Artificial

by Jadah McCoy

  I whirl around to face him, holding my balled fist close to my chest, the sticky blood flowing between my fingers. Michelo is already wiping the drops off the floor.

  “If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it a thousand times over by now,” I tell Serge, voice coming out harsher than I mean it to. “Literally, there have been a thousand chances for him to kill me, but he hasn’t, Serge. All he’s done is help. They want us out as much as you want to be out. So stop attacking him!”

  The muscle in his jaw twitches a few times. Finally, he drags his eyes up from the floor to meet mine. They shine with bitterness and something else.

  “You only end up hurting me.” I hate the pity that burns in my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I thought…”

  He trails off, and I nod at him. I know where the sentence was going to end.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Our faces are everywhere outside. We don’t really blend in, so they’re going to change the color of my hair. We should probably do something with yours, too.”

  “They can do that?” Serge asks me.

  I shrug, then nod.

  The muscle in his jaw jumps with irritation.

  Bastion appears beside me, carrying something to wrap my wound. His eyes never leave Serge’s face. Human or not, men are all the same. Everything’s a pissing contest.

  I take it from him and bandage my hand.

  “I was thinking…” I glance over at Bastion. “Maybe blue? How long does the color last, Michelo?”

  “Oh, forever,” he answers, still worrying over the floor. He now has two machines in his hands, the Purveyor and some sort of scanner he’s running along the ground where my blood fell. “Unless you purvey another pigment onto it.”

  “So choose wisely?” I smirk.

  “…never get rid of all this biomatter,” Michelo grumbles under his breath.

  I lean down to pick up the knife from the floor and then hold the hilt out to Bastion. He takes it from me. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  Serge leans against the counter as I kneel. He looks as though it pains him just to be in the same room as the two androids. Bastion returns to his spot behind me and clinically snips away at the strands. They tickle as they fall, brushing against my fingers. He moves to face me and tucks a finger under my chin to tilt my head up.

  I watch as he gathers a thick handful of blonde hair in front of my face and snips it just above my eyebrows. I wiggle my nose as the tiny strands stick there, tickling me. His smile is so small I almost don’t notice it.

  I study his face while I have him in front of me. Strong jawline, sculpted brows, freakishly symmetrical features. But really, other than the inhumanly bright eyes and the metal implanted in his neck, there’s no way to tell he isn’t the same as me. I can’t think of anything more dangerous than an enemy that mimics the looks and actions of its foe. No wonder…

  He catches my gaze, eyes falling on mine with the weight of a thousand floors of concrete and glass. That’s what it’s like, at least. The weight crushes me until I can’t breathe.

  “All done,” he says as he brushes bits of hair from my nose.

  I get up, running my hands through my hair. It’s so short, so light. My fingers falter as I brush them through it, expecting there to be so much more. I look at my feet, and a sea of blonde waves surrounds them.

  I glance at Michelo, and he almost looks like he might have a panic attack over all the organic material littering his shop.

  I turn to Serge. “Your turn?”

  He shrugs. “Give her the knife,” he says to Bastion, who obliges. I hold it as best I can in my injured hand.

  Serge gets on his knees in front of me as I had done for Bastion. He runs his fingers through his mop of sandy-blond hair. I trail a hand through it, holding the strands taut in front of the knife. I cut the sides of it so short there’s barely any hair left, just a thin layer of scruff, and leave a wayward stripe of curls on the top of his head.

  Our hair, dark and light, mingles below us. He runs a hand over his head, scratching it and loosening the rootless strands.

  He looks at me, I look at him, and we laugh at how silly we must look with our strange haircuts. He ruffles my new short hair, and I bat his hands away. It’s almost like releasing a weight from our shoulders. We’re alive, my friend is alive. And we’re going to go home.

  Well… Serge is going to go home. That’s what matters.

  “What color are you doing?” I ask him.

  He sucks in a breath as he thinks, and then a grin takes over his face. “If you’re doing blue, I’m doing green.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Michelo?”

  The android approaches us, Pigment Purveyor in hand.

  “Just don’t move or you might get blue in places you never thought would be blue.”

  He flips a switch on the instrument, and it warms up with a whirring noise. He touches the cold end of it to my forehead, and it pushes back my newly shorn bangs. I stare straight ahead, afraid to move lest I end up with blue skin instead of blue hair.

  Michelo pushes another button, and there’s a warm, pulsing sensation against my scalp. He holds the Purveyor to my head for a few moments, then pulls it away, moving over to Serge, who immediately stiffens.

  “Wow,” he says. His jaw hangs a bit slack.

  My hair is too short for me to see any changes that might be happening.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Your arms.”

  I hold them in front of me. In a slow wave of transformation, the dusting of fine, pale hair on my lower arms is turning a light shade of blue. I gasp and pull at the hair on my head, trying to force it into view.

  Beside me, the whirring of the Purveyor starts up again, and Michelo presses it to Serge’s scalp this time. It emits a pulsing light before Michelo pulls it away. Before my eyes, from roots to ends, Serge’s dark hair changes to a shade of deep green. The same change happens across his arms as it did to mine, giving his tan skin a green hue.

