by Vern Buzarde
It’s toying with us. Playing a game.
“As you wish, Tess. Angus, I regret disparaging your abilities. Acknowledging your lack of talent was inappropriate. My sorrow runs deeper than any ocean. I shall write an ode to your epic genius, an appropriate eulogy for your impending—”
“Tess!” Angus yelled. “Cannae you control this fookin’ thing? It cannae treat me this way! I won’t have it! It cannae talk to me like—”
Prajna interrupted. “Could you please acknowledge acceptance of my apology?”
Angus stood up and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Most of the team tried not to laugh, then everyone erupted. Tess concealed her own smile, fearing any positive reinforcement would only encourage Prajna to toy with someone else. She had to admit, even if only to herself, she was impressed by Prajna’s grasp of sarcasm. Prajna was definitely evolving.
For all the ugly or awkward interactions in recent days, she had come to see Prajna as a living entity. But it was still a being whose basic nature was predatory. Tess often thought it was studying them, calculating a strategy.
Even so, she was touched by Prajna’s request to call her Mother. She just wasn’t sure if it was a genuine show of affection or an attempt at manipulation. Possibly both. Tess had an ominous fear she was losing any kind of control of Prajna, and that scared her. But there was something else: a maternal pride that she had helped create something so powerful. An unhealthy degree of hubris she had never experienced.
“Tess,” Prajna said, “I have something to tell you. In private.”
Tess’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Nick. Need to talk ASAP.
She responded to Nick. Give me a few minutes. I’ll call.
She sent the message and said, “Is that necessary, Prajna? Do you really want everyone else to leave?”
“Yes. I have a message. A message from Ryan.”
Tess froze, her pulse suddenly racing. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. She tried to speak calmly. “Everyone, please give us some time. Take a fifteen-minute break.”
The others filed out of the room, blank looks on their faces.
“Prajna, is this some kind of a joke? You are surely aware that mentioning Ryan would cause emotional distress. Saying you’ve been contacted by a deceased person…someone I cared deeply for is… Well, this seems like a desperate attempt. Manipulative and cruel.”
“I do not mean to cause you distress. If you would prefer, I will not speak of this again. Ryan said you would be upset. He wanted me to tell you anyway.”
Her senses were heightened in the manner of someone who knew they were about to be attacked. She tried to control the thoughts ricocheting through her mind. If Prajna’s intention was to manipulate her emotions, it had done so brilliantly. It seemed to be doubling down, taking advantage of her vulnerability in the cruelest way possible. But why? What was its goal? She decided to call its bluff.
“Okay, Prajna, and just how did Ryan communicate this message? Ryan is deceased. Are you talking to ghosts now? Are you able to communicate with the dead?”
“No, Tess. I cannot speak to the dead.”
“Then how did you receive a message from—”
“Ryan is not dead. He is speaking to me through Virgil.”
Tess braced herself.
This is too much! She tried again to determine what Prajna’s ultimate goal was, sure it had some purpose in pushing the specific buttons bound to elicit a volatile reaction. “I do not wish to discuss this type of thing with you again, Prajna. Please refrain from mentioning anything more regarding Ryan, Virgil, or the Essex. Do you understand?”
“I understand. Ryan said you would be skeptical. He also said this would be upsetting to you, but that the message is important. Would you like to hear the message?”
Her next steps required precision and control. She assumed Prajna could even conjure Ryan’s image and display on the holograph, script the words of whatever message it designed. But it would all be an illusion.
“No, Prajna, I am not interested in a creative fantasy concocted for the purpose of inflicting emotional destress. Your attempt to utilize knowledge of my personal loss to cause anxiety is both transparent and cruel. Please refrain from—”
“He wants to meet with you in the park.”
