by Travis Borne
The room was a workshop, immaculately clean—with no dust, surprisingly. The lights were white and annoying, such as needed for intricate or careful repairs. And when Jim pulled off the plastic they knew why he’d popped.
Jon recognized it right away, and it was obvious that Jim, although speechless, knew also. He’d likely retrieved those memories too: Amy’s brief but happy childhood—more prominently from her perspective. Seeing it again set Jon into nostalgic sensory overload. He thought of spaghetti, a secret-sauce taste-bud orgasm, an imaginary airplane with two flying modes, thumb for a yoke, but mostly and above all else, the dry-erase board with a signature, hand-drawn mustache. Jim looked over at him as if Rico was invisible; the two were on the exact same page.
It was shiny white plastic, bald. The head of Rafael. The thin mustache was tattooed as if a calligraphy virtuoso had painted the two black strokes, thick but not very, to thin, with curled ends—just smeared a bit on one side. The head of an old bot. It had a non-movable, just-a-hole for a mouth, plus upgraded optics. The eyelids were open revealing deep-brown, but powered-down eyes; staring downward blankly at the spotless, white, marble-like floor, the unhappy eyeballs reeked of depression.
“What is it?” Rico asked.
“That, my good man,” Jon said, “is the head of a great bot—Rafael! Because of him we are alive today.”
Too much; Rico’s countenance displayed instant confusion. He turned to Jim and blurted, “You said Nelman had been mowed, blended to chunks, and Nelman said he was once Rafael—before he deleted himself.”
Jim was peering closer, hearing but not listening, inspecting, captivated like a child inspecting a wrapped gift. He looked at the back of the head; the removable plug was loose.
As Jim looked up with an almost sinister smile, Jon nodded, returning his own smile that wanted to blow like a beer-discharge blast; although it would have to settle for the turnip juice he’d sucked in earlier.
Jim acknowledged with fervent eyes and slowly turned the plug; it came out. He rotated the head slightly and slowly. Inside was a dark and empty hole. “I believe, Rico,” Jim said, finally acknowledging his friend’s existence, “he’d transferred himself into that newer, more capable model, that which we’d been introduced to as Nelman.”
They watched as Jim, like a careful clockmaker, turned it all the way around. He took a step back, straightened his back and crossed his arms; air was like pins and needles filling his lungs to max capacity. He turned only his head: to face Jon, then Rico, giving each an equal dose of antsy, butt-puckering tingles with his eyes.
“Jim,” Jon said flatly. The heart-pumping crescendo of tension piqued. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Jon, I sure as fucking hell am, but it’s a long shot—you think?”
Rico said, “Are you two going to let me in on this? I didn’t receive any memory transfer, and don’t have many real ones either, so—”
“Rico,” Jon said. “There’s a possibility that not every copy of Rafael had been deleted, and this head might contain one.”
Jim pulled the purple sphere from his pocket and held it up in his fingers. He had an almost devilish grin, as if he was a sadistic child about to slip a firecracker into a cat’s ass. “And the consciousness…”
“Do it,” Jon said, borderline whispering.
Jim brought the sphere to the head and slowly pushed it in. It fit perfectly and the back of the head lit up with highways of encircling teal lights, and white singularities, glowing ants on racetracks, pulsing in and out and around the now seemingly alive sphere. And the sphere became wonderfully illuminated as if it contained compressed stars, galaxies, and nebulae—like a snow globe in the hands of a madman, and it had just been shaken. The mixture inside churned like an early but rapidly expanding universe. And Jim replaced the plug. Then, as if he’d just completed an ice sculpture, he ever so slowly rotated the head.
The brown eyes lost their dull, lackluster and somber gaze, and the mouth hole spit a puff of dust. They waited. Minutes went by, and it became clear the three expected, for some stupid reason perhaps, that it would be just that easy, that somehow they’d pop a little purple ball into a dead robot head they found sitting on a workbench, and Rafael, just like that, would be back, that he would start talking, perhaps being less secretive and ambiguous than Marlo, and tell them unequivocally how to proceed—but, none of that.
They ended up at Bertha’s place for lunch—burnt potato wedges.
