Artificial

by Jadah McCoy

  She looks up, spearing me with blue eyes bright with pain and fear. A trail of red liquid drips from her lower lip and down her chin. Her blonde hair—what a strange color—mats against her cheeks and forehead. What I had thought before to be a dubious fashion choice now appears to be a man’s coat. It barely covers her.

  Dread bubbles in my stomach, and I try to keep it from showing on my face. This doesn’t seem like an attempted murder. This seems like something else.

  “Where am I?” she rasps.

  “Please,” I implore, with a bit more sincerity than I mean to show. “Let me help you.”

  I reach out to her, and she draws back into herself, suddenly feral.

  “Help me by telling me where I am!” she shouts. Her muscles are taut; she’s a coil ready to spring.

  “You are in New Elite. Where else would you be?”

  “New Elite?” Confusion crosses her gaze. She scans the skyscrapers around us, the gutters, the androids farther down the alley pretending not to listen. There’s not an ounce of recognition there.

  With a sigh, I glance at the widget on the inside of my arm. Three minutes. I have three bloody minutes to get to my client.

  Yes, Ms. Warden. I’m supposed to truss you up like a turkey and ravage you all night, but oh, don’t mind that feral waif bleeding on your expensive crystal vase in the corner.

  Even so, I find that I can’t leave her here. It’s much too dangerous.

  With a tilt of my head, I send Ms. Warden an intercircuitry message, telling her that I regretfully must postpone our liaison and that I’ve sent over a most sought-after consolation prize. Her reply is almost instantaneous and is as scathing as it is scintillating.

  I crouch in front of the girl so that we’re face-to-face. “You’re coming with me,” I say.

  She meets my gaze with defiance. “Like hell I am.”

  I grit my teeth together in frustration. “Please,” I spit through my teeth. “I cannot in good conscience leave you here.”

  Distrust shines in her critical blue gaze. She looks back over her shoulder, and what she sees there makes her pale brows bunch together. I follow her line of sight to the CorpEx building.

  Curious.

  When she turns toward me, again her face has hardened into a mask of apathy. “I’m not your problem.”

  “All right. We’ll do this your way.”

  I reach for her, grabbing her wrist before she can react, meaning to throw her over my shoulder. I doubt anyone in this area would give a second glance to a woman struggling against a man.

  A rhythm beats hard like a war drum beneath her skin—a heartbeat. Her heartbeat. Her shoulders rise up and down with each hurried breath she gulps. Breath. Oxygen sustaining an organic, mortal body. I recoil as she did earlier, an electric shock pulsing through my mechanical body. She pulls away, too, clattering against the dumpster with her momentum.

  “You’re… you’re…” I pause and then whisper, “Organic?”

  I’m sure shock washes across my face, and I take a moment to rearrange my features into a practiced mask of neutrality. I look around us, into the shadows of the side streets and past the groups of androids conversing. No one seems to be showing us an inordinate amount of attention.

  “What else would I be?” she whispers.

  “This place is not safe for you,” I tell her in a quiet voice. “You cannot stay here.”

  I’m not lying. I’ve heard rumors of humans crawling their way out of the sewers, and I’ve heard rumors of what happens to them when, not if, they’re captured.

  I’d rather be the Glitch that I am than a human.

  I should leave her here, victim to her ignorance. She is right when she says that she’s not my problem. The prejudice toward Organics is tenfold compared to that of Glitches, for they are the ones who started the vicious cycle of hatred—the Android War. Glitches are snuffed out because they ever so petulantly remind the android population of their relationship with organic man: slavery, subjugation, objectivism.

  If anything, I should be glad to see her suffer after all the humans did to us.

  But I see it in this woman’s eyes, something there that is broken. It’s a familiar look. I’ve seen it in the eyes of older models, propped against the roadside like stringless marionettes. I’ve seen it in the mirror. Something about witnessing so much death, so much destruction… it steals the light from your eyes.

  Within .9948439 seconds, a million possibilities populate my mind. The probability that someone will find me out and my model discontinued is 68.809 percent.

