[ID]entity

by PJ Manney

  His circuits filled with a song: Blur’s “Ghost Ship.”

  Yes. It might work. Or Darwin Awards, here they’d come.

  “Okay, now follow my instructions really carefully,” he said to Dr. Who.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Edwin Rosero was the right choice to become the new Thomas Paine. Physically fit. Powerful, with quick muscle control. All sensory inputs above average. Bright, with high levels of neuroplasticity and white-matter connectivity through the brain’s corpus callosum. He could learn quickly, synthesize a lot of information, and remember it, although Major Tom would do that anyway. Only specific parts of the neocortex and medulla were damaged, which the team overrode with the neural net and neural dust connections to Major Tom’s servers. But there were still problems.

  Ruth, Talia, and Steve sat on the bridge with Tom. Ruth played double duty, monitoring human Tom’s biological upgrades and the ghost-ship plan. Earlier, Talia had asked Veronika to help map out the ghost ship with Miss Gray Hat.

  “You guys working on Tom,” said Veronika. “It’s, like, so distracting. And he’s spraying testosterone everywhere. Yuck. I’m going to my bunk and work from there.”

  Steve noted Tom’s medical progress. Sitting next to Ruth and Steve, Tom struggled with a mental exercise on the monitor in front of him. The program prompted him to remember a combination of numbers and colors and to coordinate them with body movements: the number 4, yellow, and clenching the fist of his left hand; the number 7, green, and wiggling his right foot. It was like building the synesthesia from scratch.

  In his present incarnation, Ruth wanted to make sure that each brain region and the communication network were connected to Major Tom. And Major Tom added music. Peter Bernhardt’s original brain processed information musically, as did all the incarnations. Tom listened to songs to embed the new learning along neural and electronic pathways more deeply. First, Major Tom downloaded tunes from his servers to his new brain. But the tones had a distinctly geometric feel. Each sound was flat on the sides, with sharp edges and points where the edges met, like cubes flowing together in a Tetris-like construction of “music.”

  “Do we have any headphones?” he asked Ruth.

  She dug through some drawers and handed him an old pair. Major Tom turned off the direct music input and redirected it into the headphones. David Byrne breathed in and out, singing about men and women, how well they fit together, “Like Humans Do.” The sound grew less cubical. But not quite round.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ruth, scrutinizing him.

  “I’m listening to the difference between sound from my servers and from my ears into this brain, but they’re both digital sources. And I’ll be in an acoustic world. But I have no acoustic music. Wasn’t sure if that might make a difference or not to my brain processing.”

  “Hmmmph . . . ,” said Ruth. She left the bridge.

  He went back to his lessons.

  She returned five minutes later, holding his 2001 Manzer Paradiso, a magnificent archtop acoustic guitar he believed had disappeared after the Phoenix Club had tried to kill him.

  “Where did you find it?” he asked, trying to jump out of his seat, but his body was not ready for such enthusiasm. He groaned.

  “Net. Some schmuck selling it. No idea what he had.”

  “Thank you, Ruthie! You really are the best!” He could have hugged her.

  Ruth blushed. He didn’t remember her ever doing that before.

  He reverently took it from her hands. No one had played it in years. With his digitally perfect pitch, he tuned it. Then he strummed. The guitar sounded great, but his muscle coordination left something to be desired.

  “Rosero didn’t play guitar,” said Tom. “No calluses. No muscle memory.”

  “Still a good neurological test. Play something,” said Ruth.

  He looked around the bridge, a little embarrassed, although he had no idea why. Peter Bernhardt and Major Tom used to play for crowds. Why not now? And what would he play?

  He didn’t consciously make the decision. His fingers moved on their own. It was a song he had heard only once, “Glory” by Radical Face. He wondered if Rosero liked it, because it felt comfortable in his mind. As awkward as his fingers felt, tripping over the strings and making the wrong chords, the guitar sang with the clarity and brilliance that the Manzer was famous for, pillowy soft, not sharp like a cube. It reminded him of the differences between live music, old-fashioned vinyl, and digital recordings, but more pronounced.

  “Is it a song with words?” asked Ruth.

  “Yes,” said Tom, strumming.

