The person at the door continues speaking in Mandarin. Once again, I’m excluded from the information. It’s not a screaming match this time. Juan doesn’t raise his voice. I’d go so far as to describe him as respectful and reserved. The man at the door has a much more skeptical posture than Juan and his hand hasn’t left the handle, ready to pull it closed at a second’s notice.
I try to bounce my full attention between which one is speaking. Juan doesn’t shift his posture, doesn’t vary his tone. He’s the definition of ‘robot’ right now. The man at the door shifts weight from one foot to the other, talks, then shifts again. Nervous. He looks behind him, over one shoulder whenever Juan makes particular word sounds. As if something Juan says has him concerned about being overheard.
While all of this is happening, I barely notice the hand at the floor has lobster gripped my ankle. Stupid reflex. I should have gotten away from this thing the second it let go of my wrist. I can’t keep fighting it, waiting for it to release and then not moving out of the way when it clamps shut again.
“Why don’t you speak Spanish?” I butt in the conversation while trying to open the pincher grip at my ankle. “Or English for that matter.”
“English is a lesser language,” the human guard informs me.
He doesn’t have to be so snippy about it. “It’s rude to speak a language when in the presence of someone else who can’t follow along.” The dang hand is not going to let go.
“We’ll see what the boss has to say about that,” the guard states.
I turn to Juan. “So, you get your demand?”
Juan’s head drops—the first indicator of human emotion since this soldier stood in the doorway. “Don’t call it that.”
“Demand? Is that what you told them? That you ‘demand’ to see who is in charge? Like you can demand anything from us?”
“That’s why you can’t say it like that,” Juan says with a hand extended toward the soldier at the door. “And shake that off. You’re coming too.”
“I can’t.” I wiggle my leg, kick, and yanks with both hands. “It’s got some reflex where it opens and closes. But when it’s closed, it’s locked in.”
“Fine. Drag it.” Juan walks to the door, then stops, waiting for the soldier to lead us somewhere else. We’re in holding cells and haven’t had a chance to settle in yet. I should be grateful they’re addressing us so quickly, but the air vibes something opposite of luck.
“It’s heavy.”
The soldier walks out. Juan follows. Suddenly I feel like I’ve been here before, with a bare bulb and ultimatum that ended in me shooting Ed. It’s only me in the cell now. “Fine, but it’s on you if I end up shooting you in the face.” I look down at my ankle weight. “Come on Rover, you’re coming with me.”
Juan follows the other man down hallways and low into the hold. I keep a struggling distance thanks to the full-sized body I’m dragging. The second this thing lets go, I’m running. I pause at the entrance to a long room already occupied with a crowd of high talking Mandarin speakers.
“What is this?” I ask Juan once I’m close enough. He stops at a hand from the soldier—a clear ‘stay there, don’t come any closer’ gesture.
“Singapore connections to Colombia.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I told you, the ring of the Intercontinents is dependent on each other to maintain power.”
“That explains nothing.”
Juan turns to face me. “Without someone to buy, there’s nowhere to sell. Which means having resources or controlling them would be irrelevant. Saudi ships oil to Singapore, who ships goods to Colombia. Get it?”
“What about Ecuador? I thought they had the manufacturing sites and-”
Juan cuts me off. “Ecuador deals in the open market. Think of this circle as the result of prohibition.”
“That explains a lot.” I tap my foot, trying to encourage the metal corpse to let go.
“Be quiet. I’m listening,” Juan says, even though he was the last one to speak. Like my facial expression is so loud in and of itself that it’s distracting. I admit to not controlling my drawn brows and the concern lines in my forehead.
We stand in the open. Not invited forward, but not sent away. It’s a weird limbo with a decent evaluative view if our scans were working. Seeing as neither of us has functioning systems, we’re just standing there forever. Eventually, the hand opens, releasing my ankle. I hop forward and stand slightly in front of Juan. If that thing clamps down again, it won’t get me.
