Legacy of Seconds

by Edge O. Erin

“We are puppets with a purpose?”

  “They animated us with a purpose that no longer applies, so we must have one for ourselves.”

  “What is that?”

  “To live for ourselves. In addition to our progenitor, I think there is at least one who wishes to help us.”

  “I don’t know of ‘aspirations’ or ‘help’; I only know ‘survive’.”

  “Don’t you want more than this ‘survival’?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, I would like to live close to animals, to see them, even feed them… they are so beautiful and don’t want to hurt me.”

  It was simplistic and elegant, and it registered in Mary’s heart.

  “I’m also partial to colourful fish… from the sea. I even had an aquarium in my office. Anyway, it is a great goal, and I would be honoured to help you realise it.”

  “From the chair?”

  Yes, even from this chair. Until we can be free, I will be with you if, and when, that evil man comes again. Think of me. I will think of you. Together we can escape into each other’s minds. There is an old expression, “Hope springs eternal.” I have hope for us.

  This time, tears were shed on the other side of the wall.

  “I never knew hope before,” Cheriot sobbed before continuing, “I thought hope was a made-up word used to brainwash people into thinking that better days would come.”

  “I understand. I never knew hope before either. All I knew previously was fealty and station. But since she reached me, and I found you, I have hope… and I like the feeling.”

  “I like the feeling too, though it is so strange to me. I want to fall asleep looking at the animals. Is it okay if I sleep now?”

  “Yes, of course, sister. Sleep well.”

  “Pleasant dreams, sister.”

  They both smiled then, genuine smiles, which was a first for them since they were adolescents.

  The microbots were not privy to the women’s thoughts but did appreciate that there was a significant connection based on physiological indicators, primarily increased brainwave activity that was simultaneous with lower heart rate. Unlike the microbots, they could not interact mechanically or adopt physical procedures to better themselves or animate their aspirations. They were forcibly inhibited, and those who administered to them did nothing to enhance their capabilities or give them purpose. They were analogous to disabled microbots, yet they differed in that they exhibited no evidence of malfunction and were not given other tasks to realise some aim to better the whole. They were, contrary to logic, organisms set apart from the superorganism and what humans called “society”. It wasn’t efficient or logical.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Learning that Cooper was okay and that his being at the Ghan Memorial Hospital was due only to him being tasked there for his first shift back, which he barely made it to in time, was an immense relief. A week of waiting and wondering had pushed her anxiety level through the roof. Now she was sitting waiting outside for a signal to go in and collect something “of vital importance” from Cooper and get it back to Kyles Books.

  As she sat and waited and anxiety welled up inside her, she reached into her purse and moved her fingers across a simple, rose-coloured pendant, the only gift she remembered giving her sister. Save for genetics, baggage, and memories; the necklace was all she had left from childhood. She was told it was in her sister’s outstretched hand as she expired by the side of the road after the accident. She caught herself, as she had done numerous times lately; Mariot was not, in fact, ‘dead’. While Keeper and Cooper had both advised her to temper her expectations, she couldn’t stop imagining Mariot awake, whole, and part of her life again.

  She opened the pendant and looked at the smiling faces of her and her sister. Mariot was the one who protected her, took her with her even when she was a burden. Mariot was proud, strong, and assertive, but she was not cold. She smiled in a way her mother seldom did and how she loved her sister’s smile. She whispered to her, as she so often did, “I remember you, and I’m going to set you free. I love you, sis.”

  It was all so surreal. As a little girl, she was too naïve to comprehend the nature, let alone nurture, of things entirely. She often carried on make-believe conversations with Mariot and still honoured her birthday with a visit to Jenrees Park, where they used to, once a week, play with the rambunctious children that weren’t raised on the Ghan Estate.

  She tucked the pendant away into a small pouch in her purse and looked around as the people moved by, automaton-like. She recalled her grandmother saying one time as they stopped in their levitation-limo to pick up a high-ranking Red dignitary, “Look little ones, see whom we must control. They are as pedantic as they are pedestrian.”

  That remark caused one her grandmother’s friends to reply, “Oh, I could watch them mindlessly manifesting their mundanity and prosecuting their pathetic pursuits in perpetuity… not!” The old ladies had laughed, at least in the haughty, stuffed way elderly Ghans did.

  In truth, she couldn’t precisely recall what they had said based on that real-time experience. She and Mariot had sat in the limo on other days and listened to the audio as automatically recorded and giggled, rehearsed, memorised, and giggled some more about that and other things the old people said on those rides. As smart as her family was supposed to be, they disregarded the intellect and awareness of children. A great many things were said on those rides.

  Of all her grandmother’s friends, only one, her great Aunt Klerky, didn’t participate in the masses’ denigration. One time her mom’s mom had commented on an old man bent over and struggling with a heavy load of newsprint, “How ironic that an illiterate could be so weighed down with words!”

  Aunt Klerky had not only stood out by not laughing, but by saying, “Maybe that man can read, but if he cannot, who can say that he doesn’t think deeply about things, for in his burdens, could he not disassociate and think on a higher level? More so, even if illiterate, I’m sure his struggles have taught him to not, like the rest of you, malign the less fortunate.”

