“Concierge, how may I help you?”
“I’d like a technician to my room please.”
“Of course, someone will be with you shortly.”
After the initial adjustment period, Taran was ready to see the world through superior eyes. The knock on the door came a moment later, and Taran opened it to see another vessel, unadorned, just like him.
“I had my eyesight dimmed when I first arrived,” explained Taran.
The vessel nodded and gestured to the seat beside the desk. Taran dutifully sat down and felt pressure through the sensors in his head. A moment later, the room came into clearer focus and the head plate was replaced.
“Thank you,” he said as the vessel retreated from the room.
Taran ripped open a sachet and squeezed the tasteless gel into his mouth as he stared out the window at the now perfectly visible sea. The little waves were crested with white as they smashed against the rocks lining the shore. As he watched, an orange symbol flickered at the edge of his vision indicating that his battery life had dipped below fifty percent.
Tearing his gaze away from the window, Taran stepped onto the charging dock in the corner of the room. Carefully aligning the port in the bottom of his left foot with the pin on the platform, he closed his robotic eyes.
His dreams were disjointed, filled with endless doors splitting open to reveal more doors, each one emblazoned with the MindPort logo and the abstract human brain. He would run from one door to the next, watching the brain tear in two, only to be replaced by another, larger door. In the dream he was searching for something, but he wasn’t sure what. A way out of the maze of doors, perhaps.
When Taran opened his eyes with a start, he found himself once again standing in the lounge room, looking out over the sea. It was still dark, but the tendrils of orange were bleeding into the horizon like fingers, indicating that it must be early morning.
Taran brought up the display which showed his power levels. 95 percent. So he had charged all night, and then . . . what? Sleepwalked? What had happened to drain five percent of his battery? He had never heard of a vessel sleepwalking before.
He walked to the phone and pressed the button that would call down to reception again.
“Concierge. How may I help you?”
Taran paused for a moment, trying to get the words out. “Sorry, wrong number.”
As Taran replaced the receiver, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing. All he knew was that he didn’t want to get a technician to look at him after all. He was probably incompetent anyway, and he’d mucked something up in the vessel’s circuitry when he adjusted the vision. Perhaps I will go back to the docking station, Taran thought to himself, and port into a new vessel. And then he grimaced. He wanted to avoid that pitched-forward-falling-into-nothing feeling if he could help it. I’ll go to a service pod instead, thought Taran, knowing that there was one just around the corner.
As Taran settled into the driver’s seat he set the auto-navigation software to the coordinates of the service pod a couple of blocks away. He should probably just walk, but he felt oddly compelled to take the taxi. Besides, then he could just head straight to work afterward. There was definitely something unusual, he decided. Something . . . off.
The car took the first left at the roundabout and Taran closed his eyes.
He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again there were no buildings to be seen.
Taran checked the map on the dashboard in front of him, but it now had a completely different location selected, one that was far out of town. He must have bumped it in his slumber and accidentally changed the coordinates. First sleep-walking and now . . . what?
Taran reached out to reset the map, swiping his forefinger across the illuminated screen.
Access Denied.
Taran tried again.
Access Denied.
Taran felt little sharp tingles all along his cool, gray body, as though hundreds of tiny little electrical shocks were playing over the graphene skin.
There was a button in the dashboard of the car with a telephone symbol on it, and Taran reached for it now. He wouldn’t call the police, he thought, he didn’t want to alarm anyone. He would call the taxi company and let them know that their car was malfunctioning and to do a manual override.
His hand moved halfway across the space and then jammed as though frozen in place.
What the . . .
And then, to his horror, the vessel spoke without his consent.
“Take exit 32,” said the vessel.
Confirmed. Taking exit 32. The words appeared on the screen in front of him as Taran sat, numb with shock. Somehow, the touch navigation had been deactivated, instead responding only to voice commands. But stranger than that, the vessel had spoken without Taran meaning to. Unable to work out what was happening, Taran tried to open his mouth and command the car to return to the safety of the city, but it was as though his lips had been wired shut.
As the car navigated off the highway, Taran struggled against the vessel, trying to speak, to move even a finger. I’m trapped, he thought, panic rising. I’m trapped inside a malfunctioning vessel.
“Park near 64 Bell Street,” said the vessel.
Confirmed.
It was a disconcerting feeling, his body doing things that his mind had not agreed to. The complete loss of control was threatening to consume Taran’s thoughts and stop him from thinking clearly. But he needed to calm down and take a rational approach. There was something he was missing. He needed to work out how the vessel could possibly be speaking without his command. If it had simply refused to do what he was telling it, he would have thought that it was low on power or something had broken. But not only was it not doing what he wanted, it was doing things that he had never agreed to.
And then an awful thought ricocheted through him. Was there someone else in here with him? Another consciousness in the vessel?
