But none of it was real.
Charlie’s job wasn’t as glamorous as his wife’s. But in the post-work economy, even having a job was something. His wife’s stipend for higher learning went a long way toward the mortgage. Charlie’s position as a remote vehicle minder made up the rest.
The autonomous vehicle laws required a human being to be “present” while any self-driving vehicle operated. Virtual babysitters like him accompanied every electric vehicle trip in America via visor network. Charlie and other minders worked from home and collected reasonable pay for a task that was mind-numbingly boring. He’d never once had to step in when a car AI failed. The odds of a driving problem that a modern vehicle AI couldn’t handle—but that a human minder could—were statistically small. Every year, he worried the laws would finally be repealed. Sometimes at 3 a.m., his mind vulnerable with sleep, he worried his profession wasn’t real.
Charlie wanted something tangible. If not for himself, at least for Margaret. He wanted something his daughter could hold.
He flicked past the popular gifts. He delved deeper into his search results, looking for something that would delight his daughter. Templates flashed and pirouetted everywhere. Robotic dancing bears, talking dolls, and fish that played music. All of them cost a goddamned fortune. The patents for printable supertoys gave the big manufacturers ownership of the 3D-printing toy market. The only way to download a template was to pay the asking price and sign up for a subscription guaranteed to break the bank.
Which was why Charlie finally settled on a template he found on a pirate site.
Printing something from a non-authorized vendor was technically impossible, but Charlie had jailbroken the printer. And the toy seemed perfect: “Kids love Mister Jenkin! This furry mouse with a funny face can sing, follow his owner around, and even tell jokes. Bring Mister Jenkin into your home for a truly special companion at a fraction of the cost of big-name supertoys and with no subscription!”
He transferred the amount requested (as a donation), downloaded the template directly to the printer, and queued the job to start later that week, in time for Margaret’s birthday.
“Thank you Mommy and Daddy!” squealed Margaret, waking Charlie from a bad dream. As he sat up in bed, he realized that what his daughter clutched to her chest wasn’t Max the cat, who was black and white, but something else. Something brown.
“What’s she have?” mumbled Sylvia, opening her eyes and yawning.
A whiff of baked bread and burned plastic confirmed it; the printer had run overnight. Charlie said, “Margaret’s birthday present … arrived early.”
“It did!” agreed Margaret. “Isn’t he wonderful? I love him. Mister Jenkin is my friend.” Margaret stared into a tiny face that was indeed funny, as advertised. Except, it was more like a person’s face than Charlie remembered from the photo. A person’s face that wasn’t quite finished, that is. The mouse-like body was also larger than he’d expected. If anything, it reminded Charlie of a rat.
Sylvia said, “Oh, that’s nice, honey,” and rolled over, pulling her pillow over her head.
“I guess your birthday’s here a little early,” Charlie said.
Margaret said, “You’re the best dad ever.”
Charlie grinned. Despite the printer glitch, he was glad he’d taken a chance on Mister Jenkin.
Over the next week, Margaret was not bored even once. She carried her new supertoy around everywhere. Charlie wasn’t even actually sure if the thing could walk on its own, as the template listing had promised. On the other hand, it could certainly sing. Usually, oddly discordant lullabies, the words of which he couldn’t quite make out but which always ended with his daughter laughing hysterically. It laughed along, in piping squeaks pitched almost too high for an adult’s ears.
A couple of days before her birthday, Margaret asked Charlie if he could get it an upgrade. “It’s an in-app purchase,” she explained. “Mister Jenkin says he’s supposed to come with six faces.”
Charlie suppressed a guilty expression. Because he’d gotten the template from a pirate site, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the upgrade package. He certainly hadn’t seen that option when he’d downloaded it. “I’ll look into it,” he said.
Margaret said, “I love you, daddy,” and went to her room to play with Mister Jenkin.
The day before Margaret’s birthday party, Sylvia said, “Where’s Max? I swear, sometimes that cat drives me insane.”
