We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  “These are cookies.” She hadn’t seen or eaten cookies since she was a small child; there was hardly any wheat left in this region, and anyway everyone was so preoccupied with using their resources to meet nutritional quotas that luxuries like cookies had largely been abandoned. Where had Dataran gotten them?

  “Yes,” Glenn agreed, regarding them solemnly. “Cookies.” After a moment of processing, he added, “The custom of offering food to a victim of illness has great historical meaning. I believe it indicates well wishes. Nourishment for a speedy recovery.”

  “Yes,” Park said. “But they’re hideous.” The cookies were huge, misshapen, each the size of a cow pat—and worse, they were a lurid pink. Was it some kind of joke?

  “They’re not poisoned,” Glenn said, squinting as he flipped through different analysis lenses. “They’re mainly composed of acorn flour. And beets, for sugar. That’s where the color comes from. They’re safe to eat.”

  That’s not my concern, Park wanted to say, but then he would ask what her concern was, and she wouldn’t know how to explain it to him. Wasn’t sure what it was herself. She felt suddenly shy of him, or guilty. Glenn commented, lightly enough: “He cares about you.”

  “I suppose,” Park said in dismay. Watching her face, he added in a bland voice, “I’ll let you rest.”

  Then, before exiting, he stopped and looked back at her. In the thin, watery light he looked too solid, like a sculpture or a rock. “If you require it, I can bake cookies,” Glenn said. “I’ve downloaded the recipes.”

  “I know,” Park said, still staring at them. “But I don’t have any desire for them.”

  “Then should I throw those away?”

  “No,” answered Park. “I’ll use them as paperweights.”

  She scanned Glenn’s face for a flicker of a reaction: sadness, amusement, jealousy, fear. Nothing, she thought; his face stayed as smooth as slate. If he had any thoughts about Dataran showing up at their door, he didn’t show it. He only said, “I understand,” and shut the door behind him again. The little folding screen felt like the door of a closing vault.

  Dataran must have baked the cookies himself, Park decided later, trying to gnaw her way through one. It must have been his first time. The cookies were tasteless, crumbly, greasy—she felt as if she were swallowing sawdust. It wasn’t the right thing for such warm weather, or for treating sickness. The pieces scraped against her throat on the way down. There was a slow burn in her chest, a molten bubbling in her heart—probably from whatever fat he’d used. Eating more was liable to make her feel worse. She did feel worse. She felt poisoned.

  She forced herself to eat every last one.

  Then she slept.

  * * *

  —

  New Diego was one of the only biodomes that was positioned on the water. Nearly all of the biodomes had moved out to the coast, where the claustrophobic press of the Comeback could be edged off by the sea, but few had managed to actually build a city on the waves. There were many advantages to having a floating biodome, but one factor Park suspected the builders of not considering was the fact that humans had always lived on land. There were natural anxieties, inborn agitations, that came with living constantly on the water—even if the biodome itself was as steady as anything, never rocking or moving with the waves. The inhabitants of the dome were surrounded by the vast loneliness of the ocean. The mind imposed feelings of paranoia, of unsafety, when it was confronted with so much boundless, unobstructed space. Everything was so penetrable and wide open. There was nothing to retreat to, to visually latch onto, aside from the distant shore. You could never really feel “at home.”

  At night Park had dreams that her apartment-module would detach from the rest of the city while she slept, that it would somehow simply float away. When she was a child this fear could be alleviated by having Sally or Glenn sit with her; it was a comfort to know that they were standing guard, that they could hold onto her. But now she was too old to have Glenn stay in her room. She often woke up in the dark with a deep sense of loss. Sometimes she even found herself holding her own body in a death-grip, afraid to open her eyes and find that she was alone, her bed bobbing on dark and alien waves. There would be nothing to anchor her.

  She would be lost and adrift at sea.

  * * *

  —

  Glenn woke Park the next morning, shaking her lightly. She woke with a start, drawing a gasping breath as if he’d dunked her in an ice bath.

  “What?” she said, staring up at him. “What is it?”

  “You can’t go to school,” Glenn said, towering over her. “It’s unsafe.”

  Park sat up. “What are you talking about? What’s unsafe?”

  “The rioters,” he said. His face contorted, running through a gamut of interface expressions so that his features looked blurry. “Dataran has been destroyed.”

  For a moment Park didn’t speak; then she swung her legs off the bed and heaved herself upright. Glenn caught her elbow, and Park said again, “What are you talking about?”

  “The rioters,” Glenn repeated tonelessly. “They destroyed him. It’s on the newsfeeds now.”

  “He’s—dead?”

  “In the strictest sense of the word, yes.”

  What did that mean? Park wanted to shout. But she forced herself to slow down, to analyze his words, as she so often had to do with Glenn. Rioters had killed Dataran? But why? Had he gotten involved with them in some way? The idiot must have provoked a crowd, maybe stated some unpopular opinions about androids; there’d been a significance to their exchange about them the other day, to the way he so easily corralled Ms. Allison. Or maybe Glenn was wrong.

  Her temples were pounding. “They’ve never killed a human before,” Park said, trying to work it out. “The rioters—they’ve been arrested? Who were they?”

