by Judyth Baker
“I understand.”
As he watched her leave, the Psychiatrist turned to gaze toward the window through which they had viewed the big glass capsule and its frozen human form. It was being rotated back into storage.
“The day I let you go, I’ll see Hell freeze over,” the Psychiatrist whispered, as he turned on the recording to hear for himself Tony’s last words:
“Let me out of here!” he heard Tony scream. “Let me out of here, you green-eyed monsters!”
ENDNOTES
1. How Tony can communicate, though frozen, was due to the activity of specialized microbots stimulating the proper memory banks even though the neurons were in a frozen state. Later, this sophisticated method would be lost after interest in revivifying frozen criminals waned, leaving the tchnology ossified and partially lost, since only academia remained interested in Primitives. “Between 20 and 40 years into the future, we will become capable of building artificial antibodies that outperform their natural equivalents. Instead of using chemical signaling that relies on diffusion to reach its target, these antibodies will communicate with rapid acoustic pulses. Instead of proteins, they will be made using much more durable polymers or even diamond. These antibodies will move through the bloodstream more quickly than other cells in the body, and will take up less space and resources, meaning that there will be room for many more. Using super-biological methods for identifying and neutralizing foreign viruses and bacteria, these tiny robots will still function in harmony with our own bodies. They will probably be powered either by glucose, ATP (like natural antibodies), or acoustically. There are already bloodborne microbots today which are not rejected by the immune system – these are the precursors of tomorrow’s nanorobotics.”
http://lifeboat.com/ex/cybernetic.upgrades
2. http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2008-03-17/features/0803160132_1_clover-martin-leaved Retrieved June 11, 2015
3. http://marylandwebdesigners.com/st_patricks_day_maryland_web_designers.html. Retrieved June 11, 2015.
The Mud Pack
By 2011, National Mud Pack Day was being celebrated every September 30, though perhaps only the authors know how that came to be. By the year 2048, special mud packs had been developed that stopped the formation of wrinkles in women who had refused to accept Cyborg regenerative tissues. By 2100, most of these human women, who had to stay in special concentration camps if they wished to live inside a Domed City, had the mud packs on order.
The old man in his cell rocked back and forth like a child. He kept his hands over his eyes and didn’t seem to notice that I’d entered the chamber. I sat down and lit a very special cigarette: at the first whiff of the smoke, he lifted his wrinkled-up head and stopped rocking. I held out the cigarette, but he didn’t move.
“Come on,” I said. “It’s for you. For your special day. Top grade, natural, non-GMO marijuana.”
The old man pushed his stringy gray hair out of his eyes. He accepted the cigarette, but only after he took a few long drags on it did I tell him my name and why I’d come to visit him. My name was very famous: I had taken on the persona of Abraham Lincoln, who had freed the slaves in the 1800s. Since so many humans were now slaves and Ghetto-dwellers, I thought he’d appreciate that. It was proof that I was on his side.
“I don’t care what your name is, you damned robot!” he responded, spitting at my nicely polished gold-metal feet. “And I don’t care about your god-damned Porta-News program, either! I can remember when my grandpa had Porta-Potties. That’s where you need to shove it!”
“I don’t believe your brain scans have given us the whole story,” I told him. “They say the scans are perfect, now, but as you might not know, last year we found a glitch in the scanners, regarding the involuntary interrogation of males over a hundred years old. It seems the scanners can’t read everything perfectly, where aluminum plaques exist, as they still do in some of the brains of you old-timers who have refused to accept Cyborg brain regeneration.1 As your court-appointed Advocate, even though you carry a Feral Human Genome – which is unauthorized, wild DNA – you still have the right to tell your story verbally to me. It’s your chance to be heard. Literally… or, rather, Orally…”
“I’ve never had a chance to tell my side of the story,” Antoine said.
“There is usually no need to do so,” I replied. “After all, we can read everything that you’re thinking.”
“And that’s why you’re asking me to tell my story, right?”