  “Then sing!” she said. “We need more than one set. Of muscular data.”

  So he sang, of a stolen name, a battle against a wicked world, the pain of having one’s head opened, exposing the memories he wished he could forget. Being unable to help everyone who needed it. It wasn’t a happy song, but it was appropriate. He thought he’d rename it “Tom’s Ballad.”

  Ruth fluttered her shoulders and looked on with chagrin. “We must give you voice lessons. This one’s voice. Not so good. Maybe a neurological malfunction? Or inflammation from intubation?”

  Tom looked up from the guitar to catch a glimpse of Talia at her desk. He studied the skin on her neck when she brushed her hair aside. The shape of her breast under a simple white T-shirt. Her small waist, curved to fit the palm of a man’s hand. The roundness of her butt. He knew he shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Stop ogling Talia!” Steve barked.

  Tom hadn’t noticed him watching. He stopped playing, glared, started out of his chair, then stopped because he lacked coordination. He’d get his ass kicked. Why was he so angry?

  Talia couldn’t quite stifle a laugh. “Did he, now? Don’t worry, love. He probably can’t help it.”

  Her giggle made his skin rise in goosebumps. Should he fight? Or fuck? Oh, man . . . He sat back down and started playing again.

  Ruth studied him. “Teenage hormones. And unfinished prefrontal cortex.” She sniffed. “I was wrong. To choose one so young. Given the chance. You’d hump a female rhinoceros.”

  Steve moved to Talia and quietly said to her, “I think it’s time for us to go.”

  “Not yet,” Talia said.

  “There’s nothing more for me here. Except you,” said Steve.

  “Please, can we talk about this later?” asked Talia in a whisper.

  Tom stopped playing and said loudly, “Can I take a break?”

  “Is Dr. Who? Taking a break?” asked Ruth.

  “No . . . ” sighed Tom. Looking at Talia, her head leaning in to Steve’s, he imagined how amused she must have felt by his teenaged attention. What it would be like to have sex with her again. He remembered the last time . . . But was it him? Thinking about it was uncomfortable. He subtly readjusted and bent over the guitar again, muttering, “How did I survive this . . . ?”

  “What?” said Ruth.

  “My teen years,” said Tom.

  “Ha!” laughed Ruth. “I remember Peter. At this age? It was we. Who had to survive you!”

  Tom lay in his too-small hospital bed at night, plugged into sensors that relayed neurological information back to the servers, Ruth, Steve, and Dr. Irizarry. He would need to develop more muscle memory so he didn’t fumble or fall at a crucial moment. And emotional control was a problem, so they tracked endocrinological data, too. Maybe they could stabilize the hormonal extremes. He would need more hardware, and possibly some implants that they didn’t have on board ship. They would have to find them or make them.

  Even surrounded by his closest comrades, he felt distant. Ruth didn’t talk to him with the same intimacy. She treated him differently, like a teenager and not an intellectual partner. Talia had Steve. To come between them would be wrong, even though he wanted her physically. He also missed Amanda. And why did he insist on meeting his son for the first time as a robot? He cringed. He wished he could redo it, meet his child for the first time as a re
d-blooded human. Somewhere inside this body and brain, he felt a fleshly playback of what it meant to touch someone lovingly. The ache was palpable.

  He sent a voice message to Veronika. “You up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked.

  “Working all day on the Chinese cryptoproblem,” said Veronika. “Might be a way to convince the Chinese to play nice.”

  “Can you come say hi?” he asked.

  She paused. “I’m tired. Talk in the morning.”

  “Okay. Good night.” He cut off the messaging. He could guess why she didn’t want to see him. Her idol was less than she had thought. That had to be disappointing.

  Or maybe he was reading into it. Isn’t that what teenagers did? Read into things? And get them wrong?

  He tried to roll over, but the sensors poked his skin. The scar tissue near his clavicle was not completely healed, and the pressure near his vagus nerve sent yet another wave of nausea over him. That triggered a new experience, a sensory flashback, of a female hand he didn’t know. Stroking his hand. The skin appeared youthful, the nails beautifully decorated with tiny, intricate constellations of stars. The arm was slender, paler than his, with the most delicate dusting of fine hairs. Soft like velvet. And the smell. She smelled of lavender and sunshine and girl. Who was she? A memory of Edwin’s long lost love?