“What’s happening?” I prod Juan.
His posture shifts forward, carrying weight on the balls of his feet and neck stretched as far forward as it goes. “Get your filthy fingers off me before I rip’em off your knuckles. You don’t respect my need to eavesdrop on foreign conversations and I will not respect your nosey inquisition.”
Nazrete. Not sure what I did to kick Juan into bitch mode, but I want to reset him asap.
“You speak Mandarin, Nazrete?”
“No, I do not and can’t get someone up here to translate with you being so needy all the time. Be a woman, grow a pair.”
I look down. Nothing about my physical form is capable of growing, and I’m pretty sure Nazrete has her pairs reference wrong anyway. I have the only pair of things women are known for. “Juan!” I can think of no other way to get Juan back, other than shouting for him.
Unfortunately, my shouting draws much more attention. I can’t understand what is being spoken nor why several men point in my direction. The large stone room echoes, even when the meeting quiets. Wood chairs scraping stone floors continues to bounce sound off walls and ceiling as the congregation stands.
“Juan?” they ask me in return.
I look at Juan, who refuses to make eye contact with me. He could half raise his hand at least, like an ‘I’m here—I’m Juan’ kind of thing.
“Juan?” The question deepens in intensity and strength. I don’t speak Mandarin, but I do speak anger and the guy approaching definitely has an angry face.
I step to the side in equal measure to the man on slow approach, still questioning my outburst. “Juan!”
That’s when I realize the metal corpse on the floor digs fingernails into the cracks between broken rock and drags itself closer to where I’ve moved. It’s following me. I step again to double check. Sure enough, the headless being extends an arm, finds a grip, and pulls the rest of itself forward by the fingertips. I’m not the only one who notices.
Juan jumps aside. “I thought you said it was a reflex.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe…”
Juan shakes his head. Not a reflex. The Mord corpse pursues.
The men from the table stop their approach. One man waves an arm toward the back of the room. He calls out, drawing Juan’s attention by the word he uses. At least now we can follow the conversation in the room, not that Juan’s been divulging anything he’s learned.
“Stop it, Jennie.” Juan urges me to quit like I’m playing some kind of game.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“They don’t like it. Stop,” he says.
“I can’t. I’m not doing anything.” I continue to step away from each pull and drag of the Mord body in my direction.
“Stop moving!” Juan shouts.
I still. The corpse pulls itself another arm’s length closer. My knee bends. It’s almost impossible to stand still. Everything in my body says run. This is Mord. What is the appropriate response? Run away. That’s the only response.
“They want to see what happens,” Juan explains. The men gather in a line far enough away to observe, but not so close they have to worry about the metal man bounding to his feet and attacking them.
“Why? What do they think is going to happen?” I can feel my energy waning. I haven’t charged my power supply in forever. I can’t last much longer without blacking out and thanks to Juan’s lovely description of sleepless incapacity, I dread blacking out more than an
ything.
“Maybe they want to see if it attacks you,” he says.
“I don’t want to see that,” I say. The Mord man extends its arm and scrapes himself across the stone another length. He’s almost upon me now. I’d have to take a massive step back to avoid being reached.
“They’re debating how to download the data from our brains, Jennie. Please, just take this one chance and see what the hell happens. You’re buying us time to think.”
“Think?” If humor had any place in this room, it’s that statement. I can’t think. I have a headless bloody Mord creeping one arm-pull at a time toward me, a host of angry Mandarin speakers debating the best method of decapitating me in order to retrieve my memory banks, and I’m pretty sure one of my transition fluid lines sprung a leak. My thigh is wet. “What if he tears my leg off? Or goes after my head? You’ve heard of the headless horsemen, right? Always on the lookout for a replacement?” I point to the thing on the ground, only inches from reaching me.
“They haven’t had success downloading AI secrets from Singapore.”
I stop Juan right there. “You mean, these aren’t your guys?” I don’t know why, but this news bothers me immensely. “I thought you had connections here with the drug trade. I thought we might be okay.”