  And I cannot bring myself to care.

  “I know someone who can help you get out of here, if that is what you wish,” I tell her. “But you have to trust me.”

  Finally, finally, she nods in weary assent. I offer her my hand, and she presses her fingertips into my palm. Their warmth lingers there.

  I have someone in mind who may be able to help, someone who knows Organics better than I, who considers malfeasance and anarchy to be hobbies instead of danger.

  Michelo the mechanic’s place is only a few blocks from here. Together we hobble through the grimy alleys, the woman’s warmth tucked beneath my arm. As we get closer, she leans more and more heavily against me.

  I glance at her limping gait, her blank expression.

  What happened to her?

  Heaps and barrels of parts line the entrance to Michelo’s shop: cogs, wires, singed and broken limbs, big and small the lot of them. The moment she sees the barrel of hands and feet, she hesitates, pulling away from me.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Are those… hands?” Confusion and horror color her words.

  “They are parts that are, uh, not currently being utilized.”

  I stare as she kneels and reaches into a bucket, poking at an arm. The limb’s faux flesh is torn, wires protruding from the end in a cloud of wispy gray metal. She dangles one of them above the others by a curled finger, then lets it plop back into the bucket.

  She stands again and turns to me. “What are you?”

  An easy enough inquiry to answer.

  “I am model BA-5T10N. But most people call me Bastion. Rolls off the tongue a bit smoother, don’t you think?”

  She lets out a shaky breath.

  “Model?”

  “I am an android.”

  She rests her back against the stone wall behind her. I didn’t think it was possible for her to go any paler, but somehow she does it.

  I reach for her. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine!” she snaps, clutching the jacket to herself and shaking her head. “Stop asking me. Let’s just go.”

  We enter through a heavy wooden door, and a bell chimes overhead, announcing us. Shelves of watches and cellular phones, typewriters, and then newer technology such as uninstalled widgets and cranial communication circuitry line the walls. Michelo loves nothing more than to find a new oddity, any relic of the world we burned and buried long ago.

  “I’ll be with you momentarily,” a voice, Michelo’s, announces, and then he grumbles, “Can’t get this bloody wiring right.”

  A small explosion of flame bursts from the back room, followed by a thick ring of acrid black smoke that wafts to the ceiling before disappearing. “Damn it all to hell!”

  “Michelo,” I interrupt. “It’s me.”

  “Ah! Bastion, my boy!” Michelo appears from the room behind the counter in front of us, wiping grease from his hands with a cloth before tossing the square onto a junk-covered counter. “What a pleasant surpr—”

  He stops in his tracks as he takes in the sight of us, his brows furrowing like roiling storm clouds. “Who’s that you’ve got there? She looks in dire need of a fixin’.”

  After a moment of hesitation, I say, “I don’t think you’ll be able to help her… in that sense, at least.”

  He ruffles. “Well, what’s that supposed to mean? Even those stuck-up Metro folk come to me for parts installation—”

 
; “She’s Organic.”

  The mechanic’s face goes taut, and his shoulders tense, all trace of good humor disappearing. “You know how I love malfeasance and anarchy—”

  I could almost roll my eyes.

  “But this is like puttin’ a blinkin’ arrow right above our heads! You’re just askin’ for the PICs to come down here and unravel your circuits… slowly, one by bloody one.”

  And then, suddenly, the woman straightens and speaks, and not without authority.

  “Listen,” she begins. “My name is Syl. I’m human, Organic… whatever. I don’t know how I got… here. I need food, water, sleep… probably a bath. I’ll leave in the morning. No one will ever know I was here.”

  Syl. What kind of a name is that?

  Michelo’s eyebrows raise, his lips pressing into a line. I match his surprised look.

  “Well, can’t argue with that logic, then, can we?”

  Syl’s mouth drops open, then snaps shut again, any further argument she had planned apparently sticking in her throat.

  “One night, and that’s it! There’s a spare room down below. Our friend here used to be little more than an overgrown parasite.” Michelo gestures toward me in good nature.