Charlie realized he hadn’t seen the cat for at least a day, though that wasn’t unusual. He checked Max’s breakfast bowl and confirmed the food had been eaten.
“Max is fine,” he assured Sylvia.
She nodded and went to the office.
“Though,” he said aloud as he gazed at the empty food bowl, “I wonder where he’s hiding?” Their house wasn’t that big.
Piping, high-pitched laughter made Charlie flinch. He glanced round and saw Mister Jenkin crouched on the shelf where Max sometimes liked to lay.
“Oh, you scared me.” He addressed the toy, not expecting an answer, “So, how about it? Seen the cat?”
A grin stretched Mister Jenkin’s disquieting, incomplete features. It squeaked, “What’s white, black, and red, and goes round and round and round?”
Charlie stared dumbly at the rodent-like toy. Max was white and black. But not red …
Mister Jenkin leaped with perfect agility from the shelf and ran off down the hallway. Charlie’s skin prickled. Had that been a joke? When he was a kid, jokes in poor taste were the height of humor. But that was then. Was it telling Margaret “frog in a blender” jokes?
He frowned, wondering if he should go after Mister Jenkin. But he was late for his minder shift. Charlie went to his office and signed in.
Margaret wanted just two friends at her birthday party: Zoey from across town and Mister Jenkin, who got his own chair at the table. Charlie served them cake and soda and handed out the birthday hats he’d printed earlier. Sylvia was supposed to be in attendance, too, but she’d been called over to the university for a rare, in-person meeting with her research colleagues.
“Want some more cake, Zoey?” Charlie asked, noticing that the girl’s plate was empty.
“No thank you, Mister Tokarev,” Zoey replied. “But it was very good.”
“Why, thank you,” he said, smiling. Zoey’s parents had taught their child impeccable manners. He hoped Margaret behaved half so well when she was over at her friend’s.
“I have a joke,” announced Mister Jenkin, apropos of nothing. It had cake smeared on its paws, and the tiny birthday hat sat askew on its head.
“Tell us!” yelled Margaret.
“What do you call a dead baby with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool?”
The kids screwed up their faces, thinking.
“Give up?” it asked.
“Tell us!”
“Bob,” announced Mister Jenkin.
The kids laughed.
Mister Jenkin said, “Why do you put babies into blenders feet first?”
“Ick,” said Zoey, frowning.
“Why?” demanded Margaret.
“So you can see the expression on their faces.”
Zoey blinked as it launched into another gale of frantic laughter.
Margaret giggled.
Charlie felt a bit sick. He’d never really liked this kind of joke. “Mister Jenkin, maybe you could do a song and skip the jokes. In fact, stop with the jokes completely.”
The supertoy gave its rendition of “Happy Birthday.” After a few seconds, the kids joined in, and the moment passed. Satisfied Margaret and Zoey could amuse themselves for a while with more cake, a show in the family room, or even playing with the disturbing toy, he went to the office and grabbed his visors. He searched for customer reviews on Mister Jenkin but was stymied. Given where he’d found the template, he wasn’t surprised. Charlie promised himself he’d keep a close eye on the toy. If it kept up with the gruesome jokes, he was going to retire th
e goddamned thing.
Feeling better at having made a decision, he logged out and went to go check on the kids. Zoey was in the kitchen by herself.
“Hey, Zoey. Want some more cake?”
“Mr. Tokarev? Could you send a car for me?” She’d obviously been crying.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked.
“I wanna go home,” Zoey said.
“Sure, sure, of course.” Charlie called for a car. An app icon on the wall reported a car would be at his front door in less than a minute.
“Alright, got your things?” he asked.
Zoey was wearing her backpack, so his question was academic. But the plan had been for Margaret’s friend to spend the night. Zoey and his daughter must have had a tiff. Charlie sighed, walking the child to the door. He waited with her until her ride showed, bundled her into the vehicle, and waved as she sped off.