The old fellow did use some logic there, I had to admit. “There’s a one-percent chance that we missed something important,” I said, as agreeably as I could. “It might mitigate your sentence from execution to life imprisonment.”
“I’ve been a prisoner ever since 2083, anyway,” Antoine said, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Ever since you rounded us up … as enemies of the state.”
“All feral humans who refused to accept the vaccination programs and the mandatory Cyborg regeneration of their brains are burdens to the State to which they belong. You are vectors for new diseases. You are uncooperative impediments to progress. You refuse to accept the fact that you are property. You’ve always been the property of the California government, beginning in 2015 when Old California made vaccinations mandatory for all humans. You’re chattel – the property of the United California Zone. To deny it is treason. And that’s why you and your kind are in concentration camps.”
“I was originally in the United Texas Zone!” Antoine said, again spitting on my beautiful feet. I suppressed an unsympathetic urge to crush his frail, bony little head between my two powerful, steel hands.
“In Texas, we Ferals were allowed to keep our original brains as long as we wished.”
“That law changed when Texas, New York, the Midwest and California decided to form the American Dollar Zone.”
“I never voted for that!”
“Of course not. Only brains functioning at 90% Youth Speed Functionality, or better, are allowed to vote.”
“That cut out everybody who refused your god-damned implants!”
“Be that as it may, as Non-Compliant, and Treasonous, for your own safety, you and your kind are in the Ghettos now. And unless you desire to incur the death penalty, we need to proceed. I need to hear your story.”
“It makes no difference,” Antoine said.
Realizing that I needed a bit more influence to persuade him, and having analyzed his brain scan, all I did was hold out my left hand, which I opened to reveal a small, insignificant object…
Seeing it, he jumped from his chair. He stared down at my hand, which held a small, antique mirror.
“How did you get that?” he demanded. He was shaking: his cigarette quivered between his dry, red lips.
“A Feral Woman gave it to me. Your wife, Agnes. Something for you to think about, she said, before your possible re-sentencing.”
The prisoner pushed his hair out of his eyes again, and then he flung the cigarette, now a stub, to the floor.
“It’s no use,” he said. “I’d do it again, so help me, if I could get away with it.”
“Tell me about it,” I urged him. “I won’t release it to the public until you’re dead, by whatever cause. That’s a promise. Remember, I’m ‘Honest Abe.’”
That was true: As an Abraham Lincoln Advocate, I had been programmed to never tell a lie. Seeing the mirror had shaken him: Pacing his narrow cell, Antoine rubbed his temples and glared at me from under his heavy, wiry eyebrows. He was a sideshow attraction all by himself. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll tell you. But I must have your word that what I say to you won’t be used against me.”
“I’ll choose the inaccurate brain scan version, or yours, whichever gives you the best chance for sentence reduction,” I assured him. “You can trust me.”
He looked at me steadily for a long moment, then stooped and crushed the cigarette stub under his heel. “I don’t trust any damned robot,” he said, with finality.
; “Okay,” I said. “I suppose you can’t, seeing that your judge and jury were all Cyborgs. But you’re a smart man. That’s what confuses me.”
I banged on the steel door, to emphasize that I had telepathically contacted the Warden. “I’m leaving, now,” I told him. “You’re smart, considering the brain you have. That’s why I can’t understand how you got caught. Trying to kill your own wife, in her own bed.”
I admit I was impressed. Attempted murder was almost unknown among the Ferals: they had been drugged up, dumbed down, saddled with extra weight and the urges to eat that came with it, and their hormones were degraded and suppressed.
From where had come his urge to kill? Whether he liked it or not, I was going to hear his story. Outside, at the Bailiff’s, I posted a 72-hour bond for Antoine. He was a big, powerful fellow, considering his age. I knew he’d be grateful to get back into the Ghetto for three days. Say goodbye to his loved ones, and all that. The scan predicted that my arranging bail would make him trust me.