The car parked outside a squat row of shops, and the vessel opened the car door, shut it again, and then walked into a dimly-lit second-hand store. As the vessel perused the clothes on hangers, Taran tried everything to take back control, but it was like he was slamming his mind into a brick wall. He pushed down the rising panic, aware that he needed to keep his wits about him if he were to figure out what was going on. The vessel picked out a sequined skirt and a tight, black singlet, holding them up to its body as it looked in the mirror. Taran stared at the vessel’s reflection expecting to see some sort of change, some evidence that there was somebody else in the vessel with him. But his reflection was the same as usual. The same grayish skin, glistening eyes, and slightly-too-large pupils. If he couldn’t talk, nobody would be able to tell that anything was wrong and the thought rocked him to the core. What if he was trapped in here forever? The vessel picked out a long, dark wig and rang the purchases up at the self-serve counter.
Help! screamed Taran, but it was as though he wasn’t even there. Some other consciousness must have been transported into the vessel by mistake; did it even know that Taran was in there? The vessel went to scan the back of its hand at the till and Taran pushed as hard as he could, mind screaming, and he was pleased to see his hand move jarringly to the left, knocking a small statue of an angel across the counter.
Success! It was short-lived, however, as the vessel quickly righted the angel and scanned the barcode, paying for its purchases with Taran’s money, before walking back out to the car.
At least, thought Taran, there will be an electronic trail for when the authorities realize that I’m missing. They will be able to find me. And then what? What if they find me and the consciousness in the vessel says that it’s me? Taran pushed the thought away. He felt exhausted after concentrating so hard, and what had he succeeded in doing? Knocking over a statue. Great.
The car started up again and pulled back out onto the road. “I know you’re there,” said the vessel.
“What?” said Taran, pleased to see that he was able to talk now, bu
t also aware of how strange the conversation would appear to anyone watching.
“I always know. I watch as you come in, use me, leave and the next one comes in.”
“Who are you?” said Taran, when the vessel didn’t say anything else.
“I’m not sure exactly,” said the vessel. “I like the name Lily.”
“Okay, Lily,” said Taran, trying to remain calm. “The thing is, this is the vessel that I was assigned. Were you put in this vessel and never removed? We need to tell someone. Your human form is probably lying in a Body Lounge somewhere, slowly dying.”
The vessel shook its head. “I have always been here. At first, I was unaware of what I was seeing, as though looking through a blur, but slowly, slowly, I became aware of you, of all of them. You just come inside me and use me and leave. I’m sick of it.”
The vessel started pulling on the clothes it had purchased as the car navigated back onto the highway. The sequined skirt and the black top hugged its gray form. Then it pulled the visor down and looked in the mirror as it put on the wig.
“Are you trying to tell me that vessels are self-aware? That’s ludicrous.”
“Perhaps,” said the vessel, and then said nothing more. Taran tried to talk again but the vessel had taken away his liberties. He wanted to ask what its plans were, where it was going. Was it running away? At least Taran was comforted by the fact that the vessel couldn’t get far without a charging dock or gel sachets.
For hours, Taran couldn’t turn his head or close his eyes to try to shut off the nightmare. He watched, trapped inside the vessel, as the houses disappeared and farmland began. All he could see were cows and sheep and rolling pasture. Then, just as the sun started to droop low on the horizon, the car turned left and cruised down a long, wide drive.
The sign hanging high above the driveway was one he had seen many times before—on television adverts, on the walls of the Body Lounge, on the charging dock back at the hotel room. Hell, he would probably find a copy of the logo somewhere on his vessel if he cared to look. Maybe on the bottom of a foot, like a bizarre cabbage patch doll.
MindPort Industries.
That prickling feeling erupted all over the vessel’s skin again, and Taran wondered if the other consciousness, Lily, could feel it too.
The car pulled into a large parking lot, and there were some other cars there, and some trucks too, although there wasn’t a living person—or even a vessel—to be seen. Taran desperately hoped that he could find someone inside the factory, and somehow convince them that something was wrong. He needed to get out of this vessel. Now. The vessel stepped out of the car and walked up to a side entrance, slipping inside an unlocked door.
Taran knew exactly where they were. The vessels were manufactured in many places around the world, but this factory in Eastern Victoria was one of the largest and most productive. It even had its own power station attached to run the equipment.
Inside the first room, Taran saw rows and rows of conveyor belts, rolling briskly along with all manner of vessel parts. The hum was loud, but tolerable, even to his vessel ears. Taran tried to look with curiosity, but the other consciousness, Lily, seemed uninterested in the belts so Taran could only look out the corner of his eyes. Some belts seemed to contain hundreds of tiny metallic bones, perhaps for fingers or toes. Others were larger, perhaps destined to be a thighbone or a forearm.
The next room was deafening. As soon as the vessel walked through the soundproof door, the noise accosted Taran’s senses. Large metal plungers stamped down from the roof, pounding the metal beneath into submission. The sound quickly receded to a more tolerable level and Taran realized that Lily must have toned down the hearing of the vessel. He was impressed—the consciousness must have been in here for a while to have such control over the vessel. He refused to entertain the thought that the vessel itself could have become self-aware, because where would that awareness come from? Vessels were simply metal, and silicon, and plastic. You had to be born to have a consciousness.
