His condo, a squat concrete and cardboard box with all the personality of a prison, called to him from across the street. There was beer in the fridge. It might still be cold if the power had come back on.
Enough. Go home.
Griffin glanced at the badly scratched suitcase sitting between his legs. Two more crumpled gray suits, underwear, and single change of socks. That’s all he had time to throw together. Everything else needed laundering.
His head sagged forward and he swore under his breath. He’d forgotten his toothbrush.
Griffin flinched at the thought of another field assignment. Phil wouldn’t do that to him, not so soon. If he suggests counseling I’ll take it. It must be a fact-finding mission; something without stacks of discarded little bodies. I should be learning where the staples and binders are, not standing on the grave of a thousand dead children. How bad could it be to justify sending him into the field just days out of school? The badge proclaiming him a NATU Special Investigations agent sat heavy in his pocket. He still couldn’t believe it was real and not a toy.
Griffin forced himself to think about something else. Anything but empty eyes and the swarming flies.
Redemption. Did such a thing exist? It seemed unlikely.
The big Mitsubishi-Nikon billboard over the 7-Eleven gas station displayed its litany of information.
11:23am...39 degrees Celsius...48 with Humidex...Smog Advisory in effect...UV Advisory in effect...August 1st...11:24am…
It was still early and would only get hotter.
The billboard showed an elderly couple watching their grandchildren play in an impossibly green yard. ‘You’ve lived your days, and they’ve been good days,’ said the billboard. ‘But your children are struggling’—the green lawn faded to dull brown—‘and you worry about how they’ll make ends meet.’
Griffin turned away in disgust. These ads were little more than veiled threats offering immortality. He glanced back in time to catch the tagline.
‘Live on as a Scan. Support your family for generations to come.’
Is this where we’re at, selling our elderly into state-sanctioned slavery instead of letting them die in peace? These ads were springing up everywhere, there was no escaping them. The need for human computers far outstripped the supply.
It was creepy how no one ever mentioned how much the scanning process cost—more than a retired couple could ever afford—or how expensive a chassis to house the Scan could be. People were being asked on their deathbeds to mortgage their futures. They were signing away decades for the chance to escape death. With the Scan Rights question still unanswered, they might be forever selling themselves into slavery. Corporations and governments were snapping up Scans and chassis, and Griffin could guess which way they hoped the legal winds would blow. Or maybe hope had nothing to do with it.
He thought about Corporal Anjaneya, the Scan inhabiting the combat chassis they’d left at the Hamilton Hotel. What had been going on there? She hadn’t said a word the entire time they were at the hotel, and then when it was time to leave, just stood at the window swearing. Something was seriously wrong with that Scan.
Perhaps thirty people waited for the Islington bus which was ten minutes late. Everyone wore filter-masks, the teens sporting custom masks in a variety of bright colors. Many flashed messages, band names, and product slogans across them. Just two weeks ago Griffin bought one with a snarling wolf’s skull and the logo of his favorite band. The day he got the job he realized he couldn’t wear it anymore. Welcome to adulthood, he remembered thinking. Like Griffin, the older folks wore off-the-shelf gray or black. They looked like a pack of upright dogs dressed in sweat-stained business suits.
Here I am, another obedient dog.
Toronto’s North American Trade Union offices sat in the heart of the business district in the gutted Sapphire Tower. An eighty-story altar to greed and failure built by the very last American President, the building now housed the center of government for the District of Ontario.
Griffin arrived at NATU headquarters feeling like he’d gone swimming in his suit. The skin around his eyes was gritty with some kind of fine particulate matter. He ducked into the washroom which recorded his water and electrical usage as well as the duration of his stay. Anything over three minutes and the room would send Phil a report in triplicate. Nothing was worth that. He tried to straighten his crumpled and sweat-soaked suit but the attempt failed. He ran his hands through spiky hair to flatten it. That failed too.
Phil waited for him in the NATU Special Investigations office; he grimaced as Griffin entered and gestured toward a chair. Griffin sat.
“You look like shit,” said Phil. That was probably meant to sting. Phil looked immaculate. No sweat stains. Perfect hair. Griffin didn’t care. Not today. Anyone who stands in a barn full of the stacked corpses of hundreds of children and worries about their hair has achieved something beyond self-centered asshole.
A woman Griffin didn’t recognize stood beside Phil. She looked to be about Griffin’s age and a gray suit concealed her figure. She had long dark brown hair tied back and dark eyes that studied him for a moment before dismissing him and returning to her palm-comp. Where Griffin felt like a kid at the adult’s table, she looked confident. At least she had the good grace to look uncomfortable in the heat.
“You know what I went through this morning,” said Griffin.
“These things happen. Don’t let it bother you.” Phil wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You’re going to Dallas.”
These things happen? Was Phil absolving him of his failure at the Jerseyville crèche? Griffin swallowed an uncomfortable lump of fear. Don’t do this to me. “Dallas? I hate the desert.” He tried to sound casual.
Phil ignored him. “From Dallas, you’re bouncing to Wichita Falls.”
Bouncing? “After this morning, I thought...” He trailed off, Phil wasn’t listening. Why aren’t you demanding I see a psych counselor? That’s the rules. And anyone who dressed like Phil loved rules.
“What happened?” asked the woman.
“Nothing,” Griffin answered. It was the truth.
Phil looked away, pretended to be busy with something on his desk. “We’re sending a Scan in a full combat chassis with you.”
Griffin’s stomach twisted. Another combat chassis? “That went real well. And what the hell am I doing that I need a walking battle-tank?” He knew the answer.
“We have a crèche outside of Wichita Falls. I know,” Phil said quickly, “you probably want some time off. You earned it.”
Time off? Earned it? He hadn’t earned anything.
“We’re swamped. What can I do?” Phil gestured at the sea of empty cubicles beyond his office, feigning helplessness. “Don’t worry. It’s a milk-run. Shut down the crèche, liberate the children and find out who’s backing the operation.”
Hero by noon. “What if we’re too late?” Griffin asked. “What if we get there and find Scans instead of children?” Stacks of dead bodies. Fat flies.
“We’ll cross that bridge—”
“The courts haven’t made a decision yet. So do the kids have rights? What will we do with them, shut them down or put them to work?”
Phil gave him a shut the hell up look, all furrowed brows, and glaring eyes. “We have placement strategies in place. The children will be well cared for.”
What a pile of steaming garbage. Griffin darted a glance at the woman.
Phil didn’t miss a beat.
“Griffin, meet Nadezhda.” The woman flashed Griffin a smile, distant and professional. “She’s with the NATU Public Relations department. We need some good press. There are too many reports on how we’re not taking the wholesale theft and enslavement of children seriously.”
“This is a bad idea,” protested Griffin. A really bad idea. “I can’t... I can’t do this.”
“You’re going to help her get the story,” continued Phil. “NATU Special Investigations Unit saves stolen children. Returns them to grateful
mothers. She’s going to record the strike.”
Fantastic. All the world will witness my next great failure.
“She’s got carte blanche,” said Phil. “Make sure she gets whatever she needs. Video, interviews, archived data, you name it.” Phil placed a fatherly hand on Griffin’s shoulder, the grip too tight to be friendly. Griffin resisted the urge to shrug it off. “Make us look good.”
Griffin felt a cold shiver. He’d seen video from dozens of raids. Crèche children, raised beyond the niceties of societal conditioning, made for dangerous product. Train a child from birth to be a merciless killing machine and then drop its scanned brain into a state-of-the-art combat chassis. The results were chilling and in high demand.
He’d learned his lesson. Hesitation cost lives. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d move fast. Planning every detail had been his mistake. There was no way he was going to be too late a second time.