The builders and flying bots had done a terrific job of repairs and food had been salvaged, enough to feed the now relatively small amount of people left in the town, for at least another couple weeks.
And Bertha’s was packed. The meat synthesizer had been reinstalled, and off-duty lenders, Hilda and her security team, Tim and Mitch, and much of the town came together. Having logged out from her short four-hour morning shift in the facility, Bertha did her best to keep up, but not solo. The mini inner-wall drones, now being referred to as whizzers, assisted graciously with spatulas and spunk. She prepared plates—burgers and more turnip juice, plus her infamous wedges—while Jim, Jon, and Rico sat together at a booth and discussed possibilities. A scintilla of a warm breeze came through their windowless frame, soon to get a window, and others commented on the robot head situated on their table; between swallows, and depending on who had the least amount grub clogging their pie hole, Jim, Jon, and Rico took turns answering questions, admitting, even they didn’t know what was going on with it. The curiosity of the town was so great it eventually, not allowing the three to eat in peace, had to be addressed.
People had been cleaning for days on end and things were looking up, but all wanted to know, what’s next? They seemed to bypass Rob Price who sat nearby, and everyone looked to Jim, waiting for answers. They’d seen the builders, with minimal back-history explanations, and by now most had seen the gleaming silver ship which looked as if it was ready to blast out and into the sky, and now this; there was a robot head on a cream-colored, Seventies-style dining table, making wobbly eyes next to three plates of half-burnt potato wedges and burgers.
Jim finally addressed the crowd. He declared loudly and clearly that, soon they’d get everyone in town together for a meeting, that he and Jon and Rico had discovered a lot, very rapidly: secrets of the wall, hidden-compartment bays, they were soon to log in with Marlo—he had trouble describing Marlo credibly—and they’d know a lot more, hopefully soon. As if assuming the role of town leader, overstepping Rob’s previous bookworm authority, he declared the meeting would take place in one week. He made sure to mention again, there would be no more secrets, that everyone would know everything, just as much as he or anyone else and they’d be discussing plans openly about any rescue attempts that could be agreed upon. And then he acknowledged the head: it was a friend they were attempting to revive—albeit perhaps, a long-shot.
After the speech, Rob Price, who’d been sitting at the next booth over with Terri and the docs, asked to join the three of them. He stood tall, holding his unfinished tray full of wedges and Jim welcomed him in. The four sat together, ate lunch, joked about Rob’s morning waterslide escapades with Bertha, then discussed options and other important stuff.
Rob, knowing Kim Mills, head botanist, so intimately for so long, had general knowledge regarding what important stuff needed to get done, and as soon as possible. Seeding. The seeds had been secured in the safe room during the attack and it was time to crack open the case. After his 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. shift ended, he’d ended up back in the fields. Terri had become his assistant, being placed back on duty in botany, and the builders assisted greatly in their efforts; as if owning several commercial tractors, simple instructions had them tilling, fertilizing, and clearing defunct drone matter, and now it was time to begin planting. After lunch, they were to begin, with the help of the whizzers; seeds possessing accelerated-growth properties would be poked in by little metallic helping hands, as well as human ones, those who’d volunteered.
It was the first time they’d seen Rob with dirt under his fingernails and soiled clothes. He had on his usual slacks, red plaid shirt, but no tie. After his progress report on the food situation, tall Rob, who looked like a descendant of angular Abe Lincoln, expressed that he wanted to be involved in all plans. He also described his feelings, how the purple energy had changed him. What at first had been wonderful, now filled him with sadness on a level he’d never experienced—he missed Kim terribly. He said, now that she was gone, and with his new level of emotional depth and perception, he was tortured and lonely. He had stayed only for her, explaining that there was no way he could’ve left without her. He said, “I want her back, I must save her. Jim, I feel like I'm dying inside without her, knowing she’s out there somewhere, and not knowing what hell she could be experiencing right now. Jim…I just wanted to say, thank you for deciding to remain here, for everything you, and you, Jon, and Rico—for everything you’re doing.”
Jim felt terrible just then. Hearing Rob let it all out. He knew Kim better than he should ever know another man’s woman. He’d broken it off after Amy fixed him but knew he could never mention the affair, it would finish Rob for good, destroy him. But he would pay Rob back another way, he would save Kim and bring her back.