That night, I went home to my mate, Janet, but before we could talk, Antoine Harris called. He wanted to chat.
***
It wasn’t a long drive to the Ghetto. All prisoners and Advocates in the United California Zone were located near it. I estimated that 350,000 Feral Genome Humans were squashed into this particular fetid, overcrowded cesspool. The Human Feral Genome had been outlawed in 2080 from all parts of Earth: no government wanted to allow the unregulated births of human beings. Feral humans, conceived without being genetically altered to avoid diseases, criminal tendencies, mental problems, the excessive display of emotions, and so on, could not receive health insurance. No insurance company would cover the medical expenses or the mental health treatments that a Feral-Born Human might require. The risks were too great.
By 2085, laws required all Ferals to wear the HFG (Human Feral Genome) badge on their clothing, while their implanted ID chips made it impossible for them to buy food that had not been specially prepared just for them. Those who resisted violently were criminals, and required execution. The rest were consigned to live in the Ghettos. In 2075, we had learned that a surprising number of Ferals had refused to allow their offspring to be genetically modified and hidden them behind faked DNA records. These children were discovered through our mandatory brain scans. It was a large number – there were a million of them. When the Ferals were rounded up, they were separated from their parents and sent into Children’s Camps, in the far North. I have no idea what happened to them there.
High fences, birth control sprays,2 tranquilizers in their water,3 and other means, such as pepper-spray drones,4 were used to keep the Feral plague confined and their population strictly regulated. Only because there were arguments that the Feral Human Genome was a product of millions of years of natural selection, which had created a variety of humanity that was unique, were these recalcitrant, rebellious, obdurate sub-humans allowed to live out their wretched lives behind those high walls. Many of us believed they should have been exterminated at once, but the majority (myself included) thought that they should have been kept on a faraway reserve, where no one else wanted to live. There they could breed as they wished: from time to time, we’d introduce some disease to reduce their numbers, and in other ways experiment on the flexibility and adaptability of the Feral Human Genome.
That’s why I was being gentle with Antoine. As a Ghetto Feral, he exhibited some rare genetic qualities that my sponsors didn’t want to see eliminated. Not yet. He possessed the capacity to kill, and this fascinated them. However, Antoine was a fool who also once hid his children from us. He failed to see that humanity was inevitably heading into its great dream – Immortality! Only full Cyborgs could attain this ultimate privilege. Only those who submitted their fleshly parts to the Machine would live forever. As for the Ferals, we policed them for their own good, since it was essential that certain genetic profiles had to be kept from extinction. Because Antoine had killed a rare Tharu (Nepali) who carried an important haplogroup variant,5 we were compelled to intervene. Had it been the murder of a Common Feral, we would not have cared. It was the elimination of a carrier of a rare genetic variant that concerned us. That was Antoine’s crime.
So long as we remembered human flesh, and its capacity for variety, we understood that human components was a living DNA and mitochondrial reservoir from which we could draw to create unique pets and kinky sex slaves (we still liked to watch). The growing lack of interest in anything having to do with humans, however, was a harbinger of the future. After all, choice specimens could always join their predecessors in deep-freeze.
It wasn’t a long drive to Harris’ house. Most of the time was consumed by passing through the security gates. Now, as I approached Antoine’s home, despite its being surrounded by dense layers of apartments and ramshackle buildings filled with squatters, the red brick Georgian Mansion stood out due to its age and worn splendor. Security lights and alarms surrounded the mansion, which even featured ivy growing up its walls. I saw that Antoine was rich: half the mansion belonged soley to himself and his wife. They had bred five children, all of whom had been deported to the North. At the door, I showed my credentials to the armed guards there (indeed, he was a rich man!) and was brought inside.
The old man curbed his German Shepherd at the door as I entered: I was glad he still retained the strength to do it, since dogs seem to hate Cyborgs, and I didn’t want to kill the family pet.
