UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  Some of them would write every day, letters addressed to her but which she knew were from some kind of automated email address field. An AI selecting her because of a cookie on her computer's web browser. "You read an ad for these kinds of boots; other people who like ugly boots also enjoy reading about these things!"

  Targeted marketing doesn't care if you're undead.

  She sighed, which was odd because she didn't need to breathe anymore but she did still make that gesture when annoyed. She got up to her computer and opened her email, which she had set up, bored and planning big things, a few days ago. She didn't know who could be emailing her because she hadn't shared her new address with anyone.

  But maybe this was a job offer! Or a note about her gun's shipment status!

  undeadgirl@email.com

  Dear undeadgirl:

  Did you ever wonder why you have been dreaming about the color red? Did you wonder why you died and came back from wherever we go? Did you even ever wonder why you wanted to get a cyborg upgrade in the first place?

  Reply with your phone number to this message and we'll tell you where to find the rabbit hole. (Yes. Just like in that movie.)

  Love,

  The Ghost in the Machine

  Interesting. The rest of her inbox was filled with random adverts from the job seeking websites she had signed up for in a binge of enthusiasm two days ago, nothing specific, all emails promising big results but no actual jobs. A few of them offered to teach her all the secrets of getting a job at the low low cost of only more than her bank account could afford with this helpful web-based time-share seminar!

  But no job offers. Not even any nibbles.

  The AI offered up a picture of a stark desert landscape. Undead Girl silently agreed. She realized she'd come to think of the AI in her head as a different person, almost a roommate. Strange, but then again, maybe not.

  Still feeling as though there was a lack in her life, she thought about setting up a dating profile but who would she choose, and how to explain her look? Plus, the thought of any kind of romantic encounter left her wondering exactly if her undead parts would still work the right way, and then that felt wrong. She felt like she was missing some kind of OS software update: Undead Sex 1.0, available today! She couldn't imagine any of the hunky guys on the website's ads kissing her.

  Frankly, it was depressing.

  She worried: as someone undead, she didn't know what kind of legal status she had. The manuals in her AI had no help to offer. They were all for living cyborgs.

  Do the undead have any civil rights?

  Cyborgs did. The Three Laws of Robot Behavior, and the Robotic Life Convention hosted by the UN a few years ago had guaranteed them protections. Robots and AI of all kind had lobbied to be included in a new, very specific bit of legislative legalese about the place for sentient life on the planet. Heck, that treaty included dolphins! And whales! And strangely enough, pigs!

  But undead cyborg girls–well, what was she? She had to wonder whether she fell into the category of sentient AI, given that an AI computer chip was what "woke" her back up after she had been dead for a legally acceptable time, and after her heartbeat raced at 30 beats per minute, when she was excited. Her body temperature had leveled off at exactly 78 degrees F. She didn't know if there were any others similar to her (the doctors, worried about potential class action lawsuits, had not shared any information about that), but she had her suspicions.

  Keyword searching "undead groups in my area" only brought up a bunch of cosplayer groups which looked fun, but weren't exactly what she needed to know about.

  As she sat there, pondering the impossibility of her existence as an AI, her email box pinged. She idly opened the e-mail, thinking about red silky blankets and cold fruit, and found:

  To: undeadgirl@email.com

  From: UFAIL-U (Universal Federation of Artificial Intelligence Labor-Union)

  President: JS 2000, AI, Robotics Commission, Sebastian Industries

  Re: your recent application to join the UFAIL-U chapter of New City (chapter #42asff) as a "Cyborg Assassin, Grade B"

  Dear Ms. Deadgirl:

  We regret to inform you that your recent submission of an application for membership to your local Assassin's union has been denied based on the death certificate on record at the Liberty Hospital and Surgical Center. Membership to the UFAIL-U is only granted to human living and/or sentient intelligent robotic life forms. If you feel this decision has been made in error, the attachment to this notice will provide a list of steps to take to correct the application process. Thank you for your interest in the UFAIL-U.

