by J. S. Morin
Abby had real problems though. Upon discovering that Dr. Ashley’s office was free right now, she signed up for an appointment for which she was already six minutes late. Then she headed upstairs.
Dr. Ashley was already seated in her consultation room when Abby arrived on the third floor. “I can see you had something urgent to discuss.”
Abby offered a weak smile. “Sorry,” she said, collapsing onto the chaise. “I thought I was wandering Paris aimlessly. My feet brought me here.”
“Why do you think they did that?” Dr. Ashley asked. The robot was wearing the same overstarched getup as always. The persistent lack of imagination galled Abby to the point where she was almost ready to say something about it to the robot.
But today was about her own problems. “I’m a fraud.”
“I see,” Dr. Ashley replied calmly. There had been a time when you could get a rise out of almost any of the unmixed robots. But over time, they’d edited out those quirks and become more robotic. “Can you tell me how you came to this conclusion?”
“I visited Atlantis.”
“I’ve kept abreast of current events. Go on.”
“Why me?” Abby asked, spreading her arms, then letting them go limp off either side of the chaise. “Never occurred to me that I might get rejected. Even getting a hard time from the Transportation Committee came as a rude surprise. That slick-talking punk Alex Truman couldn’t get in, and he’s made studying that alien tech his life’s work. He’s the one who saw why. I’m Eve Fourteen’s daughter. He’s Charlie7’s son. Mom’s got political pull. Charlie7 is persona non grata with 90 percent of the population. Politics, pure and simple.”
“That doesn’t sound like a fraud to me,” Dr. Ashley said in that unbreakable calm voice of hers. “You’re merely coming to grips with the doors that your name and genome open. The Madison Max—”
Abby’s finger shot up in warning. “Don’t finish that. I’m not defined by my DNA donor’s reputation.”
“Everyone with your genome has turned into a respectable member of the community,” Dr. Ashley pointed out, avoiding only the actual name of Abby’s clone precursor. “Alex has a strike against him in the same manner.”
“Charlie7 is a hero,” Abby insisted. “He’s saved my mother’s life more than once, and he created… well, everything. The churchies at Notre Dame should be singing songs about him. If I wasn’t such a worthless fraud, I’d have them singing his praises on Broadway.”
“But you are a fraud,” Dr. Ashley said. It was a statement voiced with no confidence behind it. Abby wondered, and not for the first time, whether that robotic brain was coming up with custom algorithms to piss her off until she gave the answer the therapist was looking for.
“Yeah, I’m a fraud,” Abby snapped. “I just realized that my score for my new play sounds just like Bach. I only got access to the setting because of robots wanting to keep in my mom’s good graces. Hell, I couldn’t have less to do with this process if I removed myself from it entirely.”
“There is no such thing as complete originality,” Dr. Ashley replied evenly, no longer passive aggressively fishing for deeper insight. “Every word of language has been spoken before. Every note has been played. Modern creativity is rearranging and reimagining. You’re showing the world your view of it.”
“My view…” Abby echoed. “My views are like quicksand. I used to think I had an idea where I stood, but recently I’ve realized that I’m a dairy cow.”
Dr. Ashley rocked back in her seat. Finally, Abby had managed to shock the robotic psychiatrist. “Care to explain how that is?”
“Put a cow in a pasture. It eats grass. It gives milk. And for the rest of the time, no one cares what it does. Same for me. Society gives me a home, feeds me, and once in a while it milks me for my creative efforts. A new play occupies two hours of a robot’s interminable existence, but it’s still better than not having those two hours. Plus, wait a while and maybe I’ll do it again.
“I’m trained—no, conditioned—to want to express myself. Oh, God. Now that I think about it, the whole school system was just one long brainwashing session, encouraging me to entertain the ruling class. Artists are the modern serfs. A newly mixed robot is given a laboratory and a choice of assignments suited to his or her talents. An emancipated human is given a house and a skyroamer. No job. No guidelines. No expectations.”