  I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my throat. “You look like a tree under all that dirt.”

  “Hey!” He pouts, affronted.

  Michelo approaches and grabs my hand, inspecting my arm.

  “Never used this on an Organic before. It’s a bit overzealous, don’t you think?” he asks Bastion, holding out my arm for his inspection.

  “What?” I gape at him. “You didn’t know what it would do, and you still used it on us?”

  “Oh, don’t get all verklempt. The worst that could’ve happened is you turning into a Smurf.”

  “A what?”

  “Right, you weren’t around for that. Never mind!”

  I look at him with pursed lips and crossed arms.

  Bastion grabs a small hand mirror off a shelf behind him and tosses it to Serge. He catches it and swivels his head around in front of the glass, inspecting his new hairdo before handing the mirror to me.

  I take it from him and look at myself as Michelo rambles on about the mechanics of it to Serge.

  “Pretty neat, eh?” Bastion says with a grin.

  A strange sensation washes over me as I stare at my face in the mirror. My hair is short and jagged, and now it’s a bright shade of blue. I don’t recognize myself at all. Is there anything left of the woman I was a week ago? Is there any part, any crevice, any molecule of my body that is still Sylvia?

  Bastion frowns at me. “Never claimed to be a barber,” he defends with a grin. “It’s just hair, right?”

  I force a smile onto my face. “It’s not that.” I run a hand over the short mop of blue again. “I like it.”

  “You looked like someone’s kicked your K-9, so I just thought…”

  “We’re all going to die, and you’re worrying about your barbering skills,” I say. “There’s some funky wiring in you.”

  He doesn’t react to my poor attempt at a joke.

  Instead, he says, “We’re not going to die. You aren’t goin
g to die, Syl.”

  I swallow hard, simply looking at him and trying to understand him for a few breaths.

  “All right!” Michelo claps his hands together, then rubs them against each other. “Organics sufficiently disguised, Bastion sufficiently disguised.” He pulls out a suit and familiar mask with a wink. “I’d say it’s high time we were rid of these messy little humans. No offense.”

  Messy humans with our messy lives. He’s right. We don’t belong here among the rigid structures and cold faces. But I can’t go out there with Serge, back to that world where there are no answers for me. Where there is only death. I have a decision to make.

  Bastion

  he two Organics blend in quite well with their new hair, clean bodies, and fresh clothes. Syl’s rebandaged the wound on her hand, and Michelo burned the bloodstained bandage she changed. For safe measure, a glove covers her palm. She looks positively Elitian.

  If I know Michelo at all, and I do, he’s probably sanitizing his whole shop. Rightly so. Some sensors can pick up even the smallest traces of Organic biomatter.

  I’ve no idea where or how Michelo got hold of this PIC uniform, but what does it matter, adding impersonating an officer to my list of crimes?

  The dress pants ride up my arse, and the jacket squeezes my arms like constraints. Don’t get me started on the mask pressing the faux skin of my nose into the metal beneath it. It doesn’t hurt but isn’t exactly comfortable.

  The sun is moving in over the horizon, golden rays lighting up the faces of other androids as they walk home, to work, to wherever they’re going. Light reflects off the windows of buildings in the distance and off the sleek metallic surfaces of mobiles hovering around.

  Even after a night of partying—especially after a night of partying—work continues. Most even leave the clubs and head straight for their jobs. Slum clubs are a bit different, though, not like the Elite ones, with their shimmer and sparkle and yuppie occupancy. Slum clubs are full of nanites and nanobots, and all the addled computer brains that come with those sorts of seedy hallucinogenic implants.

  Those around us avoid me like they’d avoid an Organic, carving a path among themselves as soon as they see me coming. As they should.

  Syl and her companion follow behind me, but keep a fair distance. No one gives them a second glance, or even a first for that matter. They’re too caught up in avoiding me. It really is the perfect disguise… as long as we don’t run into an actual PIC.

  A crack mars the wall that surrounds New Elite. A breach even the PICs don’t know about. Not yet, at least. Michelo told me it’s the place captive Organics are taken for release, though I’ve never seen it in person. A map resides in my brain, sent to me by him, complete with a glowing blue line leading me straight to the crack in the wall.

  What they must have thought, dragged to an empy alley in chains as captives, then pushed through a crack in this world, released back to their own world. It must have seemed like a dream, just a nightmare to the poor humans.

  We believed we were doing them a favor, sending them back, sniveling, unarmed, and injured. But if the world beyond this wall is as Syl says, was it all for naught? Did we let them go only for them to die out there anyway?

  Which death is worse?

  Which death would Syl think is worse?

  The sharp sound of her shoes echoes behind me. Already I can pick out her gait from all the others as we turn corners and traverse busy city streets, weaving through the dark slums and into the shining city.

  Not looking forward to that, I’m not. But it’s a necessary evil.

  The decrepit shacks and rag-covered androids with missing limbs filter away. Smooth, glassy blue walkways, fountains shooting turquoise water, and a whole new group of posh people replace them.

  The Elite hold their heads high. They don’t avoid me. Why would they? They have money; they don’t have anything to fear. The PICs don’t patrol so much around here, so we shouldn’t encounter any problems.

