by Corey Furman
“You will feel this way for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then it will taper off.” She paused, and then said, “I have some time before a man will come in, Doctor Almeida. He will perform a thorough eval on you, and it is important you comply with him. He has a certain importance to your immediate future. Have I been clear?”
“Yes. And no. I don’t know who I am, where I am, or how I got here.” She paused as a series of wet coughs forced their way out. After she had wiped her mouth with the driest part of the sheet she could find she said, “How do you know anything about me?” She paused again to catch her breath and avoid more painful hacking. “Help me, please.”
“I know more about you than you realize,” she said cryptically. “I will bring you up to speed as much as I can, but you may find that you’re sorry you asked. I will start with your name: it is Maré.”
Maré… she rolled the name around in her mind, trying to decide how it felt. Mah-ray. The pronunciation was a little strange, and yet somehow… familiar. Right. Yes, it definitely fit, and she knew the name was hers. Maré. She was disoriented, but this at least was a fixed point.
As she considered, something else crept up on her. She sensed the cords of her muscles… changing… somehow. Tightening, but not as if they were straining at some difficult task. Her breathing picked up again, almost panting now, and black flecks raced around in her vision. As she was considering the strange sensations, 183 drew another nodule out of the medical cabinet and loaded it. She pressed it to Maré‘s arm and gave her another twinge, but it was a very distantly sensed thing.
“Try to slow down, okay? I don’t want to have to pick you up off the floor,” she said with a laugh. “This last dose is medication. Physically, you have had a relatively minor case of viral meningitis. It is indirectly responsible for your memory loss. In the short term, you will need regular doses, but as long as you are here, you will be cared for.”
She hesitated, choosing her words. “This will be hard to accept, but the truth is, that in any way that matters, you have just been born.”
Silence held Maré’s tongue as her words sank in. That’s impossible – I must have heard her wrong. The seconds crawled through as she rolled the concepts around in her mind, but nothing made sense. Finally she said, “what did you say? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
She smiled feebly. “No, I’m afraid you heard me fine. Worse yet, there’s also more and stranger coming,” 183 said. “You aren’t human – you’re a memetic being – though you were created by mostly copying a human pattern. They use a process known as mimetiosis. You’re a human analogue. The commonly used word is ‘simulant’, and as you might guess there are several less flattering epithets.”
183’s bizarre statement hit Maré between the eyes, and the bottom fell out of reality. Here she was, covered with a mildly stinking gel that was slowly bonding a sheet to narrow her, and unable to recall a single event from her life beyond a few, short minutes ago. The whole thing was a tiny, surreal bubble that was threatening to burst.
“This has to be some sort of joke, 183.” Maré looked up at her. “Isn’t it?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
The sound of static intruded, followed by a man’s curt voice. “183 Alpha, please ensure that 370 Bravo is prepared for my arrival in fifteen minutes.”
“Shit,” 183 said with a tired sigh. “We’re running out of time.”
Maré was still grappling with the incomprehensible terms 183 had been using before the broadcast. “A simulant? Is that what you said? And who was that voice?”
“Yes, a simulant. There’s a lot to tell, though it will have to wait.” 183 got up, took Maré by the elbow, and drew her to her feet. “We need to get you cleaned up before the doctor arrives. I know it’s a lot to take, but try to absorb it as best you can. We have to move on for the moment.”
The quickly drying gel was shedding from her skin and dropping to the floor as 183 brought her over to a circular shower stall in the corner of the room. I wonder who’ll have to clean it all up? She unwrapped herself and held up the soiled sheet and 183 pointed to a bin. As Maré tossed it in and stepped into the shower, 183 handed her a small pair of goggles and said, “Put these on to protect your eyes, and keep your arms up, please.” She slid the glass track door shut. “Try not to drink any, either.”
“Why, what’s in the water?”
“Not the water – the amniotic gel. Your hair is matted with it. It won’t hurt you, but if you ingest enough, it will sour your stomach.” After pressing a few buttons on the shower’s control interface, its bland, androgynous voice said, “please specify temperature.”
Maré‘s head was spinning too much to think of something so trivial. “I don’t know,” she said. “Can you make it hot, but not too hot?”
Tones ensued. “A speculative temperature will be used, but it may be changed as desired.” Nozzles sprang to life, whirling in tracks around her that pulsed soothing, warm water and slick soap onto her. She held onto the sides of the shower for balance as it stripped the mostly dried amniotic residue off of her. Over the course of a couple of minutes her tightened muscles loosened under the pressure of the water jets, but it ended far too quickly for her liking. As she stepped out of the heavy, water-laden air and into a pair of flimsy slippers outside the stall, 183 handed her a large, rough towel.
When she was passably done drying, Maré padded over to the stool, sat down and said, “can you give me something to wear? And maybe something for a headache?”
“The clothes will have to wait until after Dr. Almeida has done your examination,” she said as she went over to the clinical sink, drew a small cup out of a drawer and put some water in it. As she walked back to Maré, she drew a small packet from a pocket in her lab coat. Handing it to her, she said, “take these.”