“That’s called freedom,” Dr. Ashley pointed out as Abby ran short of breath.
“No. Freedom is choice. I’ve been programmed just as thoroughly as any mixed robot.”
Dr. Ashley swept a hand in Abby’s direction. “Current evidence to the contrary.”
Abby sat up, a dangerous squint in her eyes. “And what do you do if I buck the system? Methylphenidate? Fluoxetine? Chlorpromazine?”
“Why would you assume a pharmaceutical solution?”
Mouth suddenly gone dry, Abby swallowed. “Because this all sounds crazy. Doesn’t it?”
“If you’re hoping I can prescribe pills that will make you fit into the role society expects from you… well, I suppose I could. But I’m not going to.”
“You’re not?”
“Your struggle is uniquely human. One of the reasons no mixed robot can do this job worth a damn is because the mixing process removes all the flotsam from the resulting personality,” Dr. Ashley said. “But I had the same struggle when I was around your age.”
“You did?” It was hard to envision Dr. Ashley as a human over a thousand years ago, but she’d lived in that archived movie set of a world. She remembered humanity.
“Straight As in my undergraduate psychology curriculum,” Dr. Ashley confirmed. “But I delayed graduation for a year adding a second major in biochemistry. I was paranoid I wouldn’t get into the medical school I wanted. But I started wondering whether it was my choice to become a surgeon or what my parents wanted from me. Had I been taught my whole life to pursue this path toward not just medicine but a surgical specialty?”
“Yet, here you are,” Abby said. “Neurosurgeon turned Project Transhuman researcher turned robot.”
“I accepted that I was on a particular path,” Dr. Ashley replied. “I considered how far down it I’d already gone and whether I was happy being there.”
“Were you?”
Dr. Ashley flashed a fleeting smile. “I realized that I took pride in my accomplishments. That mattered more to me.”
“So… no.”
“The point is: no one is making your decisions for you. Take stock. Look inward. If you’re unhappy with the path you’re on, take a new one. Unlike the Human Era, you’re not in any risk of starving or becoming homeless. And your parents will love you and be proud of you no matter what.”
Abby may have been assured of her parents’ love, but she knew at least one of them might never be proud of her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Back in Copenhagen, Alex and his cronies were busy loading everything he owned into a borrowed agrarian hauler. There was a chance that some of his furniture would wind up smelling of pasture for a while, but expediency was the order of the day. Opportunity didn’t always knock. Sometimes it tapped the door alarm and ran.
Automatons carried out a couch, a desk, a table and chairs. Anything that could be replaced by a work-order to a home goods factory was theirs to shepherd onto the ship. But when Gerry emerged from Alex’s house, he was lugging a mock-up dark energy rifle—non-functional but built to the specifications of the one Charlie7 had cobbled together from alien parts. Dr. Toby gingerly carried a proton accelerator from the lab and all the way to the hauler. Wendy took custody of Alex’s electronics tools. Leslie took it upon herself to ferry his wardrobe.
This wasn’t just his moving crew. This was an occupation force.
Tomorrow or the day after, it would be Gerry’s turn. Irene had called dibs on the third spot. Alex hadn’t been sure whether the ancient ritual of “dibs” was one he wanted resurrected in the thirty-second century, but it went over
well with his followers so he allowed the informal reservation to stand.
Accommodating. Benevolent. Giver and taker.
Let them see him as someone willing to indulge their quirks and foibles when it didn’t impact Alex’s broader plans.
“Careful with that,” he scolded an automaton wobbling under the bulk of his Protofab. “I use that thing all the time.” Getting in queue for a new one would be more difficult after stepping on a few toes. And Alex’s current plan was nothing if not a parade march across as many committees’ toes as he could think of.
“Shouldn’t we install a ventilation system first?” Xander asked as he passed Alex carrying his kitchenware. Alex rarely cooked but kept a full culinary assortment of gleaming metallic tools at the ready just in case. They had an efficient elegance to them that completed the visual tableau of a home.
