The Wrong Unit: A Novel

by Rob Dircks

  < ELAPSED: TIME: 00 Years; 05 Months; 18 Days; JUL-05-2865 >

  We head south. Away from the wacrysolid. The cold makes my joints stiff, and the little human will fare better in warmer weather. If we’re going to be utterly lost, we might as well be warm. We follow the line of the river, hunting fish and insects for his sustenance as we go, and burning the rugged grasses for his warmth. We find shelter in naturally carved recesses in the sides of elevations, formed CORE knows how long ago by shifting rocks and trickles of runoff water, now protecting us from the wind and rain and cold. My fear of death has gone from constant to nearly constant. I suppose that’s an improvement.

  As I refine my knowledge of our surroundings, I look down at our map – if you can call it that – and speak aloud to the human, mostly to keep him from bawling: “Half a map, small human, is as good as no map.”

  He blinks and lifts his eyebrows, as if to ask So? What do you want me to do about it?

  “So, what I’m going to do about it is create our own crude overlay map, using a stick and my hand as an angle guide. Once I approximate the zenith angle and add the sun’s declination…” I put the human down for a few moments, risking his ear-piercing alarm. The alarm is silent for the moment, thank CORE, “…I will make an educated guess at our latitude. I believe we are currently at seventy-one degrees north.”

  “Cooh-ahh-baa.”

  “If you’re trying to say ‘good work, Heyoo’ I agree. Not too shabby. Although with your continuous howls for food, my focus and accuracy may be off by an enormous margin.” I pick him back up and raise him up above my shoulder to see our intended direction. He smiles.

  “Aaahh-baa.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, look south. The odds of us stumbling onto one of the reference points on the half map, based on my calculations of Earth’s circumference, are 1,694,504,589 to one. But once we get to thirty-one degrees north, the only number provided on the half map, our odds should increase. A little.”

  The infant reaches out and grabs my southward-pointing finger. “Oooh-caaah-bbrrpp.”

  “Yes. It’s going to be a long walk.”

  I lower him back down to a carrying position, and hear something. Faint.

  Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle.

  I stop walking. Silence. I take a step.

  Rattle, rattle.

  Yes, faint, but there. A rattle. I put down the infant, who immediately starts crying – no, not crying, shrieking at decibel levels I didn’t think were possible for a human – and try to listen again as I walk in a circle. Rattle, rattle. Oh my. This isn’t good.

  I bend over to pick up the wailing human. I can’t take its protests anymore. I’ll have to deal with the rattle later. Suddenly, from the hole that was bored into my abdomen back in the repair bay, something tumbles out onto the ground.

  A screw.

  CORE knows what that screw is for! Locomotion servo? Stabilizer? Spinal alignment? I leave the human on the ground, screaming, while I walk around again.

  Everything appears to be in working order. Please don’t let any more parts fall out of me.

  I stop. Wait. Silence? It can’t be.

  I whip around, just as the human picks up the screw and puts it in his mouth.

  And starts choking.

  “NO!”

  I grab him and pull him to my chest, facing outward, and perform the human airway clearance maneuver.

  Nothing. Damn!

  I try again. Nothing. The human is turning purple.

  In desperation, I do something I’ve seen the humans do, although I thought they were insane at the time: I hang the infant by his feet, and smack his back.

  And the screw shoots out of his airway, disappearing into the grass.

  Whew.

  He makes a sound. What is that sound? Oh no! Is he injured?!

  A giggle.

  The human is giggling.

  Yes. This is going to be a very long walk.

  < 08: Heyoo >

  Wah

  < ELAPSED: TIME: 01 Years; 03 Months; 07 Days; APR-24-2866 >

  The wacrysolid retreats, and the air grows warmer. The human’s diet has expanded to include an increasing variety of insects, berries, small rodents, and the occasional fish. We no longer need to seek out recesses in elevations and build a fire each night, and can often rest under the stars. But tonight is cold again, and wet, so we’ve found a deep recess that offers ample protection from the elements. I sit by the fire and watch the little one explore.

