The Sentient

by Nadia Afifi

  “But she’s ok?” Naomi asked.

  “For now, M. Nakamura,” Dr. Singh said. “Our subject will remain with us for the near future, at any rate.”

  “Do we know what happened?” Amira asked.

  Singh pivoted in place to face her with an icy stare. “We know as much as we’ve known since yesterday, M. Valdez,” she responded smoothly. “We see symptoms of heart palpitations and syncope with no underlying medical condition, so we can only infer that the cause is extreme stress or ongoing psychological trauma.”

  Barlow and Naomi took this as their cue to exit the room.

  “Dr. Singh,” Amira said in a low voice. “I think I’ve finally figured out an effective way to treat Rozene, but I need more time.”

  “She is two weeks away from her third trimester,” Singh said. “Time is a luxury we may not have.”

  “More time,” Amira continued. “I’ve made some breakthroughs in the last week. The root cause is psychological. It’s not just post-traumatic stress from her childhood, although there is plenty of that. It’s her memory that’s behind this, damaged memories in her parahippocampal processing.”

  Dr. Singh frowned, her mouth tightening into a thin line. Whatever she had expected to hear, she was clearly taken aback. She opened her mouth to respond when the door swung open. To Amira’s surprise, D’Arcy entered.

  “Dr. Parrish is here,” D’Arcy said. “He wants cloning, interstellar Streaming and de-radiation all briefed together this afternoon.”

  Dr. Singh sighed irritably. D’Arcy stole a wink at Amira.

  “Our fearless leader arrives,” Singh said drily. “We’ll continue this discussion later, M. Valdez.” The statement carried a hint of an ominous note. Amira’s throat tightened, and she felt a brief nostalgia for those first few days on Pandora, when she had been dismissed as a mild irritant.

  As Amira left Dr. Singh’s office, she sensed an opportunity amid the morning’s crisis.

  “Naomi,” she whispered. Naomi was feverishly scrolling through emails. “We need to get a resupply of Nirvatrene. Dr. Singh wants a full case ready for Rozene when she returns.”

  “Oh, Amira, I’m swamped at the moment,” Naomi said as she stretched her hand across the three-dimensional monitor, zooming in on a message with Dr. Parrish’s face next to it. “I need to rearrange Dr. Singh’s calendar for tomorrow, and there’s that upcoming interview on the Stream—”

  “Want me to take care of it?”

  “Could you?” Naomi asked eagerly. “Can you get into the medical stores?”

  “I’d be happy to, but have I been given the clearance to go to 202?”

  “Here, take my ID in case you need it.”

  Surprised, Amira accepted the card.

  Though she had access to Floor 202, the next steps to finding Tiresia, Hadrian’s price for cooperation, would be the real challenge. Amira would need to search the Soma’s medical stores, an endeavor that could take weeks of research and scouting. The scare this morning, however, demonstrated that Rozene may not have weeks. Time to improvise.

  Amira caught D’Arcy at the ward’s main door.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” she began, ignoring D’Arcy’s mock-terrified smile. “But I wouldn’t ask for this favor unless a life literally depended on it. I need you to Cloud me.”

  “Are you crazy?” D’Arcy whispered, dragging Amira by the arm in the hallway. She pivoted her head around like a wild owl, scanning the walls and ceilings for monitoring devices. “Amira, what are you planning?”

  “Rozene went to the emergency ward this morning,” Amira said. “She’s getting worse and I don’t know how much time she has. In order to get the – the help I need, I need to get something from the medical stores that I’m not supposed to know about. If I’m caught, or someone reads my mind later, I need the next thirty minutes of my life Clouded, so they can’t see it.”

  “You’re going to steal something and want me to help cover your tracks,” D’Arcy said succinctly. As a programmer, she had a knack for reducing a complicated scenario into zeroes and ones. “You know I believe you and I want to help, Amira, but this is my career on the line as well.”

  “Please, D’Arcy,” Amira said. Shame burned down her neck as she met D’Arcy’s eyes. “If I’m caught, I’ll deny your name to the grave. All you have to do is switch the Clouding on and off again when I get out.”