And then Jim unloaded some of his own experiences about the new feelings, how it had rolled onto him more gradually. How even his very instincts had been twisted into knots. Things had gotten shit-fuck weird for a while, and he didn't know what was wrong with him. He said he even told Amy he was gay, because he felt it through and through, then. He felt it as blinding truth, to the bone—then it flipped, and then it flopped, and over and over like a fish out of water. He talked about how he could perceive new colors—when he first started to lose his hair, after his first dream in decades—and new emotions, too, how he possessed new desires like no other time he could recall. The fish, as he described it, had stopped flopping, and now he’s here, plopped in front of this Seventies-style table, back, just as he should be—natural.
He started to comfort Rob, saying they would do all they could to get Kim, and his brother, and all of the others, but ultimately told Rob he’d have to suck it up, be strong. Being strong was the only way in hell there would be even half of a sliver of a chance. And he also told Rob, “Sure, you can work directly with us. Together we’ll find a solution.” Then something else that came to mind; Jim said, “Everyone will be lending, now. Everyone will learn other things, too. Like civilizations of days past—rather than forcing human beings into slots, people can learn their unique talents, follow their curious passions and take up jobs and hobbies they feel drawn to.” And, he concluded, “Everyone will help pull weeds. Everyone will be getting their hands dirty from now on.”
Although, with the unlocked builders and whizzers buzzing about, waving with their friendly metallic hands, winking their welcoming green eyes, things seemed to come easily as far as transforming the city into a bona-fide jewel of the desert. With such a populous force out and about, it was unlikely weeds would stand a chance.
The four left for the facility after a short detour. The gardens. Rob put Terri in charge and gave her the go ahead to start planting. All was made—almost too easy. The whizzers grabbed bags of seeds and went to work, dipping wave-like and poking seed after seed into the blackish-brown soil.
Rob had instructed the builders but they were already on top of things. They had the water channels cleared out and irrigation began, even three of the four Atmowater generators were pumping again. The large pond centering the gardens had been completely topped off and its starburst web of irrigation channels were arteries to capillaries, to every seed. Yes, he’d been teaching the bots, but they seemed quite knowledgeable already, yet still listened attentively. Staying busy since the day kept the empty feeling in Rob’s heart at bay, just as he’d so eloquently explained at Bertha’s. He’d needed to talk to someone, and felt better after letting it out.
Jim carried the head that still, did nothing—except look around oddly and fart from its mouth. It had provoked some bursts of laughter several times during lunch. And it kept on: generating the weirdest looks with its eyes, as if something was there, something wacky inside. A few times its brown eyes had spun round in different directions as if someone pulled the lever on a slot machine. And it puffed, making weird noises; sometimes dust came out, sometimes a ber-eeennnt or a chik-zinnnt. As the four of them entered the facility it only seemed to be getting worse. They headed to the control room, now Rico’s home, to again ask Marlo for advice, this time about Rafael's newfound, old, head—and hopefully, he could provide some more direct, less enigmatic answers.
And what Marlo had to say after they grilled him, after they worked his old, wizard ass as though shaking the hell out of a frustrating puzzle cube, sent moods and morale soaring.
24. Part IV - A Deflating Malfunction
The nine Boron that had interfaced with their recessed control stations were as if punched in the back, ejected, and they fell to their knees, one after the other around the wall. Losing the teal static, their seaweed-green bodies became as dull as a scouring pad. And as if they’d taken an injection of lead, others jerked spasmodically but dully, and too lost their sheen; surprise washed over turgid, less-defined faces and their once deep eye indentations now barely possessed the concave of a spoon.
Through the portal above, a yellow city of lights mottling the cliffside world of casings were seen as flickers, as if a kid was toying with the switch panel, then all went dark as if the fucker had thrown a bucket of water on the circuits. The seamless wall of code about the inner dome intensified to level, hurricane, and its once peaceful hue went virulent red; the symbols were blurs, moving at hundreds of miles per hour.
“Wait here—and do not m—ove,” the Boron nearest Kim stuttered.
