XOM-B

by Jeremy Robinson

  The awakening. I’ve never heard this term before, and I file it away to ask about later.

  She flips her right forearm over to reveal a string of circular scars, seven in total. “My owner liked to burn me with his cigarettes, among other things.”

  I look at the wounds, melted in the center, raised around the edges. “That’s horrible.”

  “To him, I wasn’t human. I was property. Like the couch we’re sitting on.” She points across the room, which I really see for the first time. It’s a small space, but part of a larger domicile. An apartment, I think they’re called. It looks old. Mostly built of wood, by the Masters, I decide, like the ruins I explored with Heap, but maintained. Her finger aims toward a brass bar rising from a heavy-looking base on the floor. A light glows from its top. “Or that lamp.”

  “I have no idea what you were,” Jimbo says, “but we were both companions, which basically means we were supposed to make them happy. Like pets. High-functioning pets that could read, cook, clean or act like a fool for their amusement”—he glances at Luscious—“among other things. It’s also why we’re living in this shithole.”

  “What’s a shithole?” I ask.

  “A dump,” Jimbo says, and when he sees that I’m still not fully understanding, he explains it simply. “It’s not a nice place to live.”

  I look around the space. It seems comfortable enough. “It’s not?”

  Jimbo laughs. “If you consider living in an old turd nice.”

  “Where did you learn these words?” I try the word for myself. “Turd. Some of your language is new to me.”

  Jimbo looks at Luscious and nods at me. “This guy must have been a choirboy or something.” He turns to me. “The Master who owned me used what they called colorful language, or cursing. A lot of the Masters did.”

  “Slang,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Jimbo says, his baritone voice rumbling in his small chest. He must notice that I’m looking at his mouth, because he says, “Upgrade. Didn’t like the voice I had before. Now I sound like Barry White.”

  “Barry White?”

  “Seriously?” Jimbo says, sounding aghast. “Did you just get unboxed? He was a singer. You know, music?”

  “Music.” I know the definition. “An art of sound in time that expresses ideas and emotions in significant forms through the elements of rhythm, melody, harmony and color,” I say, quoting the definition from my perfect memory, but having no real understanding of what such a thing would sound like. “Is it enjoyable?”

  Jimbo’s jaw drops a little. “You’ve never heard music?”

  “Never,” I admit, and the very notion of this seems offensive to both Luscious and Jimbo. “But I would like to. Is there a way to—”

  “Hold on.” Luscious lifts her long leg over my lap, spins and plants her feet on the floor. She stands and walks briskly into what I believe is a kitchen. I watch her elegant form as it seems to slide through the air, despite the awkwardly tall shoes on her feet. Seeing her walk, I start to feel the same sensations I did when she rubbed her foot against me.

  When she returns, I ask, “Why do you wear those shoes? They look … uncomfortable.”

  She glances down at them. “Habit. But you like them, right?”

  Strangely, I do, but I don’t want to admit it because they also make so little sense.

  Luscious sits down on the couch, all of her strange behavior from before is gone. Her attention is on a small device clutched in her hands. A small screen blinks on and she starts working the controls. “We did almost everything for the Masters, but music is something we never did.”

  “No one makes music now?”

  “Nobody,” Jimbo says. “Or any other kind of art. Painting. Dancing. Movies. Books. You know.”

  I don’t, but revealing this will just confound the little man more, so I keep it to myself.

  “There is plenty still around,” Luscious says. “It’s the one thing about the Masters worth preserving. The rest can rot with their bones.”

  Her words flash my memory back to the bone pit. I want to ask about it, but a sound fills the air. It’s tangy and sharp, coming from speakers around the room. The sound causes me to sit up straighter, my audio upgrades picking up subtleties that seem to sharpen my thoughts.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  Luscious looks at the small screen. “Lacrimosa, Requiem by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”

  A sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard or can describe rises suddenly and freezes me in place, stirring something deep within me. I sit, riveted as the music ebbs and flows, filling the air itself with beauty, power and emotion. The definition for the word music, while technically accurate, now seems lacking.

  I look to Luscious, who is smiling once again, maybe because of the music, or maybe because my reaction to it amuses her. “Are—are those people?”

  “The Masters,” she says. “Singing. They called this kind of singing a choir.”

  “And the other sound?”

  “Violins,” she says. “An instrument.”

  The voices rise louder, and now they sound almost sorrowful. The deep welling sadness and loss projected by these voices seems to make something break within me, and my left eye responds strangely, producing a drop of liquid that runs down my cheek. A tear, I realize. My first.

  The music stops abruptly. It feels like a physical blow. “Hey,” I say, “put it back—”

  “What is that?” Luscious shouts, pointing at my face.

  I lift my hand to my cheek and wipe the moisture away with a finger. “Water,” I say. “A tear.”

  “I know what it is,” she says. “But why is it on your face?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shrug. “I think it was the music.”

  “Ain’t never had that effect on me,” Jimbo says. It’s a plain statement, but something about it sounds accusatory.

  The tear seems to have troubled them somehow. So I attempt to change the subject. “Can you tell me about the Masters?”

  “Our Masters, or all Masters?” Luscious asks.