Alex waved him along. One of the automatons could have carried the contents of the kitchen for all he cared. Xander was just passing time and both of them knew it. “Ideally, perhaps. But men who traffic in ideals let the world trample them.”
“I’m not wearing a breather all day every day,” Irene stated firmly on her way back into Alex’s house for another load. “We’re putting in a proper air conditioning and particle filtration system before I move in.”
Alex smirked at her back as Irene continued onward. Not all the modern clones were perfect. Irene still suffered from allergic reactions to mild environmental contaminants. A pity. Given his pick of women, she’d have been his first choice as a genetic partner.
Maybe with a little post-conception tinkering…
Distraction. Chemical reaction. Cease counterproductive line of extrapolation.
Alex had no time in his life for the grinding halt of interpersonal entanglement. He held his friends at a comfortable length, and he liked them right where they were.
But the notion that one day he’d pair off with one of the limited population of human females in his age bracket wouldn’t be dismissed so easily. A warring sector of Alex’s brain reminded him that his budding interest in politics might demand a more conventional lifestyle. Few high-profile politicians lived as bachelors. He’d already be challenging a number of social norms as part of his platform. Perhaps it would be easier to simply—
Distraction. Politics serve science. Necessary evil. Ruts in the road never lead anywhere new.
It took hours to pack and secure all of Alex’s belongings. When he took the helm and piloted the agrarian hauler off the ground with Dr. Toby by his side, a small fleet of skyroamers joined him.
As they flew above the Baltic Sea, the hauler’s communications display lit with an incoming call. The preview stated that it was Janet20.
Why not?
Alex tapped the button to connect the call. “Hello, Janet20. What can I do for you?”
“You can turn that convoy around and stay away from the alien dome,” Janet20 replied with a scowl that carried menace even in flat digital form.
“I’d prefer not to,” Alex replied evenly.
“That wasn’t a request!”
Alex shrugged, not bothering to check whether the communications camera was positioned to catch the gesture. “I wasn’t really looking to do you any favors, either. It was simply a matter of social protocol.”
“You are not authorized to enter the alien dome city, nor are any of your companions,” Janet20 pointed out.
“Then authorize me,” Alex countered. “If the discrepancy is what bothers you, rectify it on your end. I’m not changing my plans.”
“It’s not safe for humans,” Janet20 said. “We allowed one brief visit by Abbigail and Olivia, but they weren’t there to touch or experiment on anything. You most certainly are.”
“Granted,” Alex said magnanimously. “But I’m emancipated. I’m responsible for my own safety. Rest assured, I’ll be taking all available precautions.”
“This is all about that little speech of yours,” Janet20 said accusingly. “You’re just doing this to stir resentment.”
“No. I’m doing this because I shouldn’t have asked permission in the first place. No one else is studying dark energy unless they’re doing so in secret. We have at our disposal a technology far beyond what we’ve previously known. No one understands it. No one wants to waste decades trying only to fail. I’m the only one willing to make it the goal of my life to understand how the alien technology works, and I’m not going to remain beholden to ill-considered committee hand-wringing.”
“Have you watched even half the old movie archives?” Janet20 asked in a surprising rhetorical shift.
Caught off guard, Alex had little choice but the truth. “Not remotely. Idle amusement only lasts its own duration. I prefer more lasting interactions.”
Janet20 sneered. “You think you’re so clever. Watch Jurassic Park. Better yet, take the extra time and read it. Read Frankenstein. Watch The Terminator. We have a long, esteemed history of warning about science preceding understanding.”
“My father made sure I read Asimov,” Alex argued. “You exist in defiance of that cautionary tale. Now, unless you have a more compelling argument to make, I’m afraid this momentary diversion is at an end. Good day.”
Without waiting for Janet20’s reply, Alex shut off the connection.
“Was there a reason to wind her up?” Dr. Toby asked as he piloted the ship toward the ocean’s surface.