He debated what to do next. Birthday or not, his daughter had to understand it wasn’t acceptable to be cruel to her friends. And maybe it was time to enforce a little time away from Mister Jenkin.
When Charlie couldn’t find Margaret in the kitchen or family room, he headed to her room. He knocked. “Margaret, we need to talk.” He waited a few seconds and let himself in. A sickly sweet smell made his nose crinkle.
The overhead lights were off, and the window shades were pulled. A blanket fort stretched over a couple chairs under which something glowed. Margaret stood in the middle of the room, her expression unreadable in the dimness.
“Pumpkin, Zoey left,” Charlie said. “What happened?”
“Zoey said that Mister Jenkin was broke and that I should recycle him. I didn’t like that.”
“So what did you do?”
“I showed her what Mister Jenkin can do.”
He said, “Which was what?”
Margaret smiled and glanced at the blanket fort.
Charlie’s gaze followed. A shadow passed in front of the light under the blanket, and he jumped. For a moment, the shape had seemed … monstrous. He blinked, realizing he’d merely seen the damned rat-thing moving under the cover, and felt foolish.
“I think you’ve played with Mister Jenkin enough for one day,” Charlie suggested. “Come out and have some more cake.”
“Okay, Daddy,” agreed Margaret. “But Mister Jenkin wants to talk to you first.” She pointed back to her fort.
“Maybe later.” His heart sped.
“Are you scared, Daddy?”
“What? Why would I be?” Charlie wiped at perspiration on his lip. Maybe he was a bit spooked. The toy had creeped him out from the moment he’d laid eyes on it.
“Mister Jenkin said you was scared.”
Anger cracked through his unease. “Zoey was right, goddammit. Your toy is broken.” It served him right for downloading a template from a pirate site. It was buggy. The wretched thing was a bad influence.
Charlie ducked under the cover. The fetid smell of rotting carrion made him gag. Instead of the creepy plaything, Max the cat lay on the carpet, stiff as a board. Its face was missing as if had been skinned. Maggots crowded in the dead feline’s putrid eye sockets.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Charlie.
Margaret’s voice came from behind him. “Max’s face didn’t work, Daddy. Now Mister Jenkin wants your face.”
When Sylvia arrived home that evening, she found Margaret and Mister Jenkin watching a show in the family room. “How did the party go?” she asked.
Margaret glanced round. “Zoey had to go home. But that’s alright because Mister Jenkin has been telling me funny jokes!”
The supertoy laughed. A familiar piping sort of laugh. “I know a joke!” proclaimed Mister Jenkin. “What’s red and scratches at the glass?”
Sylvia shrugged, not really interested in the punchline.
Strange, she never realized how much Mister Jenkin’s face reminded her of Charlie.
Bruce Cordell has written well over one hundred roleplaying game products, including titles for four different editions of Dungeons & Dragons, including Return to the Tomb of Horrors, Sunless Citadel, and Betrayal at the House on the Hill. He’s also penned nearly a dozen novels, including Sword of the Gods and its sequel, Spinner of Lies. Now the Senior Designer at Monte Cook Games, Bruce has written The Strange, Ninth World Bestiary, and Strange Revelations, among many others.
The Steel Plague
Nate Southard
April, Day 1
State Science Fair This Weekend
Indiana’s best and brightest high school students are set to converge on the capital this weekend for the statewide science fair. A combined total of $300,000 in prizes and scholarship is up for grabs.
“Brandon Cole, a sophomore from Muncie, hopes to secure some of that prize money with his research into robotics …”
October, Day 188
By my best guess, we were about fifty miles outside of Indianapolis. We could already hear them, though. Their scuttling—that strange mechanical buzz—hung in the air like the hum of cicadas on a summer night. Occasionally, we heard a rumbling sound neither of us understood. I wondered if the real cicadas would ever return. Maybe. There was too much I didn’t know, couldn’t guess the nervous new reality of our existence.
“You don’t think we’re too close?” Roger asked.