  They descended the stairwell toward Floor 202 to avoid elevator cameras. After Amira had attached the sensory patch underneath her long hair, where skull met neck, she leaned over the stair railing and raised her thumb. Several floors up the stairwell, D’Arcy lifted her hand in response and activated the Cloud code from her personal computer. A cold sensation spread from the pad through Amira’s head and down her spine. She gripped the railing, adjusting to the light-headed, buzzing sensation of the memory-blocker. Though she would remember the essentials, as the name hinted, the Cloud would dull her senses as it placed her short-term memories into a jumbled archive that would render them meaningless in a holomentic reading. At least, that was the hope. She slid an encrypted Two-Way communicator into her left ear.

  “Are you ok?” D’Arcy whispered, her voice reverberating in Amira’s ear. “Can you hear me clearly?”

  “I’m adjusting,” Amira said, with more confidence than she felt. She exited the stairwell.

  Tentatively stepping onto the 202nd floor, Amira was greeted by a short, humanoid robot who introduced himself as Sparkes. As Naomi previously explained to Amira, he was more computer than standard robot, his processor synchronized with the Soma’s archives and medical stores, serving as a friendly interface for the complex’s daunting inventory. Despite this, he had smooth palms for retrieving files and medicine, and the retractable blades below his elbows revealed another purpose – to protect the Soma’s archives if needed.

  Amira held Naomi’s badge in front of Sparkes’s swiveling, orb-like eyes, hoping his skills did not include facial recognition.

  “Identifying,” he said in a soft, pleasant tone. His voice sounded fuzzy and distant under the effects of the Cloud, as though her ears were filled with water. “Welcome, Naomi Nakamura. How may I assist you today?”

  Amira hesitated. Requesting the Tiresia directly was foolish, lest she create a red flag and incriminate herself and Naomi in the process.

  “I’m not sure of the name, unfortunately, but it’s a new trial medication,” she said, peering over Sparkes’s shoulder. Rows upon rows of shelved inventory stretched across the length of the room, orderly and brightly sterile. “Is there a section for new medications that I could browse?”

  She cringed internally at the clumsiness of the lie, though Sparkes and his ilk could only understand words, not infer the intent behind them. Not yet, anyway.

  “You are not authorized to search directly,” Sparkes replied neutrally. “You must request an order that I will retrieve.”

  “I see,” she said, fumbling for a response. “Well, I can go back and get my, um, supervisor to confirm the name. In the meantime, can you pick up an order for…for Oniria. And the usual supply for Subject 42: a ten-pack of Nirvatrene, thirty milligrams.”

  As Sparkes turned to the far-left corner of the room, Amira darted in the opposite direction. Though the Cloud left her with a strange tingling sensation, her reflexes remained sharp. She had picked a woefully outdated medication for Sparkes to find, which she hoped would translate into a long search, but could only count on ten minutes at the most.

  She charged through several rows of shelved inventory, pulsing with adrenaline. Her eye caught a glass reflection down one aisle. As she reached it, the shiny surface turned out to be a monitor, framed by a series of glass cabinets stacked with vials. Someone had marked each vial with handwritten labels. Trial medications.

  She didn’t dare try to run a search for Tiresia using the monito
r, if it would even be searchable. Though all drugs were supposed to be logged into the system, she suspected that something Hadrian Wolfe was so eager to get his hands on would not be found in official records. A box without labeling, he had warned her.

  Amira opened the glass case with trembling fingers. Sparkes could return at any minute.

  With rising frustration, she pushed aside boxes and vials, all marked with the usual clinical nomenclature. She paused. Her fingers lingered on the lowest wooden shelf, which had become transparent where her hands had touched the surface.

  A glass cover.

  Her heart danced. Shifting to her knees, Amira moved cases aside and felt for a hinge. She lifted the lower shelf, revealing a hidden layer of storage underneath the glass cover. In the narrow dark space, a small black box rested alone. She blinked several times, focusing her vision through the effects of the Cloud. A number ran across the container’s front – 08012216.

  Tiresia. It had to be.

  Wheels turned softly on the other side of the room. The box resisted her desperate attempts to unlock it or pry it from the shelf.

  “D’Arcy?” Amira whispered into the Two-Way.

  “I’m here,” D’Arcy said. She sounded as tense as Amira felt.

  “First, I need you to create a distraction to keep Sparkes busy,” Amira said. “Quickly.”

  Silence on the other end. Fighting back panic, Amira placed a finger in her ear but before she could adjust the Two-Way, a crash erupted in the bowels of the inventory aisles. A thud, followed by the rippling of shattered glass.

  “I hacked into the inventory server with my shadow account, made an assistant robot knock some things over,” D’Arcy said, voice tinged with remorse. “I won’t be able to look Sparkes in the eye again. Amira, what’s going on?”

  “I found what I need, but can’t get it out of the container,” Amira said. “Since you’re in the system, can you unlock it?”

  D’Arcy cursed softly. Amira gave her the number.“Found it,” she said. “Oh, Amira, this is quantum encryption. The code is basically a series of probabilities. This is going to—”

  “Please, can you try?” Amira whispered, standing up to peer around the aisle. Still no sign of Sparkes. “I need to get out of here now, with or without it.”

  “Hang on,” D’Arcy said. “If I synch my laptop with the encoder from my Eye, I can run a script…yes, I’ve got it! No guarantees this will work, this is Aldwych-level security. Give me two minutes.”

  Amira pressed her forehead against the wooden shelving, fighting back the foggy sensation in her head. Whether it was the Cloud, the Two-Way device or raw fear, Amira didn’t know. If she succeeded today without losing her job, Amira vowed to spend an evening free of technology. A drink on the Canary House’s rooftop, under the stars.

  The numbers on the box spun, the combination changing to zeroes. A sharp click, and the top opened.

  Shaking, Amira clutched at the thin vials inside. She stuffed them into her lab coat pockets. All contained a clear liquid, surprisingly cold despite the lack of refrigeration. She closed the hidden shelf door.

  She had done it. All that remained was beating Sparkes back to the front.

  Amira sprinted toward the entrance. When she reached the main hallway, she slowed her gait. Sparkes rolled around the corner.

  “Your order is complete,” Sparkes said, leaning forward on a pivoted waist to present a tray, which Amira accepted, still panting from the run.

  “Everything ok?” Amira gasped. “Sounded like a commotion back there.”

  “Inconsequential cleanup exercise,” Sparkes said with a crispness that could have been interpreted as annoyance. “Anything else I may assist with?”

  Just as she prepared to say no, another idea struck Amira.

  “Actually, Sparkes,” she said, “can you provide me with a list of medications administered to the previous two Pandora subjects? The names were Jessica Alvarado and Nina Leakey.” Amira had never heard the two names spoken aloud within the Soma complex, but profiles of Jessica and Nina dominated the Stream after the news of their deaths broke last summer. Julian repeated both names on his radio station, loudly and often.

  The robot’s eyes blinked at her, depthless but unreadable swirls of black. There was no reason, of course, for robots to blink, or for an archival machine such as Sparkes to even appear human, but that was how they were made.

  Seconds later, she held the dead women’s records in hand, both marked in red as ‘highly classified’.

  She returned to the stairwell, tapped on the door twice and entered. Almost immediately, the effects of the Cloud dissipated, sensation returning to her fingers. She sighed with relief, her hearing sharp and clear again. As she pulled the pad from her neck and the Two-Way from her ear, she looked up to see D’Arcy give her a final wave before she exited the stairwell.

  Taking the stairs back up to the ward, Amira flipped through the files. She received profiles of the previous two subjects on her first day at the Soma, but the details were suspiciously scanty, abbreviated footnotes on two lives cut short. Assuming they had not been edited, the records in her hand might fill that gap.

  Both of the files contained a list of medications, including known treatments before and during their terms as Pandora subjects. Neither young woman had received the now common embryonic pre-treatments for cancer and other genetics-based diseases. In addition, neither was given the generous dosages of health supplements that most city-based residents grew up with. They, like Amira and all compound residents, were genetically unaltered from birth, a biological relic of a more primitive time.

