“Congratulations.” He briskly shakes their hands. It’s soft, almost feminine. “Few people are privileged to get this far.”
“Are you Mr. Hansen?” Nix asks.
“I am. But down here, names are inconsequential.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ll find out shortly.”
“Is this lab fully functional?” Nix’s eyes narrow.
Maybe he didn’t expect it to be so elaborate. Maybe he’s used to second-rate translucent boxes stuffed in the back of bars or hidden in a basement. This is nothing like the warehouse. But this place has survived M0ther’s purge, so they probably did more than fabricate dogs.
“We do more than just fabricate. Follow me.”
Mr. Hansen folds his hands in a most peculiar way: one on top of the other, like he’s captured a small frog. He marches to the nearest doorway on the right and waits. Nix gently places his hand between her shoulders and guides her forward.
They stop just inside the lab.
The room is two stories high with plenty of clean, hard floor surrounding an enormous glass-walled cube. Inside the cube, thousands of filaments hang from ceiling mounts. Nozzles are fixed along vertical rails. A silver disc is slightly raised in the center, the surface polished.
The smell of putty is overwhelmed by the sting of antiseptics. Jamie swallows down the smell, but it sticks in her throat. There’s a lone lounger facing the glass cube, shaped like the one in the warehouse. It’s even the same color.
“Munsen Digital manufactures non-biomite material,” Nix mutters. “It would explain the massive power consumption down here without visits from biomite inspectors. You’re also licensed to research and develop electronics.”
“We’re paid very well,” Mr. Hansen says.
An Asian woman and an Indian man approach, both wearing lab coats. No one shakes hands or acknowledges each other.
“But it’s more than that,” Mr. Hansen says. “We believe in the future of biomite technology, but we have to be careful. Therefore, you will remain here until your fabrications are complete. Ms. Chen will then alter the last two weeks of your memories before you leave.”
“Why not erase them?” Jamie asks.
“Erasing causes a blockage that creates psychological pressure. It’s better to make your memories vague. You will not recall details, such as places or names or this lab. You won’t even be sure if this is Chicago. If you don’t agree to this, our business is finished and she can alter your memories now.”
He hides the imaginary frog and waits for their approval. They nod.
“Payment, then.” Mr. Hansen opens his hand, rigid and flat. “Mr. Sing will verify the strain without the suicide code.”
“No,” Nix says. “The suicide code remains.”
“That is not the deal. You are to provide a fully functional strain that matches your deposit.”
“You’ll use my sample to begin our fabrications. They will contain the suicide code. This will guarantee that neither you nor I will turn them off. Once we’re out of the building and safe, I’ll permanently rinse the suicide code.”
Mr. Hansen is frozen, hand out and empty. He blinks rapidly. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll sanitize our batch?”
“Our fabrications will be linked with your sample.”
Jamie doesn’t understand this part of biomites, how they synchronize or replace clay. She only knows what they feel like.
“I’ll have to verify this,” Mr. Hansen says.
Nix places a vial on the man’s outstretched fingers. The overhead LED lights reflect off the shimmering contents. Mr. Hansen delivers it to Mr. Sing, who takes the sample to a large bank of beige, boxy equipment. A conduit is mounted on top of the largest of the machines that channels the majority of filaments up the wall, across the ceiling, and into the glass cube.
The room begins to hum.
Jamie feels it in her feet. It creeps up her legs and into her chest. It transforms into a whine. Nix stares at Mr. Sing, his fingers flexing at his sides. The wrinkles in his forehead undulate, slightly smoothing out before deepening again. His transfigured disguise is faltering under stress.
“Hey.” Jamie squeezes his arm. He walks away.
An hour passes. Mr. Hansen and his collaborators gather for more than a couple discussions; their voices are hidden beneath the replicator’s whine. Frequently they watch Nix, who refuses to sit.
