H+ incorporated

by Gary Dejean

  Trapped in his own feelings of excitement and gleeful curiosity, the boy asks: “Can I try it?” pretty sure Morgan’s answer will be negative.

  The old woman takes a second to consider the request. “Sure,” she agrees, strangely easily, “why not.”

  Morgan’s grand betrayal to her company isn’t nearly as organized as it could be. She has no idea what to do with the prototype, having stashed it away in a hurry a few days before its final test phase. Now, given the option to let her dear young friend use it, before she has to either destroy or give it back, there is little hesitation to be had. The boy, of course, is surprised by this unexpected success, tempted an instant to say he was joking, but refraining.

  Morgan chuckles as she snaps opens the locks of the sarcophagus, letting its forward half fall to the floor in a slam. Jake steps forth, letting her reach for a button to split his back open, and just as easily she grabs his brains and slides them inside the head of the Little Blackjack. As soon as she closes the head compartment, the body boots up, wires retracting in his wrists and chest before plates clip into position. Its two black beady eyes start moving, slowly at first.

  The military-grade interface of the Little Blackjack is years beyond that of Jake’s other body. When regaining his senses, made sharp by the crisp definition of the body’s sensors, the boy looks around him with amazed interest. Through the walls, he can see electronic devices highlighted in the next room, Morgan’s drones mopping the concrete floor a little farther, and Chloe’s heartbeat monitor. Despite himself, he lets a raucous laugh escape his lipless mouth, surprised by the low pitch of his new voice as he hears it for the first time.

  “Don’t mess with anything,” warns Morgan, “Chloe’s still sleeping.”

  “Yeah, of course,” he replies, stepping out of the sarcophagus. “Woahaha! This is the best!” he exclaims, barely able to contain himself. He experiments with basic motions, walking around and clapping his hands, thrilled with the responsiveness and flexibility of the body’s articulations.

  Morgan watches him silently, knowing this may be her last occasion to revel in the spectacle of innocent child’s play. Jake quickly moves to advanced protocols, folding his legs in a crouch position and using his wheels to roll around the small room, like some half-man sitting on a motorized skateboard. She would love him to be able to go on forever, but her mind is elsewhere. She asks: “Jake, can I pick your brains for a minute?”

  “Yeah?” he replies, distracted.

  “Would you say that this wheelchair is a part of me?”

  “What?” The boy stops in his tracks. “Of course not…” he replies, as if this were a prank. Realizing it may not, he adds: “Is it?”

  “What about my head,” Morgan presses on, her fatigue making her metaphor sound like dementia. “Is it a part of me?”

  “Maybe you should rest for a while…” Jake suggests, a little worried for her sake.

  Morgan locks eyes with him, insisting to pursue her lecture. “The law states that this is only property, but that this is ‘me’” she says, pointing to her wheelchair before pointing to her head. “Do you understand, Jake?”

  The boy is only paying partial attention to their conversation, exploring menus in the HUD of the Little Blackjack as they speak. However, he does not drift off, finding instead comfort in the machine enough to let his mind follow Morgan’s once more. After a pause, he replies: “Because you were born with your head.”

  “Exactly!” Morgan snaps her fingers, her eyes opening like those of a magician. “You can use any body you want, they will never let you say it’s YOU. It’s only property. Do you understand?”

  “Who does this one belong to?” Jake asks, trying to follow the thread.

  “Corporate government spooks…” Morgan dismisses the question. “What does it matter? Stay focused. It’s a riddle.”

  “Ooooo-K,” Jake consents, now almost quite certain that Morgan needs a nap. Deep in the HUD’s menus, he discovers combat subroutines, sets of close combat moves embedded in the body’s operating system. The boy is in heaven. One after another, he tries them all out, as if only playing some video-game. Jabs, uppercut combo, swooping kick, jump kick; he comes close to hitting furniture but retains full control.

  Morgan, meanwhile, starts thinking out loud all the notions she hoped she would get to teach him, and that she can now only touch confusedly: “We can lose bits and pieces of ourselves,” she explains, “have them replaced by property. We can never BE property, we can only own it. And so the question is: what are you?”

