Unnatural

by Anthony DiGiovanni

CHAPTER 10

  Sabrina felt naked without a working weapon on the plane to Boston, as she had tested the EM ring without a visor to no effect. There was simply no way around security if one lacked Livingston’s expertise, and what other choice did she have that could match his speed? This might pay off in Livingston’s trust later, so she bought the cheapest spot and boarded.

  Unlike the last aircraft, this one was full of Dethroned passengers. Psychologically sickening, yes, but upon inspection of the corpses in seats adjacent to hers, Sabrina found no predictable stages of decay eating away at the Organics. There was no smell but that of a typical air-freshened plane’s interior, no pale skin everywhere she looked, not a maggot to be found.

  She couldn’t chalk all this up to the cleanliness of robot stewards who didn’t know what to do with fliers overstaying their welcome – not without a response from human resources, upon whose judgment they seemed to rely. It was what they’d all said it was, as if something had snatched these people’s souls forever.

  Sabrina sat and shut her eyes to this reality, for all the robotic world like someone napping after a long day. Which she was, in a sense: half sleeping, half forgoing any notions of solving this natural mystery in favor of deducing a way to pull her plan off without getting herself killed.

  Nothing came. All her distress calls to Luna had died somewhere in transit. She was alone. The world of dreams beckoned to her.

  Then, an affable voice. “Excuse me, miss.”

  “Yes?” She strained her eyelids apart.

  Just an android.

  “We have arrived at our destination. Would you please gather any luggage you have brought on board and exit the plane?”

  America already? And with no trouble? “S-Sure. I’m sorry, how long have you been waiting?”

  “Not more than twenty seconds. I apologize if I have disturbed your sleep.” I’ve had plenty, apparently. “Have a nice day!”

  She departed in a daze. Safe, and all without a prayer passing from her self-centered lips. Talking to God had always been a stumbling block for her, like evolution or the problem of evil was for other believers. It was a wonder she’d made it this far on providence from the Big Guy who was probably shaking his head at her.

  That was for more than one reason, as Sabrina hadn’t taken fifty steps through the airport before robot authorities accosted her. She gawked at the three burly, siren-emitting humanoids, two of which were drawing small devices, and the third said, “Miss, please relinquish any weapons you may possess before we use force. You are under arrest.”

  She spread her arms and, as the duo performed their remote search, she asked, “On what charges?”

  “Sabotage of the Strange space shuttle landing and consequent manslaughter.” The officer rattled off the Miranda rights and grabbed hold of Sabrina’s arm after the others rendered her helpless to escape.

  Sabrina told herself to be as respectful as possible. No matter how scarcely they were earning it. “This is a misunderstanding, officer. I am an ambassador from Luna, myself. I was sent by request of the colonial government to prevent this very catastrophe.”

  “Miss Lockhart, please refrain from denial of these allegations until you have read the pertinent documents listing our sources for this claim. You will receive said documents shortly, and rest assured that should you be found innocent, you may appeal for due compensation.”

  That would never happen, of course. She’d crossed the legal event horizon, never to return to the realm of innocence that its residents take for granted. It was best to make peace with this system lest she lose her head in the next Reign of Terror.

  On the bright side, she thought as she entered the cop car, I have no reputation to lose in the eyes of anyone but Uriah, and if the plan goes right he’ll owe me his life anyway. Bright side or no, she breathed deeply and shut her eyes until she heard a Softsheet emerging from in front of her.

  “Said documents” were of no higher logical quality than Livingston’s search warrant. Its author, likely the android marionette himself, hadn’t even bothered to omit claims that Sabrina would recognize as blatant fabrications, such as that administrators of the Strange mission unanimously testified against her or that she’d displayed evidence of rebellious tendencies strong enough to motivate sabotage.

  It was all shallow rationalization of what may as well have been a note card reading, “There are no people on this planet who give two platypus eggs about justice for you, so just let us insult your intelligence and accuse you of a crime that will keep you under Supreme Lord Livingston’s thumb.”

