by Unknown
Still, she didn't cry. He realised then that he wanted her to, because she looked as though the grief of it would tear her in two.
An ache snarled in his throat.
It struck him abruptly that Jane didn't even have tear ducts, and the thought made him almost throw up there and then.
The engineers arrived three hours later. Jefferson had avoided her in the meantime, and stayed out of the way while they took her out. Was he more afraid she wouldn’t have looked human, or that she would have?
One of them was waiting in the hallway. He said, “Good afternoon, sir. We just need a few details,” then, not allowing any interruption, “what’s its given name?”
“Her name is Jane.”
“And serial number?”
“It’s all on the forms.”
“We’ve got to check. 7345-0911-B?”
“That's right.”
The engineer dashed fingertips over the device worn on the glove of his left hand. “You said when you called that you wanted it reset?”
“Yes.”
“Then you want it back?”
“I said all this...”
“Yes, I have to check. The same unit?”
“I said.”
“Because, you understand that after a while the problem you reported ... the same thing will happen?”
Jefferson shook his head, not to that question specifically but to the whole grinding sequence. Realising that the gesture would be misread, he added, “I do know. Yes.”
“I have to ask. Because it’s important that you understand it isn’t a fault. This is how they learn. If they don’t emulate people then they won't learn.”
“I know it isn’t a fault.”
“That’s why most people use the exchange program. Because you train the first one and after that you’re getting them, so to speak, fully grown.”
“I understand. You see...”
“Yes?”
He struggled for something, anything, that might remove this man from his house. “It’s my wife. I don’t think she’d want another maid.”
“Oh? Because we could get your appliance back on its feet if you wanted to discuss it with her?”
“No ... no, thank you.”
“Well. It will be a couple of days.”
“The woman I talked to said...”
“We’re a little busier than expected.”
“Oh.” Henrietta would be back tomorrow. What could he possibly say?
“If that’s everything ... Android Interactive Domestics thanks you for your business.” The engineer gave him a disinterested nod, and – when Jefferson made no move to do so – let himself out.
Moments later, Jefferson heard the whirr of an engine. Jane would be in the back; foam-packed, laid out, inactive or comatose or whatever you’d call it. What would you call it?
What the hell word is there for that?
What could he say to Henrietta?
She was irritable when she got back, but he knew it was better to tell her straight away. After that, of course, she was downright angry; in her own way, though, like a caged storm, like bottled lightning. “What on Earth for?”
“She was acting strangely. I thought you’d noticed.”
“There was nothing to notice.”
Jefferson stared at the hard cast of her face.
There wasn't? I suppose you couldn’t have seen. How she’s been getting more like you every day. Only there was something in the way she was learning, so that she didn’t seem like you now. Do you remember? Long ago? When you loved me.
“She’s been acting strangely.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
Like when a child imitates adults, picking up some things, leaving others. Somehow, it seemed that Jane was imitating everything I’d loved about you – things I can hardly see in you anymore.
She looked at him, a glint of challenge in her eyes. “Did something happen while I was away?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Did it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Just for an instant, I didn’t pull away. I knew it wasn’t you. But it would have been so easy to pretend. “She’s been acting strangely. I called them and they said this was the thing to do. Maybe I should have waited.”
“I’ll have to train her again,” said Henrietta.
“I know that.”
“And nothing will get done tonight.”
“I know. At least she’ll be back tomorrow.”
I had to tell them to bring her back. I know it will happen again. I think it's the only thing I want.
“At least it will still be Jane,” she said, as if she’d read just the smallest part of his mind. “I do wish you could have talked to me though.”
So do I, he thought.
And, well...
There’s always next time.
Wet Life
Gayle Applegate
A sinister cloud overlooking Baffin Labs in Ohio ballooned into a beast, which cloned multiple distortions. Its monstrous, carbon copies loosed tail-like trails of blackened wisps dislodging tiny particles of ash. The dirty, snowflake progenies drifted earthward.
Several carts lumbered toward a crematorium in a remote corner of the compound. The weighty cargo imprinted twin wheel ruts along a well-worn path, until muddied water buried their impressions.
Marco overrode genetic programming by lowering to all fours. He was Rattus norvegicus. He’d studied environmental depictions provided by his implant, thanks to Jason.
Despite his Roman nose and whorl-like ears, he’d retained his species ten-inch length of sleek, brown fur with a six-inch tail used for precision balance and thermoregulation. Although he favored a bipedal stance, he deferred to four legs for speed.
Such anomalies dwindled when compared with the expression of his cerulean eyes. The routine, myopic examinations performed by his unimaginative engineers overlooked sentience and reason. As the newly, amalgamated human-animal species, he’d assimilated the abstract tendencies of Homo sapiens.
Marco moved beneath the tall grass. His escape from the lab should go unnoticed for at least another hour, until Jason began his rounds. He accessed a map of Cleveland and headed for the highway.