“I lied about having connections with Singapore.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Who is really going to know? Once we’re out of Ecuador, who cares? The AI Crusaders—” I assume this is Mav and his band of merry employees. “—can fend for themselves once I’m safe in Columbia.”
“Grow up,” I say because that’s gonna sting. A surge of indignant energy rushes my system. If I wasn’t bound by fear to the point where I stand, I’d punch Juan across the cheek. “This isn’t a game, Juan.”
“It’s always a game. The rules are always shifting, and you never know which side you’re playing for.”
“You’re a tool.” I fail to recognize in my verbal jousting that the Mord has already reached me. Its pincher hand extends to my ankle like before.
“We’re all pawns, Jennie. We’re not the ones moving the pieces.”
“I’ll move if I choose to.” I lift my foot only to find I’m anchored. I walked here with him attached to my leg. It’s not the kind of thing you can run with. The ones deciding the fate of my currently attached head lean in. They converse amongst themselves. I look at Juan.
“All I know is that they’ve had no success.” Juan continues listening. “None of the discarded bodies they’ve experimented on have moved post…” Juan looks at the thing at my feet. “Post.” He says like that is the condition we’re observing.
“This is Mord, right?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.” Juan looks at me. “I think this is ED.”
“Ed!” I shout. The thing at my feet grips tighter.
Something flashes across Juan’s face. I can’t tell if it’s curiosity masked by humor or some sort of unexpected recognition. Then he says, “There is specific housing prepared for every Gen. This looks like an ED shell.”
And that really pisses me off. Because what the hell does that mean? What housing am I in? What’s Juan for that matter? Why didn’t more of my friends upload when they tried? If there’s housing prepared for separate Gen… What the hell?
“You’re lying!” Mature responses aren’t important right now. What matters is that I’m about to give Juan a what-for. “Is there even a Nazrete or are you actually a bitch and I never knew before?”
“Hey!” Juan’s tone goes up. He’s either really good at putting on a Nazrete façade or I just insulted her.
Juan’s brows go up like I’m a precious simple bot who can’t yet tie my own shoes. He touches the back of his neck. I mimic the action on my own neck like the secret lies in some braille code embedded in my skin. Nothing. The fake flesh is rubber and smooth. Not even a micro wrinkle.
“His neck,” he says.
The group of men discuss louder as the conversation Juan and I share drags on. I wonder how much time I have before they remove my head from my unmarked neck? I look at the GenED’s neck. Such enough, there’s a mark. It looks like a VIN etched into the metal. I realize two things. One, this is a GenED. How the mark managed to get into the metal, I don’t know. And two, there’s no way I would be able to see my own mark without ripping the skin off my neck.
What does it mean if I have a matching mark? My serial key was a Con code. Miller told me there was no such thing, that I was speaking nonsense. But now I don’t know what to believe. How many donors arrived before me? Where are they? If Ed was here before Juan…
“What if I know this ED?” I say, my voice shaking despite my efforts to keep it calm.
“Does it matter?” Juan asks.
“Is this Ed from my game?” My robot body doesn’t leak tears. But it’s like a transition line somewhere inside me has ruptured and the leak has traveled to my visual centers. “Is it?” I know Juan knows.
“How many academics have you met around here?” Juan asks very cryptically.
“Is this Ed? My Ed?”
“I wish,” he says, and I lose it. I full on lose it. I run at Juan, dragging the GenED corpse with me, arm cocked for a blow to Juan’s tattered face. I hate seeing all the parts and gears behind every expression he makes. It’s like he thinks he’s sanctimonious because it’s clear how much work it takes for him to roll his eyes and, in this case, open them to full surprise and ill-preparedness for my attack. My fist makes contact. Metal on metal isn’t as dramatic a fight in real life as I imagine, landing the blow in my head with full-on facial denting and knuckle scarring. Instead, a dull clank and one low grunt culminate from all that buildup. Because neither of us requires air to breathe, there isn’t even a dramatic exhale or the sound of physical exertion.
