them. I can see the texture of the cork board foam they are made out of, hear the inner workings of the machinery whirring beneath. Their eyes focus in and out like camera lenses, zeroing in on us, sizing us up.
I’m fourteen again, cornered in the alley with my parents.
Frozen in a mixture of horror and depression, I can’t move as they approach us, even if Linux is wailing behind me.
What would Cyrus do?
Two years ago, Cyrus reached into my parents’ bags, finding the grenade Luddites always keep with them. He detonated that bomb, throwing it directly between the two machines that had just shot our parents. Then, he pulled me into the manhole, covering my head as the explosion shook the ground around us.
Taking a deep breath, I reach for my grenade, tugging at the pin as I push Linux back towards the access hole I know is nearby.
“Not this time,” I mumble, throwing the green explosive towards the two Artificials. It bounces off one’s chest, settling on the ground in front of them. They look down at it, and I take the chance to sprint away, all but dragging Linux behind me.
“How long does that take?” Linux asks, his hand shaking in mine.
“Ten,” I whisper, breathless.
“Ten what?”
“Eight… Seven… Six…”
I continue to count as I jerk open the manhole cover, revealing the bottomless black hole and ladder. Linux jumps in without hesitation, and I follow. In the darkness, I reach ‘one’, and everything around us erupts into chaos.
Chapter 2: Anticipative
Eden
I hold the rungs of the ladder in a grip that rivals the strength of gravity itself, clenching my eyes closed against the sounds of the building collapsing above us. Bits of loose earth fall down, salt and pepper raindrops settling on my shoulders and head. Linux clings to my leg with one hand, his fingernails cutting into the bare skin.
We remain motionless, holding our breath until the ground stops shaking. The air around us swirls thick with dust and smoke.
The Elders are going to be furious that I blew up a warehouse, especially an old one. The weaponry inside those primitive walls was irreplaceable.
“Linux,” I whisper, covering my mouth with the back of my hand so I won’t breathe in any excess dust. “Move out. We need to get back to base.”
In the dim light, Linux nods, and his grip on me loosens. The sound of his boots clicking against the ladder echoes through the hollow tunnel. I descend after him, glad when my feet reach solid ground again. He’s brushing himself off, illuminated by the flickering yellow tubes of light that hang from the ceiling. Crude wires snake in and out of man-made holes in the concrete wall of the tunnel.
On the walls are symbols: finger-painted shapes of indiscernible origin. Below each symbol is an arrow, allowing the reader to navigate through the maze that is the underground. Like the serial numbers in the warehouses, I have the symbols memorized.
The square symbol that looks like a lowercase ‘e’ rotated ninety degrees clockwise is ‘house’. The circle with a spiral in the center is our ‘meeting place,’ where the Elders of the Luddites meet. There is an oval-ish shape with three lines through it that means ‘food.’ The symbols go on and on without any sign of true English. If the cybers did come down here, they would look at the crude paintings and move along with no way of translating them.
According to the makeshift directory and the swirling marking, we need to go right if I want to find Cyrus and the rest of the Elders.
“How do you remember those?” Linux asks, squinting through his glasses. I chuckle.
“I’ve been down here a long time, remember? A lot longer than you have.”
He nods, following behind me as I move on.
Even though we are deep underground, I can still hear the sounds of the city overhead. I know when we pass under a busy intersection because of the heavy footsteps and rhythmic pounding. We pass under the train tracks, and the lights flicker more quickly. The deafening sound of the bullet train moving over us makes both of us cover our ears. When we walk under the factories, the manholes overhead let in scorching hot air, and the temperature climbs.
Beads of sweat line my neck when I stop at an intersection to check another directory. Water trickles along the bottom of the tunnel, silently. Rats scurry along with the water; the sound they make as they chatter back and forth reminds me of the Artificials when they talk.
The rats gross me out, and I step as far away from them as I can. My father used to pick them up and transfer them to the dark, unused tunnels, washing his hands off in the slow water. While I can’t bring myself to do that, I can’t make myself stomp them either.