The unforeseen horrors of traffic weakened his resolve until he thought of Wonlay. Her primate origins seemed to arouse the primal source of abject human behavior. He summoned the scent of her dark, musky fur with remorse. Despite her forced separation from altered offspring, she’d retained her motherly instincts. Marco soothed himself with memories of rhythmic thumping from inside her massive chest.
One evening last month he’d let himself out and made his way to Wonlay’s cage. Another ape had taken her place. The newcomer bared her teeth and rushed the bars, sending him scrambling.
The following morning when Jason appeared, Marco signed his concerns.
“Where’s Wonlay?”
“She died yesterday afternoon.” Jason’s reply was barely audible.
“How?” Marco’s animal cry punctuated the thrust of his fingers, frightening him with vocal intonations he hadn’t known he possessed. Jason regarded him carefully.
“You know I’m not involved in primate research.”
“You liked her too,” Marco signed.
“Everyone liked Wonlay.”
“Not everyone,” Marco told him, lowering his hands. Jason averted his gaze.
“I’ve warned you to stay put, Marco. You’re going to get us into trouble.”
“I represent a substantial portion of their weaponry.” Marco grew defiant. He watched Jason’s face transition from surprise to disapproval, anger, and lastly, concern. “My extermination would be tantamount to defeat.” He gave Jason time to absorb this declaration. “You’ve made my purpose synonymous with destruction then dare suggest I’m the impetus for conflict?”
Their relationship changed afterward. Jason no longer came to interact with him. Additional steps
were taken to secure him. He surmised they assembled to discuss his fate and knew he wouldn’t survive their verdict.
Marco’s actions provoked retaliation. He jeopardized the central core of the project.
Something had gone seriously wrong. Marco’s blend of human DNA shouldn’t have evolved into the ability for abstract reasoning. Rats didn’t possess the capacity for discretion. No realm of consciousness existed from which they might draw conclusions, ethical or otherwise.
Jason tried downplaying the episode. Marco hadn’t shown previous signs of deviant behavior. The fact he’d been trained to communicate via sign language was a phenomenal display of individual distinction. None of the other rats had shown similar capabilities. During past interactions, Marco scarcely displayed the communicative abilities of a two-year-old child.
What they didn’t know was that Marco had not only taught his compatriots to sign, but also instructed them in conducting their own research. This had resulted in secret societies. The experimental parameters had reached beyond their wildest expectations. Their test subjects were literate in all facets of recombinant DNA technology allowing them to turn the tables on tergiversation.
Marco trained accomplices in various techniques for reversing experimental procedures. Through hours spent perfecting newfound skills, they performed innumerable corrections to fellow lab animals. Former patients were secreted in mini clinics in underground mazes and tunnels. They left carrying a message; the downfall of humanity was imminent, subsequent to the materialization of a replacement. Outsiders, informed of the dire circumstance facing the planet, were recruited and trained.
With the human race nearing collapse, the prospect for survival decreased overall. Members of many animal kingdoms joined the cause. The commingling of diverse species had already begun. The humans found it cute and curious. Marco studied newspaper photos accompanying some of the articles sadly noting such instances should’ve been a universal call to arms. Nature didn’t present alternate patterns of behavior based on whims. Such communiqués should be deciphered as urgent and regarded as no less than scientific pronouncements.
Imprisoned after his last encounter with Jason, he’d foolishly earned their distrust, ensuring his own impotence regarding operational maneuvers and endangering the safety of others.
Idiot!
He nervously gnawed a splinter he uncovered beneath the wood chips. Stop acting like a rat. He tossed it aside, suddenly spying THE WHEEL with revulsion.
Hours later he was still racing madly. The circular menace flipped him, wrapping his form around its central bar. How was this amusing? When he finally stepped off he collapsed in the sawdust.
During the night he awakened to the sound of scuffling. Shadows moved against the dimly lit backdrop. One detached itself from the rest and peered at him beyond the glass. Lancelot put a finger to his lips when Marco bounded up.
A dozen rats synchronized their acrobatic efforts with the distribution of weighty tools. They undid the bolts holding him prisoner and noiselessly lowered a panel.
“Come with me,” Marco urged, stepping through.
“We’ll monitor the computers as planned,” Lancelot told him. “Once you’ve established communication, we’ll assemble to mount an attack.”
“They may decide to destroy you.”
“They’ll have to catch us first.”
Marco found himself traveling the oft-used route of escape. Should their enemies recover the data contained in his implant, lives would be jeopardized.
Marco glanced toward the compound before following the road to a rest stop where he climbed inside a semi bound for Cleveland.
Tomma Sinclair awoke at 6 am to a blast of traffic news. Both articles had taken all night to finish. The one for Universal Science Magazine dealt with the successful transplant of a genetically engineered pig heart; the other for his employer, the Cleveland City News, covered the latest in military research. His preparations saw him out the door by 7 am.
Using the car phone he confirmed his flight for the weekend, eager to return to the reservation. He was regarded with honor among his people, having earned an M.A. in English from the University of South Dakota. Their pride in his accomplishments centered on the fact he’d avoided compromising his identity as a Sioux. His homecoming was always a cause for celebration. After parking inside the garage, he headed to the trunk for his briefcase.