  He has learned to walk. Though I’m not sure yet I should call it walking. I’ve never laughed so hard, watching him teeter like an intoxicated adult human. He finds it funny as well, giggling and lurching – until he inevitably falls and hits his head on a rock or other obstacle that his cranium is attracted to like a magnet. Then he reverts back to his other favorite pastime: crying.

  He enjoys crying so much, in fact, I have named him “Wah.” I was going to name him Bananas, maybe that’s what the human Arch was trying to tell me right before he burst into flames, but I couldn’t call the little human that with a straight face. So Wah it is.

  “Wah. Come here, so I can apply more stitches to your scalp. Yes, more. As in again.”

  “Waaahh! Waaahh! Waaahh!”

  I lift Wah into my arms and soothe him with the only thing that seems to work at moments like this – one of the ancient songs I remember the humans would sing to their children. I believe it’s an allegory about the never-ending rotation of the Earth, the renewal of the seasons, and the promise of the annual harvest, or perhaps a religious hymn:

  The wheels on the bus go round and round,

  Round and round, round and round,

  The wheels on the bus go round and round,

  All through the town.

  I sing just two of the nearly infinite verses, and the tone of my voice is terrible, but Wah doesn’t know any better thank CORE, and it works. He’s calm for a moment. I quickly retrieve one of the microfilament strands (gleaned from his original blanket – I have saved everything from that incubator!) and go to work. Wah instantly transforms into a bloody, screaming, arms-and-legs-waving mess, but I have a complete database of human biology and lifesaving techniques, so this is simple. Within three minutes he’s all sewn up and repaired. Though he may have several patches where hair will never grow. So be it. My rear head plate is still on a repair bench somewhere in the Sanctuary, and I’m not complaining.

  Wah now wants nothing to do with me. From his perspective, I’ve attacked him and pierced him with little daggers and made him bleed. So he teeters to the far end of our enclosure, nearer to the fire, whimpering, gingerly touching the new stitches I’ve added to his collection. The flames of the fire light the rock walls and ceiling of tonight’s shelter. I look past Wah to the wall.

  Are those images?

  “By CORE! There are ancient images painted on the rock!”

  Wah looks up. Points with me. “Baa.”

  “What do you think they are, little one?”

  It looks exactly like he shrugs his shoulders, and raises his tiny hands, palms out, though I’ve never shown him either behavior. Humans. Endlessly fascinating. “Let’s have a closer look, yes?” I pull a branch from the fire and raise the flame to the wall.

  Primitive, but discernible: Large animals. Running.

  A man, chasing them. With a spear. Like the one named “Arch.”

  I wonder: where are the units?

  < 09: Heyoo >

  Guidelines for Surrogate

  Care of Human Offspring

  < ELAPSED: TIME: 01 Years; 09 Months; 13 Days; OCT-30-2866 >

  I have created a Fear-of-Death Index, with one being boundless courage, and one hundred being unrelenting terror. I am currently at ninety-five point three.

  The good news: Wah has finally stopped crying. To clarify, during the night he has stopped crying. And parts of the day. He still cries more than I thought any human could in a lifetime.

  I wonder why COR
E has never published guidelines for caring for human children in the Shell Code for servile units? It left that to the humans themselves instead. I presume it’s because of some bond that needs to form. However, Wah seems to be thriving without such a bond. He’s like the chickens on the Sanctuary farms, who wouldn’t know their parent if it pecked them in the eye. Yes, Wah needs me for food, shelter and locomotion, and is amused by some of my activities, and will plop himself in my lap for no reason when we’re seated. He will even look up at me and mouth words when I tell him about farming techniques, attempting to grab my mouth, or poke various parts of my body. And we make each other laugh.

  But none of that constitutes a bond. He’s merely absorbing new information and learning instinctively, and I’m simply fulfilling my primary function, to serve and care for humans. Each according to our programming. I am 100% certain.

  99% certain.