  “If you’re trying to make a point,” the boy replies with humor, trying to lift his friend’s spirit, “it’s not working.”

  Morgan absorbs the spectacle of this ten year old boy using her prototype, a machine built for espionage and assassinations, as if it were a toy. Whatever sense of responsibility led her to act like this, she tries to make up for with guiding principles. “You’re going to have to fight for your right to be whatever you want to be, my boy,” she foretells. “Because you may be born a human little boy, but even people without your history do not stay that way. And THAT begs the question, Jake: what will you become?”

  Morgan swallows painfully. Jake stops kick-punching the air and stands still for a moment. He knows he can’t answer the question yet, but the compelling point hasn’t been lost on him. His tone is soft and neutral when he says: “I’m just a brain in a plastic casing.”

  Morgan tears up, her stomach clenched by the boy’s cold pragmatism. “You’re much more than that,” she tells him, choking on her own words.

  Silence falls for a second, except for the drumming noise of the generator. “You don’t have to comfort me,” Jake says finally.

  Morgan laughs, surprising herself in the process. She can feel the fear creeping, of what will happen to her, to her daughter and friends. “You find any of this comforting?” she asks, hoping he doesn’t reply.

  Jake stays silent, but not for long. “Oh, I get it now!” he exclaims suddenly.

  “Get what?” Morgan asks, rapidly sinking in her own depression.

  “No one knows you kept this, do they? No one knows I’m using it.”

  In a surprising turn of the tables, Morgan finds herself confused by Jake’s line of questioning. “What are you getting at?” she asks, her dreary mood set aside by the annoyance.

  “Can’t you tell the cops you destroyed it?”

  And just like that, the woman forgets her sorrow and the fear sweeps away. Of course, Jake is mostly joking, but he’s making a point she hasn’t considered: the Little Blackjack now has an operator. “Oh… Oh, you little genius!” she mumbles.

  Glad to find Morgan willing to hear him out, the boy suggests more foolishness: “And then I can keep it?”

  He shrugs exaggeratedly, to a certain comedic effect. Morgan laughs with him, at least. “You know,” she says, lingering on the sweet feeling that the little boy’s humor has instilled in her all these months. “I’m pretty sure it’s meeting you that led me to do this.” She looks at Jake, and the Little Blackjack, now fused into one being. “It just felt wrong to let anyone else have it…”

  The small boy, who at last is in a child’s body, and the older woman crippled by disease smile at each other, the best way they can.

  Chapter 7

  On the rooftop of their barracks, troopers and technicians are lounged in celebration of their successful mission. As usual, the technicians have formed a group away from the loud troopers who, barking like a pack of dogs, cheer themselves in front of the TV report of the operation.

  “At seven o’clock this evening,” the news anchor begins, while Bautista motions his squad to shut up, “the National Intelligence Coordinating Agency carried an enormous operation downtown, against what they described as a robotics black market. But some claim that’s not the whole story… Some sources talk about corporate espionage, although so far, we haven’t been able to confirm these accounts. More from our correspondent on the
ground.”

  The screen cuts to a reporter stationed at the entrance of the Workshop, now barred with yellow tape. “I’m here at the scene, and according to some of the local residents, the police raided some sort of homeless shelter, in what some describe as, quote: ‘complete overkill’.”

  The troopers burst into laughter. Bautista raises his glass: “That’s perfect! That’s what they should call us: the Overkill Squad!”

  His subordinates all raise their beers to the idea, although Patti feels the joke was rather tasteless. She turns to Angelo, sat among the engineers, who’s looking at the squad leader with disgust. The Latino says good night to his colleagues and heads for the stairwell; he really is in no mood for that kind of celebration, haunted by the vision of his ex-girlfriend shot in the face, instead looking forward to drink himself alone into a stupor. The intrusion of the Major takes him by surprise; he makes an effort to smile a minimum.

  “Ah, Mr. Saldana,” greets the Japanese, “have you had dinner yet?”

  “Sir!” Angelo replies, standing straight. “Actually, I was about to.”