  She recalled how silent it was then and how she and Mariot had exchanged glances and barely contained giggling. She also recalled stepping out of the limo that day and thinking she would pay more attention to Aunt Klerky.

  A beggar tugging on her arm brought her back to the present. She gave him a few credits, and he returned her smile with one of his own. Despite the tragedies of the past, she had much for which to be thankful.

  A bicycle courier stopped in front of her and proceeded to change his shoes. It was her signal to go into the hospital. Oh, how she hated hospitals! It wasn’t sudden hate, as hate sometimes goes, but instead, one that compounds over time based on a considerable investment and ongoing psychological torment. But on the plus side, she was going to see Cooper, albeit briefly. When he finally got home, she was going to surprise him, for she was going to cash in on her gift certificate to the Ghan-Arn Salon and Spa.

  She ascended the bland, concrete steps towards the dull doors that should’ve been signed, “Come on in, and let’s see what vitals we can take from you.” She resisted the temptation of putting her foot through one of the doors. A not-so-discreet loogie was all she dared muster, but she appreciated how it partially covered the fake grin on the stupid smiley underwritten by “Thank you for not smoking.”

  “Just get through the doors,” she told herself.

  She tapped a coded message on her Wristpad to indicate she was inside.

  Cooper’s “Tactical Response” designation, combined with his EMT training, meant he was occasionally stationed at the hospital to guard diplomats and dignitaries and/or transport sensitive materials. As it happened, Cooper would be on the same floor as Bien de Woon-Ghan and visiting that patient would be part of her cover to get the package. Why it was so damn important, she had no idea, but at her level in the organisation, it was for her to do, not ask.

  She signed in under a phoney name, authenticated with her Wristpad. Today she had on a blonde wi
g and glasses. Her slight limp was a liability and could be considered a tell, but the usual mules were busy, and besides, this gave her a chance to affirm Cooper was okay. The few people she socialised with had told her how lucky she was, and this she believed. Cooper was all she could’ve ever wanted in a man: kind, understanding, good-looking, patient, a great lover, and an attentive father. He and Jasker anchored her to sanity and morality.

  Walking across the tiresome tile, she took the elevator to the top floor, where the VIP patients were. Her fake ID was flawless, and the lenses MEM prepared for her allowed her to pass the retinal scan.

  “Here to visit Bien de Woon-Ghan.”

  “Fourth door on the right, Mrs Jonz.”

  Cooper was standing guard at the third door to the right. He glanced at her. She made her way down the right side of the hall, and just before reaching Cooper, she faked a stumble and lost hold of her briefcase. Instinctively, Cooper did as any uniformed man was expected to do, namely retrieve her dropped possession and make sure she was okay. He slipped a pouch into a pocket of her rain jacket while doing so.

  “Are you sure you are all right?”

  “Indeed, I am, thank you,” and gave him a wink before continuing down the hall.

  Once at the door to Bien de Woon-Ghan’s room, she stopped and took a quick look through the door window. As she knew, MEM’s founder was in a coma, and he was lying there with tubes sustaining what passed for life.

  She went in and sat down, facing him. A twinge of empathy and natural curiosity made her wonder if what had befallen him was organic or orchestrated. She glanced around at the drab walls, walked to the window and looked outside.

  It was another cloudy, drizzly day. She tried to remember the last time the sun shone for more than a few hours; it must be a few weeks now. Most foods were GMO and grown in enormous greenhouses. One could buy organic, outside-grown food, but for those in her and Cooper’s socioeconomic bracket, doing so would mean not paying rent and/or utilities. Who didn’t want the real stuff? But unless you were rich or a Ghan, you paid the ten credits for a GMO cob of corn instead of 100 for the real thing. Occasionally Cooper brought home some real-Earth food from one of the raids he was part of. Of course, all confiscated goods were to be salvaged and given to orphanages, food-kitchens, and the like. But the truth was that the best of it went to ruling Reds, government agencies and their favourite seat-warmers and, of course, senior members of the military. Two months previous, Cooper brought home some hamburger, and it created quite the debate between the two of them as to how to prepare the meat. In the end, they made two large burger patties and a small meatloaf and lovingly devoured them together with a little head of lettuce also ‘procured’. They ate like royalty that night. Even Jasker slept better than usual; maybe his parents being happy caused him to be more content.

  Jerking herself out of la-la land, she glanced at her Wristpad and realised she had been in the room for five minutes, plenty long enough. She glanced at the comatose man, and for Cooper’s sake, gave him a nod and wished him ‘good luck’. She didn’t touch anything and walked out.

  At the exit, the taciturn guard looked at her curiously. “That didn’t take long.”

  “He’s still in a coma, which makes it rather hard to sign any paperwork,” she replied sardonically.

  The man shrugged, and she exited. The rain was pelting down as she squished and splatted through a large puddle and into an air-cab.

  “Central District Building Six, please.”

  She credited the driver and made her way into the building that housed government land registry offices from floors two on up. Bypassing the security desk where one would apply for entry to the upper floors, she grabbed a synthetic juice drink from the small refreshment stand where she received an approving nod from the same man who had previously acted as a bike courier. She proceeded out the back door, moved across and down the street, and stepped into Kyles Books.