  In any case, to fill the possible void in CORE’s knowledge, I have decided to use my essentially endless introspection time to compose the Guidelines for Surrogate Care of Human Offspring.

  But as long as I think and think and think, about the endless trial and error, and near-death experiences, I can’t finds the words to codify the process. Now I understand why CORE never published guidelines for us. Human parenting requires one to be insane, and it would be illogical to publish Guidelines to Human Insanity.

  But I will attempt at least a single parenting guideline: Is the little human still breathing? Then whatever you’re doing is good enough.

  For example: the other day, in the two seconds I had my back turned on Wah, he started eating dirt. Several small handfuls. Of course, I assumed this was fatal, and hovered over him for the entire day. But a little explosive diarrhea later, he was fine. Laughing. Putting more dirt in his mouth before I could stop him.

  Humans.

  < 10: Heyoo >

  Woof-woof

  < ELAPSED: TIME: 02 Years; 04 Months; 23 Days; DEC-10-2867 >

  Trudging along further south, we enter a stand of trees, tall trees with long, thin, needle-like leaves. The sun and shade dance on Wah’s face, as he smiles up at me.

  “Mo! Mo!”

  He insists on putting his feet on mine as I walk, and holding my hands, so he can feel like he’s taking giant steps. Which just makes both of us look ridiculous. And slows us down considerably. But it makes him chuckle, so I relent.

  Ahead, a clearing.

  And something moving. Towards us.

  A dog!

  I remember: humans in the Sanctuary are allowed to keep creatures called dogs and cats as companions – not even to eat their flesh! It makes no sense, but CORE allows it in moderation. I suppose playing with small animals makes them a little less irritable. A little. I’ve even played with a dog or two in my fourteen years since fabrication, and found it amusing. I think I like dogs.

  As we shorten the distance between us and the dog, Wah looks up at me, then back to the dog, then back to me, puzzled. I realize this is the first creature he’s seen that’s larger than a mouse or a trout.

  “Wah, that is a dog.”

  Wah blinks. Frowns. Not satisfied with my explanation.

  “Hmm. The small children sometimes called them ‘Woof-woof.’”

  He smiles and his eyes go wide. “Woof-woof!” Wriggling from my grasp, he plops down off my feet, running to greet the dog. Not running exactly, more of his stumbling and lurching. “Woof-woof! Woof-woof!”

  I smile.

  But… there is something strange about this dog. Even in the distance, I can see its tail isn’t swaying back and forth. And its teeth… the size…

  “No! Wah, NO!”

  I run at top speed. The dog and Wah are mere feet apart. The fangs bare, the muscles of its hind legs flex.

  It lunges.

  Charging at the small space between them, I enclose Wah, roll, and raise my arm in defense. The dog clamps its jaws down on my right hand, thrashing and pulling. Perilous situation receptors buzz in my head.

  It tears my hand free and runs away with it.

  “Hey! Get back here, you thief! I need that hand!”

  Wah giggles.

  He thinks this is funny!

  And he tries to break free again to follow his new friend, the hand-stealing woof-woof. But it’s gone. Thank CORE. The loss of a hand is a serious setback, another step in my slow deterioration, but at least Wah is unharmed.

  A moment later, Wah points, smiling and panting. “Woof-woof! Woof-woof!”

  The dog has returned. This time with companions.

  Uh-oh. I would so much rather be picking blueberries right now. Like my counterpart, the unit who should be in my place, who is probably now tilling a bit of soil, or fixing a shoe, or milking a cow. Lucky unit. I’m stuck here wondering if there’s a value higher than one hundred on my Fear-of-Death Index.

  There are six dogs. Not dogs, no, they look like dogs, but definitely do not act like dogs. They are circling us, clever, patient, moving as a group, not interested in me, but how to get past me to the real prize: Wah. They are hunting. I’ll have to name them as a new species for my database. They’ll have to have an interesting name. One that’s strong. Threatening. Fangdogs?

  Not now, Heyoo. Naming can wait. Concentrate.