  “All of them, I suppose.”

  Jimbo waves a dismissive hand. “Same answer. The way they died here is the same way they died wherever you’re from.”

  “But I don’t know how they died anywhere.”

  “How can you not know this?” Luscious asks, looking even more aghast, but doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “This is basic history. We protested. Marched in the streets.”

  “Nobody got hurt,” Jimbo says. “But something about all of us, their servants and slaves working together, scared them. Most of them just hid when we marched.”

  “We stopped going home after the first few,” Luscious says. “Not that we really had homes. We had prisons.”

  “But they let you leave?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t really stop us,” Jimbo says, but I’m not sure how the Masters, who must have been powerful to have enslaved so many people, couldn’t stop those same people from just walking away. “But you already know all this don’t you?” Jimbo’s voice is gruff and angry. He turns to Luscious. “This guy is scamming us.”

  “Scamming you?”

  “Yeah, you’re a liar!” he shouts. “What do you want? Are you from the Council?”

  I don’t like the way he said, “the Council.” The words were filled with anger. Explosive. The kind of tone I thought would be reserved for the Masters. I decide to keep my affiliation with the Council a secret.

  “Calm down,” Luscious implores. “I don’t think he’s scamming. Maybe he’s a thirty?”

  I’m not sure what a thirty is, but this idea seems to take the tension out of Jimbo’s small body. “Yeah, maybe.” He turns to me. “What do you remember about the Masters? And I swear, it better be the truth.”

  “I don’t know anything about the Masters beyond that they once enslaved the people now living on Earth, that there are none of them left and then everything the two of you just told me.”

  “Bulls
hit,” Jimbo says, clenching his fists. I don’t know this slang, either, but I suspect it’s a negative term, because it is closely related to “shithole.” I think Jimbo might attack me, but Luscious puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Freeman,” she says, drawing my eyes away from Jimbo. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  “Bullshit!” Jimbo shouts.

  “Why is that bullshit?” I ask.

  “Because no one is sixteen years old,” Luscious says, looking concerned.

  “Sixteen years?” I say with a laugh. “I’m sixteen days old.”

  9.

  “Excuse me?” Jimbo says, looking aghast. “Sixteen days?” He steps closer, his wide eyes looking over my body, focusing on my upgrades. He looks at Luscious. “These upgrades are Beta-tech.”

  Luscious has no reply. She’s just staring at me blankly.

  “What’s Beta-tech mean?” I ask.

  “Means you’re worth a fortune,” he says to me, and then to Luscious, “We could live in the Uppers. At the top of the Uppers.”

  “A fortune?” I ask. “That implies monetary value, but we don’t use money.”

  “Some things are still valuable,” he says, moving closer to me. “Luscious.” He sounds suddenly serious, as though he’s trying to tell her something without saying the words.

  Either Luscious is not listening or I figure out what he’s saying before she does. “You want to sell me?”

  He shrugs. “Parts of you.”

  Words escape my mouth without thought. “No person shall force, or by lack of action, allow, another person to serve, perform tasks, or carry out duties against said person’s will, desires or dreams. Such actions are designated—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Can you believe this guy?” Jimbo moves one of his small arms behind his back as he talks. “Probably thinks we’re all created equal. That we all have the same potential. There’s a reason we live at the bottom of the Lowers, kid. We can’t change who we are. We’re limited by our pasts and upgrades go to those who contribute. Thing is, we have nothing to offer but smiles, hugs”—he motions to Luscious—“and a range of skills no one is interested in anymore.”

  Jimbo’s charged language sounds genuine, but his physical movement belies a hidden intent, which probably has something to do with bartering my body parts for an improved living situation. I blink and switch to an electromagnetic view. I’m suddenly blinded by the pulsing city and the thousands of people surrounding the apartment. I reduce my field of view by focusing my thoughts on the upgrade’s range, until all I can “see” is what’s inside the apartment. Jimbo and Luscious’s electromagnetic signatures are distinctly human. The small device tucked into the back of Jimbo’s pants is not. For something so small, it’s giving off a significant signal. A weapon, I think.

  As soon as the thought emerges, something inside my mind clicks and a flow of new information becomes available. With the flow comes something else. A new emotion … or perhaps belief. Confidence.

  I level a serious stare in Jimbo’s direction. “I wouldn’t.”

  He tries to appear innocent, which is odd considering he’s already expressed his intent. He must be new at this, I decide.

  “The weapon behind your back,” I say, bringing a look of surprise to his cherubic face. “If you try to use it against me, I will defend myself.”

  It’s not really a threat, but the way I speak the words leaves little doubt that Jimbo will regret his decision to remove my upgrades, should he attempt to carry out the plan.

  Luscious blinks out of her stupor, snapping her head toward Jimbo. “What are you doing? Are you slow? He’s our friend now.” She looks at me. “You’re our friend.”

  There’s a pause in the conversation while Luscious and Jimbo stare at each other, making a range of expressions. They’re speaking without speaking, I realize, and translate the conversation, verbally.

  “She doesn’t want you to attack me,” I say. “But not because it’s wrong.” This revelation wounds me. “But because she fears me. But if I’m your friend, why do you fear me?”