  It’s true there was a time when I needed a place to stay. Androids don’t need sleep, you see, but sometimes those of us who patrol the darkest parts of New Elite do need a place to hide.

  We follow him past the reception counter and into the back room. A steel table sits in the middle of the room with a motionless body lying facedown on it. It’s a male android, his systems currently offline.

  The receiving dock implanted in the back of his neck is singed black, presumably from all the difficulties Michelo was having with his wiring when Syl and I first arrived at the shop. He is completely nude save for a barcode on the outside of his muscular right thigh and the collection of rings on each of his fingers. It’s easy to tell he’s from Metro. Surprising that he trusts Michelo enough to take his systems offline in this area.

  Syl says nothing about the body, only stares as we walk past.

  “Don’t worry, little human,” Michelo says. “He’s just taking a nice, long nap.”

  “Looks like a dirt nap to me,” she says under her breath.

  Michelo chuckles in reply.

  He leads us through a curtained doorway at the back of the room and then down a set of dark and musty steps.

  This room is so familiar to me. A line of windows, not big enough for a person to crawl through, opens up to the glow of the buildings and billboards outside. There’s a familiar shuffling of shoes against broken concrete. It smells of motor oil and ozone and something distinctly of Michelo’s shop. The bed is small, hard, still unmade from the last night someone spent in this place.

  I’ve spent many a night here when the body count got too high, when it was unbearable to stay out on the street, glancing over my shoulder every few moments. When I was too addled from the nanobots in my system.

  “This is it,” Michelo announces. “Loo is through there.”

  “Loo?” Syl glances up in confusion.

  “Bathroom,” I tell her.

  She makes a noise of affirmation, pads off in the direction of the shower, and shuts the door behind her. It’s quiet. There is no sound of water spraying against the hard floor, only heavy silence on the other side of that door. I can practically hear her waiting for us to go away.

  Michelo looks at me, and I shrug. We make our way back to the stairs.

  “You better get to lookin’ for some edibles for that little Organic kitten,” he says when we reach the back room.

  I sigh. “Really?”

  I’d like nothing more than to end my day. I am, as they say, exhausted. Nothing would be better than shutting down my systems for a good forty-eight hours. Client after satisfied client, whipped, spanked, handcuffed. Is it too much to ask to be able to lie down?

  I’d like to forget the lightning strike of her haunted eyes falling on me. I’d like to not care what happens to her after this night. I’d like to not feel when I think of her body discarded like rubbish, thundering heartbeat gone, warm lifeblood drained.

  She isn’t my responsibility.

  She isn’t.

  “Well, she’s your stray. Bring home a kitten, you have to clean the litter box, Bastion. You never do learn.” He smiles.

  “All right, all right. I’ll go if you just stop talking now. I have a client in”—I check my widget—“thirty minutes. Be back after.”

  I toss the tail of my coat as I turn and head out of the shop.

  “Pet food can be found on La Rue de Comp!” Michelo calls after me.

  La Rue de Comp.

  I stare at the market in front of me with unadulterated hatred. I will run into clients. I hate running into clients. It ruins the air of mystery. My, Bastion, aren’t you looking domestic today?

  I am not domestic. I am dominating, masculine, and all that bollocks.

  I enter the store through sliding doors, and immediately the blue light of a scanner meets me.

  “Welcome, Model BA-5T10N!” says a cheery female voice. A hologram appears in front of me, blocking my way. Idiotic niceties. “Can I help you find something?”

  “No.” I pass through the flickering illusion.

  Again, she appears in front of me, blocking my way.

  “Model BA-5T10N, there are 495 aisles in Comp-Mart. Please let me direct you so that you may maintain efficiency.” She smiles too pleasantly.

  “Bloody fine! Pet food.”

  The hologram adopts a faraway look. “Your request is processing—pet food is on aisle 236. Do you require transport?”

  “Well, I’m not walking the whole bloody way, am I?” My foul mood doesn’t deter her false cheer.