“We are leaving!” she replied, sure of her choice this time. “Everyone, out!”
Now they moved like clumsy balloon animals; two Boron attempted to block the entrance. Crisp took a step forward in defiance and confronted the beings; at 6 foot 2 he stood eye level with the shrinking dick heads, now. Each Boron raised one arm and grabbed Crisp’s shoulders, then pressed. Behind him eyes went wide and gasps were deep inhales—we’re not getting out!
Crisp, mentally trembling at the thought, quickly noticed there was no power to match the deflated yet still imperial expressions, and, they were losing height, faster now. He grabbed one of the lean, green hands and pulled it to the side, twisting it just like the motorcycle cop does in his favorite Seventies TV series, then ducked to evade the other using almost-professional moves.
Rick Crisp was tall, thin, and lean, and always kept busy but did maintain his fitness, and, his strength was now a match for Boron. Crisp flexed his lean muscles alongside the realization, squeezing the long green fingers like a dairy-cow’s teats—and Borons’ faces donned masks of disbelief. Crisp’s brow heavily overshadowed his blue eyes and his ’stache flared as he pressed his lips and teeth together in anger. He pulled the arms, and the being’s body toward him, then raised a hand to choke.
“You have no more power,” Crisp said, each word like a sentence in its own right, standing firm. He yelled over his shoulder, “They’ve lost their power over us!”
Kim moved to Crisp’s side with spit brewing and said, “Everyone, keep moving, outside!” She kept an angry eye on the now short murderers. And with a hawk she drew up some phlegm and fired the mix like a shotgun does a slug; it hit the Boron on Crisp’s right—bullseye!
Also, because the display on the rounded screens had become violent and terrifying, and were catching fire—they had to move! Any awestruck Boron that still owned a face shared the same expression: mouth dent agape, barely a depression of wide, bewildered eyes; some were moving what remained of their heads in bizarre ways, as if possessed and the necks were dish rags being squeezed for every drop. Some had deflated to a knee and those still managing to stand became sinuous like a m
irage. Legs were noodles seeming to melt into the floor.
Smoke. And the control panels emitted sparks twice as distant; the code hurricane was the event horizon of a black hole. A high-pitched noise was an 80s-horror-flick scream spewing from the room and the event horizon got whiter, whiter, blindingly. Pulses were flash bangs: POW, POW, POW, one by one around the room where the Boron had plugged in. FLASH—FIRE—FLASH—FIRE—one after another until all nine stations were fully ablaze. The scanning archways lost their laser luminescence; no more inprocessing today! The final arched entrance nearest the central tube sent a vomit of smoke into the winding glass noodles above.
Joey yelled, “Everybody, hurry, hurry, let’s go!” And someone kept screaming as if a 14-inch knife was coming through a shower curtain. But amid the panic Joey took charge as if he heard nothing. He went from lieutenant to colonel, waving panicked citizens through the door. Next to him stood Lion, also assisting, and across the flow were Kim and Crisp.
Those further inside pushed back through and along the spiraling path. Two tried jumping over the rails and cut themselves horribly on the razor-sharp four-foot-tall dividing barriers. Hugh, the town tailor, screamed as he made the unsuccessful vault. The edge went through his hand as if he was made of wax, halving it diagonally across his palm; the fingers fell to the floor like a beige-red spider, each connected by a scintilla of skin. The cut was so quick and clean, there was no blood—for a moment. Then it spewed like a mini fire hose. Others gasped upon seeing the vivisection—the blood-curdling scream blared once more—and none dared follow his example. Hugh quickly received assistance though, as someone’s shirt became a wrap. The comrades hustled him along for the remainder of the inprocessing path—the long way, and he was last.
Crisp stood glaring at the Boron, shaking his head in waves of rage while the others passed by. The screaming women went out, as well some spinal relief. And Kim, as was Joey, continued waving and channeling the people, also watching in relief and perplexity as all remaining Boron lost their humanoid forms: long fingers became worms, and each deflated before her eyes. The heads were last, featureless yet still yearning, like an octopus holding erect until the balloon for a head fell flat to the floor: an empty whoopee cushion, octopus with no brain.