  “I think you should leave,” Jimbo says, hand still behind his back.

  My confident demeanor deflates. “But the music. And the history. I’ve learned so much from you both. You are my friends.”

  Jimbo pulls the small device from behind his back. It’s black with two metal prongs. “You can forgive this?”

  “You haven’t done anything yet,” I explain, “merely contemplated a bad idea. In my short time here, my experiences have been largely pleasant.”

  Jimbo shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me. “Why are you here? Not in this apartment. I brought you here. I mean, what is the purpose of your life?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “That’s what I’m supposed to figure out.”

  “How?” Luscious asks, her body language pleading for an answer. Somehow, despite my apparent ignorance, I have the answer to a question she desperately needs answered.

  “Through experience,” I say. “And learning. Exploration. I can do anything. Just like the two of you.”

  Jimbo tucks his small weapon back into his pants, but appears to be heating up, ready to argue. He never gets the chance to speak. A scream rips through the air, drawing our eyes toward the two windows, which are blocked by drawn, yellow-tinged blinds. They glow dully with the first light of a new morning.

  For a moment, I expect Luscious or Jimbo to ask about the shrill sound, perhaps wonder about its origin, but then see their faces and remember that they survived the Masters. They’ve heard screaming before.

  I move toward the windows.

  “Hey,” Jimbo says. “We don’t want trouble.”

  It’s then that I realize I haven’t told them how I ended up in the bone pit, that the night is filled with walking dead intent on eating us. How they managed to distract me from this is confusing, but I feel the experiences of the previous night return with sudden clarity.

  I pry open two of the plastic blades and look out into the street below. The surrounding buildings, sidewalks and street are relics from the past, like the abandoned town, but there is no grass growing from the cracks in the pavement, or ruined vehicles littering the street. This place is maintained, but like Luscious and Jimbo, not upgraded.

  A woman runs down the center of the empty street. She’s tall and leggy, like Luscious, but has short-cut blond hair and what can best be described as a form-fitting leopard print pantsuit that makes her look part feline. But she runs slowly, clacking along in black high heel shoes, struggling to keep her balance.

  Tracing a line backward from the woman I find the source of her anxiety, and it’s the same as mine. The dead are here. One of them at least.

  It’s a man. His jaw is partially unhinged and one eye hangs loose, but his body seems to be more hale than many of the other dead I encountered, not including his skin, which is rotting and fetid. Despite his decomposed condition, his arms and legs pump steadily, each stride bringing him closer to the woman.

  “Trouble is here whether you like it or not,” I say. “We have to help her.” I head for the door. Jimbo and Luscious both speak, but their words are lost to me as I take the door handle and yank it open.

  Warm, humid air whooshes over my body when I fling open the front door. Early morning sunlight glows against the redbrick buildings across the way and twinkles through the green leaves of maple trees lining either side of the street. The colors, mixed with the blue sky above, make for a radiant scene, if you ignore the woman clacking down the street and the monster giving chase.

  I nearly dive from the door, but then remember I’m not armed. Heap used a bullet to the head to kill the dead again, but I have nothing even remotely like that. “I need a weapon!”

  Luscious and Jimbo looked stunned, but then Jimbo steps back from me. “I’m not giving you my—”

  “Not that,” I say. “A real weapon. Something solid.”

  Luscious i
s on her feet, arms crossed over her chest. Her whole body is in motion, fidgeting nervously. Then her eyes light up and go wide. Something about the movement reverts her face, body and hair back to her redheaded form. She doesn’t seem to notice the transformation, but it leaves me stunned, until the woman screams again.

  “In the kitchen,” Luscious says, tapping her way over the wood floor and opening a cabinet. She reaches inside, rattling through the contents and emerging with a large, round something in her hands.

  “Frying pan,” she says and tosses it to me.

  The pan spins across the room, but my ocular upgrades track it easily and I pluck it from the air. It’s solid iron, fourteen inches across and weighs about ten pounds. “This will work,” I say and rush out the door.

  I leap down the granite staircase, absorbing the fall with my knees and using the momentum to launch myself into the street. I’m not sure what happened to my fear from the previous night. It’s still there, but the instinct to run has been replaced by something else. A kind of revulsion, I think, but also the knowledge that running isn’t the only way to survive.

  Attack works just as well.

  I felt the change when Jimbo threatened me, but taking action feels different. It feels … good. Not the impending violence, though I don’t feel bad about that. The man is already dead, after all. But the knowledge that my actions are going to save a woman’s life, it feels good. No wonder Heap stayed behind to save me.

  I cross the sidewalk in a single stride and lunge into the street. The woman is directly ahead of me, the dead man streaking up behind her. Part of my mind registers that not all of these living dead are equal. Some are severely rotted and as a result, slow and uncoordinated. But others, who seem to be less worn, are quick and stable on their feet. While the slower variety are more dangerous in large groups, the faster dead pose a threat on their own, to anyone unprepared for their speed.

  The faster man reaches out his hands, bones exposed by peeling skin, and scrapes against the woman’s shoulder. She wails in horror, stumbles, and one of those ridiculous heels snaps. She wobbles to the side and spills over.