“Okay,” Mr. Hansen shouts with a smile, hands offering a truce. “You have been granted two fabrications with the agreement that your memories will be altered, as we discussed. However, you will not leave the building until the suicide code is rinsed from our batch. Are we in agreement?”
Mr. Hansen ignores Jamie. Nix nods.
“Very good.” Mr. Hansen has a long discussion with the other technicians before approaching Nix. “This is how it will work. We will extract the source code for each of the fabrications. A digital model will be constructed and validated. This could take a few days, but it’s very important. We don’t want to fabricate the organs in the wrong places, all right?
“The more details contained in the source code, the less time it will take, and, of course, the more accurate the fabrication will be. The actual fabrication will take a week. So the sooner we can start, the sooner we finish.”
Mr. Hansen lays out his hand again, like he’s expecting a jump drive with programming.
“The source code, please.”
“You’ll take it from memories,” Nix says.
“Memory extraction?” He flinches and looks back at Mr. Sing and Ms. Chen. They’re too engrossed in their machines. “You want to extract from memories? I’m afraid you’ve wasted our time. Do yourselves a favor and buy a couple Real Dolls. The results will be tepid, at best. Pets work on memories, but humans? They’ll be an animated shell of the person you want. I thought you, of all people, the one with this elegant strain of biomites, would know the correct source code requirements.”
He looks over his shoulder.
“Perhaps Mr. Sing can build the source code. He has a background in biometric engineering.”
“No,” Nix says. “Memory extraction.”
The standoff between Nix and Mr. Hansen ends with an anticlimactic shoulder shrug. “It’s your money.”
Jamie stands alone and catatonic in her thoughts. She eventually follows them to the lounger.
She tries to recall Charlie’s face while Ms. Chen helps Nix lie back; Mr. Sing fixes a wire matrix over his head. Jamie can’t remember Charlie’s details. They blur into general shapes and colors. If she closes her eyes, she can recall the protruding eyebrows and blue eyes. He had a little scar above the right one. His lips were full and his nose bent. Still, it’s hard to put it all together. Now that she really thinks about it, she can’t really see it.
Ms. Chen places a pulse monitor on Nix’s finger. His vital signs are displayed on a small monitor.
“I’m going to ask a series of questions,” Mr. Sing says. “You will answer them. This will activate sections of the brain where more information can be extracted. The process will take several hours. Once we begin, we cannot stop. Are you comfortable?”
Several hours?
Jamie has lost her desperation; the maniacal drive to bring back Charlie is gone. All her life she’s identified with fear; she’s clung to it, afraid that if she didn’t feel something—even if it hurt—that she’d disappear, that she wouldn’t matter. She’d believe the little voices that said she was nothing.
And now those voices are gone. It’s like she just let them go.
She thought she needed Charlie to help her do that. And even if he didn’t, at least she could share the insane whispers with him. He understood. He shared her pain, and that made it tolerable.
But he’s not here.
She understands that now, staring at the glass cube and the lounger. He can’t come back. She doesn’t need him to come back. Even if a fabrication walked and talked like him, it’s
not him.
Charlie’s dead.
“How did you get this strain?” Mr. Sing mutters so only Nix and Jamie can hear. “It is impossible. You are a genius, maybe, but you cannot manufacture nixes of this sophistication. This is a mistake, bringing you here, I feel.” He sits in front of several monitors, jabbing at a keyboard. “Let’s begin.”
Mr. Sing punches the last key.
Nix stiffens.
His head slams into the headrest and the tremors begin.
The monitors streams with unintelligible data. Mr. Sing pushes back, confusion morphing his anger into nervousness.
“What’s happening?” Jamie asks.
Ms. Chen and Mr. Hansen run to them. They offer suggestions while Mr. Sing hits the keyboard. Nix’s eyes dance beneath his eyelids: a REM cycle on speed. The tremors become convulsions. The vital signs are jagged and angry.
“What are you doing to him?” Jamie grabs the wire matrix, but Mr. Hansen stops her.