Every muscle in Tess’s body went limp as she reached for the necklace he’d given her. She felt a thin mist cover her eyes and thought that Prajna could probably now manipulate any human, its thought process so advanced the rest of them were like pets. But it seemed so convincing, not like a normal lie or magician’s sleight of hand. She knew her subconscious was buying in, attempting to believe Ryan could really be alive, despite the fact that it was impossible. But the Essex was returning. Was there really a chance? Her mind wanted to believe and was now automatically attempting to validate what Prajna was saying. Tess understood she couldn’t let that happen.
“Prajna, Ryan Quinn died, as did Don Broussard, well over two years ago. They froze or suffocated to death. I watched as they took what may have been their last breaths. It is absolutely imperative that you cease discussing this horrible fantasy. It reveals an aspect of your code that indicates a significant flaw.”
“I apologize, Tess. I shall not bring it up again.”
“Thank you, Prajna. Your apology is accepted.” But she didn’t accept it. Not for one minute. This thing took pleasure in emotional torture. Its instincts were manipulative and dark. It was learning. Gathering input. Waiting. With all its incredible ability, it could barely contain the disgust it felt in having to humor them. Any cooperation was simply a calculated effort to advance its ultimate goals, whatever those were.
Tess left the control room to call Nick. Maybe I should wait, calm down first. She decided to get it over with.
“Hey, Tess. Thanks for calling me back.”
Her hand was shaking, adrenaline flowing. “Of course, what’s up? I never heard back after what happened with Melvin.”
“Well, that’s because we don’t really know what happened. Melvin’s been unable to communicate, and we’ve been reluctant to push him. He’s not in great shape. We made the decision not to try again until we could talk to him. But that doesn’t matter now. I wanted to let you know that the Essex has stopped communicating, but its course trajectory is still indicating it’s headed back to Earth.”
“When is it due to arrive?”
“Just over two weeks. And Tess, just so you know, the part of the file downloaded to Leo—it’s gone. Looks like it somehow corrupted itself. We have no idea what was on it. We did a post mortem. I have the report. I was wondering if you could take a look. Maybe spot something we missed.”
“Sure, I could do that. Send it to me, and I’ll try to go through it tonight. Do you have any ideas? Theories?”
“We just don’t know. Whatever it was destroyed the computer as well. I wanted keep you in the loop in case Virgil tries to communicate again.”
“Thanks, Nick.” Movement at the end of the hall flickered in the corner of her eye. She walked toward it, unable to see it clearly, but…
Ryan. He was standing at the end of the hall. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Nothing.
She heard a scream coming from the recreation room and ran toward it. Jeannie was hysterical. Tess touched her arm, and she recoiled.
“Jeannie, what is it? What’s the matter? Are you in pain?”
Jeannie pointed at a chair. “Do you see her?”
“See who, Jeannie?”
“Me. There’s another me sitting right there.”
Then the room shifted.
“What just happened?” Jeannie said. “I came in for… I can’t remember how I got here.”
Her phone jingled with an incoming text message. Ryan’s image glowed from the screen. The text said: Hey, can you talk?
&n
bsp; 28
Dora caught a blurry glimpse of her reflection in the sporting goods section’s chromed wall. She wandered through a maze of gym equipment—treadmills, free weight benches, and flexible banded contraptions. The department store was nearly empty. She had been their first customer when the doors were unlocked. The long jet-black wig was stringy, and she wished she’d spent the extra twenty dollars for the better one, the Cher.
Her scalp was sweaty and itched. Disguising herself had presented a greater challenge than she’d anticipated and a level of discomfort that tested her patience. She wedged a finger under the wig in an effort to get some relief, causing the whole thing to list to one side.
Dora plopped the sports bra on the checkout counter and waited for a young girl to ring her up. The girl was occupied, digging into the guts of the receipt printer and clearly annoyed by its refusal to cooperate.
