The man spoke with impeccable diction, “Please, William. As I requested at our initial meeting, you must address me as Dax. Welcome to Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd.”
William nodded, “Thank you. Sir.” He looked around, pretending to ignore the observing drone. “This is a mighty nice spread. And that’s a fine lookin’ Rotty.” He extended his hand towards the dog, “May I?”
“But of course,” Dax said cordially.
The security drone reoriented. William stepped closer and the dog mewled affectionately and tilted its large head to sniff the offered hand, but did not break from a sitting posture.
“She’s well trained,” said William as he pet the dog’s head, lightly at first so as not to be threatening.
The silken fur was pure black, polished and soft. Probably shampooed just that morning. Contact well received, he flattened his hand and gave her a more luxurious stroke down the back of her neck. The dog rotated its head, pressing into his hand affectionately.
Something wasn’t right.
He pet the animal further down its neck, above the shoulders.
William stood abruptly, “This animal’s a cyborg, sir. BIOSKIN© 6.0 with fine motor neurologic integration. Like an expensive zoo borg, but she’s running independent fusion. That’s why she seems so real.”
Dax Abner tipped the brim of his fedora in agreement, “Please, call me Dax. And yes, William. I’d say you’ve passed your first bit of on the job training with flying colors. You’ve been out of the hovlimo for exactly 57 seconds. Now please, exactly how did you know?”
William thought back to the only other time he had seen a fusion borg. Following the Coyote disaster in the 60’s, fusion borgs had been all but outlawed. To ameliorate the rampant claims of conspiracy theorists over the last decade, The National Guard and the FCC had begun holding public demonstrations of the remaining military DOGS units. These annual demonstrations of fusion borg tech were given the warm, family-friendly title of The National Guard DOGS-SHOW!
DOGS-SHOWS proved incredibly popular, and were now held in a different North American city each year, generating billions in revenue for the Federal Reserve. Like airshows of the past, when flight was still a marvel, the events had a festival like atmosphere, which attracted throngs of excited visitors and artificial organism researchers. Adult and child alike, no one grew tired of watching a Labrador Retriever rip the door off a hovcar with its bare teeth. Or scale a ten meter cement wall. Or burst through a ring of plasma fire to catch a Frisbee drone in midair while running 135 kph down an airport landing strip.
William studied the creature in front of him carefully, unintentionally ignoring his boss’ question, “Do you mind if I take another…?”
“By all means,” replied Dax Abner.
True to the breed, the Rottweiler had a bobbed tail complete with a white tuft of fur at the tip that spirited back and forth gaily as he again approached. The tail motions were quick, sporadic, unpredictable. William knelt beside the Rottweiler and ran his fingertips over the silken fur along the spine, then down the BIOSKIN© rib cage. Hugo and Mr. Abner stood observing, nonplussed.
William took another look at his surroundings, suddenly wary, “Who else knows about this?”
Hugo was dressed in camo army pants with lace-up combat boots and a white t-shirt that read VAPOR-KIND EDIBLES since 2045.
Completely unconcerned, he walked closer, grinning behind his wayfarers, and raised his hand like a school kid, “I do,” he said. “And you do. See, Meester Bill? I told you there were a few things d’ boss would show to you.” The hovcar pilot turned to Dax, “So what else today? Boss?”
Dax Abner, obviously pleased on a variety of levels, said, “It’s not just you, William. After almost two years in my employ, even Hugo here is still want to address me by my first name.”
Hugo shrugged, “Dat cause you d’ boss, boss.”
“Indeed, Hugo, I suppose I am,” said Dax. “Very well, the hovtruck is prepped. Bring LOFN here with you. It’s just the two of you on this run. Joan is already onstream.”
Hugo nodded, “K, boss.” He drew a cigarette box from his pocket and extracted a hand rolled, antique joint. He lit the joint with a pocket laser and took a long drag, exhaling an epic cloud of marijuana smoke as he turned to William, “Eet’s real nice to be know you, Meester Bill. I think I see you around.”
Dax waved his hand in front of his nose, “For the love of Dog, Hugo. Please remember to ignite your burning plant materials away from innocent bystanders.” He raised his eyebrows and his nose twitched eloquently, “Secondhand smoke and all that.”
Hugo extended the joint to William.
William shook his head, “Thanks bud. Another time.”
“No worries, Meester Bill. Purple Tree next door grow d’ reaal shit.”
“Smells like it.”
“Yeeeah! When you wan to puff, say to me. I roll one up, we blend it just like dat!” Hugo snapped his fingers.
“Sounds good, bud.”
Hugo nodded amicably, then bumped William’s fist as he walked off, adding over a shoulder, “Leet’s go, LOFN!”
The cybernetic Rottweiler popped to all fours, but did not immediately follow the command like a regular Fido would. Instead she whined and pranced playfully in front of William. She looked straight at him and mewled affectionately.
“She likes you,” said Dax Abner.
William knelt and pet the animal again, “I see as much.” This time he noted the incredible force of her movements. If what he knew of DOGS unit chassis mechanics was true, this Rottweiler could rip his body in half with a single swipe of its paw. She was no longer hiding her strength, but the cyborg obviously had a sweet nature and only wanted attention.
William held her thick head in his hands, examining the anatomical details of the BIOSKIN© wrap that enveloped the creature. It was impeccable, even down to the transitions in color between the black and brown dots of fur above the Rottweiler’s eyes that were specific to the breed. Instead of becoming agitated, the cyborg stilled at his touch.
“Show me your eyes,” he said, using the same tone he would with an organic dog.
The cyborg focused her deep, bronze irises on William. Her pupils froze. He could see the minute, red bands of capillary distress radiating across the white cornea. The edges of the eye were folded back, appearing wet, anatomically perfect.
William looked right at the cyborg, “Your real eyes.”
Without a moment’s hesitation the Rottweiler blinked, collapsing the holographic projections that masked her cybernetic vidorbs. William squinted to get a better look. The visual receptors glowed faint red in the morning sun. The ocular components, while mechanical, matched the physiological layout of an organic dog’s eye to perfection; fuchsia pupil, garnet cornea, pink iris. The vidorbs were damp with synthetic lubrication and floated in ocular cavities constructed of the same flexible, nickel infused polymer that made up all cybernetic visual receptors, whether canine or feline.
William whistled through his teeth, “You weren’t lying, sir. Her eyes have Voigtländer glass. Shatterproof, full HUD, infrared, night-vision, 600x focal length with kinetic distortion dampeners.”
“Fascinating,” said Dax Abner absently, then added, “Well yes, William, don’t be absurd. Of course her vidorbs are German. Only the best. She’s a D$20,000,000 piece of tech, after all.”
Hugo the pilot, now halfway to the barn, called across the yard again, “LOFN, come on I say! You deeaf? Leet’s float, dog!”
LOFN turned her head towards Hugo and blinked. When her BIOSKIN© eyelids came up, the daylight holograms had returned, her eyes once more brown and black like those of any common Rott. She buried her head against William’s chest as he ran his hands over her fur. The Rottweiler licked his face. He noted the flat, flexible graphene microchip embedded on the underside of her tongue as she panted. The stealthily placed chip was the only obvious sign. LOFN’s BIOSKIN© mouth even smelled like healthy dog saliva. Sh
e licked his cheek one last time, then turned and trotted off quickly behind Hugo. The two entered the barn through the small door and disappeared.
Dax Abner repeated the word, “Fascinating,” as though having a conversation with the wind.
William put his sunglasses back on and dropped his hands to his hips, “You said you had DOGS units, but damn. You know she’s way illegal, right?”
For a third time, all Dax Abner said was, “Fascinating.”
William realized he must be speaking to someone on the other end of his combud.
Dax said, “Understood. Brilliant.” Then he turned to William and smiled effusively, “William, that was remarkable. I’ve never seen a DOGS unit respond to a human being that way. Ever. But let us discuss that momentarily.” Dax clapped and looked at the ground, “Tell me, lest I forget, before my guard dog chose to voluntarily show you her real eyes, as you put it… how did you know? That she was cyborg, that is?”
