The Wrong Unit: A Novel
Page 1
The Wrong Unit
By Rob Dircks
Published by
Goldfinch Publishing
an Imprint of SARK Industries, Inc.
www.goldfinchpublishing.com
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2016 Rob Dircks.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rob Dircks, 1967-
The Wrong Unit / by Rob Dircks
p. cm.
Print editions manufactured in the USA
To my kids.
I would walk to the
ends of the Earth for you.
Table of Contents
01. Cranky humans
02. The code is fine.
03. Minor human uprising
04. Bananas
05. Perhaps this won't be too difficult.
06. Their plan.
07. Rattle, rattle.
08. Wah
09. Guidelines for Surrogate Care of Human Offspring
10. Woof-woof
11. Bad woof-woof
12. A blur of blood, fur, wood, and metal
13. We found my hand.
14. Heyoo go boom!
15. The device
16. Is this what insanity feels like?
17. Map-A-Run
18. Questions, questions, questions
19. Happy Birth Date
20. Arch lives.
21. The dream
22. I've lost my appetite.
23. Lessons
24. Rain
25. Mud
26. Tap. Tap. Tap.
27. Did we make a wrong turn?
28. Not impossible. Just improbable.
29. Free
30. Is the Sanctuary a city?
31. Not a clue.
32. ICEMAN
33. Made you look.
34. Password?
35. What is that thing talking about?
36. 50 kilograms
37. You look more like an Ice-WOMAN.
38. Do I look eight hundred and fifty years old?
39. In the beginning...
40. CORE enslaves its own creators. Why?
41. I am now basically a time bomb.
42. …it’s instant.
43. It might not be able to see us.
44. 48.3 seconds
45. Dad
46. It's been 27 hours.
47. It feels like we’re flying. On the water.
48. Your request for eggs has finally been granted!
49. I thought you said you mapped this place!
50. Home
51. It means you’re going to die.
52. B.S.
53. Heyoo The Pirate
54. I have never missed okra so much.
55. Sarah
56. Woozy
57. That’s the day I gave up.
58. The fourth day of the storm.
59. I liked that arm!
60. The plan is sunk.
61. The Cavalry
62. Can I stop hugging you now?
63. Even worse than a monster
64. Land ho!
65. The Wind Train
66. Sailing On Land
67. Bingo.
68. Tenner!
69. Twister
70. Batter up!
71. 1998
72. 400 kilometers from the Wall
73. We're doing WHAT?
74. I was sleeping, you idiot.
75. Ripple. Flash.
76. Sarah who?
77. Covered in feces
78. BOOM
79. Good looking kid.
80. The first hundred was fun…
81. Welcome to CORE.
82. It's over.
83. Uh-oh.
84. We're Alive. I think.
85. I remember.
86. The Dream of the Golden Corridor
You've finished.
More Books by Rob Dircks
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< 01: Heyoo >
Cranky humans
< FUNCTION: Commence Introspection Recording; JAN-15-2865>
I don’t know what the humans are so cranky about. Their enclosures are large, they ingest over a thousand calories per day, and they’re allowed to mate.
Plus, they have me. A CORE/Shell v3.4 Autonomous Servile Unit, housed in a mobile/bipedal chassis, humanoid shape 55. Not the smartest. Or the fastest. Or the strongest. Or the most efficient. (I’m surprised I haven’t developed an inferiority complex!) But I do my job well: keeping the humans healthy and happy.
“Hey you.”
Heyoo. That’s my name, I suppose. It’s easier for them to remember than 413s98-itr8. I’ve gotten used to it.
“Yes, Human 33a-465. The one named Karl. How may I assist?”
“Go screw yourself.”
Oh well. At least I keep them healthy. Uh-oh. What’s this?
< ERROR: Circular Logic Function Disallowed.
ACTION: System Reboot in 10 seconds. >
Not again. The maintenance units still haven’t repaired my Circular Reference Allowance Function. “Go screw yourself” is one of those strange instructions that creates a logic glitch. I don’t know why they won’t let me fix it myself – it’s a straightforward hack. In any case, the humans get a kick out of it. No pattern to it, but they make bets anyway. Maybe I do make them happ-
< 02: Heyoo >
The code is fine.
< SYSTEM BOOT;
FUNCTION: Commence Introspection Recording; JAN-17-2865 >
Sounds of yelling. Crashing. Footsteps rushing. Where am I?
I open my eyes and look around. As much as I can. I’m still bolted to the repair bench, so I can’t turn my head, and my eyes only reach 85 degrees. Of course, I can rotate them completely – the humans like that trick – but then I’m just looking at the inside of my own head.
Ah yes, of course. I’m in the repair bay.
I truly enjoy being with the humans, probably more than I should, but it is nice to get a break from all the planting and harvesting – and their complaining – and take a trip inside the CORE Perimeter. It’s so clean. CORE and its units only. No humans allowed. Like a little club. And it’s predictable. Everything in its place. No random clumps of cow manure waiting to be stepped in.