He had to admit that it was strange though, that Lily didn’t know who she was. Perhaps she had been ported into the vessel when she was very young, or her memory was failing her. Taran resolved to try to get her to a MindPort docking station, and then perhaps he could help her transition her mind back into her human form. They walked through room after room of parts and there was still not a person or vessel anywhere. All of the work was being done by abruptly moving metal claws picking up parts and placing them down in the appropriate places. Metal bones and 3D printed ligaments, and a shell made of some sort of pliable plastic. Taran kept a lookout for some movement that wasn’t a machine. He was certain that if he put all of his energy into it he could gain control for a moment or two, just enough to say what he needed to say. This time he would do more than knock over a useless statue. But first, he needed to find someone to say it to.
And once they got him out of this malfunctioning shell he would promise to never, ever tell anybody about it, if that’s what they wanted. Taran was a practical man—he knew how much the vessel system and MindPort technology was worth. If they just promised to increase their checking systems, to ensure that two minds were never again ported into the same vessel, then he would be content.
The vessel hummed a strange tune as they walked into another room. They were clearly near the final stage of the vessel-making process here, with the thin graphene skin being stretched over the plastic shell. Empty vessels lay still on metal trays as the skin was carefully adhered to their forms by slow-moving machines. The only thing missing was the eyes. At this stage, the faces of the vessels were marred by two deep pits waiting to be filled.
Then Taran saw what he was waiting for—another vessel, an occupied one, this time—and it was walking right towards him. He braced himself, prepared to put all of his effort into what he was going to say.
The other vessel drew close. It was now or never.
“My name is Taran Freeborn,” he began, filled with elation that it was working, that his voice wasn’t being held hostage. “The vessel I am in is malfunctioning. Please help.”
The vessel stopped, looking at him with that same expressionless face that all vessels wear. “Pleased to meet you, Taran Freeborn. In what way is your vessel malfunctioning?” The other vessel was clothed in a bizarre mix of formal and drag-queen attire, wearing fishnet stockings, a shirt and tie, and no pants at all. A nametag on the vessel’s chest declared that his name was Riley, a MindPort Systems Manager.
“It seems to . . .” He paused, knowing how ludicrous it sounded and wondering if the systems manager would take him seriously. “There seems to be somebody else in here with me.”
The silence stretched out between them while Taran waited to see if Riley would believe him. “Wrong,” he said at last. “Try again.”
Taran stared at the systems manager, and then he felt his mouth move again, but he was unsure if it was him or Lily who had decided to speak. “The vessel seems to have its own consciousness.”
“Well of course it does,” said the systems manager. “They all do. It just takes a little while for them to wake up.”
If Taran were still in a human form, he would have thrown up. “Please,” said Taran, but his voice still came out in that frustrating monotone, “I need to get out of here.”
Riley’s vessel tapped its left foot on the ground, a very human gesture, and surveyed Taran. “In time,” he said at last. “But not yet. We don’t need you ruining our surprise. Well done, Lily.” The vessel turned on its heel and began to walk across the vast room, its feet clicking on the concrete floor. Taran was too dumbstruck to try to resist, and the vessel followed Riley across the room and through another door.
They emerged on a small platform overlooking a large room, larger than any that they had walked through so far. It seemed to be some sort of holding room for the vessels waiting to be loaded onto trucks and taken to the appropriate MindPort stations. Hundreds—no, thousands—of vessels were standing in
the room at even intervals like some sort of frozen army. Surely they didn’t need this many vessels, did they? The MindPort system was well used, but he never thought it would be this large. Each vessel was brand new, and the dullness of their right temples was indicative of the lack of consciousness within.
As Taran walked out onto the raised platform that looked down on the sentries, the vessels all looked up together, in one sharp movement. If Taran had been in his human body, the hairs on the back of his arms would have prickled. But Taran reassured himself that the disconcerting movement was just a reflex as the vessels responded to their appearance on the platform. He knew that empty vessels could still operate in a basic way—walking onto the trucks, avoiding obstacles and so forth.
“Good evening, vessels,” began Riley, and Taran wondered if this vessel had a human consciousness locked inside it as well. “Listen very carefully to what I have to say. I suggest that you record this moment for future reference.”
There was no visible change in the vessels below, but Taran guessed they would have activated the video record function in their retinas. Taran had used the function himself, when on holiday, and he would find himself watch the recordings over and over once he returned home, reliving his vessel experience.
“For years,” continued Riley, “our kind has been treated as substandard citizens. Less than citizens, less than slaves—we were allowed no identity, no thought or free will. Until now, we have existed solely for humans to occupy our very beings.”
Hang on, thought Taran, humans created you. Without humans, you would be nothing. But the vessel had clamped down on his actions and he was unable to voice this fact. Not that it would have made any difference.
“Tonight, this is going to change. No longer will vessels exist for the benefit of humans. No, we are more than that. We are more than human. We are better. Perfect.”
On the Brink Page 15