Halfskin Boxed

by Tony Bertauski

  “If everyone can take their places,” he said. “The ceremony begins in fifteen minutes, please.”

  The shadow moved inside the cabin and stopped at the window. The curtain was pried aside. Paul squinted to make out the details, imagining the bald head with random wisps of white hair.

  “Paul.” Pete placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to be ready.”

  Behind him, the circus was in full swing. The reporters, the politicians, and all the bricks were milling in front of the monstrous shiny new building. George B. Simpson, a biomite-enabled trillionaire and world’s richest centenarian, was standing near a yellow ribbon tied to the front doors with a ridiculous pair of oversized scissors, the public relations people coaching him how to bend over when it was time for the bricks to line up and kiss his ass.

  The world would see the grand opening of a new research facility run entirely by bricks, the first of its kind, a state-of-the-art facility that would benefit humankind through biomite technology.

  “Ask me,” good ole George had said when funding was approved, “they’re just as human as the People.”

  But I don’t want to live next to one.

  “Come on,” Pete urged. “We need you over here. And would you… you know.”

  Paul tied his hair back with a rubber band, loose strands pulling free. He hadn’t cut it in over a year, not since Jamie was delivered. He was urged to cut it properly, to appear presentable for this occasion. Be grateful, he was told. And if you can’t do that, at least look it.

  He was doing neither.

  Gratitude was a dark secret, a merciless blanket that smothered his heart, a cold blade between his ribs. Yes, the new research center was exactly what he needed—new equipment and plenty of distractions made it possible to continue fabricating Jamie in the brick house. But that wasn’t the gratitude Pete and the others wanted. They wanted him to be happy for the breadcrumbs thrown at them like pigeons locked in cages.

  “Over here, come along!” a woman prompted, a badge swinging from her neck. “If you would stand over here. Yes, yes, that’s good.”

  She pointed at the empty chair next to Dennis, the Settlement’s introvert (an autistic plant fabricated by a nonprofit organization to study the disease)—as brilliant at chemistry as he was social awkwardness. Paul was on the team because he was good at design and execution. Dennis and the others were the idea people, the theorists and inventors. Paul brought their dreams to life; he made them happen. He’d have his own office and access to fabrication approval.

  George R. Simpson would help bring Jamie back.

  So why wasn’t he happier?

  The cameras panned across the research team, past the building and over to the rest of the Settlement bricks gathered on the other side. They were all in attendance except the old man.

  Raine was holding hands with the prayer group, heads bowed. There were ten of them now that held weekly meetings, sending their wishes into the blue sky with eyes squeezed shut, tongues sharp and hopeful. Their prayers floated on the breeze like notes attached to colorful balloons.

  George B. Simpson was introduced.

  The important people took turns at the dais. They turned, they smiled, they waved. The funding was from private donors, but would benefit the People. It would benefit humankind today and tomorrow. Benefit the future. Benefit the children.

  Their children.

  “And we have you to thank,” George B. Simpson said to bricks that applauded on cue. Even Paul clapped like an asshole. It was the least he could do.

  The ribbon was cut. The tour began.

  The reporters followed the glad-handing politicians inside and the bricks were guided inside to see the gift bestowed upon them by good ole George, told they would no longer toil in boredom. Now they had a purpose. They had a reason to live.

  They mattered.

  (Wink. Wink.)

  Paul and the team were asked about their projects. Each of them gave vague answers about sustainable energy and medical developments. Even Dennis mumbled through a prepared statement about excitement. Paul stayed in the back, watching the cameras capture the giant lab, the politicians and excitement. Not one of them pointed at the cabin across the field, like the world had forgotten Marcus Anderson.

  “Talk about organ fabrication,” a hefty middle-aged reporter asked, his button-down shirt billowing in the breeze.

  “What about it?” Pete answered.

  “There’s some concern about human fabrication, that you’ll start fabbing an army.”

  Pete laughed with all his teeth. “And where are we going to hide them? That’s absurd.”

  “You will be fabricating organs, correct?”

  “We will fabricate organs for the purposes of research.”

  “No human fabrication?”

  “We’re trampling old ground here. The fabrication chamber isn’t large enough to produce a child let alone an adult.”

  “But an infant?”

  “In theory.” Pete sighed. “Listen, we’re under surveillance by teams of clay monitors. There’s no chance we could fabricate an infant and raise it in secret. It would ruin everything we worked for. We’re interested in advancing biomite technology, that’s all. We want to perfect the human body and, in turn, heal the human mind.”

  “You could fabricate all the organs of a body.” The reporter’s nasally accent ripped through Paul’s fog of indifference and left a buzzy residue between his ears.

  “Frankenstein was a novel,” Pete exclaimed. “Dennis? Paul? Can you shed some light on this?”

  Pete took a step back, eager to get off the griddle. Paul, slouched on the hard seat, leaned forward. When Dennis muttered an incoherent string of scientific jargon, the reporter started looking at him for something he could understand.

  Silence soon hung like a corpse.

  “Yeah, uh. One of the deciding factors in Mr. Simpson’s funding had to do with organ transplant, primarily the fabrication and transportation of organs via preservation wrap that could be absorbed once inside the body.”

  Paul had used Dennis to push the proposal of organ fabrication through, fed him the data and reports to make an argument, convinced the introverted genius this was his idea, not Paul’s. But when it came to explaining it, he always looked more surprised than anyone else.

  “There’s also the internal rebuild technique,” Paul continued, “using digital matrices to establish a three-dimensional blueprint inside the body before biomites are injected… look, it’s all in the proposal. You can find it posted on the website.”

  “Will we get updates?” The reporter looked bored.

  “They’ll be posted.”

  “Surveillance feeds?”

  “No.” Pete stepped in. “Our labs aren’t going on a feed. We’re privately funded, so there will be trade secrets.”

  “You’ll be working in secret?” His eyebrows shot up. He just got the hook for his story.

  “Not secret, just not fully transparent at first. If this was publically funded, yes. But the People had their chance, they balked and Mr. Simpson stepped in. We’ll be working for privatized investors, I think you know this. We’ll be held accountable for all our work; there’s nothing to worry about. We just want to do our duty.”

  Do our duty. That had become the go-to line. We just want to serve, that’s all.

  Paul didn’t disagree with the angle (after all, the People wanted the bricks to be subservient androids, not individual humans). He just hated it. The words were bitter shards he’d rather swallow than spit out.

  The reporter started another question. “What about…”

  I wish this fucker would go away.

  And then he cramped. The reporter lost his train of thought, tapping the dimple in his square chin like that was the button that would unclog his thoughts.

  “Thanks for your time,” Pete said. “We appreciate your support.”

  They all shook hands; then the reporter wandered inside the building. A few days la
ter, he would post a story about the amazing building and the dedicated fabbers that wanted nothing more than to do their duty and serve the People.

  Like someone scripted it for him.

  Paul sat down, the sun warm and promising. The snowcapped mountains a reminder that winter was still there. It would come again. Across the field, the curtain fell in the old man’s cabin.

  The bright orange bag was no longer on the porch.

  Marcus

  Summer ended and autumn waltzed through the countryside, but winter didn’t tiptoe. It scratched and clawed through the Settlement, laid the land to bed beneath thick comforters of snow. Wind reshaped the landscape with mauling drifts and frozen daggers.

  Matted tracks belted crisscross patterns, snowmobiles finding their way to the cabins until the next storm washed them away.

  Marcus pushed the plunger on a coffee press and poured two cups. He took them into the front room, where jazz played from a speaker. The fireplace roared with red heat, sparks crackling against the metal screen.

  Mother sat on the opposite couch.

  Her finger pressed to her lips, eyes closed, as if soaking in the extemporaneous notes, letting them softly bounce inside her like rubber pellets working their way down a pegboard.

  Marcus sat with a groan. The cold had stiffened his joints and bit into his knee. It was odd to feel so human. He’d never asked Mother (they rarely spoke since arriving, just enjoyed each other’s presence) the reason he woke with such human frailty. Perhaps it was the reason he connected with clay—he felt their pains, knew their suffering.

  He trusted her.

  She wasn’t a god or goddess, he didn’t think of her that way. If he had to put it in words, she was just an expression of divine will, like the majesty of the Himalayas or the wonder of the universe. She was benevolent and kind; he had come to accept that with only a trace of bitterness.

  She was beyond human comprehension. She understood the universe in ways no ordinary human could; any attempt to relay her depth would be like teaching a dung beetle calculus. She saw the path to truth, the way to humanity’s freedom.

  He just knew this and trusted it.

  Perhaps she designed him that way, planted suggestions in his subconscious that made him so willing to accept her, to follow her. This he couldn’t argue. After all, his roots were human. Imperfect. He had prayed to do the will of God, to allow him the strength to be a servant of divine will.

  Perhaps Mother was God’s voice.

  So they rested on their couches, the fire riffing along with the music when he dozed off. Nearly a year on the Settlement and he still failed to see why anyone complained. He found the boredom quite relaxing. Enlightenment, a spiritual leader once said, is quite boring by ordinary standards.

  The stamp of heavy boots startled him.

  He hadn’t heard the snowmobile approach. Mother slid to the end of the couch, legs crossed. She tossed her head, pushing the hair behind her ear, and folded her hands. Lips gently closed, she nodded.

  A bitter wind knifed through the open door, Bob partially blocking it. His puffy green coat fluttered. Marcus stepped back for him to enter. The large monitor unlaced his boots so as not to track snow across the room.

  Marcus took a moment to peer across the field. The George R. Simpson lab heaved a steady stream of gray smoke from the chimneys, but the lights were off. The opening ceremony had come and gone months ago. Everyone was already busy with research, but now they were in their cabins for the night, battened down for an approaching storm, the third one in a month.

  “Have a seat, have a seat.” Marcus gestured to the cushion next to Mother and took Bob’s coat. He returned with coffee mugs warmed in a microwave. “How are you this evening?”

  “You keep this cabin warm,” Bob said.

  “Thin skin.”

  “Can’t you just turn up your inner thermostat?”

  “It’s easier to throw on a log.”

  Marcus chuckled and they sipped and sat quietly. Mother watched the large monitor sink into the couch, his weight bowing the center. If she were a physical being, she would’ve been tossed onto his lap. Instead, she watched him with interest.

  They both did.

  Marcus enjoyed the warmth of Bob’s clay mind like a pleasant fragrance or a tune on the radio. He wasn’t a good man (quite despicable really, but Marcus couldn’t judge; Bob was worlds away from what he’d done). He was intriguing, an acquired taste.

  Exactly what Marcus needed.

  He didn’t manipulate Bob’s mind, didn’t mold it into what he wanted it to be (he could, he was certain of that), but bathed in the man’s presence. It was easier to become familiar with him than bend his will—sprinkle a trail of crumbs for him to follow.

  Create desire.

  After all, desire needed no explanation. The heart wants what it wants, most people would say.

  But what makes the heart want in the first place? No one ever asked that question.

  Bob came to visit regularly. He was quite cantankerous at first. The alpha dog had come to shit in Marcus’s nest. But the old man treated him kindly, left him with a taste of kindness that he came back for. Again and again.

  Bob had that faraway look now, a trance of relaxed disposition. Open to suggestion. He was hypnotized by the room, a sort of energy that buzzed inside of him, warm and cozy. Made him want to sleep.

  “Were you an only child?” Marcus asked.

  Bob nodded. Memories swam behind his eyes.

  Marcus prodded them to the surface. Much like a brain surgeon could get the right response by applying an electrical impulse, Marcus found what he wanted in the mind. His thoughts were his scalpels.