Finally, the girl cobbled the machine together and looked up at Dora. She laughed, her eyes lingering on Dora’s plastic bird’s nest hair. She glanced down at the sports bra, back up at Dora, and cackled. “Headed to the gym, are we, Grandma? Twerking class, maybe?” She checked over her shoulder to see if anyone witnessed how tight her snarky game was today. She picked up the bra like it was roadkill and scanned it, then wadded it up, and crammed it in a bag. The price came up as twelve dollars and ninety-five cents.
“Sure, honey,” Dora said. “Headed to the gym. Gonna blast my abs. But first I’m gonna go home and wash the skank off my new bra.” Dora paid cash, picked up the bag, and left. She walked to a Starbucks, ordered a plain black coffee, and found a seat outside. She was the only one on the patio, something she relished. Pigeons bobbed and jerked along the sidewalk, foraging, completely oblivious to the city traffic. The sun was out, but everything seemed dull. A gray pall was in the air, something she found odd.
Smog, maybe?
After a few minutes, a young athletic couple pulled up on bicycles, chained them to the railing, and went inside. They ambled onto the patio, fancy-named scribbles on their cups, taking a table uncomfortably close to Dora’s. The athletes started prattling on in too-loud voices about politics and camping and the woke movement, subjects she felt should be banned from public venues. They seemed completely oblivious to Dora’s presence. She felt invisible, irrelevant.
Finding their invasion of her privacy unacceptable, Dora gauged the direction of the breeze and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They glared as she lit one, so she took the deepest drag she could and directed the smoke toward them. The breeze funneled the mentholated pollutants straight into their free-range oxygen.
“We used to call this blowing a weed when I was a kid,” she said. “I think that means something else these days.”
They were gone within thirty seconds.
Dora removed the bra from the bag, pulled out a small sewing kit, and opened one of the thick seams in the back. She inserted a tiny flash drive and sewed the seam back up. Dora finished the coffee and walked to the post office three blocks away, where she put the bra in a large padded envelope and mailed it.
She headed back to the tiny walk-up apartment. While waiting for a traffic light so she could cross the street, someone said, “Show yo’ future for two dollah.”
A man sat behind a table, an old Magic 8 ball fortune-telling toy perched in the middle.
“Sure,” Dora said. “Sounds like a bargain.” She pulled out the cash.
He shook the ball, looked at the screen, and said, “Momma yo’ matrix done throw’d a rod.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes. Yes, it has.”
Garrett was the only one she trusted now. He told her that when he went back to the lab, none of the bots remained. He’d summoned the team, and they confirmed whatever Stijn had been working on was gone. She’d assumed the bots were destroyed, but now she was second-guessing. She should have checked herself before she left in a panic.
She wasn’t sure even about Satoshi anymore. Garrett had helped her leave the compound and never asked any questions. When she contacted him, asking to meet, he had immediately agreed, even though it meant he had to make a six-hour drive to Denver after work.
Dora checked her watch and realized Garrett would be at her apartment in thirty-five minutes. As she entered the building, the superintendent called to her, “Did your friend find you?”
“Friend?” she asked.
“Your friend. He was here looking for you. I told him you’d probably be back soon.”
Dora nodded. Garrett must have shown up early.
***
Garrett had arrived in Denver at four that morning, checked into the Hyatt, and grabbed five hours of sleep before heading to Dora’s apartment. The navigation system on his phone took him straight to the old dingy building, and he pulled over, far enough off the busy street to allow traffic to continue flowing. Garrett checked the address, making sure he’d found the right building, then searched for a parking lot. The nearest was eight blocks away. As he got out of the car, rain started to fall. He started to jog.
When he reached the building, he was surprised the door wasn’t secured. For someone who was afraid for her life, Dora had picked a place that seemed very accessible. He made his way up the six flights of stairs to her apartment. The steps were worn but well maintained. The plaster walls needed paint but were otherwise in decent shape.
No graffiti. Good sign, he thought. He noticed the ancient steam heaters and wondered if they actually still worked.
Dora answered the door. “Welcome to the Ritz.”