“Don’t. Not yet.”
The wrinkles melt from his complexion. Nix’s lips fill out, his nose slimming. The technicians hardly notice a much younger man jittering in front of them. Mr. Hansen’s grip tightens on her wrist. She swings with her free hand, but he drags her away, avoiding her heels stomping at his feet. He wraps her in a bear hug, his strength surprising her.
Nix becomes as rigid as a pipe. His body bows upwards.
“No!” She can’t let this happen. She watched someone else die. Are they sucking the biomites out of him? “Stop!”
Just as she is about to elbow Mr. Hansen in the kidney, Nix drops. His arms dangle over the sides of the lounger; his body is limp and deflated. His mouth falls open and so do his eyes. But they’re focused on Jamie. He sees her struggling.
The sound of keyboards stops.
“We got it.” Mr. Sing runs his hand through his thick black hair.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Hansen asks.
“The extraction…you have to see this.”
Mr. Hansen releases Jamie. She pulls the wire matrix off Nix. Tiny welts appear on his forehead and temples.
“What’d you do?” she asks.
“I brought someone into the world.”
The three technicians study the results and argue over bits and pieces. In the end, they agree the extraction was a success. Mr. Sing begins creating a backup copy. Jamie wonders how many profiles are stored here. If they can extract a personality with memories and identity, can they back up their own selves?
And just fabricate another body for themselves? We do more than fabricate.
“Fabrication is still a long ways off. It’ll take hours to spin enough biomites to begin.” Mr. Hansen takes notice of Nix’s appearance. The old man is gone. It won’t take long to identify Nix Richards, but still, he asks, “Who the hell are you?”
Nix closes his eyes, letting out a long breath, one he’s been holding for a very long time. Jamie pulls a chair next to the lounger. While the spinner hums, she lays her head on his arm. It’s sometime later when another sound disturbs her. It’s a hydraulic pump.
The silver disc is rising inside the glass cube.
The filaments begin dancing.
52
Cali hides behind the curtains.
Paul is talking to Hal, who is shaking his head like there’s only so much bad news he wants to hear. Cali can’t wear the disguise anymore. She could transfigure back into the old woman, Stacy. She just doesn’t want to. She’s tired of hiding.
Hal will learn the truth soon enough.
A handshake and a quick wave and he’s back in the truck. Paul watches until he’s gone. Cali sits in the back room, a glass of water by her side. The house shudders when the front door closes. Paul’s boots clop through the house.
“He agreed,” he says. “He’s a little worried that you’re still sick, said he wants to send out a doctor. I told him you wanted to talk to him in three days, said the horses might need to be fed. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Have a seat,” she says.
“You can’t have another sample. My veins are flat.”
He moves slowly, like he’s pulling an anchor. He’s lost weight. They both have. She hears him pacing in the middle of the night when she comes up from the lab. Sometimes she’ll hear the door close before the sun comes up and, soon after, see him walking in the pastures. Those are the nights she wishes that he’d just keep going, not turn back. If he left, it’d be much easier to do what she’s got to do. And she wouldn’t have to tell him.
But he’ll stay. That’s why he’s here—to stay. Because M0ther sent him.
“I’m going to shut us down.”
“What?” He sits up.
He starts and stops a few times, looking around the room for answers and finding none. Cali takes a deep breath and exhales the tension.
“Your nixes are identical to my original strain of nixes,” she continues. “That means M0ther knows about Nix and me. There’s no question M0ther chose not to shut me down; she proved it by sending you. In fact, she’s manufactured all her bricks with the same strain of nixes as you and me.”
She hesitates, stopping short of calling him a brick. It pains her when the realization crosses his face.
“I’ve done an identity scan across the world and verified this. There’s a lot more bricks out there than the public knows, Paul. If M0ther were to shut me down, she would be turning off my strain of nixes. And that would include all of her bricks.”
“Why?” he says.