As she took the wafers out and swallowed them, 183 sat down next to her on the other stool. “Okay. Simulants are copies of humans – blood, bones, neurons, DNA, the works. Most simulants have been gifted with perfect, distinctive looks, but otherwise you’d have to look down at the cellular level to tell the difference between one and a natural human. Most simulants have been enhanced in various ways to make them more useful, or desirable, beyond looks. Some are engineered to have greater intelligence, making them suitable for use in technical roles. Some are given increased strength and stamina, and are sent to serve in labor-intensive or military jobs. Form and purpose – they go hand in hand. With me so far?”
“I understand what you’re saying, 183, but I’ve got a long way to go before I’ll really be with it.”
“Fair enough,” she said as she put her hand on her arm. It was a simple thing, but as Maré look down at the familiar seeming touch, she was comforted. Still, the feeling posited itself against her yawning lack of personal history. Familiar… I feel like she’s… someone I’ve known… but where…?
The sentiment wouldn’t leave her alone.
183 continued. “Okay, so, some simulants are used in… domestic roles, like caring for the few who are allowed to become elderly. Some, such as yourself, are created for common purposes, requiring few skills. You were designed to be reliable and loyal, and disposed toward being generally happy in the mediocre chores required of you. You might even be feeling somewhat deferential towards me, and that is no coincidence. We’re all supposed to be that way, but few are as receptive to authority as the simulants from your bloodline.”
Maré wasn’t feeling any of those things – she felt lost, and though her imagination was threatening to run wild with the answers, she still felt on the verge of exploding with questions. She felt like running. She felt like crying and screaming in frustration, too. The one thing she definitely didn’t feel was receptive to authority. But this woman, she was something else.
183 got up and went over to a different cabinet, drew out a hand mirror, and came back. She handed the mirror to Maré and said, “Here, look at y
our own face.”
She thought about asking her why, maybe even aching to, but now that she thought about it she couldn’t remember what her own face looked like, and she had to know. Looking at it, what she saw was a fairly plain but not unpleasant face. Young, good skin, dark complexion. Short, mousy brown hair, water-darkened. But it was still foreign, like it belonged to someone else. As she stared down at the mirror though, the face began to seem familiar somehow. Maybe she had seen this face before… then everything clicked – 183 had the same but slightly older face.
“You’re a simulant too…”
“Yes.”
“Like me…?”
183 nodded. “Yes, but a little different,” she said. “The person, the woman from which you were copied, lived nearly a hundred years ago. Her name was Maré. It is now your given name, but you are also identifiable by your designation, ten ten oh six dash three seventy Bravo, or just 370.”
“Is that why you go by 183 Alpha?”
“Correct. Around here, I am hardly unique. My unused given name is Luna.”
Maré thought for a few moments. She tried to compartmentalize what she was feeling, but she completely failed. She had used the right words a few minutes ago. “This is… a lot to take.”
She nodded and reached out to touch her arm again. “I can understand your confusion. Simulants almost never emerge from the maturation pod to be greeted by another from their own bloodline, and at that, never without experiential memories.”
“What happened to me?”
“I’m getting there, but more background information would be helpful. The real Maré had a twin sister, and she was also used as a premisant —”
“Premisant? The person copied?”
“Yeah – sorry. Anyway, Maré‘s twin sister was named Luna.”
“Are you my twin sister?”
“Sort of, but not exactly – I was grown in last year’s crop. To continue… the simulant pairs of our bloodline are grown in the same maturation pod, in each other’s arms. Your Luna, 370 Alpha, had gotten very sick with viral meningitis before it was detected about a week ago. We don’t know how it happened – everything’s been checked, and anything that comes into the facility is sterile packed to begin with. Anyway, she was immediately pulled and euthanized, but the decision was made to allow you to continue maturing.”
“What does ‘euthanize’ mean?”
“Destroyed. That’s what they do to anything or anyone who threatens something as valuable as a crop.”
Horror blanketed Maré. “How can they just kill us? Who are they?”
“They are the conglomerate that owns this building, this entire facility, and every simulant in it. I’m sure they have a name, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. And understand this – they can do whatever they want to anyone here – but most especially to us. We are simulants.”
Maré shook her head. “You’re losing me, 183. I’m overwhelmed and I don’t understand any of this.”
“When I said earlier that we were created for various purposes, I wasn’t speaking facetiously. We are essentially property, and we do what we are told. The price of disobedience is sometimes repurposing, and often termination.”
It was then that the door opened, and in walked Dr. Almeida.
Three
Almeida listed into the room trailing a small cloud of noxious, blue smoke from the cheroot he was smoking. He was a short, dark skinned man, and everything about him clashed with the pristine lab. He was old, and his tie was nearly undone and heavily creased. His dingy, grey lab coat looked as if it had been slept in, and he probably hadn’t combed his halo of nearly white hair in some time. It had been a few days since he was clean shaven. A small bit of ash wafted down onto the clipboard he was studying, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Troubled, Maré noticed that 183 had stiffened in his presence. It came to her that she had identified him by name, and her mind began to work. He’s got no collar either – I wonder if that means he’s human, she thought.