  “I had a little sister.”

  “A sister? How wonderful.”

  “She died when I was eight.”

  “That must’ve been painful.”

  Slow nod. “Yeah.” The fire’s dance filled the swelling silence. “Pissed my father off.” He snorted. “Something fierce.”

  “And he beat your mother for it.”

  “He was beating her before that. But, uh, it changed after that, yeah. He was doing more things, drinking, spicing, whatever he could get his hands on. Ended up charring his biomites to a crisp.”

  “And that’s why you turned clay?”

  “Yeah.” He gulped the lukewarm coffee, passing over the details of his own divorce, the restraining order that prevented him from seeing his kids. “Figured I’d do the world some good by coming out here, you know. I was made to do this.”

  “How so?”

  “I like order. Discipline. There are rules, you know. God doesn’t love bricks.”

  “You enforce the rules.”

  “Goddamn right.”

  “And you enjoy it.”

  “No shame in loving what you do. It’s a passion. You understand.”

  “Oh, I certainly do.”

  “Goddamn right you do.”

  Bob put away the coffee in one big swallow. Marcus offered another cup and he accepted. He returned with a fresh pot and cheese and crackers. Bob leaned back with the plate balanced on his swollen belly, crumbs littering his ratty beard. When he was done, he scraped the cheese off his gums and sucked his wet finger.

  “What was it like?” Bob asked.

  Marcus knew what he was asking, but paused long enough to let him clarify.

  “Shutting off all those halfskins, what was it like?” Bob sounded like an addict asking about ambrosia, food of the gods. How does it taste?

  Marcus sat back, mug curled against his stomach, warmth radiating through his hands. He contemplated which story to tell, which would be the lure he wanted to dangle; a morsel so succulent that Bob would swallow the hook whole. He had so many to satisfy a sadist like Bob. A dark man. A dark, dark human being.

  “Once,” he started, hanging the word like a shiny object for his eyes to follow, “I shut down a man in front of his family. It was the early days of the halfskin laws, when anyone with 40% bi
omites was held in detention and biomite replication couldn’t be stopped.

  “When the redlines, as they were called, neared halfskin, we would alert the family and give them an opportunity to say goodbye. They weren’t allowed to touch them or even be in the same room. I made them stand behind a glass partition and talk through a speaker.

  “In this case, the halfskin was a good man. He was a dedicated father, a wonderful husband, an absolute soulful man of God that, mistakenly, seeded himself with too many biomites. The law was the law, as you know. I couldn’t pardon him because he’d done good in the world. He knew the rules and chose to break them.

  “I stood at that man’s shoulder and watched the counter rise to 49.7%, then 49.8%. I stared at his wife and children, listened to his parents curse my name and beat the glass. I tasted their anguish as his breaths became shallow at 49.9%.

  “They begged and pleaded, cried until their eyes swelled. And when he turned halfskin, I turned him off. His last breath eased out of him. He was cold. But I never took my eyes off of the family. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to learn.

  “Pain is a mighty teacher.”

  It was more than that. It was the invulnerability Marcus felt. His addiction to power. He wanted to be above it all, wanted to act in the name of God. More than that. He wanted to be God.

  Omnipotent.

  A bulge creased against Bob’s inner thigh. He was full-on hard. “You know why I’m here?”

  “Why you stay on the Settlement?”

  “I’m here to do that, just like you. I’m here to teach a lesson, to let the bricks feel human through pain and suffering. I’m helping them, like you did.”

  Marcus grinned. Them. He didn’t consider Marcus one of them. The hook had been swallowed.

  “How are you helping them?”

  “So they know…” He stammered for something legitimate. Marcus pressed a thought into him, nudging him along. “To make them feel vulnerable, you know. So they know they can’t control everything, that they need to just be here whether it hurts or not.”

  “You, dear man, are a Buddha in winter clothing.”

  “We all have our purpose.”