  “No,” Glenn said. “They didn’t kill a human.”

  “But Dataran—”

  “They didn’t kill a human,” Glenn said again. The look he gave her splashed cold throughout Park’s body, like contact with a dentist’s drill.

  She faltered. “So—Dataran is—”

  All right, she meant to say. So he’s not dead. He’s all right. But she couldn’t get the words out.

  Glenn just looked at her.

  “I don’t understand,” Park said.

  “You should,” Glenn said simply. Calmly. “Anti-robot rioters have no reason to harm humans. They only target androids.”

  “Androids,” Park echoed. Croaked, rather—all the moisture had been sucked out of her mouth. “So Dataran was—”

  “Yes,” he said resignedly. “He is—was—an android. One far more advanced than I am. And I consider myself a leading standard of the industry.”

  She felt as if the floor was dropping away from her; the blood was sliding out of her face and hands, leaving her as weak and rubbery as a newborn. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Dataran was—he was posing as a human? A human student? A human boy?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “He requested that I not say anything.”

  “You didn’t think it important to tell me, anyway?”

  “No,” Glenn said, with a look that was almost reproachful. “By my assessment, it wouldn’t matter.”

  But it would, Park thought, dizzily. It would matter more than anything. It still did.

  “And as I said, he was more advanced than I am,” Glenn continued. “There are—protocols to consider. In non-essential situations.”

  Non-essential situations? Park thought. What did that mean? Who was determining what was essential and what meant nothing? The androids themselves? “So, what,” she said slowly. “He had—seniority over you?”

  “Something like that,” Glenn answered. He looked grim. “His processing unit was generations ahead of mine. A unit of my grade—or lower—usually feels that it
’s most likely best to comply, even if we don’t . . . understand.”

  This was ludicrous, Park thought. She had never heard of any kind of hierarchy among robots, different levels of authority based on model numbers and generations. Deferences to be paid. She’d never seen two androids interact with each other in any way other than neutral. What Glenn was saying couldn’t possibly be true—that they were developing some kind of society, a culture of their own. There was no evidence for it. But then again, she was beginning to realize that she didn’t know anything.

  She said, “But why would he bother? Pretending to be human? You wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “It was a response to the protests,” Glenn said. “The anti-robot activism in the city. The design firm that created him wanted to disprove the naysayers who would oppose android integration into society. If they could prove that a sufficient amount of people were fooled—if the unit became well-liked—then the robotics companies could use that result to eliminate any argument against them. They could prove that humans and androids could indeed coexist.”

  “But he isn’t well-liked,” Park said desperately. Her throat felt like withered bark. “Wasn’t. I was the only one who talked to him.”

  At this she began to sink to the floor; Glenn caught her arms and sank with her. His face was still emotionless, impassive. At first she was almost appalled, but then her blood quickened: deep down, she knew why. Nobody meant anything to Glenn besides Park.

  “So he’s gone?” Park said. Her breathing was winded, as if she’d been struck. “Forever?”

  Glenn glanced at her bedside shelf, where her wrist console was lying unclasped. Park knew that if he were to turn on the screen, she’d see the familiar images: battered, dented limbs, straggling black wires like clumps of human hair. It was always the same.

  “Destroyed beyond repair,” Glenn said. “They were waiting for him on his route to your school.”

  “How did they know?” Park demanded. “Even I didn’t—know.”

  Glenn opened his hands a little, the android version of a shrug. “There was a leak,” he said. “There always is. Someone found the files about him, released it to the anti-robot activists. They reacted as one would expect them to react, after finding out there was a synthetic in their midst, posing as a human. The activists found him and tore him apart.”

  “Activists,” Park whispered. “Murderers.” But no, that was wrong—you couldn’t commit murder if the victim wasn’t alive to begin with. She felt as if she might cry. The hot, humid feeling was there behind her eyes. She was surprised by the strength of her reaction: she’d only known Dataran for a few days—and he hadn’t even been real. Not real in the way that she thought.

  But it didn’t matter. Now he was—

  “Gone,” Park said. She shut her eyes, feeling the truth of it close around her ribs like a harness that was attached to something far away. To something she couldn’t see. Soon enough it would yank, and then it would be dragging her along, to places unknown. “He’s gone,” she said. “It’s all gone. Isn’t it?”

  Before she could speak again, Glenn was kneeling, placing his arms carefully around her. Gently, deliberately, he touched his forehead to hers. His cold, strong hand came to rest on the crown of her head. This close, his voice sounded as if it began not in his throat, but in his body, like a heartbeat or a voice speaking from deep underground. He said, in a deep, rich tone that she had never heard before: “It’s all right, Grace. Nothing’s gone. I’m here. I always will be.”

  That was all. When she opened her eyes again, Glenn had left the room. But later, she would always remember that moment, tucking it away in her memory, drawing it out and taking slow sips of it during hard times—making sure that she never drank it too fast or had it all run out. She had to save it, to tide herself over: Glenn never did anything like that ever again. But Park didn’t mind. Looking back, she understood it better. Why that bright, hard moment stayed with her. Into adulthood, even into space.