  Now he’d never sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Chinese ship’s closet became the tiny workroom for one human and one robotic terrorist. Or revolutionary. Or rebel. Or freedom fighter. Throughout history, the choice of words depended on which side you were on. Tom 2 was sure he’d be called all those names and more.

  “Ever hear of Magic Whip?” he asked Dr. Who, referring to the Blur song “Ghost Ship,” which had inspired his idea.

  “Sandwich spread?” she asked.

  “No. A brand of Chinese firecracker. We’re going to make our own. But first, you need to cannibalize my non-necessary parts.”

  It took longer than he had planned for her to follow his directions carefully and detach each salvageable piece. He directed her to key supplies in the closet: paper, cardboard, kerosene, and other fluids.

  “Lord in heaven, this stinks,” she muttered.

  “Open the door more, so you don’t pass out,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anyone.” He turned up his auditory sensors.

  She worked silently, her hands shaking as she poured the kerosene into the delicate container they had created.

  “Someday,” said Tom 2, trying to divert her, “someone has to name a combustible device after me, like a Molotov cocktail. It’s become my signature.”

  Dr. Who was panting hard. “How ’bout . . . a ‘Paine-ful . . . Tom-ahawk.’”

  “That’s funny, Doc. Now wrap the green wire around the conduit at the top.”

  “I’m tryin’, honey, I’m tryin’.”

  He contacted Ruth and Miss Gray Hat. “Where’s our ship?”

  “We’ll overlay as soon as we’re finished,” voice messaged Miss Gray Hat. “What do you want to call the ghost ship? Only for our reference, so no one’s confused which ship is which. By the way, your ship’s real name is the Po Lin.”

  “What else do you know about this ship?” asked Tom 2.

  “Four on board. Captain, first mate, and two crew. High Voice and Deep Voice are probably the two crew.”

  “Call our boat Tai Ching 21,” said Tom 2. “If they discover the name, they’ll freak out.”

  “Why?” asked Ruth.

  “Famous abandoned Taiwanese fishing boat,” said Tom. “Caught on fire, but no one knows where. They discovered it off Kiribati. Crew had disappeared and no one ever found their lifeboats, preservers, any sign of fatalities, or survivors. They searched the Pacific for weeks. Truly a ghost ship.”

  “Tai Ching 21 looks identical and is overlaid onto your location,” said Miss Gray Hat. “It’s on fire twenty miles off Wenzhou. SOS sent. Pumping image to available surveillance systems. Let’s see who we convince.”

  After 3.8 minutes, Miss Gray Hat contacted Tom 2. “They took the bait. Lots of radio chatter with your coordinates.”

  After five minutes, fast boats from the China Coast Guard departed from Wenzhou harbor. Major Tom said to the team, “Watch Dongtou Island.” After a few more minutes, a modern powerboat departed, not far from the abandoned hotel where Cai/Ye had taken Tom 2.

  “Estimated arrival of first rescue boat, sixty seconds, fifty-nine . . . fifty-eight . . . ,” voiced Miss Gray Hat.

  “You ready, Doc?” asked Tom 2.

  “One sec.” She bowed her head and said a little prayer. “Ready as the good Lord’ll let me be.”

  She placed Tom 2’s head at the open closet door so he could see and hear as much as possible, then crawled quietly out of the closet and screamed at the locked door, “I’m dyin’! Oh lordy, I’m dyin’! Help me! Help!”

  Feet pounded. Voices yelled in Mandarin. High Voice unlocked the door and threw it open.

  “Nǎlǐ bùduì?”

  Dr. Who didn’t know it meant “what’s wrong?” but the intent was clear. She ignored it, buying time.

  “Speak English!” she yelled, clutching her chest.

  “Nǎlǐ bùduì?” High Voice repeated, slower and louder.

  “Don’t speak Chinese stuff! Help me, I’m dyin’!” She clutched his leg with one arm and her chest with the other.

