GOOD MORNING, MR. AARONHEART. WE HOPE YOU HAD A PEACEFUL NIGHT’S SLEEP. THIS IS AN IMPORTANT MEDICAL UPDATE. LAST NIGHT, WE FOUND CANCEROUS CELLS IN YOUR BRAIN. THEY WERE FROM AN UNKNOWN ORIGIN AND WE WERE NOT ABLE TO IDENTIFY WHAT COULD HAVE CAUSED THEM. THEY WERE SMALL IN NUMBER AND DID NOT POSE A THREAT TO YOUR BODY BECAUSE WE FOUND THEM AND DESTROYED THEM FAST ENOUGH.
WE PATROL YOUR BODY HUNDREDS OF TIMES A DAY LOOKING FOR THINGS EXACTLY LIKE THIS. WE’LL ESPECIALLY BE ON THE LOOKOUT NOW, SO THERE IS NO NEED TO BE CONCERNED ABOUT ANY ROGUE CELLS LURKING ELSEWHERE IN YOUR BODY.
AS YOU MAY KNOW, A CERTAIN PERCENTAGE OF THE POPULATION CONTRACTS CANCER EACH YEAR. WE ARE USUALLY ABLE TO STOP IT BEFORE IT SPREADS WITH NO ADDITIONAL ISSUES. YOUR CASE MAY NOT BE SERIOUS, BUT YOU SHOULD SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY. WE HAVE COPIED THIS MESSAGE TO YOUR LENS ALONG WITH PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE DEAD CELLS FOR YOUR DOCTOR TO REVIEW.
THANKS FOR READING. WE HOPE YOUR DAY IS JUST AS WONDERFUL AS THE OPPORTUNITY WE HAVE TO PROTECT YOUR BODY.
WITH LOVE,
YOUR NANOS
Shortcut blinked several times. “Holy hell.”
The news made his body feel as heavy as lead. Shortcut climbed out of bed, and though his legs were weak, he soldiered through the pain. He looked at himself in the mirror. His red hair was tousled from sleep and his white shirt had a soda stain on it. He scrolled through the medical report again, the letters reflecting off his lens into the mirror and creating an infinity of data.
It was the lens.
He heard the words of Frantz, his lens enhancement doctor. In a cocky tone, Frantz said, “You’ll burn your brain out. You’re going to be a walking petri dish for health problems.”
Damn you, Frantz.
The bee drone chimed again, warning that his food was getting cold. He lumbered to the table and slouched over his plate. He doused his eggs with green salsa and wolfed them down, smacking bits of egg, tomato and bell pepper before swallowing. He folded the strips of bacon in half and ate them in two bites. Then he swiped the strawberry soda and downed it in a few gulps, drinking so fast that it made him pant. He crumpled the can and tossed it to the waste can but missed. The can rolled across the carpet, and the bee drone grabbed it and delivered it to the trash.
Shortcut threw the plate and silverware into the sink and they clanged against the sides—it was a miracle they didn’t break. He ran through his tiny quarters looking for clean clothes. He had forgotten to do laundry before the Crenshaw mission began; he always forgot to sign up for the laundry drones. He kicked himself for being lazy and irresponsible. A clean shirt smelling of fresh lavender would have calmed his nerves right about now.
He grabbed some clothes off the floor, thinking about his situation, then slid into a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. He decided not to worry about odor since no one would be able to smell him where he was going.
He had to tell Frantz. No way in hell he was going to report this to his regular doctor.
Frantz could help him. If he couldn’t cure him, at least he would know what to do.
Shortcut grabbed the chair from the kitchen table and placed it in the middle of the room. He sat down, breathing deeply. Focusing on his lens, he blinked six times in rapid succession, and a shimmering wall of green information appeared around him. He entered a zigzag passcode with his eyes, and his vision surged forward through a blazing tunnel until he appeared in an office.
His eyes adjusted as the pixelated virtual environment came into view. He had expected to see the bright green walls of Frantz’s office, his loud digital screens playing advertisements for all the enhancements he offered, avatar people sitting in the waiting room, and a pretty secretary who greeted him as he leaned on the cool granite counter and gave his name. He expected to see the office’s fancy coffee machine, a block of burnished metal that poured the most realistic-smelling coffee he had ever experienced.