Once he’d gone, Marco dove from his steel beam perch onto a concrete ledge below. The disinterested sounds inside the garage were reassuring so he dropped to the floor. Zigzagging among the shadows with his senses alert, three hundred beats per minute pumped an amazing surge of adrenalin through his tiny capillaries, heightening his ability for retrieving phenomenal stores of data. His computerized brain reviewed escape routes. He was wireless and remote, yet capable of connecting with rudimentary electronic devices. The information contained in his implant, coupled with his militaristic training, enabled him to destroy any telecommunications system on the planet.
He’d rerouted his own incoming transmissions, fearful one of the viruses he carried could be used against him. He needed time for careful examination of each. They might contain encryptions regarding his tenability and any counteroffensives underway.
After reaching Tomma’s car he climbed the front tire toward the wheel well, pausing to pick a speck from the tread. He spit the rancid crud before arriving beneath the hood.
He pinpointed the wiring attached to the car’s computer and removed an adapter implant from behind his ear. After inserting the proper wires he returned the adapter and awaited the transfer of information. Within seconds an assortment of command codes downloaded data relative to the car’s electrical components. A visual of the Crossfire’s schematic accompanied the codes. He scanned the design, found what he wanted and transmitted the appropriate signal.
Click. The trunk unlocked.
While removing the wires and reconnecting them to the car he caught the scent of danger. He crept along the engine, stopping above the narrow gap through he’d climbed.
A feline.
He reasoned he could safely remain beneath the hood for a time, but couldn’t venture a guess as to when Tomma might return. He had to make it to the trunk.
An eerie, blue light spread beneath the car, bathing Marco’s features with its incandescence. She’d obviously been armed with a tracking device. His mind raced to explore other modifications they might’ve made to her existence. Could the light indicate laser capability? He cursed his failure to study feline research being conducted at the facility. No time to review now.
He peered through a hole. If he could make it to the exhaust, he might be able to travel safely.
Just then her razor-edged claws thrust through the opening, narrowly missing him. In his haste to avoid a direct hit he nearly fell. If he didn’t act she’d trap him at this game. The man would return, forcing him to travel beneath the hood. Preparing to exert twenty-four thousand pounds of pressure − enough to bite through lead − he waited.
When she next jabbed beneath the hood he clamped his teeth around her fleshy pads. Her shriek jarred his nerves but he simply applied pressure. Her paw retreated, dragging him with it. The resultant game of tug-of-war slammed him against metal.
Once her blood filled his mouth, he willed himself through the gap, running at the exact moment he freed her.
He shimmied up a drainpipe, jumped to a ledge and leapt onto the hood of the Crossfire. Instinct told him she knew enough to station herself near the trunk. Not your everyday feline, he mused. Through the windshield he could see the trunk had popped with room to squeeze inside. He scrambled up the windshield and onto the roof. Cloth! Could he chew through? Not enough time. Anyway, the man would search for whatever made the hole.
After sliding down the rear windshield he crossed to the curved portion of the trunk. The cat positioned herself accordingly. He might be able to inflict a fair amount of damage during battle, but her size would ultimately
triumph. Her uninjured paw swiped at him from below. A series of high-pitched yowls conveyed the fact she meant to kill him. Grasping the interior metal rim of the trunk, he had little room to navigate and inches to go when he found himself dangling. The cat speared his leg, sending a streak of pain the length of his spine.
A group of men raucously emerged from the building and started in Marco’s direction. The cat yanked his leg once more then slunk away. Marco hoisted himself inside the trunk, safe for the moment. He heard her land above a few moments later, inadvertently closing the trunk.
At 4:25 pm, Tomma stopped to chat with the night watchman before leaving the building. He opened the trunk and zipped his gym bag. Laundry tonight, he wrinkled his nose. He placed his briefcase inside, closed the trunk, and went to get behind the wheel. Marco began chewing a corner of the bag and settled down to wait.
When Tomma arrived home he set his briefcase and gym bag in the front hall and went to change clothes. Marco wiggled through the hole and ran to hide behind the sofa. He sniffed the air.
Tomma emerged from the bedroom on his way to the kitchen. Marco noted the long, dark braid swaying in time with his stride. His face was rugged but approachable. Marco followed, keeping to the baseboard. Having detected a trace of edibility, he surmised they were headed for food.
The man’s activity soon culminated in a dizzying aroma. After filling his plate, Tomma departed whereupon Marco scurried to a wire rack beside the stove. Sidestepping the burners, he reached the counter. Satiated, he went in search of Tomma. After finding him sitting at a computer, he bolted beneath the desk.
A file comprised of several trays leaned against the desk. He could climb to the top, startle the man, and possibly gain access to the keyboard before being bludgeoned. Just when he’d prepared himself to leap, Tomma pushed back the chair and left.
Quickly adapting, Marco grabbed the telephone line and swung to the keyboard. He rapidly advanced the Enter Key and typed his message. Finished, he caught the telephone line and slid to the floor. He hid behind a file cabinet prepared to witness Tomma’s reaction.