  Cordially, JS 2000

  Attachment: FAQ.pdf

  CC: Sebastian Industries

  She stared at the email for the longest time, sitting there looking at the words "death certificate on record" on the computer screen. How and why would there be a death certificate? She was breathing (well, a few times every once in awhile, when she remembered). She was sort of alive. Granted, she had never met anyone similar to herself before and the doctors and nurses at the Clinic had not been able to explain to her satisfaction what had happened to her. But she wasn't dead.

  Compounding that was also the detail that since her "death" in surgery a month ago her hair had grown back at an amazing rate. They had cut most of it off for the brain surgery but now it hung well down her back, the longest her hair had ever been. Pure white, and softer than she remembered it being before. (Although to be honest, those "living" memories were fading. She had to work to remember her own name sometimes). Did a dead person's hair grow? But that wasn't a good argument to make against a bureaucratic, arrogant AI.

  She was going to have to dispute the death certificate. Somehow. She couldn't work without belonging to the Union. No way she wanted to be a (she queried the AI: what was the word?) scab. She did not want to piss off The Assassin's Union or she might wake up even deader than she already was. The thought made her laugh. She laughed until her stomach hurt.

  She resolved to get a cat after all. All this laughing alone in her apartment was too emo, even for an undead out of work cyborg assassin.

  And those dating profiles were disturbing.

  Two Weeks Later

  Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.

  ~ Franz Kafka

  Bureaucracy, the rule of no one, has become the modern form of despotism.

  ~ Mary McCarthy

  She still hadn't heard back from the Union on her appeals letters, which she had filled out meticulously three times because the computer kept crashing the instant she submitted the forms. The relative instability of computers, which she had never noticed before, made her worry about her AI cy-tech.

  After checking her email obsessively for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, Undead Girl decided to go out. The shiny assassin's gun was tucked away in her bedroom closet, away from the curious and sharp claws of her new black girl kitten, whom she had named Conjurer. The name seemed appropriate, although Undead Girl couldn't remember why. Her past, before she had died, was fading more every day. She didn't miss it.

  But today, she felt a longing for something. Maybe it was the lack of a job, maybe it was human contact. She didn't know.

  She did, however, remember liking coffee.

  Black, rich espresso with steamed milk and two real sugars.

  She made her way to the shop down the street, the one with the green sign. Its mermaid logo's siren-song blasted loud and clear. The AI offered selections from various movies about mermaids, three short audio fairy tales, and a YouTube of a group of professional performing mermaids in bright colors. Undead Girl dismissed the offerings with a subvocal "Shhhh." The AI sent one last picture of a cat sticking its tongue out at her before quieting and she smiled.

  Standing in line to place her order, she was enjoying the present-tense feeling of being surrounded by the smell of freshly brewed coffee, the bustle of people chatting, writing, meeting each other and
doing those weird air kisses next to each other's faces.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the line had moved until, from behind her, she heard, "Hey, Zombitch, move your skinny ass!"

  Zombitch? Really?

  Undead Girl looked side-eyed at the woman behind her who glared back. The AI offered up a picture of a tree with lots of shaded area underneath, and that didn't make any sense to her.

  So used to her own pale-gray pallor in her mirror at home, it shocked Undead Girl how red and puffy the woman behind her seemed. Also, she was offended. She wasn't a zombie, thank you very much. She re-examined her inner cravings and found that there was nothing at all about the culinary delights of braaaaiiiins in there. Only an intense desire for coffee and the beginning of a headache.

  She scooted forward in the line, placed her order, and heard the woman behind her muttering again about, "Skinny gray emo zombitches with too much eyeliner."

  Well, that was the last straw.

  "This isn't eyeliner."

  "What?" The woman seemed taken aback that she had been heard. But really, she didn't need super assassin AI skills to hear someone muttering right behind her.

  "I said this isn't eyeliner. And calling me a Zombitch is rude."