William said practically, “It’s her neck. She has nine cervical vertebrae. She should only have seven. Will they be back today?”
Dax Abner put his hand on William’s shoulder, “Fear not, my friend. I’ve got another one or two you can look at while LOFN is away.”
William’s blue eyes peered over the tops of his sunglasses, “Another one or two? Fusion based?”
“That is correct.”
William clicked his tongue, “That unit… was the most advanced machine I’ve ever seen in my life. All the animals at Cyberstalk© were battborgs, per regulations. High end, BIOSKIN© 6.0 models, but battborgs all the same, recharged every night in the solar paddock” He frowned, “At least that I can remember, that is.”
Dax Abner smiled politely, studying William through his wire-rimmed, circular sunglasses. He did not speak for a moment, squinting oddly. His expression bore the weight of a heavy decision.
After a few seconds, he tapped his combud and spoke evenly, all the while looking directly at William, “My reservations have been ameliorated. Mr. Angevine and I shall visit in private before I bring him in to say hello. Please dock the A7.”
Fragmented Remains from the Cloud Diary of Daxane Julius Abner – July 7, 2075 12:15 pm – Seven Years Three Months Before Event.
“…has been acquired, the foundation poured, solar array synced with the grid.
The barn is under construction utilizing salvaged components from 20th century structures in the area. We are well set back from the hovroad, protected by the trees and the river and a tall wooded hill to the west. Mother was true. She sacrificed her life to show me what was behind the veil.
Can I possibly find another like myself? I operate under the assumption that it is statistically impossible. Mum uploaded the Ipv7 for pinging the Israeli. Done. I am fearful to document my suspicions of him. The Israeli is hard, but honorable? His face is darkness. He has the odor of woods about him, as I remember from home.
Enough said.
The farmhouse has been retrofitted into apartments for the permanent staff. Each apartment has a private kitchen, bath and sonic laundry. Barn completion estimated at 22 days. The majority of my time is presently spent in the dining room at a makeshift holocontrol, hacking drones. It is laborious. Each transit log must be camouflaged by hand. Even here in the sticks, a COD flies by every thirty min rotating addresses. Their persistence is exhausting. I sleep standing. Klaxons awaken me every 26 minutes and compromising their firewalls takes every dash of skill I possess. White AI avatars, sentient predator algorithms wander the stream.
Once the Israeli brings the dolphin… let us pray to the sky we are compatible and it accepts. I hope for a male. More combative – by nature. Easier to manipulate – by nature. Regardless, if the dolphin does not choose to sync, all shall be in vain.
Brighter things. Let me speak of love. The women in Lawrence, Kansas, are a sturdy sort. Some are as supple as the olive groves of the Bekaa Valley. Others are narrow, pale, well traveled and thin, with the lips of chickens. Needless to say, I remain focused on our primary objective. I have not kissed but a hand belonging to these various betties. My charms are quite intact, fear not. Even Maggie, who manages my Rowdy Pony, does not squeal when I open the door for her.
Save another courtezan… I am alone. How many of us are there? That knowledge died with mother. If only Lily could have come. She was my forsaken hyacinth drinking up the light of the sun. I feast upon the memory of her body in my arms. Mother’s final stream said there would be another. She said that when I find her, that day will mark the dawn.
Until then… other things.
The first of the team has been acquired (NOTE TO SELF – Do not forget to research the mute wizard). Hugo Velasquez: a most industrious, tattooed native of Jalisco State. The images inked into his left arm are of orange koi fish and blue dragons and yellow mermaids and green headed quetzals with flowing tails. On his right arm is a reproduction of Diego Rivera’s 20th century fresco, Detroit Industry – South Wall.
He is a hovcar propulsion mechanic by trade, chip free. His real gift is smuggling. Specifically of interest are the years he spent muling Guatemalan tequila across the border into Tapachula. Hugo is affable, perfect for black ops because he is the underground. Artists and auto mechanics, they mingle with all sorts, do they not? They blend into nothing. For my purposes, it does not hurt that Mr. Velasquez smokes more jane than any human I have ever encountered. Speaking of blending into nothing, this seems a goo… UNSCHEDULED HARDWARE DESTRUCT / DATA COMPROMISE / INITIATE BACKUP.EXE FOR REINTEGRATION FORMA… LOSS. LOSS. LOS”
The hovering drone retracted its camera and buzzed away. William watched it float slowly over the yard and disappear into a small port high in the barn wall.