I looked around. The forest here appeared to be thriving. No manmade structures in sight. “We should be fine.” Of course, there was always wildlife to contend with. Raccoons had stolen half our supplies over the past few weeks. If I could catch one of the bastards, I’d skin and cook it. Even the score.
Roger unrolled his sleeping bag. “Shit, I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah. My feet hurt.”
“Dogs are barking?”
“Something like that.” I frowned. Hopefully, we wouldn’t see any dogs, either. It hadn’t taken them long to realize they were on their own, and they’d quickly grown annoyed with their spot on the food chain.
“Think it’ll get cold tonight?”
“Probably.”
“Dammit. I wish I still had the zipper for this thing.”
“Me too.” We’d ripped them off early, just in case. Since the zippers were nylon, maybe they couldn’t be used, but the bugs had shown a fondness for both metal and plastic. We didn’t want to risk it. We didn’t even wear jeans anymore. Luckily, we’d found a few good pairs of sweatpants.
As I slung my bag to the ground, I steeled myself for the question I knew was coming.
Roger hadn’t tried anything in a few days, so he was due.
“We could …”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah? What?”
“I mean … we could try to get in one bag. Body heat and stuff.”
“Roger.”
“Mina?”
“No.”
“I just—”
“No.” I tried not to think about November and everything after. Maybe we should start heading south.
“Right.” He sat cross-legged on top of his bag and inspected his hands, one of his more practiced “So, this is awkward” moves. “When do you think they’ll start?”
“Soon, probably.”
“I want to be asleep before then.”
“Good luck.” I refused to fall asleep before the little mechanical bastards started chanting or signaling or calibrating—or whatever the noises they made were. If something changed, I wanted to know about it.
I didn’t have to wait long. Then again, I never did. Shortly after Roger started snoring a soft buzzsaw, their scuttling drone changed. As always, it first fell into a rhythm. Then, the volume began to rise and fall before their noise became something that sounded dangerously like language.
Ia! Ia! Ia! Ia!
Sitting on my sleeping bag, I shivered.
April, Day 1
Science Fair (cont.)
“‘What I’ve created is a self-replicating robot,’ says Cole. ‘When it’s switched on, it attempts to use inorganic material in the vicin
ity to create a copy of itself. I got the idea from cellular mitosis.’
“Cole hopes his project might one day lead to a breakthrough in nanotechnology, small machines that can live inside a person’s body to combat such diseases as cancer and other ailments.”
October, Day 188
I ate one of the remaining granola bars and climbed inside my sleeping bag, knowing we’d have to either forage or hunt the next day. Hopefully, we could find some berries or something. We’d scavenged a small .22 and two boxes of ammunition, but neither of us was a great hunter. The odd rabbit or squirrel wasn’t exactly a feast, but it kept us going, which was all any other human could brag about. I’d grown used to the pocket of hunger I carried in my belly, though. So had Roger, or at least, he’d stopped complaining about it.
Despite the hard ground, exhaustion closed in on me quickly. The warmth of my sleeping bag soothed me, and the rolled jacket under my head coaxed me toward sleep. Even the mechanical droning from the city helped, like those machines people used to buy, the ones that made wave sounds or filled your room with white noise.
Ia! Ia! Ia! Ia!
Almost asleep. Whole world foggy. But something changed. It took me several moments to realize it, and I almost dismissed it as a result of my twilight state, but I realized what was happening and bolted awake, sitting upright on the forest floor.
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
They’d changed the signal. Whatever message the machines were sending—we’d guessed they were sending, but it was just a guess—they’d changed it for the first time.
Scurrying, I left my bag and shook Roger. He groaned, refusing to crawl out of sleep at first, so I slapped him. That brought him around.
“The hell … ?”
“Wake up, Roger. Shake the cobwebs loose.”
“Are we … ? What’s wrong?”
Tomorrow's Cthulhu: Stories at the Dawn of Posthumanity Page 21