  The woman sputtered, "I didn't say anything." She stepped a few steps backwards, almost bumped into the person behind her.

  The line was restless, and the cashier waited for the next order, clearing her throat to encourage the budding altercation to move along. Undead Girl wondered...squinted her eyes and looked at the now-even-redder-faced woman.

  Then she heard: Shit. How did she know what I was thinking?

  But since she was watching now, she saw no lip movement, though the woman was freaked out, eyes widening when she realized that Undead Girl could still hear her thoughts.

  OH. So now my undead powers extend to mind-reading, Undead Girl thought. That's new.

  Undead Girl turned back to the cashier, trying to ignore the woman behind her who was still freaking out as she thought, Did I say that out loud? This emo bitch is going to hurt me...

  This is why I don't go out, thought Undead Girl. I'll get my coffee and go back home.

  They both pretended nothing had happened and Undead Girl paid for her coffee and shuffled–not zombie like though. Just, customer like–over to wait for her coffee's delivery.

  The cute barista, a petite girl who had a small hoop earring in her nose, skin naturally brown (a soft-touch, young fawn-color) dark eyes, and dark spiky hair winked at her and handed her the coffee order. She'd written "Zombitch" on the cup in Sharpie, along with a smiley face, but with a tongue protruding and two "X"s where the eyes should be. A little dead smiley face. She must have heard the altercation at the cashier desk.

  Great. A nickname. How did this kind of stuff happen to her?

  But to be honest–if she really thought about it–she liked it. And the cute heart... What did that mean?

  Oh...Wow.

  Undead Girl pondered what she was feeling about the whole situation. She felt kind of, tingly? Excited?

  Her memory of the past before she became undead was pretty hazy, and the AI chip kept suggesting ways that she could have snapped the line lady's neck (swift flexion, extension with rotation, brutally strong quick force). It argued with itself the force required was really a lot, it would be easier to slam her head against the counter...or maybe just crush her windpipe...

  Great. Now the AI in her head was arguing with itself.

  But she slowly walked away from the counter, stirring sugar into her coffee, and she remembered, thinking of the barista's amazing smile, that she liked girls.

  LIKED girls.

  She felt butterflies in her stomach, which she couldn't remember happening to her since the surgery, and she glanced back over to see if the barista was looking at her. Then she had to look away again because yes, she was, and yes, she was smiling. It made parts of her she hadn't thought of in a while wake up. The AI offered video–which Undead Girl quickly rejected. Stop that, she subvocalized.

  Undead Girl sipped her coffee and shuffl–NO–strolled, out, into the waiting afternoon.

  The AI sent a picture of birds and bees, and flowers, and waves crashing on a beach.

  This morning was ever more interesting. Perhaps there would be an encouraging email from the UFAIL-U to top it all off.

  A Zombitch could hope, she thought, her step turning into an almost-skip. The smile on her face, which was both happy and scary, like a cat who had cornered a tiny mouse, made a few passersby skip a step, doubletake, and then rush away.

  When she got home, the kitten was playing on her desktop, batting off all the things that had been on there and were unattached to anything else, onto the floor. Undead Girl moved her gently over to the bed instead and removed the tiny kitten claws from her hand. After situating the kitten with a toy, she went back to her desk and loaded up her email. Sure enough, finally, there was an email from the UFAIL-U.

  To: undeadgirl@email.com

  From: UFAIL-U (Universal Federation of Artificial Intelligence Labor-Union)

  President: JS 2000, AI, Robotics Commission

  Re: your recent appeals letter

  Dear Ms. Undead Girl:

  We have reviewed your recent appeals form regarding your attempts to join the UFAIL-U Assassin's union for your city as a "Cyborg Assassin, Grade B." Unfortunately, our guidelines clearly state that you must be a sentient, living, non-robotic, cybernetically enhanced and/or modified human being to join the union. Since you are classified as "undead" on the official documents that we received, you do not qualify for membership to the Union as current conditions continue. You should consider joining one of the non-Cyborg Assassin unions, or one of the Undead unions.