  “Transporting to aisle 236.”

  The ground beneath me locks onto my feet, lifts, and sends me soaring through the pristine white expanse of the market. Dozens of aisles fly by until I skitter to a halt, the tiles releasing me in front of what is presumably aisle 236.

  Cans and bags of prepackaged foods line the aisle. Other shoppers peruse the goods. They’re obviously upper-class Metro folk, or their assistants—bulky layers of jewelry, vibrant hair piled high on their heads, colorful facial markings, metallic clothing. I receive a handful of uneasy glances as I make my way down the aisle—probably not used to shopping next to a trench coat–wearing sex worker. Ah, well. Who is, really?

  I ignore the looks as I sift through the different kinds of food.

  Freeze-dried chicken, vegetables, fruit treats, crisps, among other things. Frustration niggles at me. How much does she need? Does she like some things and dislike others?

  Do I really care?

  “Fuck all,” I mutter under my breath.

  I grab one of each, content not to waste one more minute of energy on it.

  When I return to Michelo’s, I stick my head past the curtain and call down the stairs. “Hello? Syl?”

  No answer.

  I head down the stairs, each step creaking under my weight, the bags of food rustling in my arms.

  Downstairs, darkness saturates the room. A sliver of light peeks in from the space beneath the bathroom door. I walk over, raising my hand to knock, but stop just short.

  I hear her through the door, her ragged breathing echoing off the tile. She sobs with an amount of conviction that I have never experienced. I press my forehead against the door, listening for a long moment.

  “Syl,” I whisper.

  The noises cease.

  “Syl, I’ve brought food.”

  No answer still. I wait. And wait.

  Until the dawn peeks over the horizon and the electric billboards shut off, I wait. She doesn’t come out. Looks like relaxing wasn’t on today’s agenda after all.

  Bastion

  he bathroom door slams, and my head jerks toward the sound.

  She’s dressed in a form-fitting bodysuit, its lightweight material shimmering in the morni
ng light. Her blonde hair is tied back in an intricate braid, and icy fire resonates in her expression.

  She stops in front of me, and I rise from the floor.

  “I’m leaving.”

  I nod. “Take your food.”

  She grabs a bag from the heap and takes it with her as she gallops up the stairs. I follow.

  Michelo is up working on the same male android. His brows furrow, deep in concentration as he pieces together each intricate inner working.

  “Michelo, I need a knife. Or, even better, a gun.”

  My eyebrows rise at her request. Michelo’s head doesn’t move a centimeter, but his eyes lift to rest on her face. She doesn’t flinch under his look, only stares, waiting for his answer.

  “You can’t just traipse around New Elite with a knife on your belt and a gun in your hand. The PICs will pluck you from the crowd in a moment. The clothing is a nice touch, but it will throw them off for perhaps a millisecond,” I say.

  She levels her gaze at me. “What do you suggest, then, pretty boy?”

  I hold a hand to my chest in mock injury. “Oh, that really hurts.”

  “If,” Michelo interrupts, “you two make me screw up this wiring, I’ll turn both of you in.”

  The bag crinkles under Syl’s fingers. “You said it’s not safe for me, for humans. What happens to the other Organics when they’re found?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’m lying. I do know, but it’s not something I ever want to speak of again. The cages, the filth, the screaming and pleading and crying.

  “For a machine you’re terrible at lying. My friend was taken. He’s just a boy, and I have to find him. I’ll do it with your help or without, with weapons or without them.”

  Michelo answers for me. “Organics are taken to the meat market, if you must know. By now he may have been sold, or worse.”

  “Sold?”

  “Or worse,” he repeats mindlessly.

  I answer her. “As slaves, pets, breeders… whichever is the most humiliating.”

  Her face contorts in what I perceive to be, and rightly should be, horror. Her eyes flicker behind me, so quickly it would have been imperceptible to nonmechanical eyes. I turn and look to my left side.

  A sculpting blade rests on the table behind me. I turn back to her, cocking an eyebrow in amusement.