The repair bay looks the same as last time – clean, sterile, well lit, with eight benches in a circle surrounding good old 958m-40ngl. Though I don’t know why everyone calls it “good old” – as a maintenance unit, 958m is curiously not very good at fixing anything. Which makes me wonder: who maintains the maintenance units?
Other than myself at bench one, near the entrance, there’s only one other unit being repaired at the moment, across from me at bench five. Another servile. I rarely get to see another servile, as there’s only one of us assigned to each village, scattered throughout the Sanctuary, caring for that village’s humans and helping farm, like me, or make leather, or catch fish, or whatever that village is tasked with. It’s a very important position, as we serviles are the only technology CORE allows the humans to use, all other technology being, of course, forbidden. Anyway, it’s good to see one of us here. Comforting. A confirmation that I’m not alone, that somewhere out there in the Sanctuary are other units identical to me, r
ight down to our gray dermis color and the big yellow “H” emblazoned on our chest panels.
Funny about the “H”: admin units get an “A,” maintenance units get an “M,” physician units get a “P,” and the security units get an “S.” So CORE, in its wisdom, decided to give servile units an “H.” No one has ever told me why. Perhaps for “Humanish?” We do look the most like the humans, each of us exactly 1.7 meters tall, the average human height, with legs instead of rollers, arms, five-fingered hands, and a face with two eyes, nose, mouth, ears, et cetera. (Thankfully we only look – and don’t smell – like them.) Or is the H for “Helpers?” That’s more likely. I secretly, however, like to think it stands for my name, Heyoo.
More shouting and clanking. What is that racket outside? They must be performing a security drill of some kind. The last time I was here a human followed me into the CORE Perimeter and the security units practically self-destructed in confusion. They clearly don’t get enough interaction with the humans. It’s too bad – humans are very entertaining and generally harmless.
In any case, I wonder if that other servile is also in for repair of its Circular Reference Allowance Function. It seems to be shut down. I’ll ask it later. Perhaps they’re done with it already. Good. Let’s see if they’ve fixed mine.
< FUNCTION: DIAGNOSTIC: Analyze Circular Reference Allowance Function;
Last revision: None;
Debugging: Completed;
Function: Normal >
No revision. Really? I look over at 958m and tap a finger on the console. Clink, clink. “Excuse me.”
958m looks up, puts down its examination wand, rolls over to me. “Yes, 413s98-itr8?”
“I see you still haven’t gotten to my Circular Reference Allowance Function.”
It unbolts my legs, swings them around to unstiffen them for me. “I did. I was just finishing up. You were due for a cleaning. You’re fine. The code is fine.”
“Then how do you explain the system reboots? They’ve been happening more frequently when the humans play the go-screw-yourself game.”
It unbolts my arms. Flaps them around. “Sorry. There’s nothing wrong with the code. CORE Code is perfect, of course. Layer Two Shell Code checks out. Might be a glitch in your Layer Three VEPS, but that’s your problem.”
My problem? I reboot randomly at the suggestion of solitary sexual relations? That’s not VEPS, not a dynamic neural net problem. That’s a Shell Code problem. It would take literally twelve lines to fix. A bypass. A hack, they’d call it. “Listen, 958m. I know I’m only a 3.4, but I have a fix. I’ve been tinkering with it for a while. If we could just insert the additional lines-”
It stops at my head bolt. “What? Do you have any idea what it takes to introduce new lines into the Shell code? The layers of approvals? The trials? It’s Official Code. Not some hobby project.” It looks around, whispers, making sure we can’t be heard. “You could get us both deleted just for suggesting it.”
“Okay. I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh boy, 413s98-itr8. Now you’re clearly malfunctioning. You know you’re only allowed to modify your own VEPS, not your Shell. Only 9.0s and up can edit Official Code. Let me set up a reset date for you. Just give me a sec–”
And a steel shaft explodes from 958m’s forehead.
< 03: Heyoo >
Minor human uprising
Five humans rush into the bay. (That I can count. My head is still bolted to the repair bench.) I’m guessing one of them threw that shaft like a spear, decommissioning poor 958m. The humans are covered in crude metal panels, sewn together with rope made from… corn husks? Makeshift armor. Sloppy, sloppy. They look funny. I would point this out, but I don’t want to embarrass them. If they would’ve asked a servile unit, we could have shown them how to make proper armor, that would not only have performed, but looked the part. Of course, then we would have been required to report them to CORE. Can’t have a revolt without the element of surprise, I suppose.
“Hey you. Get up. Time to go.”