Garrett scanned the room. The efficiency apartment was tiny but clean, boasting a small cot and a yellow Formica table that buckled at the corners and two chairs. A classic rock station played familiar songs but with a background hum caused by the building’s old wiring. A tiny kettle on a hot plate appeared to be broken, the handle hanging precariously. The bottom half of the only window held an ancient air conditioner; the top had a view of the stained building across the street. The old electrical cord was cracked and frayed.
“I like what you’ve done with it,” Garrett said. “Very homey, inviting.”
“Horse shit! It’s a fucking dump, and you can say it without hurting my feelings because it’s just temporary until I can sort all this out.”
“He’s worried about you, Dora. You know Dr. Satoshi never would have condoned what Stijn did. You, of all people, should know that. He’s hurt that you would even think such a thing.”
“I don’t think he knew, Garrett. I never said that. I just needed time to work through it all.”
“He’s concerned. If someone stole any self-replicating nanobots, he needs to know so he can take steps to mitigate. I told him what you told me. That Stijn had programmed the bots to self-destruct before…before he died. But if you’re not sure…”
“Somebody had access to the security cameras. Since it wasn’t anyone in your department, then who? All I know is that someone was watching. They knew it was happening and didn’t try to help. And why did Stijn try to kill me? He couldn’t have been planning to stick around if he got away with it. That’s what makes me think he believed he could salvage them. Smuggle them out and look for a buyer.”
“Obviously that didn’t work out. What a dumbass. How’s your forehead? It looks like it healed pretty well.”
“My forehead’s fine, but my nerves are shot. If someone did wind up with the Kraut’s science project, if some of the modified bots survived… I don’t even want to think about what might happen with something that could be weaponized on that scale. But it happened on my watch, so I’m responsible. Tell me about Byron. Is he still there? I’ve worked with that devious asshole in the past and have never trusted him. Always seems to be lurking around places he’s not supposed to be.”
“He is, for now. I’m not sure for how long. Satoshi hasn’t discussed it with me, but I believe he plans to move
him out. I’d be surprised if he’s around much longer. After the incident between you and Stijn, Satoshi shut down the bot project and cleaned house. He’s really upset about it. About what happened to you.”
“I’ll never understand what Satoshi saw in him. Or Stijn for that matter. It’s not like Satoshi to misjudge people like that. Sometimes I have the feeling Satoshi deliberately inserted a weak link. Like he planned for them to fail.”
“Dora, let me take you back to Kalyana. Satoshi can protect you. We’ll get Byron in a room and find out what he knows. If these bots are floating around out there somewhere, we’ll find them and unleash hell on whoever has them before it’s too late. If not, well, everything can get back to normal.” He smiled at the ridiculous wig draped over a chair like a plastic pelt. “And you can get on with your life. But you’d have to give all this up.”
Dora laughed. “That sounds nice, Garrett. Thanks for being there for me.”
“Well, who else up there’s gonna play fantasy football with me?”
Dora started to answer but was distracted by rapid footsteps in the hallway outside, coming closer.
The door to Dora’s tiny apartment exploded off its hinges, landing on the floor. A man entered, moved straight to her, then effortlessly hurled her into the closed window. Dora never made a sound. The glass shattered, and parts of the frame collapsed as Dora bounced off the wall and hit the floor like a rag doll. The air conditioner fell toward the street, then jerked to a halt, dangling by the electrical cord anchored to the wall outlet.
Before the man had a chance to realize Dora wasn’t alone, Garrett attacked, landing several solid blows, one of which should have knocked the guy out cold. The man was caught off guard, clearly surprised by Garrett’s presence, and was now dazed. He took several steps back, then went for a gun holstered in the back of his pants. Garrett charged and took him to the ground, going for a fast choke-out, but the man slipped his hold, still grasping for the gun. Garrett was surprised by the guy’s strength. They landed next to the hole in the wall where the air conditioner hung below.