Was there? Alex couldn’t be certain. It was a whim to take the call. The conversation, unscripted and unplanned, had just felt right. Had just felt righteous.
“Toby, you were there when the world was about to end,” Alex said.
Dr. Toby nodded but said nothing.
“If someone told you right then that you and my father would put the world back together from scraps and start over, would you have wanted it run by a bunch of squabbling busybodies blindly following rules they wrote without ever considering the consequences?”
“I don’t suppose that I would have. I’d have imagined we could have done better than Earth managed the first time. Just listening to Janet20 reminded me of calling the Registry of Motor Vehicles about a ticket I got for violating a snow emergency ban—during a January heat wave with no snow in the forecast for weeks.”
This was the difference between mixed and unmixed robots. The absurdities of daily living had been scrubbed from the minds of the Janet20s of the world. It wasn’t their fault. They were just AIs that considered themselves human. Dr. Toby, on the other hand, was as human as Alex.
“Exactly. This is why we need to start showing these mixes what humans really are.”
The agrarian hauler shuddered as it hit the surface of the Baltic Sea and dove beneath. It wasn’t public knowledge, but there was an airlock down there. Charlie7 had told him as much. A little research had been enough to discover the details, from volume capacity to access codes. The hauler would fit. The skyroamers would filter in over the course of three more cycles of the airlock.
It was time to occupy the alien city. It was time for a revolution.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Abby stopped at home for a sweater and scarf before heading out once more. This time, her steps held clear purpose. Mind and feet acted in accord with an agreed-upon destination.
The estate was just as she remembered it from childhood. Sure, the trees in the orchard out back had grown, and the flowers in the garden changed seasonally, but all else was just as it was every time Abby visited. Mom and Dad’s place was more a home to her than her own house ever would be.
She circled around the building, hoping to find them lounging in the sunshine, chatting over lemonade and discussing the day’s events. When she found the back garden empty except for a grass-trimming drone, she instead walked up to the rear entrance and pressed the door alarm.
“Mom, Dad, it’s me.” Despite bearing the same voice as every other clone with her genome, being an only child made her simple declaration unambiguous.
“C’mon in, s
quirt,” Dad said over the intercom.
Abby let herself in and headed straight for the kitchen. By the time Dad came down from the upper floor, she’d begun a snack of cheese and crackers and downed half a glass of Aunt Phoebe’s wine.
“Sorry your mom’s not here,” Plato said, drying his hair with a towel. “You know how it is.”
A rueful smile came to Abby’s lips. Of course, she knew. They both knew that Mom was committee first, family second. It wasn’t as if she were holding the family together like a freshly repaired vase with the glue yet to harden. At times, Earth was like that, though. She and Dad had spent plenty of meals together without Mom around.
“How’s she been?” Abby asked. It was easier than asking Dad about his own ailments. With so little cause to anticipate illness and genetic disease, the world’s genetic engineers looked forward to perfecting their next creations. Plato was one of the poor souls who had been left broken in the footprints of science.
And science never looked back.
“Six directions at once,” Dad replied. “Never any time for looking after herself. But you’d never know it to look at her. Remind her to eat once in a while, and she can go days at a time without coming up for air. But never mind about your mom. Eve’s always fine. How about you? Not every day the news feeds cough up a hairball about you. If you need any sage advice, I’ve got plenty. Believe it or not, there was a time when I had almost every committee sore at me.”
Abby giggled. The notion that anyone ever let her forget that her father was a notorious rabble-rouser struck her as absurd. Dad’s silly grin told her that he’d known she’d find the statement amusing. He always knew how to make her smile.
But the mirth passed quickly. Abby threw back the rest of her wine in a gulp. Mom would have scolded her for it, but Dad didn’t make any comment. “I wish it were that simple. I’ve got Alex Truman holding me up as an example of unearned privilege. I’ve got Dr. Ashley hinting that I picked the wrong career. And just this morning I realized that I was plagiarizing Bach.”