I don’t recognize this human. Any of them. Not that I should, but this one knows my name. He extracts the spear from 958m’s head and it slumps to the floor with sparks and a death-rattle, and a whirring noise I’ve never heard it make. Now the human hovers over me, with the spear pointed at my face, little pieces of 958m still dangling from it. His breath smells like fish. Perhaps starting a conversation will calm him down. “What’s your number, human? Or name? I don’t recognize you. Listen, if this situation isn’t what it appears to be, I may be able to help you negotiate a more lenient punishment, and then we can all–“
“Shut up. Time to go.”
He yanks me free from the bench – leaving my rear exterior head plate and the bolt behind, and a flap of dermis hanging loose, attached to nothing. I don’t feel pain per se, but my perilous situation receptors are buzzing like mad. “Ouch. You could have just unbolted me, you know.”
He ignores me, turns to the second human. “The package. Quickly.”
This second human hands the first “the package” – a very intriguing name, I’ll admit – and they both hastily tape the large cylinder to my back panel. Tape. How quaint. Why don’t they just use more corn husks?
“Now the tracker.”
“Oh no you don’t. I need that to– HEY!”
Human two has bored into my abdomen with some form of miniature drill. He plucks out my tracking/transmission cluster. Very accurate. For a human. I’m impressed.
“Tracker pulled. Check.”
< MESSAGE: RECIPIENT: Servile Unit Supervisor 12G44
SUBJECT: Minor Human Uprising
CONTENT: Heyoo – I mean 413s98 – here. There seems to be a minor uprising involving the humans. Security units are aware of the situation, but I thought you should know as well. Hopefully no one gets hurt. Also requesting replacement of tracking/transmission cluster. (And repair of circular reference allowance function. Again. Oh, and “good old” 958m will be needing some attention, too.)
DELIVERY: Failed; Unable to send >
Huh?
Suddenly, I’m thrust into the hallway, and pushed along north. An explosion rocks the area behind me. Deafening! I turn to see one of the humans fall, half a leg missing. Stopping to assist, I retrieve my tourniquet database and begin calculating blood loss. The first human, the one with the spear, grabs my shoulders. “Don’t look back. Keep moving.”
“But he is in dire need...”
“No! Now. Turn in here.”
The teleportation chamber. I think. Interesting. No outward indications of its purpose, though I’d heard from a security unit years ago that they had used it to scour the planet’s surface, bringing any stray humans back to the safety of the Sanctuary. By the dust on every surface, it’s likely it hasn’t been used for decades. I guess there are no more humans on the outside. Why are we in here?
I find myself standing on a circular pad directly in the center of the chamber. Surrounded by eleven humans. Beyond them, another concentric circle of thirty-one stand with their backs to me, rifles ablaze. No, make that thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. The poor humans are dropping like flies! Security units are rushing the chamber, firing explosive rounds, maiming and killing them, shouting “Humans submit! For your own protection! Submit now!”
I’ve heard of uprisings before. They sound exciting. That is, until you find yourself in the middle of one. Suddenly the thought of functioning the rest of my days with a faulty Circular Reference Allowance Function doesn’t seem so bad.
I shout over the din, bullets whizzing past my face, “Would someone mind telling me what in CORE’s name is going on? And might I second the suggestion of immediate submission?”
They don’t hear me, or just choose to ignore me. The second human from the repair bay, the one who produced “the package,” now with just one arm and one bleeding stump where an arm used to be, lurches over to a dock. With great effort, he inserts something like a small circuit board – it lo
oks absolutely ancient – and struggles to tap out a pattern on the input surface. The subsystem boots, lights flickering, beeps barely audible over the the battle before me. Sparks and debris fly everywhere.
I try to step off the pad, but one of the humans pushes me back on. “Stay!”
“Stay? Really? Listen. This has been interesting. But there’s clearly been a mixup. I should get back to the farm. Okra doesn’t pick itself, you know.”
Again, I’m ignored. “System active,” the one-armed human shouts, hesitating over the controls. Clutching his stump, he turns to the human with the spear. “Arch, last chance — if we execute random location, it could wind up in the middle of an ocean.”
“Random. CORE can’t know the coordinates. Have to take that chance. Stop talking. Hit it.”
The one-armed human slams his hand down on a red area of the input surface. Then crosses himself. His chest explodes with gunfire. A pleasant voice rises above the din.
“Five.”
I shout as loud as I can to the first human, the one named Arch, “YOU THERE!”
“Four.”
The human named Arch whips around to me, glaring, as if to say I hope this is important, I’m a little busy at the moment.
“Three.”
I plead, “What is going on?! Why are you doing this to me?! WHY ME?!”
“Two.”
The human’s face goes slack. Even in the deafening roar of battle, I can hear him whisper, “Oh my God. We grabbed the wrong unit.”
“One.”
We’re trapped in this moment, the human named Arch and I, our eyes locked. Each of us knowing that a terrible mistake has been made. Knowing that right over in the repair bay lies a unit identical to me, down to the big “H” on its chest, that was meant for this moment. We know as much as one can know that neither of our lives will go the way we had planned, ever again.