Linux pats me on the shoulder. “Good job, Lewis and Clark.” I glance up at the opening in front of us. Beyond is a large open expanse where I hear the whispered tones of other humans. Linux walks ahead of me, stepping down into the meeting place.
“Welcome back, Linux!”
The echo of Cyrus’ voice makes my heart jump, and I hurry on, splashing through the water.
“And there’s my Eden,” Cyrus continues, walking up to hug me. A sheen of sweat covers his bare arms, and dirt clings to me after he lets me go.
“Where’s everyone else?” He glances between Linux and me. Linux lowers his head, swallowing hard.
The whispering of the few people in the room stops. They look over at the two of us with raised eyebrows and hungry eyes.
“Both taken,” I say. What’s the point in beating around the bush?
Cyrus sighs, bringing both hands up to the sides of his face. He drags them down, leaving a streak of black on each side.
“Cyrus, that leaves us with a population of fifty.” The voice comes from a woman named Emory who sits behind Cyrus. She is one of the oldest Elders, somewhere around sixty years old. Luddites value age because most humans get harvested before they turn twenty-five. The cybers need young, healthy bodies to produce machines from. Older humans, like Emory, prove useless and are killed on sight. We regard them with respect, because if they have made it this far, they must be strong and resilient.
I cringe at her words. The loss of any humans hurts deeply because our numbers are so low. We try to encourage reproduction among the Luddites, and several of the teenagers my age jump at the opportunity. Yet, the constant stress of our lifestyle hampers a healthy pregnancy. Not to mention the lack of medication and safe delivery options. We lose more infants in childbirth or during pregnancy than are actually born.
I have different reasons. If I had children, I wouldn’t be able to go on supply runs. This time, I’m not bothered by the Elders’ blatant abuse of my willingness to go above ground for them. I don’t want children. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Emory sits with three aged people: the other Elders. She might be the oldest, but the three men don’t fall far behind her. Each of them has gray hair, sits with a bent back, and looks perpetually sad with a droopy face. Cyrus pats me on the cheek one more time and takes his seat in the fifth Elder chair beside Emory.
It belonged to our father once. Cyrus looks like a child compared to the other elders, but he holds himself
with such immense authority that no one would dare question him. Like all of the other Elders, Cyrus has a certain section of the underground he’s in charge of. He took over Dad’s job of making sure everyone eats and receives the medicine they need. Essentially, he oversees the health of the Luddites.
“What happened, Eden?” Emory leans forward with her elbows on her knees. I clear my throat and replay the events of our mission.
“But you got the supplies?” Cyrus butts in, just as I’ve told them about the alarm sounding in the second warehouse.
“Well, yes, but-”
“Then, that’s all that matters. She was out looking for weapons; she found them. The others knew the risk associated with going above ground. They volunteered on their own,” he tells Emory, who nods, her green eyes staying fixed on me.
I hadn’t yet gotten to the part where I blew up the warehouse.
“While we mourn their loss,” she says, “there’s nothing to be done. What were their names?”
“Christian and Baylee,” I tell her without hesitation. She waves a hand, and the Elder farthest away from her gets up slowly.
“They will be immortalized in the halls of the underground,” Emory whispers as the man disappears into a dark hallway.
He will go to the farthest corners of the underground, kneel down on the ground and etch their names with a dull screwdriver. In the darkness, far away from the eyes of machines, people will read their names as long as the Luddites continue to inhabit the tunnels. Yet, I can’t help but think of the fact that they will be just two names out of millions, two more humans who have fallen into oblivion.
Immortalized? No. They’ve just been recorded. No one will remember Christian and Baylee, just like no one has remembered my parents.
“Now, Eden, continue,” Emory says, and I launch again into my story.
Once I’m finished, another Elder raises his hand. Emory waves at him as permission to speak.
“I hate to interrupt story time, but can we discuss the event last week with the cybernetic we found in the tunnels?” he asks.