Maybe he means why would M0ther do that? Why would she fabricate all her bricks from Cali’s strain? Why would she leave Cali alone all these years?
Or maybe he means why is Cali talking about shutting herself down?
“I don’t know.”
She sits calmly and explains what she’s been thinking for the past couple of days.
Cali always assumed that her creative bursts were self-induced. She took credit for her spurts of genius, the breakthroughs she developed in her basement. She invented nixed biomites that billion-dollar corporations couldn’t touch.
Why?
Twenty years ago, when she needed to save Nix from being shut down, she developed the nixes in a short amount of time. It was inconceivable—she knew this. She had even considered it, at one time, divine intervention. There were no explanations for the ease with which she eluded M0ther and achieved the impossible. In the last week, she developed the transforming strain of nixes to heal Jamie and, in retrospect, it seemed too simple. Maybe it wasn’t divine intervention, after all.
It was M0ther’s intervention.
“I think M0ther has achieved self-awareness, Paul, and I don’t think anyone’s aware of it. The size of her processing capacity and redundancy pathways made that inevitable. Her directive was to save humanity by implementing the Halfskin Laws—shutting down people before they converted their bodies into artificial vehicles. If she achieves sentience, they’ll shut her down. I think she has, Paul. I think she’s evolved and understands what she’s capable of doing. ”
He appears hollowed out, staring vacantly at the floor. Maybe he knows all of this already, and it’s just now coming to light.
Cali doesn’t tell him what made up her mind. Am I her fail-safe?
“I can exclude you, Paul. I can begin a biomite transfusion that will take you off my frequency so that it won’t affect you.”
“What about you?”
“I have to shut down for it to work.” She looks down, avoiding eye contact. That’s a lie.
“And Nix?”
“I can’t reach him.”
“You’re going to kill your brother?”
“Shut down, Paul. There’s a difference.”
“You shut down biomites. You kill clay. One percent of you—and Nix—is still clay.”
“It’s not fair, I know.”
Life’s not fair, Cali. Here we are again.
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“
No, Paul. I think more clearly now than ever. Don’t you see? I’m the key to every brick. Everything is linked to me. I can cripple M0ther by shutting down everything she’s done.”
“And then what?”
“The world will see what she’s doing.”
“They already know!”
“No, they don’t. There’s something about her that we don’t know, but she does, Paul. She wants to be shut down.”
“Then why doesn’t she just do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what I mean! If she wanted to shut down, she’d do it. She’d let the public know that she’s self-aware, she’d trigger an automated shutdown—it can be done. She’s up to something, Cali. She wants you to do this. Think about that. If she’s indestructible, why would she reach out for you to stop her?”
“Trust me, I can feel it.”
“You’re a scientist! You don’t go on gut feelings, you analyze data; you look for statistical differences, not feelings. This is all wrong, Cali. Listen to yourself.”
“She never should’ve been created, I think she knows this. Marcus Anderson and others like him were well-intentioned, but they were wrong. It’s more than just shutting her down. Marcus and others like him need to be stopped.”
She can taste the bitterness. She wants vindication from Marcus Anderson’s relentless pursuit. Her brother didn’t deserve to be shut down when he was a kid. Marcus made her turn Nix halfskin to save him. She never forgave him for that.
It’s not that. Something feels right. She can see the truth, and it’s sitting across from her, shaking his head. It all makes sense now.
He leans his elbows on his knees. “You’re making a mistake, Cali. I think you’re looking for reasons to end this. If this doesn’t work, it’ll be a waste.”
She can’t deny that. She thought she found peace on the farm, that when she had security from M0ther, she could be happy. But something never left her.
The hole in her life stayed.
Maybe she’s manufactured this whole belief, spun this tale of a righteous heroine in her mind so that she’d end her life with purpose. It’s possible she seeded herself with coded thoughts and erased the memory of doing so. Maybe she’s insane and rationalizing suicide.
Halfskin Boxed Page 45