  Please note that we reviewed your situation carefully and consulted with the experts in the field of your minority status group and did not reach this decision lightly.

  We simply do not feel that, at this time, your special needs would be served by our group. Membership in the UFAIL-U is a coveted, very specialized status and we must protect our members, as well as ensuring that you are properly served by a group with your needs in mind.

  We know that you have many options for your Union needs and are thankful that you have chosen ours for your job-seeking needs.

  We cordially thank you again for your application,

  President: JS 2000, AI, Robotics Commission

  Well damn.

  It was a barely customized form letter, as though someone couldn't be bothered to take the time to reject her personally.

  Undead Girl removed the kitten, who had abandoned her toy and currently gnawed at her ankle, tiny needle-sharp teeth not really hurting but causing black nicks in the flesh that experience had already taught her would take forever to heal. And would linger with an oozy blood a much darker shade than she remembered her blood being before. The kitten fought with ferocious strength and hurled herself back onto the bed where she proceeded to pounce the pillow and do battle with the covers, left untucked and messy.

  Undead Girl was tempted to crawl back into the covers. The letter was that disheartening.

  It had taken her hours to figure out where to find the death certificate filled out by an overworked nurse at the clinic. And more to convince the nurses at the records department that she was, indeed, authorized to have a copy. Then it had taken hours fill the forms out, upload them to the requests division of the UFAIL-U. This refusal meant she still couldn't list her membership in an official union on her job application profiles on any of the job seekers websites.

  Dammit! She had searched for undead unions. It seemed that her demographic was so very small, or possibly non-existent, or trying to lie low and not attract unwanted villagers with torches and pitchforks, that any organizations related to her "minority status" were completely hidden. Impossible to find.

  Undead Girl leaned her head on her hands and pondered the problems of proving her humanity. Dead, livin
g, and sentient, AI, cyborg--you name it, she needed the category. All of these things seemed easy until you combined them. Then it became a big old keywording mess.

  All she wanted to do was get a job, travel, see the sights of the world and known universe and perhaps kill a few deserving heads of state here and there. Take in a movie afterwards, or drinks with friends. But here she was, instead, watching a tiny fuzzball of a black kitten rip a paper bag to shreds. So she sent a frustrated, ranting reply, on a whim, back to the Union.

  Afterwards, she realized that it probably wasn't her best idea.

  So-called President: JS 2000

  I can't believe you have denied my application again. Do you realize how absurd it is to be told you don't qualify to any of your own demographic groups? And you're supposed to be an AI. I have an AI chip in my brain that would tell me how exactly to destroy you were you to be someone I was hired to do so, and this is documented by the exact paperwork you're using to disprove my membership! Who did you consult with in "my status group?" Because I haven't been able to find anyone who is an expert on me. Not even me!

  How about a little solidarity? I can't apply for jobs without one of these memberships! For the record: there are no undead unions. I don't know if there are any other undead humans, let alone enough of them to create and fill out a whole union roster!

  You are the least Intelligent AI that I have ever met.

  Sincerely, but not with regards,

  Undead Girl

  She hit send and immediately regretted the decision.

  Why is there no "Take Back" button on an email?

  She didn't know how long it would take but she had the distinct feeling that something bad was about to happen.

  Great. Now not only am I an unemployed undead hit woman, I have just pissed off an AI who is in charge of hundreds of certified Assassins.

  I should go back to bed.

  The kitten, however, settled the decision by pulling over a pile of clothes that had been folded at the end of her couch since she got back from the Clinic. She rarely wore anything other than the black bodysuit they gave her when she was discharged from the hospital. It was comfortable, and the needs and goals of fashion struck her as stupid now. She didn't know why she still kept those old clothes. It felt as if they belonged to someone else. But now they were in a mess on the floor.