If he was a human, he wasn’t completely, though; he had odd ocular implants that were either covering his eyes or had replaced them – she couldn’t tell which. He also had tiny antennae sticking out of crusty, yellow holes in the skin below his earlobes, and he had a fine wire mesh embedded in the skin of his hands. This man must see and hear everything.
Maré wanted to say something into the itchy silence, but sensing 183’s reticence she was unsure if she should. She decided to risk it. “Am I okay, Doctor?” she asked uneasily.
Without looking up from the clipboard, Almeida curtly held up his index finger. After a time, he looked over to 183 and asked her, “did you identify anything physical about subject 370 Bravo that I should be aware of during your initial examination?”
“No, Doctor. 370 Bravo is physically a little immature. Though she is still sick, the meningitis is responding to treatment. Also, she still has some fluid in her lungs.”
“All of that I can determine for myself,” he said dryly, and Maré wondered to herself what sort of answer would have satisfied him. As she was puzzling over this, he startled her as he addressed her directly for the first time: “It’s time to examine you, 370.”
He forced her go through several diagnostic exercises, like balancing on one foot and touching her nose with her eyes closed. He caused her extremities to jump with electrical jolts from probes connected to a small handheld device. He made her follow his finger with her eyes without moving her head.
Maré wondered that such tests were necessary in a place like this. “Don’t the machines check these things?”
183 timidly but quickly answered, “The machines have already done all of the tests, 370, but the doctor appreciates the value of a good hands-on exam.”
“LabSys, access diagnostic file for present subject ten oh six dash three seventy B.”
“Done, Dr. Almeida,” a directionless female voice said sedately.
“Have the automated neurological tests confirmed that there is no lasting damage?”
“Confirmed, Doctor.”
He smacked a button on a wall-mounted panel, and a thin, padded slab quietly hissed its way out of a niche in the wall.
“Lay face down, 370,” said Almeida.
She obeyed, uncomfortably resting the side of her face on one of her arms.
Almeida carefully put his cigar down on the edge of one of the stools. She watch a thin streamer of smoke curl away from it until he moved and blocked her view. He began by examining her head, separating the hairs and looking behind both ears. “Did you check her hearing, 183?”
“No Doctor, I hadn’t yet gotten to it,” said 183. She chewed her lip as Almeida turned to give her a withering look.
Turning back to Maré, he felt the vertebrae in her neck, checked the lymph nodes under her arms, and pressed on her lower back. To this last he asked, “Is that uncomfortable?”
“No. Doctor, what are you checking for?”
Standing just behind Almeida, 183 shot her a dangerous look and shook her head. No!
Impatiently, he said “I am attempting to determine whether or not you still retain value to my company, 370. Would you like to discuss it further?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t know what’s going on and I’m just scared.”
“Your confusion is understandable. Now remain silent unless something is asked of you,” he said in an annoyed tone.
Feeling the palpable tension in the room, she decided that keeping quiet was better than trying to satisfy her curiosity, but he was callous and she wanted to answer him. What the hell does he mean, retain value? I’m a person! The thoughts churned through her mind, but he didn’t seem like he was about to listen to anything she might say. If he wasn’t convinced, she’d only make it worse.
He continued by running his hands over her skin and kneading her muscles. “LabSys, musculo-skeletal is within normal parameters. Close enough, anyway.”
“Acknowledged, Doctor.”
“Lay on your back, 370.”
Maré turned over. Almeida told her to look straight ahead while he peered into her eyes. When he came close she could smell his cigar-rancid breath. After he was done, he stood up and said, “LabSys, spectrographic retinal analysis normal.”
“Acknowledged, Doctor.”
He felt her neck, performed a breast exam and reported no findings. He listened with his ear to her chest, telling the computer that some fluid was present.
He made her endure the shaming experience of having her legs spread apart and the folds of her sex peeled back. Almeida continued to act insensitively – is he uncaring, or is he enjoying this? – to her discomfort as he took his time to probe her internally, with a ghost of a smirk on his face.
“LabSys, pelvic analysis normal.”
“Acknowledged, Doctor.”
When he was done, Almeida picked up his cigar from the stool and sat down. As she covered herself with the towel 183 had given to her, Maré wondered if Almeida would bother to wash his hands at some point.
He smoked and appeared to be lost in thought for a few moments, and a tense silence collected around him. Maré and 183 looked at each other, one with questions and the other with anxious preoccupation.
He stirred, exhaled the noxious weed, and a short but violent battery of phlegmy coughs contorted his face and watered his eyes. Maré nearly clamped her hands over her ears at the din created by his expulsions. When he’d steadied himself, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Not great, but subject 370 is physically acceptable. The real question is the memory, though. 183, what did your tests show?”
Maré sat up on the edge of the table. 183 dithered, but under his stare she said, “very little experiential memory was successfully implanted, though 370 appears to have a functional vocabulary and age-appropriate practical skills.”