  “My lawyer lives in Luna, officer,” she spoke into the car’s intercom, because apparently the anti-electromagnetic shield was necessary.

  “I am aware of that.”

  “So how can she defend me in a court that’s two hundred thousand miles away from her? I haven’t been able to contact the moon at all in the past twelve hours, at least.”

  “You must possess a defective communicator. As you could infer from the documents outlining the charges against you, BPD has not only succeeded at correspondence with the government and citizens of Luna, but the workers at TLTB have provided testimony cited in those documents. The court will meet as normal, and we shall provide a means by which your attorney can argue the case from her current residence.”

  How Livingston expected the whole metropolis to swallow this drivel, she hadn’t the faintest clue.

  “Will you hold me in prison until I go to court?” She already knew the answer, not because this was customary under the modern legal system, but since everything else about the arrest had been ridiculous and presumptuous.

  “Yes. In the interim, rehabilitation authorities will require you to attend counseling. There will be no compulsory labor or community service, and, if you so choose, you may spend time outside the penitentiary itself with a robotic escort.”

  That was reassuring. “Rehabilitation” was a benign word for neurological modification to subvert one’s illicit impulses, as was “robotic escort” code for the closest thing to the Thought Police mixed with S.S. Stars of David. The accused would wear striking purple-colored contact lenses, unscientifically named Good Angels, designed to both alert others of her criminal status and indirectly connect her central nervous system to monitor bots at the police department.

  Although Good Angels’ view of neuron activity could inform the monitor bots’ judgments based on the individual’s intent and psychology, it was slim comfort for a wearer who was well aware of the invasion of mental privacy this could entail, especially for one in Sabrina’s situation without humans to enforce checks on the androids. Hence, most alleged criminals chose traditional physical confinement in exchange for theoretical peace of mind.

  Watching the East Boston Penitentiary draw closer, Sabrina couldn’t play the Luddite and blame these loopholes of justice on the evils of technology. For who could anticipate that anyone would get screwed over by this system after the vast majority of the population had died? It would be like faulting everyone who’d ever written anything for causing a hostile alien takeover, instigated by the ire of extraterrestrials mistranslating certain words as something highly offensive to their species.

  An idea came to her like Archimedes’s eureka. “Officer, did you learn of my supposed guilt of this crime from a man named Isaac Livingston?”

  “I do not know that name, Miss Lockhart.”

  “Have you reported any unusual modification of police protocol or information?”

  “Everything we do at BPD follows the same heuristics we have held to for years, barring the occasional changes of which we ensure citizens are aware.”

  So his ploy was to establish a grip on the collective robotic consciousness that the robots themselves couldn’t recognize as an outside force. A god was he.

  “Are you capable of lying to me, officer? Because I have reason to believe Livingston hacked you and every other BPD android.”<
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  “That you are already resorting to such preposterous allegations is indicative of the weakness of your case, Miss Lockhart.”

  She was far from defeated. “I have evidence. If you would please play the audio recorded on that device you confiscated from me earlier, I can prove that I am innocent and that Isaac Livingston is a more likely suspect.” As she said this, it occurred to her that perhaps she had a chance of establishing her inculpability to Luna, at least. Livingston could simply have cut off only their responses to her, considering the speed with which she sent her messages.

  Or he could have realized the necessity of severing communication minutes into her atmospheric entry.

  “Very well.”

  They heard as much of it as would last a drive to the police station, uncensored. She didn’t get her hopes up too much, but she couldn’t help feeling somewhat vindicated as her alibi played in the car. When the automobile stopped, the officer said, “I do not find this convincing, but we will keep it as evidence for court.” There you had it: even if Luna were convinced of her blamelessness, it seemed BPD would be aware of this and deny her a fair trial anyway. Like being ruled by a grade school bully.

  “Please follow me inside. We will go through the proper procedure and show you your quarters” – more jargon for “bureaucratic measures” and “cell” – “before you choose the living option you prefer.” Sabrina stepped out, constantly reminding herself that it was her soul that really mattered. Show time.