“I suppose you’ll be recording everything?” Antoine remarked, as he led me into his study. I admit I was astonished at the luxury I saw there: stacks of books, phonograph records from an era long gone, candles on silver candlesticks, and paintings on the wall. I hadn’t seen real paintings for a decade, when we tore down the State University to make room for more power plants.
Harris shot a glance toward the closed parlor doors.
“I’m alone,” I assured him.
“I don’t like your drone,” he complained.
I snapped my fingers, and my Security Bot flew with a whirr against my hand, then folded itself into the shape of a pen. I placed it in a slit in my helmet.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“Try this,” Antoine said, reaching over and pouring me a jigger of Scotch. I tasted it: it was the genuine article. At that moment, I was glad that I was only 80% Cyborg, with so much flesh yet to be replaced. Some of us no longer possess taste buds. They didn’t know what they were missing. A part of me knew it was poison, but adventure was the spice of life. Or at least, good Scotch was a contender.
Soon, the old man exhibited a case of loose lips and was talking easily, enriching his statements with a hearty laugh over nothing every once in a while. He was still nervous, though. An alarm sounded at one point, and he stood up to check his monitors. “Some madman is always trying to break in,” he told me. “There’s not enough space out there for them all.” He explained that his guards were loyal because he had a supply of alcohol that was impossible to find even on the black market. “Long ago, I stashed it away for such a rainy day,” he told me. “Every holiday, I give some away, so folks love me. They realize that if my stash gets raided, they’ll never get another drink at Christmas. It works. They protect me.”
The alarm had changed his mood: he had begun to pace the floor, his footsteps muffled by the aging carpet. “I’m telling you about the liquor,” he muttered,” because your brain scan got it all wrong. The murder wasn’t over her money. I have money, and now you know why I have money.”
Antoine Harris had indeed married a wealthy woman, whose fortune had been secure in the edible fish industry. He explained how she had accumulated it. Even the poorest ghetto resident was able to raise a few koi – one of the few protein sources, along with rats and ants – that could survive Ghetto conditions. Ant eggs and algae provided the koi with adequate food.
“Few of us can afford a dog,” he said, with a hint of pride. “But I can. Still, what gets to me is how stupid everybody is. Maybe it’s becaus
e of the food and water you force on us. I swear, I can’t have a decent conversation with any of them anymore.”
“You seem to be wired up, compared to most Ferals,” I agreed.
“I distill my water, and I’m rich enough to get better food,” he replied. “Through bartering and my other services, “ he said, “I’m doing okay. But my people…” Antoine made a grimace of disgust. “They’ve changed. They’ve settled into this new lifestyle, as if it’s normal. Life isn’t so bad, they tell me. Things could be worse. You’re damned right, they could be worse. And they will be worse! They have forgotten that the Jews in the ghettoes of old thought the same way, before they were hauled off to work camps and starved to death. I can see how much we cost you to maintain. You’ll end up disposing of us because we’re too expensive.”
“I think you’re being rather judgmental and harsh,” I answered.
“Oh, am I?” Antoine shot back, throwing himself back into his big, comfortable chair. “If that’s so, how come I can think better, now that I’m not eating your prison paste? And –where the hell are my kids?”
“In a better place,” I replied. “They didn’t commit any crimes against the State.”
“Never mind, you’re just an idiot,” Antoine said, with a sigh. “It’s not your area of expertise.”
“Let’s get on with your testimony,” I said. “And I’d appreciate another shot of that stuff, by the way.”
Antoine was happy to oblige. As he poured me a refill that was only slightly less than the first in volume, he looked me in the eye and said, “How much of your brain is still human?”
“See, that’s where you Ferals have it all wrong,” I answered. “My brain is 100% human-derived. It’s just that it’s been grown on an electromagnetic matrix that regulates the neurons and stimulates them to grow, or to be replaced, when any of my synthetic nerve cells start to age.”
“So, your brain had human thoughts that never got replaced?”