  “Will you join me?” Hanzo asks, somehow disarmingly.

  “Hem…” Angelo replies, surprised and frustrated, “with pleasure!” He doesn’t want to go, but one doesn’t simply refuse.

  “Good,” approves the Major. “My quarters, fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The Major smiles and walks off to his troops. A little stunned by the interaction, Angelo heads downstairs to wash off his face and change into his uniform. From a cupboard, he pulls out the home-brewed bottle brought some months ago by visiting relatives, and heads for the Major’s barracks.

  He checks his watch before knocking, for the sake of punctuality; when the Major opens, he’s wearing an apron over civilian clothes, something Angelo certainly did not expect. Hanzo invites him in. The young man hands over the bottle, “Los Hermaños Saldana” reads the label.

  “Here, sir,” he presents, “I brought this. My uncles distill it themselves.”

  “Ha! Very nice!” grants the Major.

  They walk in, leaving the door open. Hanzo drops the bottle on the kitchen counter. Dinner is set for three, and the Major is working overtime preparing sashimi and rice stew. Feeling like he just stepped on the set of a TV cooking show, Angelo observes the scene from a respectful distance, discovering a surprising aspect of his commanding officer. “I had no idea you doubled as a chef!” he jokes.

  The Major chuckles: “Please, have a seat, I’ll be done in a minute.”

  Angelo sits down and notices the door still open, when Patti appears in the doorway; she too has changed into her formal uniform. Seeing Angelo, she’s as surprised as he is; they exchange an interrogative smile before getting the Major’s attention. “Good evening,” Patti says, hesitant.

  The Major invites her in as well. “Come in, Miss Gillian,” he beckons, tapping a screen on his kitchen desk to close the door behind her while keeping an eye on the stew. Patti sits at the table, communicating with Angelo their respective surprise through looks and nods. His sadness has faded before the unusual atmosphere of the situation.

  The Major pours porridge in small bowls, sprinkling it with freshly cut chives, and brings sashimi expertly arranged on three bamboo plates. Patti and Angelo gaze at the craftsmanship with admiration, while the Major serves beer.

  “Don’t look so surprised, now,” he says, humbly, sitting at the table. He raises his glass and they both follow.

  “Kampai!”

  “Cheers!”

  “Salud!”

  The Major digs in nonchalantly but, at their first bite, Angelo and Patti both let moans of pleasure escape them. “Sir, this is the best fish I’ve had in years,” confesses Patti, taking another bite immediately while Angelo nods in approval.

  Hanzo peacefully smiles in reply, rinsing his mouth with a sip of cold beer. “This job comes with a number of perks,” he points out. “One of them is the food. Another is the time off.”

  Cut in their enjoyment, Patti and Angelo raise their eyes with concern, checking each other’s reaction. “Sir?” asks Angelo.

  “You’re both going to take a week of paid leave,” the Major says, relaxed. “Go to the beach or something.”

  Patti puts down her chopsticks, intervening solemnly: “Sir, with all due respect, that’s really not necessary.”

  “That’s an order, Gillian,” replies the officer in a snap.

  Patti is astonished; her appetite vanished, she looks at her superior, mouth agape. Angelo understands this is more a favor to him than to her; it’s the last days of the year and they’re not expecting another assignment anytime soon. “Thank you, sir,” he says, pitiful. “It’s… kind.”

  Satisfied, the Major goes back to his meal. After a moment of silence, filled only with the noise of him chewing his food, he adds, without crossing their eyes: “Take it from me, your careers will still be here in seven days. Don’t sacrifice good things to it.”

  Angelo and Patti exchange another silent gaze. Despite the encouragements, she can’t help but feel reprimanded, and his sorry smile has the flavor of a consolation prize.

  The evening is well advanced when Morgan’s driverless van parks in front of the precinct. In the back, hiding under a blanket, Jake can see highlighted all electronic devices in the vicinity. The bright overlay covering the darkness from under the blanket, the boy observes the outside of the vehicle with anticipation.