  High Voice saw his payday disappearing. He shook her off his leg and ran for help, but he didn’t close the door.

  Dr. Who crawled into the hall, looking like she’d keel over any second.

  Tom 2 heard Dr. Who yell “Ouch!” Then a thud. Then a BANG!

  Again, thought Tom 2. Again.

  This time, the firecracker flew past the door.

  Thud . . . BANG!

  Smoke began to fill the hallways and their room. He could hear the crackle of fire.

  Deep Voice, High Voice, and the first mate came running with a defibrillator. They saw the fire, and Deep Voice grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and began to spray their end of the hall. The first mate ran back, probably to tell the captain. High Voice dropped the defibrillator and ran into Dr. Who’s room.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Deep Voice asked High Voice in Wenzhouese.

  “Grabbing our other payday!” said High Voice. He gathered up robotic parts from the floor and the closet. He grabbed Tom 2’s head last.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Tom 2 in Wenzhouese.

  High Voice screamed in an even higher voice and dropped the head.

  “There’s smoke coming out of ducts on the real ship,” said Miss Gray Hat. “Looks good for the rescue team. They’re climbing the ladder now.”

  Tom 2 could hear feet running on the deck above.

  Soon the blue-and-black uniforms of the China Coast Guard, led by the first mate and a stunned captain, appeared in the hallway to put out the fires. Then, in the doorway, a familiar face appeared. Cai/Ye, in police uniform, ordered two nonuniformed officers to arrest the captain, first mate, Deep Voice, and High Voice. He regarded Tom 2’s head lolling on the floor.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” Tom 2 asked. “Or are you going to pick me up?”

  Inside the compact dining area of the powerboat, Cai/Ye sat next to Dr. Who. Wrapped in warm blankets, she cradled a cup of strong Chinese tea in her hands. Tom 2’s head sat on the table, along with a bag of rice crackers and the teapot. Next to Dr. Who were the remaining parts of Tom 2.

  “We want to know if you’re Cai Shuxian or Ye Rongguang,” said Dr. Who.

  Cai/Ye nodded. “You would be interested in the history of my identity, wouldn’t you?”

  She put her cup down. “Don’t be evasive, honey. Makes ya look smarmy.”

  Cai/Ye grinned. “And you are a quintessential American: direct, clever, and not to be underestimated. You may call me either. I am actively both. Like Peter Bernhardt and Thomas Paine.�
�

  “Peter Bernhardt is dead, and technically, so is Thomas Paine,” said Tom 2. “There is only Major Tom, manifest in different ways, regardless of what others like to call me.”

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding,” said Cai/Ye. “And please let me also apologize, both for me and my . . . department, for the delay in rescuing you. We would like to help you in any way we can.”

  “Ha!” said Dr. Who, giving him the stink eye. “Couldn’t prove it to me!”

  “Your help hasn’t been helpful,” said Tom 2. “What were you waiting for?”

  “We weren’t sure about the situation and the players. We are now,” said Cai. “From now on, we can work together. This is a long game. And there’s a war coming. If you don’t win, we all lose.”

  “You just figured that out?” asked Tom 2.

  “Yes. However, we don’t know the extent of the potential conflict. And regardless of your AHI capabilities, neither do you. We have run our own AI-generated scenarios that, if they occur, will be devastating to the entire world—including China. It will take generations to recover.”

  “It’s already begun,” said Tom 2. A tiny alarm went off in his head. Only he could hear it. “Dr. Who? My battery’s dying, and I need to ask you something before I can’t.”

  “Yeah, hon?” she said, still chewing crackers.

  “May I call you Mama? Peter Bernhardt never really had one. And I’d be honored if you’d be mine.”

  Cai gaped at the surprising humanity from the robohead.

  Dr. Who swallowed hard, picked up the head, and spoke directly to it. “Oh, baby . . . ’course you can. I’d love to be your mama. That’d make you my boy.” Her sad-eyed smile said the rest.

  “Battery’s almost dead, Mama,” he said. “Game over.”

  “Now you just shut your eyes and let’s hope I’ll be talkin’ to you real soon.”

  “’Night, Mama.”

  And she cradled the head in her arms.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO