Halfskin Boxed

by Tony Bertauski

“Better than I deserve,” the man says. “What you got there?”

  “A little something to take home.”

  Hal pulls out a jar of preserved tomatoes. He exposes his tobacco-stained teeth with a crooked smile, saying that his wife will be happy and that Cali should come over to eat. His son hauls the bales—one in each hand—while the dogs run circles around him.

  Cali sways as pressure pulses in her head. Bing.

  “You all right?” Hal grabs her elbow.

  “I think I’ve been in the sun too long.” She touches her forehead.

  “I got some aspirin in the truck.”

  “No, thanks. I think I’m just a bit dehydrated. Let me grab some water. I’ll be right back.”

  She can put an end to these calls if she shuts down the connection. After three days, she still isn’t answering them because, if she does, they’ll argue and that is pointless. She just can’t bring herself to disconnect their chat line. It’d be like cutting Nix out of her life.

  Cali grabs a box in the pantry with a stack of newspapers and pauses at the kitchen sink. A little green light flashes in her vision followed by a soft ping. A message this time.

  It’ll be fifteen minutes before Hal and his son are finished. Cali locks the front door, just in case, and goes back through the kitchen to an old door in the narrow hallway. Steps lead down to a landing before turning left, creaking louder the deeper she goes.

  The cellar is cool. A naked bulb pushes darkness into the corners, warm light reflecting off endless jars of pickled produce and preserved fruit.

  Cali pauses, taking a deep breath.

  Messages, she thinks.

  The jars recede into a fuzzy background as a file opens across her vision. Scenes of a warehouse overlay the basement. There are bodies and people grieving, with police trying to keep order. The scene comes from various angles. She’s about to erase it when the view focuses on a single body. It’s a girl. She’s all alone, her hair disheveled. Her coat bunched around her throat.

  “We could’ve saved her,” Nix says. “This is your fault.”

  Cali bumps into the shelves behind her, the glass rattling.

  “Marcus Anderson is rubbing our noses in it.”

  Delete.

  She squats next to an empty box, hand over her face. She should’ve followed her instincts, never should’ve answered it. Yet she still can’t cut the chat line completely. He’s the only one she’s got. But Marcus isn’t the only one rubbing her nose in it.

  17

  The airliner hits turbulence.

  Marcus clutches the armrests. The sun disappears as they drop below the cloud cover. Ahead, a dome sits near the shore of Montana’s Fort Peck Lake, wedged in the lower fork where the Missouri River and Dry Arm split. Its smooth walls, once white, have dulled with dust and algae. It looks like a sports dome without windows—a monstrous, dirty igloo that could house a hundred thousand people.

  Scientists named it the Mitochondria Terraforming Hierarchy of Record, something that describes the changes occurring at the cellular level. Normal people call it something else.

  M0ther.

  The massive intelligence requires Montana’s cold climate and the chilled water of Fort Peck Lake to maintain operating temperatures which, in turn, have elevated the water temperatures and drastically altered the aquatic ecosystem—just one price for her protection.

  The airplane’s wings tip again and the drop registers in Marcus’s gut. He latches on to the armrests as the plane lines up with the south side of the dome. Several landing strips extend from the perimeter like spokes. One airplane sits outside, the sun gleaming off the wings.

  We have company.

  Anna sits with her legs crossed, watching the rough terrain soar past as the engines cut back on the approach. Marcus’s grip doesn’t relax until the wheels are on the pavement. The plane taxis toward the square gate opening on the side of the dome like a mouth. Marcus can feel the filth of the warehouse still clinging to him. Death fills his senses. Now that he’s home, he can purge the decay.

  The hangar is spotless, the floor shiny. There are several jets inside, including drones that retrieve food and supplies.

  “Where are they?” he asks.

  “Director Powell and the secretary of state are in your office,” Anna says. “I can delay them if you’d like to shower first.”

  She knows me so well. “I’ll deal with this now.”

  The plane pulls deep into the hangar, the engines winding down. The wind buffets the aircraft until the gate is fully closed. When the steps are pulled open, Marcus limps off. Golf carts are plugged in for journeys across the dome. Anna goes to the open elevator that’s to the right of the bay doors that lead to M0ther’s inner workings.

  “Inspection teams are already meeting with the service technicians,” Anna says.

  “We’re not scheduled for an inspection.”

  “No.”

  “Where are the teams?”

  “First-floor servers.”

  Twenty men and women work for Marcus, assigned to service M0ther. Isolated from their families, they are compensated well. Most of them will take the money after a year and quit. Inspections teams come around from time to time: the government likes to make sure they’re doing their jobs. Marcus hasn’t met most of his service technicians, but it doesn’t matter, really. M0ther fabricates bricks to assist them.

  As the elevator rises, the pain recedes from his knee. When they reach the top, it’s gone. Relief is always waiting at home.

  The doors slide open and reveal the simple, yet spacious, office. The director of the Biomite Oversight Committee is leaning against Marcus’s sprawling walnut desk. The secretary of state is standing in the middle of the room.

  “What are you doing here?” Marcus says.

  “Babysitting you, again,” the secretary says.

  “You’re wasting your time, Hank.”

  “You’re a public disaster, Anderson.” The beefy secretary loosens his tie. “You broadcasted that entire event—are you out of your mind? I’m watching mothers crying over dead bodies while a herd of goddamn bricks are prowling the warehouse and giving fucking press releases.”

  His cheeks are flushed.

  “Your face doesn’t need to be associated with shutdowns. We made that clear when we sent you here.”

  “Mark this day,” Marcus says. “This will be a turning point.”

  “It’s a goddamn public relations nightmare.” Hank cuts him off from entering the office, stabbing his fat finger at Marcus’s face. “I want you out.”

  Anna gets between them. In heels, she’s a few inches taller than both of them.

  “Gentlemen,” Powell says, “let’s slow down.”

  The athletic middle-aged man pats Hank on the shoulder, gently guiding him toward the glass wall overlooking the industrialized view of M0ther’s inner workings. They have a few words before Powell comes back.

  He shakes Marcus’s hand.

  “We need to recognize the significance of the Seattle event,” he says. “The preliminary reports are, quite frankly, staggering. The prognostics suggest countless operations tied to this one. I agree, this could be the turning point, Marcus.”

  “You came all this way to offer me congratulations?”

  “Certainly. And to inquire about your mental health.”

  “Mental health?”

  “We’re concerned about you.”

  “I assure you, I couldn’t be better.”

  “You’ve skipped several health reviews. When’s the last time you were scanned?”

  Marcus laughs. He stands behind his desk, immediately imbuing him with a sense of executive power. “Scanning me for biomites? I’m afraid you’ve wasted the taxpayers’ money, gentlemen, and my time. So, if you don’t mind, Anna can show you out.”

  He gestures to the elevator.

  Powell buries his hands in his pockets, half turning toward the open elevator. He makes eye contact with Hank. Several seconds
pass.

  “You can speak up,” Marcus says. “Chatting isn’t a secret here. Anna’s monitoring your conversation.”

  Powell placates him with a smile. “Secretary, would you mind if I spoke with Marcus alone for a few minutes?”

  Sweat stains have spread across the secretary’s pits. Several choice thoughts stiffen his upper lip, but he goes to the elevator. Anna offers to escort him to one of the inspection teams. Powell waits for the elevator to close.

  “Let’s walk,” he says.

  Marcus gets a bottle of water from the mini-fridge beneath the desk. Powell ventures to the broad curving window. He waits with his hand on the door. They walk out to the portico, greeted by industrial humming and lubricated steel.

  In some ways, the office is a sky box. Instead of a field below, there’s an endless array of tiers and doorways that reach up to the dome’s curved roof. A long corridor separates the dome into two sides. An oily haze obscures the far end. Skeletal catwalks connect each level, dull metal scaffoldings that, farther out, are swallowed by the haze. Marcus likes to think the design resembles two halves of a brain, but it looks more like a futuristic prison for all the world’s criminals.

  Far below on the first few levels, the servers store all collected data. Farther up in the “thinking” rooms are the processing units. Above those are labs for experiments and research and things the inspection teams won’t find. It’s not difficult to keep secrets in M0ther’s maze.

  “Personally, I don’t give a shit about your appearance in Seattle. Broadcasting it through the bloggers was brilliant, if you ask me. You let the viewers know what will happen when they get caught.” Powell leans on the polished rail. “The problem, Marcus, is that you looked batshit crazy. People don’t like a madman at the wheel.”

  He stops grinning.

  “You drive up with a cavalcade of bricks and get out with Anna, who looks like a goddamn sexbot. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice and she’s effective, but she’s a brick, Marcus. And the world knows you’re fucking it.

  “Now I’m not saying men in power don’t do crazy things, but they do them behind closed doors. You paraded yours across the world’s stage. All those secret videos of you getting freaky with your other biomite porn dolls? We put that behind us. You can bet your ass the bloggers are dragging those back out.”

  Marcus clenches his fists. It was one of the reasons he wanted to hang Cali Richards from the rafters. Twenty years ago, she threatened to reveal his perversions if he didn’t leave them alone. But when videos of his Biomite Real Doll orgies leaked on to the Internet, his family stopped talking to him. His career was over.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

  “I get the job done,” Marcus says. “It’s my mission.”

  “That’s right. And that’s why we appointed you. But we put you out here, in the middle of this godforsaken part of the world, so that the public would forget you. And they did, Marcus. They forgot all the nutty places you were sticking your cock. Your job is to stay here, in the dome, and get the job done. Are we clear?”

  Powell’s expression softens.

  “Listen, the world is a little jumpy when it comes to what we’re doing. You’re working with this Big Brother dome to essentially turn people off and we don’t call it murder.”

  Marcus pitches his halfskin argument: Humans with more biomites than clay are mostly machines.

  Powell holds up his hand. “Save your breath. I’m not here about your mission; this is about your approach. We need you to slow down. Whatever shutdowns you conduct, do them quietly. Make the world believe that the worst is over, that there are no more Seattles out there. You pull another warehouse stunt—strutting around with Anna on your arm—and the powers-that-be will bury you.”

  Marcus’s chin juts forward.

  “We want the public’s support, Marcus. Win them over. You’re fighting for them, remember? Make them believe it. We on the same page here?”

  He stares at a small group of technicians crossing a catwalk several floors below. The humming grows louder.

  Powell looks out over the industrial matrix. They watch another group of technicians rise in a clear elevator shaft. A few of the men are inspectors. They’ll be escorted to selected labs, take their readings and write their reports. They’ll never realize there are sections they missed.

  “You doing all right, Marcus?”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  “The technicians say you’re almost nonexistent. Some of them have never seen you. We’d like you to occasionally interact with the staff, meet with them. You don’t have to hide up here. You should also meet with the staff counsellor.”

  It wasn’t a request. Powell wants him to talk about his feelings and thoughts. Powell and his “powers-that-be” can’t pry inside him since he doesn’t contain a single biomite. A whole industry of hackers has specialized in hacking biomites, using them to look inside a person’s mind.

  Impossible when you’re clay.

  “This place runs itself, Powell. I need to run the program. No one needs to see me.”

  “Except for the counsellor. Right?”

  It takes several moments for Marcus to agree. He hates lying.

  “Good. The inspection will take a few more days. In the meantime, your service technicians will report for health screenings. You, too.”

  Powell pulls a slim black box from his pocket. He holds the cell-phone-sized object up. Marcus lifts his chin proudly. Powell slides it under Marcus’s collar, pressing it against his skin. An electric web of tendrils vibrates throughout his body.

  The instrument reads 0%.

  “You’re a disciplined man, Marcus. Wish I could say the same for the rest of us.”

  “We all sin.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “God forgives.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Powell nods at the view. “I don’t know how you do it. This place depresses the shit out of me. Promise to start with the counsellor. We’ll be monitoring reports.”

  “Of course.” The lie slides from his mouth like a serpent’s tongue. It disturbs him, but still he smiles. M0ther holds so many secrets.

  She reveals them to the chosen.

  ROADS

  The horizon is never reached.

  M0THER

  The Strain of Biomites

  ______

  Steven picked a week-old scab.

  “Stop,” his mom said.

  Instead he slouched in the chair, staring at the color print on the wall. The sling made it hard to cross his arms. Besides, his forearm hurt too much. But once her eyes dulled, she was back to internal chatting and he went back to picking.

  The door opened.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Vinja said.

  It took a moment for Mom to pull out of her chat. “Hi, Doctor.”

  “You’re here early.”

  “Steven has a tournament tomorrow. This morning he wrecked his bike.”

  “Boys will be boys.” Dr. Vinja washed her hands, asking about Steven’s dad and his brother and sister. They had seen the doctor at the pool last week.

  “Hop up.” She patted the paper-covered table.

  Steven climbed on. She used a light on his eyes, listened to his breathing, and felt the glands beneath his chin.

  “So how are you feeling?”

  “He hurt his wrist,” Mom said. “That’s the sling we used last time. Third broken bone in a year.”

  “We don’t know it’s broken,” the doctor said.

  “Trust me, I know. His brother and sister were the same way, their bones as weak as crackers.”

  The doctor asked him to move his hand. It hurt in every direction. He didn’t think it was broken.

  “It’s best if we get an X-ray,” the doctor said. “Biofeedback probably won’t be necessary. If anything, it’s a hairline fracture.”

  He was relieved to hear that. Biofeedback made him nauseous. They did that last time, when he broke his femur. His
biomites chattered with a medical scanner, giving detailed reports of his internal injury. It felt like he swallowed a dental drill.

  “Honestly,” Mom said, “he needs a biomite boost.”

  The doctor took a slim box from her white coat and placed it against his chest. The surface was slick and cold, but quickly heated up. For a moment, he was filled with marching ants.

  She pulled the box away. It said 9.9%.

  “There is a new strain of biomites that improve bone density,” the doctor said. “They’re registered with M0ther, non-replicating, and fully compliant with the transparency laws. Right now, they’re using them to offset osteoporosis.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I can prescribe a 0.1% boost this afternoon.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  The doctor washed her hands again. Drying them with a paper towel, she said, “Liz, it’s all we can do. He’s ten years old. Ten percent is the legal limit. We need to let his body grow through puberty; otherwise, the results could be unstable. I think his bones are trying to catch up to the increased strength and agility he’s received from previous biomite seedings.”

  “He was diagnosed with hyperactivity and attention deficit disorder. Those programming biomites were absolutely necessary to get him to focus. He shouldn’t be penalized for that.”

  The doctor bristled at the phrase “programming biomites.” Adults don’t typically admit to adjusting their children’s thought patterns, but Steven knew what they did. He remembered that, before the programming, he used to daydream.

  Now, he was sort of empty.

  Mom crossed her arms, tapping her fingers on her elbow. She had that look, like a lecture was coming. Only she couldn’t give it to the doctor, not like she gave it to Steven and his siblings.

  “Slow down, Liz. Let his body catch up.”

  “A tenth of a percent is useless.”

  “If he goes over 10%, M0ther will report it. He’ll be disqualified from sports. There’s no way around it. All right?”

  She rubbed his shoulder.

  “I’ll have someone take you down to X-ray.”

  They confirmed the fracture. Steven’s arm was put into a cast, but Mom refused the 0.1% boost.