But he wasn’t in Frantz’s office. This office was darker. It had mahogany walls, crown molding, and red carpet. Along the walls were bookshelves stacked with thick books and digital access panels. In the middle of the office, a Latino man in a black suit and an iridescent red and black tie sat with his arms folded. He had jet black, wavy hair and smooth brown skin, and he held a stylus in one hand as he wrote on a digital screen embedded in his desk. A sign above him read in cursive handwriting: THE LAW OFFICE OF GARZA & ROBO GARZA.
“Who are you?” Shortcut asked.
The attorney set down his stylus. Even though he was an avatar, he seemed real. He frowned at Shortcut. “Who are you?”
“I asked the question first.”
“Who are you visiting?” Garza asked. Behind him, Shortcut saw the walls flicker, and he caught a glimpse of Frantz’s office. But the vision flickered away as soon as it appeared, and he wasn’t sure if the office was really there or if his memory was trying to recreate it.
“I’m here to see a doctor,” Shortcut said.
“Who?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
He had heard of robo attorneys setting up firewalls in front of clandestine places. Sometimes they represented the places; other times, they were working with cops to catch criminals.
“If you’re here to see Jonah Frantz, he’s not available,” the attorney said.
“What the hell do you mean he’s not available?”
Garza stared at Shortcut; legal statutes streamed across his lenses and it looked as if he was analyzing them while he spoke to Shortcut. “My client now requires several days’ notice for appointments. He’s understandably concerned about the recent developments in the UEA, you understand.”
“I have to see him,” Shortcut said. “It’s a medical emergency.”
“Give me your name and I’ll put you on the list.”
“Yeah, so you can run a background check and send me to jail.”
“If you’re not going to sign your name, you need to leave.”
“Frantz!” Shortcut cried. “Frantz! It’s me! I know you’re here somewhere! Quit pulling this crap. I’m not going to sit here and negotiate with your quasi-legal attorney!”
“Sign or leave,” Garza said.
“Frantz, I had cancer. Cancer! Bloody heck, man! Let me in, or I’ll—”
Garza sighed. “I get threats all the time, kid. Fortunately, I’m an avatar. Otherwise, I’d report you to the police for verbal assault.”
There was a knocking sound. Shortcut looked around but didn’t see a door in the law office. “Did you hear that?”
Garza shrugged. “It’s not here.”
The knocking sound grew louder.
“Crap.”
The attorney gave him a business card. The card felt real, but it was just a virtual representation, like everything else in the office. Shortcut took it and downloaded the image into his lens.
“You can always come back if you want to follow the rules,” the attorney said. “This is a legitimate robo firm, and your information is safe with us. Sorry to hear about your cancer, by the way.”
The knocking sound grew longer and more sustained. Shortcut blinked six times and felt himself being pulled from the law office. He was back in his apartment, breathing heavily. The attorney’s card streamed across his lens: ARMANDO GARZA, A.J.D.
The knocking sound continued.
“Shortcut? Are you there?”
He ran to the door. It was Brielle. She was in her blue UEA uniform with a pink and white polka-dotted scarf. Her long blonde hair hung down to her shoulders. The sight of her made his stomach knot up and his chest tighten.
“One moment!”
He ran around and picked up as many of his clothes as he could. Then he checked his lens to make sure that the virtual connection with the law office was disconnected. He opened the door, panting.
“Are you okay?” Brielle asked. “You were asleep for a really long time. Fahrens was asking about you and wondering why you hadn’t shown up to help rebuild the library.”
Shortcut rubbed th
e back of his head. The thought of building things made him want to go back to sleep. “Heh. I guess time got away from me.”
Brielle pushed the door gently and let herself in, studying the room. As she passed, her shoulder brushed against him and he got a subtle whiff of perfume—floral, sparkling, with red berry notes. He tasted it on his tongue, and then the scent vanished. He wished he could keep smelling her.