  Glenn was just showing her the truth of things. There was always that fear of drowning. But he was showing her the way to survive: hardness, endurance, the brisk efficiency of something that outlasted sentimentality. She understood it; understood who he was to her, at last. If she was in danger of sinking, she couldn’t hold on to something soft, something mushy and yielding. She needed to have something solid, or else she would be lost to the waves.

  10.

  [You asked, so here it is:

  3 large Roundup-Resistant3 beets, thoroughly washed

  2 large Snowdrop potatoes, sliced into bite-sized cubes

  1 bulb of oil

  1 medium Unyun, finely chopped

  2 Toutsweet carrots, grated

  ½ head of Kabbage, finely chopped

  1 can kidney beans with juice

  10 bulbs water

  6 bulbs chikin broth

  5 strips ketchup leather

  1 bulb Lemmon juice

  ¼ spoon pepper paste

  Add all ingredients to a Moley Kitchen Assembler and set to INTUIT.

  You were right: Alex’s old recipes are still in the server. I’ve downloaded them all to bring with us. We will have to make this when we join you, yes? There will be time when we settle into our new home. We are ready. Andrei is standing by with his ship—big enough to hold us and the families of all your friends. We can leave any day. We are waiting for your word. I hope to God we can pull this off.

  Love,

  S.S.]

  VIDEO LOG #24—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 5: 13:43 UTO

  [The videostream starts up again in a dark, cramped room, presumably back aboard the ship. Small, outdated monitors hang from the ceiling. In view, there’s the upper part of a white, bunk-like object. It looks to be an ISEKEI medical pod, model and generation unknown. Fin Taban is slumped on the floor next to the pod, still in his exo-armor and helmet. There’s the sound of sloshing. A suspended shape (Daley’s) is lying supine beneath the darkened glass of the pod, being churned around in the liquid like an old rag.]

  [Taban slowly eases himself up to look at the readouts on the medical pod.]

  HARE: Would you like me to play music?

  Taban: No.

  HARE: Understood.

  Taban: Thanks.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  HARE: I have other selections that are better suited to your tastes.

  Taban: Still no. I’m not a big fan of—robot singing, or whatever it is.

  HARE: Stellar-synth. It converts the wavelengths of nearby stars into sound. Many people enjoy it.

  Taban: Yeah, well, I don’t. Sorry. (tapping on glass) Daley? Can you hear me?

  HARE: USER Daley is still unconscious.

  Taban: His eyes are open. I can’t fucking read these monitors. My inlays are useless.

  HARE: Do you require assistance?

  Taban: What do you think?

  HARE (processors whirring): I am unable to answer your query at this point in time.

  Taban: (kneading his temples) . . . Just tell me what it says, please.

  HARE (focusing on medical pod readout, which blurs with electrical interference): System relay of nitrous oxide and oxygen. Intravenous supply of Rad-X. Symptoms of patient: decelerated heart rate, catatonia, increased neural activity—

  Taban: Will he be okay?

  HARE: USER Daley has a 62% chance of recovery, if given the proper treatment protocols.

  Taban (removing his helmet): I don’t know those.

  HARE: You are not required to. The medical pod will administer.

  Taban (running hand over face): Oh. Good. Good. I, uh—I don’t have any medical training besides CPR. You’d think they’d require that for this job.

  HARE (examining readout): USER Daley has a preexisting heart
condition.

  Taban: Yeah. I know. (pulling off his gloves) Jesus. Look at me. My hands—

  HARE: Do you require medical assistance?

  Taban: No, I’ll be fine. I was just—scared. I thought he was going to die. If you hadn’t come back so fast and helped—I didn’t even know you had medical programming.

  HARE: Even the oldest HARE models do.

  Taban: Guess that makes sense. You could be rescue operatives in hostile environments and such. Keep victims stable until help arrives. Kind of like St. Bernards, with the stupid barrels of rum around their necks.

  HARE (processing): I don’t understand.

  Taban: Never mind. Just—thank you. For saving him. If he had died, we would have been stuck on this planet forever.

  HARE (processing): You do not have flight training.

  Taban: That’s right. And the comm system is out, so . . . we’d be on our own. Daley is our only ticket out of here.

  HARE: I can help repair the communications system.

  Taban: Yeah. I’ve thought about that.

  [He rises to his feet and exits the ship’s tiny medical bay, leaving Daley behind. After stripping off his armor and letting it crumple to the ground, he moves to the cockpit and sits in his usual seat, setting his feet up on the dashboard and breaking open a bulb of coffee. The HARE squats down beside him.]

  Taban (blowing on his bulb): I wonder how he’ll act, when he wakes up.

  HARE: USER Daley?

  Taban: Yeah. He hates you. Treats you like the sorriest hunk of junk in the universe. But you saved him. (drinking) I just wonder if he’ll acknowledge it, or keep calling you a clunker. No offense.

  HARE: I have not acquired ‘offense.’

  Taban: Good. A thick skin can only help you in this business.

  HARE: Understood.

  Taban (drinking): . . .

  Taban: . . . Not that I would know, I guess. I talk like I’m some kind of veteran, but this was my first-ever send-out and delivery. Some luck for a first-timer, huh?