  Her wheelchair parked in the driver position, Morgan turns to him, apprehensive. “We can still change our minds, you know,” she says, hesitant. “It’s OK if we both go in.”

  The blanket moves rapidly, Jake’s voice coming from underneath: “What? No, come on! We agreed!”

  Morgan laughs silently. “Worth a try!” she lets go, setting up the van’s itinerary. “Alright. Be careful, Jake.”

  “You too.”

  A ramp unfolds from under the vehicle, and Morgan exits through the lateral door, slamming it shut behind her. As the ramp retracts and the van departs, she rolls across the street to the precinct’s entrance. The van takes the next turn, driving along the side of the elongated building. From inside the moving vehicle, Jake sees the whole electric grid of the police station, his on-board interface detecting and painting surveillance equipment.

  The drive-by completed, and the security systems of the precinct mapped and analyzed, the van parks in a back alley. Jake crumples the blanket and pushes it aside, disconnecting a wire coming out of his wrist from Morgan’s device. It is an odd contraption, the size of a handball, and two retractable handles protruding from one side. The schematics of the police station downloaded into the object, he stashes it into a backpack and exits the vehicle.

  Crossing the road with ease, Jake marvels once again at the Little Blackjack’s attributes. For the first time since his accident, he feels like his body is responding properly, without lag, without glitches, without having to wait for the slow processing of his thoughts into actual movement. When nobody’s in sight, he grabs the bottom of a light-post between his heels, where small wheels exert their rubbery pressure. The same wheels in his wrists and elbows let him roll vertically along the light-post, at a speed that surprises him. Jake lets go when he reaches the top, using his momentum to jump on the roof of the precinct.

  Surveillance cameras are sweeping the roof; Jake sees their field of view signified in red, the infiltration protocols of the Little Blackjack overwhelmingly qualified to deal with such basic security. He walks between the projected patterns, that look to him like dangerous spotlights, to a ventilation shaft covered by none of the cameras.

  A set of versatile screwdrivers accessible at the tip of his fingers, he unscrews a panel less than a foot in diameter before crawling in, head first, folding his legs at inhuman angles. He lands in the vent below and, locking his knees to his chest and his ankles to his buttocks, as compact as the backpack that he drags behind him, he sets forth, Morgan’
s instructions in mind.

  The old lady rolls up the handicapped access ramp, into the entrance hall of the precinct. Metal detectors bar the entrance, and the police agent standing guard is watching TV on his cellphone. She coughs, prompting the policeman to look up. “Ma’am?” he asks, tired, hoping she goes away.

  Morgan smiles: “Hello officer,” she says. “My name is Dr. Morgan Zhu, I’m here to surrender.”

  Less than a minute later, all the NICA agents on site have invaded the room, and the scientist is carried to a mechanical wheelchair, her electronics scanned and shut down by highly suspicious agents.

  Dimaguiba walks to her, seemingly pleased by this turn of events: “You keep surprising us, Dr. Zhu,” he compliments, a victorious grin betraying his smugness.

  “You really didn’t have to pull off that kind of show, Agent,” she replies. “I was about to come forward on my own.”

  “Enough talk,” decrees Dimaguiba, bending to face her up close. “Where is the prototype?”

  Morgan answers straightaway: “It’s in pieces at the bottom of the ocean. I wiped all software.”

  Dimaguiba’s face switches from blatant contentment to rage, his brow and mouth expressing more than his eyes would if he had any left, but every agent is wearing the same set of implants resembling sunglasses from the nineteen-eighties. “How dare you?” he explodes, drops of spit jumping from his mouth.

  Morgan is tempted to smile, but refrains from doing so. “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” she explains patiently, “I am a very sick, old and tired woman. It’s been an extremely long evening. I will give you my full deposition, but can I please have a few hours of sleep, first?”

  Boiling in anger, Dimaguiba scowls. “Let’s see how that version holds up after I’m done with you,” he suggests, menacingly.

  “Agent,” Morgan objects. “I strongly suggest that you respect my basic rights.”

  “You’re a traitor and a felon,” the agent retorts, disdainful. “You have no rights.”