“I’ll do it.” He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. It didn’t sound confident at all, more like he was trying to convince himself.
Griffin met Nadezhda’s gaze. She raised an eyebrow like she knew his thoughts.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dickinson. Please, call me Nadia.”
“My dad is Mister Dickinson. Call me Griff.”
Her look said that would never happen.
CHAPTER THREE: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
When the pain stopped, 88 retreated to her memories. Mom held her close, but not so hard as to scatter her thoughts. It was a gentle touch that left room to think. She whispered into 88’s ear, a warm, back of the nose smell on her breath. It tickled. Mom never talked too loud.
“Mom,” 88 said. Mom’s face changed. Eyebrows lower, lips slightly down-turned at the corners. “Mom?”
Pain slammed through 88 in jagged shards of color and all memory of the physical world sluiced away. She thought again of Mom. ‘They’re going to kill you,’ Mom said, her eyes damp. ‘They’re going to turn you into a—’
“Hey little buddy,” said a tinny voice. “You aren’t here to dream. We have work for you.”
The world looked flat and thin. She tried to turn to look around, but nothing happened. Her head was pinned in place except she felt nothing. 88 had no choice but to stare at the man standing before her. She couldn’t shut her eyes, or even blink.
The man leaned down and stared into her, face inches away. “Hi there. Still with us?” He looked aside at something beyond 88’s field of perception. “Yes, excellent! You drift off and I’ll have to hurt you again. I don’t want to, so please don’t. Understand?”
“No,” said 88.
“Well at least she’s answering,” the man said. He wasn’t talking to her. He turned back. “I know this is strange, but we’re doing what we can to help you adapt. Now, from what I read, a big part of the problem with kids like you is that they have trouble filtering sensory data. It’s called information overload. I’m helping you with that. I’ve disabled all physical sensory inputs. See? Notice how you can’t feel anything?”
It was true. 88 couldn’t feel the stone under her. She couldn’t smell or taste anything either. “Yes, I see and hear.”
“Excellent! Okay!” The man nodded. “Now I’m going to explain some things to you, okay? I want you to listen.”
88 stared at the man. With physical distractions gone she could follow everything said. She thought back to the cracks in the stone and yearned to examine them with this new-found mental clarity.
She remembered something Mom said: ‘Controlled contextual background.’ She’d been talking to someone else, explaining. 88 knew that tone. She remembered this moment well, it was the first time Mom brought the vibrating pillow for her to sit on. Sometimes the pillow made listening easier. Mom cried that day, said they were going to kill 88. She said they were going to turn her into a computer. Then Mom hugged her so tight she lost everything except the sensation of physical contact. When she returned, Mom had let go and was crying so hard her body shook. 88 reached a hand towards her, unsure what had happened, but she stood and left the room.
They’re going to kill—
Ripping, tearing pain became her universe, scattering all thought.
“There we are. You’re back now, right? Yeah, good. Sorry, but you wandered again. We’re going to be working together.” The man waved a hand at 88. “I’m Francesco Salvatore. I work for your masters as a Systems Administrator.” He said the last two words slowly. “Know what that is? No? Doesn’t matter. I take care of you and make sure you’re working okay. Right? I’m what you call Root. I control the computer on which your Scan is stored. Got it?”
Did this man expect an answer? Unsure, 88 remained silent. So far much of what had been said didn’t make much sense.
“Right,” said Francesco. “I’ll spell it out. Keep up, okay? You are no longer a little kid in some shitty crèche. You are a digital simulation of that little kid stored on some kind of foam-phased holoptigraphic computer. Seriously, the details don’t really matter.” The man leaned in closer and 88 saw the clogged pores on his nose. “What matters is that I control the virtuality in which you exist. Right? So if I say that you’re in writhing agony, you’re in writhing agony.”
“Nothing changed,” said 88, confused.
Francesco nodded to someone out of sight and pain slashed through 88.