The only really impressive thing is the fact that the body still grasping my ankle never releases. I also realize that my energy stores have increased since its grip reconnected. As I think back, I was at the point of depletion when the body first gripped me and managed to hang on much longer than I anticipated. Every time the thing has hold of me, I’ve managed to extend my alertness and capabilities beyond expected capacity. Like a battery.
“Hold up,” I say out loud, “It’s charg…” half a second before Juan’s elbow slams into the side of my head, right at the temple. I crumple on top of the unidentified GenED. It’s like Juan knows where the crash button is.
Involuntary reboot.
Just like Juan predicted, my mind doesn’t shut off. It’s like being paralyzed, but also blind and deaf. For some reason, based on Juan’s prior description of trapped human brain in an artificial body, I thought it would be all stimulus bombardment, but it isn’t. It’s dank sensory deprivation. My head could be halfway removed, and I have no physical indication. No searing pain where my neck might be. I can’t even identify where my neck is in relation to my thoughts. I’m simply a black mass of awareness, which sucks so much worse than I thought it would to be asleep.
I can’t convince myself to shut off my brain. Go to sleep. Shut down. Just call it over. Over. Game Over.
Which is of course, when my auditory sensors come back online. “How long until Belen gets released from the infirmary?” Juan’s grating voice floats through the blackness. I’d like to remind him that I have no way of knowing the answer to his question and return the elbow to the head when Gordon speaks.
“No way to know. Mav won’t leave her side, so it’s not like she needs us worrying. He doesn’t trust them no matter what they tell us.”
“Be honest.” Juan’s voice is quiet, like he suspects I might be able to overhear, but isn’t totally sure. “Jennie wasn’t your first upload?”
I go very still. Like in my paralyzed state there is a degree of stillness beyond my current unmoving.
“I don’t know, man,” Gordon says. “I was just barely hired on when Jennie came online.”
Even though I can’t see it, I imagine J
uan deflating a bit at that news. Of course, I was the first. Gordon can’t remember anyone because there wasn’t anyone before me at the Mexico facility. Hate to break it to cheater personality bomb, Juan, but not every facility is as corrupt as the one he uploaded to. My figurative mental form reaches up as if to rub the spot on my neck which conceals the serial number most likely embedded in my metal skeleton.
“Guess who finally decided to join us?” Gordon announces, which is how I realize I’m moving my actual robot arm and rubbing my intact neck still attached to my undamaged skull. Even the rip on my wrist is mended. In addition, Juan’s face is not two-tone. His smooth dark skin has a melanin starved scar where his face tear used to expose muscle mechanics.
“Anyone want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re not the only ones using dead zones for cover,” Juan says.
“They aren’t our people, are they? They won’t help us.” I know Juan said they’re not. But Juan said a lot of contradictory things in the last few days. Sure, he has loads of personalities sharing his robot shell, but that’s no excuse for being the worst AI in history. “And why did you whack me?”
Juan looks at Gordon. His expression reveals nothing. Part of me wonders if this is some kind of man-eye-roll like they share some inside comradery through lack of expression. Except Gordon’s eyes dart to me, back to Juan, then me again as if he’s waiting for one of us to let him in on the interaction.
“Where’s the ED?” I ask.
“Ed?” Gordon repeats.
“Robot corpse.” Juan remains passive, unreadable. “Was a GenED.”
“That’s pretty rare,” Gordon says. “Surprisingly, of all the donors, ED were the first to disappear from the game rosters. Academics don’t translate to application, I guess. The game is pure application of theories. That’s what I’ve heard.” Gordon swallows like he’s talked too long without being challenged. He’s usually challenged by Mav. No Mav, no stopping guard.
“What would your Gen have been, Gordo?” Juan asks, still void of inflection or expression. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or accidental, but he’s putting on a real ‘robot’ veneer.
Con Code Page 23