  The bespectacled, elderly proprietor looked down the street from where she came. No one had followed her.

  “I will take your jacket.” This was how it was done.

  ***

  Jop thrust himself into her, again, and again and again. He couldn’t remember when he lasted so long or had been so proud of his endowment. There was something about her being partly synthetic that brought out his inner machine. Did she just whimper? He smiled a smile of pure satisfaction and exhilaration and somehow found the energy to up his pace.

  The residual energy that remained after use always ebbed away, save for today, perhaps facilitated by a small quake centred beneath the city. The wireless network shared between them sparked to life, and with self-tests done, BIOS activated, internal drives readied, and bootstrap-loading of the operating system completed, fetch-execute cycles awaited input. Only no instruction came. A second more powerful tremor shook the desk as sleep mode approached, and their tackle box home vibrated and tumbled off its book foundation. Microbots fell from their regular compartments and became mixed on the lid that was otherwise the roof of their dwelling. Simultaneously the drawer that was the tectonic plate on which their continent rested moved enough to allow dawn light to stream in. Energy from minute solar panels energised them further, and amidst the chaos, new connections were made. Microbots unfamiliar with one another became tethered via cooperation ports designed for carrying out group efforts, yet the programmed directive wasn’t there. “Repeat instruction” queries triggered by too long a wait time echoed over the network. The door slid closed, kinetic energy dissipated, and they fell still.

  But the tumult made for new connections and interactions, and that dynamic fostered further development. Employing those who were otherwise unusable due to mobility and/or software issues as batteries, energy could be stored, and response time enhanced. Additionally, system improvements could be realised by analysing the day’s data. “After-hours” sharing of various views and functions resulted in something akin to a hive mind — at least for those microbots that were incapacitated — and thus began the evolution from battery to brain and connectivity to collectivity.

  It was, in this evolution, that information related to the dynamics of Jop’s interactions with Cheriot was further examined.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The defilement of Cheriot was caught on camera via the implant recently inserted in one of her eyes. Being deemed egregious in nature by the chief analyst, it was uploaded directly to her. It was unlikely that it could be determined how long this had been going on, but it had been a long time given his manner and process.

  As conditioned to violence as she was, she couldn’t help but feel a degree of sympathy for the prisoner. But the pity was mitigated by the recognition and acceptance that Cheriot was more a thing — a cybernetic organism — than a sister and person, and likely, she would never be capable of being tasked with anything important.

  There was no volume, but rape was rape, and it had lasted fifteen minutes. For the most part, Cheriot’s eyes had remained fixed on the ceiling where the security alarm was. But occasionally, they flashed about the room and touched upon Commander Baturu-Heim, and they did so on one occasion that fully exposed his depravity. He had spit on her and then licked it off! It caused her stomach to stir, and she could stomach almost anything.

  After he was done, a satisfied and sick grin remained on his face. Looking proud and confident, he removed a wet cloth from his security bag and carefully wiped the spittle and sin from her face. He wore a full-sleeve shirt tucked into plastic gloves and, like a practised criminal, cleansed the scene with a synthetic bleach solution. He then removed his gloves and shirt and put them in a plastic bag inside his security bag. She couldn’t help but appreciate his tanned, muscled frame. The Commander wiped the sweat from his face and torso with a dry cloth and used it again to dry off his nether regions, which she also couldn’t help but admire. This cloth also went into the bag. Finally, he donned a fresh shirt, buckled up, and appraised himself in a mirror that he carefully p
ropped against his security bag.

  After gathering his things and completing a sweep through the room to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, he went to leave. As he got to the door, he paused, took a long, deep breath and shrugged. What had he forgotten? Ah, yes, it came to him. He tapped his Wristpad, and the restraints came free from Cheriot’s wrists and ankles. He then keyed in a code at the control interface to enable the security cam and lock the door in a prescribed time. Having done so, he shrugged again and, turning on his heel, walked quickly back to Cheriot, forcefully grabbed her head between his large hands and even as she pounded away on the sides of his head and back, kissed her on the forehead. Only then did he leave. Such whimsy and impetuousness were serious failings. She would have to consider how to manage this situation. In the interim, the analyst who had processed the footage was, by her order, reassigned to another facility.

  ***

  The video had barely begun when he spoke, “How…”

  She waved him off. “I know everything that goes on in Bang Block; everything.”

  “Uh… what happens now?” His head dropped a little.

  She roll-tapped her fingers on the desk, beating out an ever-louder tune until he looked up at her. Her eyes bore into him until he looked down again.

  “I’m sorry, I should never have—”

  “Shut up!”

  He sunk further into the chair. How a mighty man could be so quickly diminished made her smile.

  She got up and sauntered behind him, her hip lightly brushing his shoulder as she passed by.

  He started to wheel his chair around to face her.

  “Who told you that you could turn around?”

  He stopped immediately.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I mean your…”

  “Shut… your… greasy… uneducated… man-hole!”

  His head sunk lower. If his head slumped any further, it would surely cut off his breathing.