  What would the other unit do? The one with the survival program? Wait. I’ve got it. The trees. If we can climb one of these trees, I don’t think the creatures can follow, as their paws don’t appear to be able to grasp. The nearest tree is two meters away.

  < RUN TRAVEL SIMULATION:

  Horizontal distance: 2 meters

  Vertical distance: 1.5 meters

  Obstacles: Yes. Six. Scary.

  SIMULATION RECOMMENDATION: Leap 43° net force f = (W/g)U/dt = (155/32.2)*11.8

  ERROR: Current weight exceeds allowable limit by 5.32 kg; Remove additional weight and rerun simulation >

  Damn. Wah is too heavy. Must act now. I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

  I lob him towards the tree.

  He squeals in delight as he arcs high into the air. “Wheeeee!”

  If I had time, I would shake my head.

  But there isn’t time. I lunge forty-three degrees with the appropriate net force, in a straight line to the nearest branch. Hugging the trunk with my handless right arm, I snatch Wah from his momentary flight with my remaining hand. I heave us both to a seated position on the next higher branch and examine Wah for injuries. He happily pats my face with his hands, showing me his five-tooth grin.

  “Gan! Gan!”

  “Again? Clearly you weren’t programmed with enough fear.”

  He’s fine. Better off than me, in fact, as he still has both hands. I look down. The dog-things are throwing themselves against the tree, leaping within centimeters of our feet, jaws clapping, spit flying, throats emitting low, guttural growls. But they can’t reach us. We are safe. For the moment.

  And then the branch cracks.

  < 11: Heyoo >

  Bad woof-woof

  The dog-things are upon us now with even more fury, as the branch dips closer to their open jaws. Wah stretches down to pat their heads, giddy, nearly losing multiple fingers. I gain hold of the trunk, just barely, shuffling my feet, now just a hair’s width from the hungry dog-things’ mouths, and lift us with my remaining hand to another branch, about half a meter higher.

  Think, Heyoo. There must be a way to frighten these dog-things off. I look down at the broken branch, still attached to the tree, dangling back and forth among the frenzied creatures below. There is something about that branch… reminds me of something… a man running… chasing animals… the wall paintings… Arch…

  A spear!

  I begin to lower myself, turning to nestle Wah more securely above me. “Don’t move, Wah. I have work to do.” He wants nothing of it, of course, squirming and reaching past me to his new friends.

  “Wah. NO. Bad dogs. Bad woof-woof.”

  Then he looks at me in a peculiar way I haven’t
seen. A mixture of defiance, anger, but also – understanding? I must be imagining things. But he eases back, allowing me to strap him in securely with a blanket strip – as secure as possible with one hand – and I’m able to reach down to the dangling branch.

  It’s not too thick, perhaps four centimeters, now hanging on to the main trunk by less than a centimeter. My harvesting shears should do the trick. I lift the branch – dear CORE this is heavy! – And begin the tedious work of detaching it, shortening it, and whittling one end to a point.

  As I work, focused, the dog-things and Wah fade into the background of my awareness. Growls, thrashing, Wah’s movements, all dim, until… I am done. The spear is balanced, and sharp as a knife.

  I look up from my handicraft, and something falls past my vision. A blur.

  WAH!

  My knot must’ve come untied! He’ll be torn to pieces!

  I reach out instinctively with my left hand, dropping the spear and shears to the ground, and grab him by the hair. Realization finally dawns on poor Wah, the danger of our situation, along with the pain of dangling from his hair follicles. This is no longer fun.

  “Waaaahhhh!!” He cries out, desperate. I pull him towards me.

  A dog-thing snaps at his foot.

  Blood.

  And a feeling rises in me, some new thread of emotion created spontaneously in my VEPS neural network, a feeling I’ve never had – not fear, not frustration, not even anger. A deep burning.

  RAGE.

  I place Wah above me, back to the tree’s higher branch. He holds on for dear life, wailing.

  “YOU STAY!”