  In the background, towering over the shining buildings, lies the wall. I always thought it was meant to keep us in, but after listening to Syl’s story, I’m not so sure. Maybe something lurks out there that CorpEx is trying to keep out. The map in my head shows me the last few turns, past businesses and shops. Past CorpEx. Into the darkness behind it.

  All of this is going way too smoothly. I would have at least expected…

  “Syl,” the other Organic whispers behind me. My superior cochlear implants pick up the small sound.

  I turn a bit, glancing sideways out of the mask that covers my face. He’s got an arm around her side, and she looks positively white, a sheen of sweat forming on her skin.

  Right, that’s more like it. Couldn’t possibly expect things to go off without a hitch.

  We can’t say anything to each other. That would give us away, so I walk a bit faster and they follow. We all duck into a time-worn alley devoid of people but for a few cleaners ambling about. Streamers hang from high arches, and signs litter the walls.

  Syl stumbles into the alley and falls to her knees, breathing hard. I push the mask up and into my hair as I inspect her. I place a hand against her face; it’s burning up beneath my touch.

  “You all right?” I glance up at the male Organic. “She all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She brushes my hands away. “Let’s keep going.”

  I hesitate. “You sure? We can…”

  We can go back? Really? How can I say that when it’s not really an option?

  She fixes her sharp, quicksilver gaze on me. “We can what? Piddle around until someone reports an impersonator, a tree, and an ‘android’ spewing bodily fluid. Don’t think so.”

  I nod. She’s right.

  I reach out to her. “We’re close. Need hel—”

  “Bastion?” a voice calls.

  The closest thing to terror I’ve felt in a long, long time pulses through my wiring like a jolt of electricity. My entire system stutters under the shock.

  I glance up, and right before me stands Micro. It can’t be. But then I glance around at our surroundings and… Dammit, I’ve been so focused I didn’t even realize where I was. Her flat’s just a block over.

  Her perfectly coifed red hair bounces, her lips the same shade of blue as her eyes, and the lab coat she wears fits her figure nicely. The circuit patterns on her face glimmer in a slant of sunlight. She gives me a long up and down glance, taking in the suit, the mask, the oddity of our situation.

  “What are you doing?”

  And then she notices Syl. My hands on Syl as I crouch in front of her. Recognition lights her eyes, and a heavy wall clamps down over her face. I almost feel guilty. Almost. But she’s just a client, nothing more.

  “Who’s this?” A forced smile fills her face.

  I stand, my hands on Syl’s elbows as I pull her up with me. She wobbles beside me, a bit dazed.

  “This is model 5Y1 and her”—I don’t quite remember the other Organic’s name—“companion. And this is Micro.”

  The heat of his scowl reaches me all the way over here. Full of anger, that one.

  “Oh, this is the girl you were talking about.” She gives Syl a vicious once over. “Last night.”

  “Yes, indeedy. This is she.”

  I recognize the patronizing smile forming on Micro’s face.

  “Interesting. You’re taking them, then?” She nods her head in the direction we both know leads to the crack.

  “I am.” I fidget a bit.

  “Good.” She glances away for a moment. “Let’s talk… later?”

  We both know she could have sent a message via the widgets implanted in both of our arms. It’s simple enough to access the internal database and send a quick afterthought to another android, especially this close. But she chose to say it aloud.

  Made of concrete, that girl is, but the one thing she’s never been good at hiding is her jealousy. Shame, really.

  “Ta,” she calls as she walks away, her heels clickin
g along the crystal-blue streets as she heads to CorpEx for work.

  “That your girlfriend?” Syl’s tone indicates she’s joking with me, but when I glance at her, a storm cloud darkens her face.

  I waggle my eyebrows. “In her dreams.”

  “You don’t think we should, um, worry about that? She knows who you are.”

  “Not at all! I trust Micro with my life. Are you better? We’re close.”

  She nods. I pull the mask down over my face again, and we leave the alley and continue toward the wall.

  Let’s talk later, she said. Let’s talk… later.

  What’s she found out, that precious resource of a girl? Didn’t take her long to get right on it. She wants to talk, so she must have found something.

  We go down an alley and follow a staircase that leads to a dead end. It’s perfectly inconspicuous; no one loiters around it, or probably even notices that it’s here at all. I lead them into the shadow of the building, where nothing but the sound of our footsteps and the walls looming around us exists.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Syl reach a hand out and run it along the wall to our left side. She taps at it, which results in a dull thud resonating from the thick stone. The wall goes up as far as I can see, and my eyes are probably a lot keener than hers. It’s always been here. As far back as I can remember, that barrier has kept me in this place. I don’t remember who built it. One day it was just there.

  “Would be nice for our city to have a wall,” she says.

  The other Organic grunts in reply. “Where are you taking us?” he asks.

  “Right here.”

  We reach the end of the stairs. In the corner between the dead end and the wall lies the opening that resulted from decades of erosion and shifting tectonic plates. The crack is a deep, jagged gouge in the wall’s face, just wide enough for a hunched body to fit through. The opening flares wider at the other end, allowing a breeze to filter through.