“Haven’t had a chance to clean up,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
Brielle looked at a suit and tie hanging on the wall. The garments hung on hooks and were wrinkled beyond the help of an iron. Shortcut took the suit off the wall and tossed it in the hamper. The clothes landed inside with a WHUMPF and he slammed the lid so hard it cracked.
“You haven’t cleaned that suit for three months,” Brielle said. “There were dust mites on it.”
“I forgot to call the laundry service. It’s hard to keep up with all the work we’ve been doing lately.”
“You really should clean your place, Shortcut.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m dirty or anything—”
Brielle chuckled. “No, you’re not dirty. You’re clean, but awfully messy.”
“Those attacks were something else, weren’t they?” Shortcut asked, grabbing a stool. Brielle sat down on his bed. The very thought of her in the vicinity of his bed gave him ideas that he tried hard to suppress.
“You were very brave during the attacks,” Brielle said. “Those androids killed a lot of people. You were fearless.”
Shortcut glowed at her praise. He grinned. “Those androids don’t scare me. I guess I owe you a thank you for saving me, too.”
He remembered how Brielle had opened her chest and engulfed two of Crenshaw’s androids in a torrent of fire.
“I didn’t know you were capable of fighting,” Shortcut said. “I thought you were purely social.”
“All androids are given the ability to defend themselves,” Brielle said. “It’s a holdover from the singularity. Android rights. Though I must admit that I’m not nearly as skilled at fighting as X. But if I had to fight, I could.”
“I wish I had a chest cannon like you. Man, you sizzled those guys!”
Brielle looked uncomfortable at his joke, and she ran a hand through her hair and glanced around the room.
“I’m here to check on you. The Council ordered me to perform a psychological analysis of all agents involved in the attacks.”
“I’m fine.”
“In any case, I still have to ask you the routine questions. We want to catch any instances of post-traumatic stress disorder early.”
“Come on, Brielle—”
Brielle’s eyes turned red, indicating that she was recording audio and video of their conversation.
“Are you generally feeling well today?”
“… Of course.”
“Have you had any repeated memories or distressing dreams?”
“No,” Shortcut said, swallowing hard.
“Are you feeling detached?”
“No.”
“Are you feeling any anxiety?”
“No.”
“Are you using any unapproved body enhancements? We’re required to ask because unapproved devices can increase feelings of anxiety, especially during after a traumatic event.”
“No, Brielle. I’m as normal as you can be given the circumstances.”
Brielle’s eyes turned green and she pursed her lips. “I’ll file your responses.”
He wondered what she was thinking. Knowing how honest androids were, if she didn’t say anything about his enhancements, then he was probably okay.
“Has the Council given their media briefing yet?” Shortcut asked.
“Soon.”
“I bet. If I were a regular human out there, I’d be pissed, too. After all, people probably thought things were fine, and then all of a sudden there’s an android massacre and then a major attack on UEA soil. I’d be pretty scared, too. It’d make me think a second singularity was happening.”
“Things are going to change,” Brielle said. “The Council has warned all agents to be aware of erratic criminal activity.”
“I wonder what X is up to right now.”
“I last saw him in the library,” Brielle said. “The top and bottom floors are almost cleaned up. We should be back to normal operations by the end of the day. Getting back to work will take everyone’s minds off the recent events.”
“Yeah,” Shortcut said, thinking about his cancer. “I still have to take a shower, so—”
“Very well,” Brielle said. “Be sure to keep your lens on. There will be an announcement soon.”
“Got it.”
Brielle left, and when the sliding door closed, Shortcut counted to twenty—in case she came back. Then he counted to twenty again just to make sure.
He pulled up the virtual wall and attempted to connect to the law office. He hoped he could reason with the attorney.
He was about to transport himself into the office when an intercom sounded and Fahrens’s voice said, “All agents, please report to the front lawn immediately. We have a Code P1XP54.”
“Crap,” Shortcut said. He disconnected the link and kicked the bed. “This timing sucks.”
He grabbed his coat and dashed down the hall along with other android engineers who had responded to the call. He came to a window in a stairwell and looked outside at a sea of people with signs in the front lawn of the UEA headquarters, chanting and screaming.