  They became Pandora subjects around the same time frame and died within days of each other, just shy of their third trimesters. A final photograph in Nina’s file revealed a wide face drained of color, unambiguously dead. Amira slid the photograph to the end of the file with shaky fingers. A note in scrawling handwriting recommended that the project avoid recruiting a replacement subject. One less potential death all over the Stream, Amira thought as she flipped through the pages.

  Amira scanned the last page on Jessica Alvarado’s file, frowning slightly as she reached the end of the list. She read it again, then turned to the end of Nina Leakey’s record. The same drug appeared in both women’s files, administered during their time as subjects.

  “Txxxxxa. Approved experimental therapy – confidential.”

  It had to be Tiresia.

  * * *

  She returned to the ward as quietly as she had left it. Rozene remained in the emergency room. The thin vials chimed softly together in Amira’s coat pocket, nestled between the folded medical files. Keeping them was dangerous, but she was not ready to part with the information they contained.

  Amira pulled out the Oniria, cradling the fragile vial between her fingers. She smiled at her own quick thinking – she’d requested the archaic medication to keep Sparkes busy, but it also offered a potential treatment for Rozene. Amira witnessed it being administered to volunteers in her early days at the Academy. Oniria was once used to treat patients with extreme stress or trauma by inducing vivid, waking dreams that a therapist and patient could witness and discuss together – ideal for exploring suppressed memories, provided that Rozene would cooperate.

  The Tiresia was her more intriguing possession. Why had an unofficial trial drug been administered to two cloning subjects in precarious health, and why did that very same drug interest Hadrian? Was it some pioneering medication meant to aid the cloning process or something more sinister? If its purpose was sinister, why did someone include it on the file? Amira could not ask these questions of Valerie Singh without revealing how she discovered the information. Instead, she would hold on to the Tiresia as collateral until she made headway with Rozene’s memory.

  After dropping the approved medications at Naomi’s desk, Amira stopped in front of Singh’s off
ice. The sounds of a heated argument drifted beyond the barrier of the door.

  “From what I can see, there is no progress to speak of,” Alistair Parrish said. “I’m only here for an hour before I hear about a new medical crisis this morning, the same pattern as we had before—”

  “There is no crisis,” Singh interjected. “We had her stabilized within an hour. I am not worried.”

  “Well, you might want to start worrying!” Dr. Parrish snapped. “If this got out to the Stream, after everything that’s already happened…don’t forget, the interview with Harrison Harvey is two weeks away.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Singh responded. “Press briefings are naturally at the top of my agenda.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Valerie!”

  “I am far from flippant.”

  “If I may interject—” a third voice intoned.

  “And what’s he doing here?” Parrish asked, his voice rising in outrage.

  “Dr. Barlow is here at my request, as a consultant,” Singh replied with a hint of impatience. “This is, after all, still my project.”

  “For now.”

  “On to more important things,” Barlow said. “What is most urgent is monitoring the cell growth rate as we move into the third trimester. So far, fetal development is occurring as we’d expect, but we have to monitor the impact that M. Hull’s stress may have on the child.”

  “How’s your student working out?” Parrish asked abruptly. “Should we cut her loose? Or keep her until the press dies down?”

  “She stays for now,” Singh said firmly. “As I have said countless times, the problem with our subject is psychological, an area that none of us, perhaps forgiving Barlow somewhat, are qualified to speak about. We will wait and see if our addition from the Academy can tell us something new.”

  Amira sighed in relief, surprised and moved to hear Singh defend her after their earlier exchange.

  The door flung open and Amira found herself face to face with Alistair Parrish. He was tall with copper-toned hair. A neatly trimmed beard framed his open, animated face. Access to the best anti-aging treatments in Westport kept his appearance youthful for a man in his fifties, his true age betrayed only by his eyes, which carried that sunken, haunted quality earned through life’s trials. Like Valerie Singh, he wore the black lab coat of a senior researcher, and a red badge with the Atomic symbol across the lapel, signifying his membership of the powerful Aldwych Council. His stern expression quickly morphed into a broad, warm smile.