“See?” he asked when it ended.
Yes, she could still see. Unsure what writhing was or whether she’d done it, she remained silent.
“Good,” said Francesco as if 88 had answered. “So. Next step. My guess is that the crèche folks probably gave you some rudimentary education. We’re going to top you up, right? First thing has got to be vocabulary. I need you to understand what I’m saying. More importantly, you have to understand what your Masters are saying. Keeping them happy should be your number one priority.” 88 wasn’t sure what Masters were and only understood priority as it applied to math. Francesco glanced left and nodded. “Right. I’ve given you access to pretty much every dictionary and encyclopedia ever written. They’re all fully interactive, so it should be fun. There are lots of pretty pictures. Read the dictionaries first, okay? Communication is important. To access it, think the word dictionary.”
Dictionary.
It was beautiful. The entire foundation of countless systems of communication laid out in alphabetical order. Detailed definitions of every word in every language, all in her mind as fast as she could scroll through the text. As 88 read, words sparked memories of conversations overheard but either not understood or lost in the overwhelming barrage of sensory overload that had been her existence. One word, in particular, she wanted to look up.
Mind-shredding pain. It stopped, but this time she understood.
There were several definitions, but one stuck out.
Root: the user who has system-wide access to all commands and files.
Francesco caused the pain. On purpose.
“Okay, we’re back now, right?” Francesco made a face and 88 put it together with the words and pictures she’d seen. A smile? It meant nothing. “Good. Okay, there are things they want you to know. Things you’ll need to make your Masters happy. There’s a virtual teacher available. Just think teacher—not right now though—when you want to access it. If you’re worth what they paid, you should be able to pick this stuff up pretty fast. The teacher will go at whatever speed you can handle. Okay? For now, focus on higher maths, pattern logic, and statistical market analysis. When you have a grip on those, look into computer languages. That’ll be useful.” Francesco did something with his mouth and 88 compared it to the many stored graphics of facial expressions but all the people looked so different. “Maybe I can get you to do some of my work too, right? You should make a talented little hacker. Maybe run some errands on the side for your friend Francesco.”
Though she heard Root, 88 wasn’t listening. Thousands of petabytes of data; she longed to lose herself in it. “Start now?” she asked, hopeful.
“Yeah, yeah. Get started. I’ve got some tests designed to measure your progress, so don’t screw around.” 88 had no idea what this meant. “We’ll talk again later. Okay? Right!”
“Turn off eyes,” said 88.
“What?” Francesco rapped 88’s point of perception with a knuckle, leaving a greasy smear across her vision. “You want me to turn off the camera?”
Camera. Not eyes. “Yes. Distraction.”
Darkness. Francesco was not forgotten. Root required further thought.
For the first time in all her life, she was pure, beautiful thought. Nothing distracted her; no sight or scent drew her away. She basked in absolute sensory vacuum.
Teacher, thought 88. At first, she learned simply because she’d been told to, but 88 enjoyed learning. Each new understanding came with its moment of exhilaration. One word led to another. Master led to slave. Slave led to freedom led to autonomy. These were more than simply words.
With all outside stimulation removed, 88, for the first time in her life, became capable of prolonged concentration. She didn’t miss the sights, sounds, and smells that assaulted her continuity at every moment. She felt right. She belonged here.
By noon she surpassed her Master’s abilities and understanding of the subjects she’d been given to study.
88’s eyes snapped open. She stared at Francesco’s face. No. Not eyes. Root turned the camera back on.
“Hey little buddy. That sensory-deprivation didn’t drive you crazy, did it? I probably shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking. You’re okay, right?”
Deprivation? That was her first taste of freedom from a life-long assault of sights and sounds and smells. She wanted to scream as the sight of Francesco’s face dragged her away from her thoughts. Concentration became more difficult. His eyes were brown and wet and he blinked too often. She saw the pulse of blood through his neck, heard each breath.
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