Chapter 3
The Council was waiting for X when he arrived. The briefing room hadn’t been repaired yet; it smelled like smoke and its brown walls had bullet holes in them. A wall-length screen displayed details and photographs of X’s previous mission—Aruba, the shopping district, the red light district, and in the center of it all, a photo of Jeanette Crenshaw smiling evilly.
Just a few hours ago, this room had been full of androids, engineers, and vibrant digital screens—now it was filled with death, blocks of concrete and broken glass. The windows were blown open, exposing the sprawling metropolis outside. The wind blew harshly against X’s face and dense smoke hung in the air.
The Council was gathered around a table that could barely accommodate all of them. A Japanese android stood in the back of the room at attention. He had black hair, pale skin, and he wore a suit and tie like X.
“Hey, X,” Nobu said. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”
“You too, Nobu.”
Nobu pointed to a scar across his neck. “Barely. They tried to remove my black box. If you hadn’t intervened when you did, I would be evil right now.”
“I can’t take credit,” X said. “I did what any of us UEA androids would have done.”
“Spoken like a true Crenshaw,” Nobu said, grinning.
Nobu wasn’t a Crenshaw, but he shared the Crenshaw technology. His maker, Kobayashi, had integrated the Crenshaw framework into his existing architecture; the result was an android that had its own sensibilities but with the Crenshaw template. Nobu was especially adept as a protector of the Council. He and X had trained together in their early years.
The Councilman from North America, a wizened blonde-haired man with blue eyes, pockmarks on his face, and a slight limp, breathed in and closed his eyes before speaking. “You continue to astound us with your resilience, X.”
X saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
“We’ve been briefed about the details of your mission,” the Councilwoman from Europe said. “So now we’re going to ask you: is there any chance that Jeanette Crenshaw reprogrammed you during the attacks?”
X remembered how Crenshaw had jumped on top of him and inserted a metal rod into his head trying to access his black box, and how she couldn’t reprogram him.
“No. She accessed my black box but she couldn’t modify it.”
“Are you telling us the truth or are you just saying that because Crenshaw told you to?” the Councilwoman from Europe asked.
&nbs
p; “I am telling you the truth,” X said. “I believe that I am … impervious to her reprogramming attempts.”
He thought it would be a good time to tell the Council about the memory upgrade he had received just before the battle—how, when in the middle of the secret tunnels of the headquarters, he had slumped over and experienced what humans often call an out-of-body experience. But he decided against it and dedicated himself to the mission instead. He didn’t know how the Council would take such news, especially after the attacks.
The Councilman from North America wheeled around in his chair and frowned. “Then we are definitely at war.”
X grabbed a piece of drywall from the floor and tossed it from hand to hand, thoughts racing across his mind. “Forgive me for being frank, but I’m not sure I understand anything that has happened in the last few days. I thought I did, but now I have no idea.”
The attacks were still fresh in X’s mind. He couldn’t forget Jeanette Crenshaw, tall and fair-skinned and beautiful, with a long strand of curly hair that fell in front of her eyes. He couldn’t forget her long orange dress, the gray scarf that trailed behind her as she walked. Her patchouli perfume. Her bloodshot eye, steel blue metal arm with its sharp finger-claws that gnashed together when she closed it into a fist. Her laugh, throaty and strong, feminine and familiar, reminded him of early memories that he didn’t have security access to.
“Why did Jeanette leave the UEA?” X asked, trying to continue where his conversation with Lonnie had left off. “What happened to her?”
“She disappeared,” the Councilman from North America said. “Her father’s death devastated her. Her mother died shortly after that. She erased all traces of herself from the network. We never imagined that she would be mounting a resistance.”
“But why would she hate the UEA?” X asked.
“Who doesn’t hate us nowadays?” the Councilman from Africa said dismissively. “If only you had your chips, X. You ask questions like a child.”
X decided not to pursue the Councilman from Africa’s comment further. He had hoped that the attacks would have changed the Council’s mind about restoring his memory chips. He had hoped that his memory would have been a matter of international security, but the Council had their reasons and he could not question them. He didn’t sense any malice, so he resolved to revisit it again after things calmed down.
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