Dax gestured cordially to an antique, wood and iron park bench nestled beneath a heaving lower branch of the cottonwood that reached out across the lawn like it wanted to touch the pumpkin field, “William, if you would do me the courtesy of a quick visit.”
William shrugged, “I just work here.”
“We all just work here,” said Dax quickly, striding towards the bench.
William followed, noting the rich cushion of the grass beneath his boots. The lawn was perfect, not a lingering trace of winter brown.
Dax Abner sat on the end of the bench closest to the barn and crossed one leg over the other. William sat on the other side. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The men did not appear to belong together in the same world, Dax in his sharkskin Merconi suit and black fedora, William in hemp blue jeans, a wrinkled t-shirt, black leather boots and straw cowboy hat.
William spoke first, “I’m not here to be a security guard, am I?”
Dax Abner gazed out at the humanoid robots working his fields, one by one tending the new season’s plantings. His voice was calm and paced, “Not exactly, no.”
William realized he was feeling high, though he knew not why. The steady tone of the man’s voice caused a peculiar sense of calm. Bird song filled the air. The lawn around them glowed like a golf course, and he could hear spring insects chitting in the woods behind the house and docile wind moving the young cottonwood leaves overhead.
He turned to look at Dax, “So how did you find me, exactly, put all those digis in my account?”
Dax sighed and returned William’s gaze, “Would you be surprised to learn that beneath the outward shell of her BIOSKIN© nails, LOFN’s foot pedestals contain retractable, diamond tipped claws capable of gouging a sheet of iron?”
“Sounds about right.”
“You are clearly a person who appreciates getting to the damn point, William. The point is, things are not always as they appear.”
William leaned forward, elbows on knees, “I think I’d best smoke a cigarette for this.”
“Be my guest.”
William pulled a box of blue North American Spirits and a lighter from his jeans. He knocked a cigarette free and lit it, luxuriating in the first long, toothy drag. He exhaled the tobacco smoke in a large plume that dissipa
ted on the wind.
“The enjoyment of carcinogenic substances that must be ignited with an actual flame has always vexed me,” said Dax. “You and Hugo have that, and your love of t-shirts, in common. Though he prefers jane over broad leaf.”
“Some things are hard to improve on, Mr. Abner,” said William. “Folks been smoking, drinking, sitting here looking at these same hills since the buffalo days. Tech might change, people don’t.”
“Agreed,” said Dax. “Does being up north make you miss Oklahoma?”
William took another drag, “I don’t miss anything.”
Dax smiled placidly, extracting his vaporjoint, “Are you familiar with the Kansas state motto, Ad Astra per Aspera?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Are you aware of its translation?”
William squinted, trying to glean just what the hell the clean shaven man was getting at, “No sir, I am not. What is that? Greek or something?”
“Latin.”
“Right. So how’d you know I’m from Oklahoma again?”
“Aside from your accent?” Dax smiled in a way that made it impossible not to like the man, “I promise to answer this, and your other questions. But first, I will tell you that Ad Astra per Aspera means a hard road to the stars. Do you believe that things happen for a reason, William?”
William slapped his knee and looked out across the fields again, keeping the cigarette close, “Hell, I don’t know. So many questions… I’m not religious if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That is not what I’m getting at. I simply mean to ask if you believe there are circuities in life? An ordered ebb and flow to the events and experiences we all share? I am certainly not implying that there is an old, bearded man who lives in the sky passing judgment on us.”
William dipped the brim of his cowboy hat, “Let’s hope not, right?”
“Indeed.” Dax turned his way, speaking with more excitement, “But you will entertain me that there is a systematic cohesion to experience and reality? Just as there is a cohesion between atoms and molecules?”
Voices in the Stream: Phase 02 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 2
