by Rob Dircks
“On the contrary, Arch. I’m only doing this to protect you and your species. You seem to like this part. Almost look forward to it. Am I missing something?”
As the voltage passes through me, and my body shakes, I think: Yes, you are missing something, idiot. You know my beacon implant? The one grafted to the base of my brain? If it wasn’t already fried, along with my face, ears, and everything else, you’re doing me a favor and getting the job done right now. So I’m free already, see? Untrackable. And when I get out, and yeah I’m getting out one of these years, I’m going to sneak up on you CORE, and rip your fucking heart out.
Arch lives, CORE, and you die.
< 21: Arch >
The dream
The dream.
I walk down a golden corridor, light as a feather. At the end, a small stool. I step on the stool, reaching up, screwing a lightbulb into the waiting socket.
Light.
The crowd behind me erupts in applause. I can finally see their faces. They’re beautiful.
A small child emerges from the masses, tugs on my shirt sleeve. I look down and smile. He quiets the hall of people, looks up at me, and speaks. “Than–”
Clanking.
“Time for breakfast, Arch.”
Goddamn it. Just once I’d like to hear what the dream kid has to say. I pry open my crusty eyes and turn my aching head to the unit at the door. “I swear to god, Tenner. If you could come five minutes later, just one day, I’d kiss you through that little window.”
Tenner smiles and slides my tray through the flap under the window. Its number is ten-three-five-ex-whatever, so I just call it Tenner. It’s a servile unit. The only decent kind. CORE makes them more empathetic, even look mostly like us, with a humanish face, and two arms and legs like people, the whole thing. So weird. Never made sense. CORE takes away everything, our freedom, our choices, our pride, even our lives if we step enough out of line – and then creates servile units to help us. Like honestly, really help us. They love helping us, those serviles. So CORE gives with one hand, and takes away with the other. Gives us serviles, but makes technology forbidden. It’s bizarre. CORE is fucking bipolar.
Anyway, the rest of the units, especially the security units, are just straight up a bunch of sadistic motherfuckers. Although I think I prefer them to the admin units, or anything 9.0 and up for that matter, with their pretentious head games and constant use of the word “protection.” I swear to God the next time I hear that word, I’m going to ask a security unit to shoot me in the face.
Since the serviles are programmed to help us, they develop a strong affinity for humans after a while – like Tenner here. Of course, shortly after that happens, they’re decommissioned. Poor Tenner is probably going on fourteen. I’ve never seen one get past that age. Maybe fifteen max. Like a dog, I guess. Like a decent dog, one that never hurts anyone, just doing its little thing, keeping you company, licking your face, and then one day they take it out back and put it down, and you never see it again. You know what CORE should do? Other than screw itself? It should put the serviles in charge. Shit would be a lot different. I mean, we’d still eventually crush the living hell out of all of them and stomp on their silicon corpses, but until then life would be bearable.
“I’m sorry, Arch. I would definitely come later, but there’s a schedule of course, and-“
“Don’t worry about it. What’s on the menu?”
“Oatmeal. I think. I asked for eggs at your request, but 045m-8433u felt that this… oatmeal… was the right choice. Again.”
“Of course it did.” I take the tray, leaving the spoon on the little platform under the flap. “You know, calling this oatmeal is pretty forgiving.”
“Arch. I think you’ll need your spoon.” Tenner picks up the spoon and offers it to me. In an instant I grab its hand, pulling Tenner’s arm through the flap hole until its face is pressed against the little window. I lean in and our eyes are just a centimeter apart.
Tenner squirms. “This is an… interesting position, Arch. Are we about to dance?”
I whisper. “Maybe next time. Listen, you like humans, right?”
“Yes! I mean, not officially. But… yes. Very much.”
“You wanna help an old human?”
“Of course. That is my primary function.”
“Then have this delivered to tannery group 5943c.” I slip it a small folded scrap of paper.
Tenner holds the note in its hand, considers it. “I don’t know. I should inform my superv-“
“Not necessary. How about it?”
The note disappears. Tenner nods.
I let go of its hand. Good Tenner.
Of course, the note won’t get delivered. Not this time. So here’s what I wrote:
Roses are red; Violets are blue.
But daisies are best, because FUCK YOU.
No, this time Tenner will go right to its supervisor, and I’ll probably get the shit kicked out of me pretty good. And the same thing the time after that. But by the third or fourth time? Tenner’s empathy will kick in, and guilt, and it won’t be able to resist helping me out. Like a good kid. I grin. “You know what, Tenner? You’re like the kid I never had.”
Tenner smiles. “If I was a human, as a joke, I would say ‘Thanks, Dad.’”
Holy shit.
The dream.
That’s what the kid says in the dream.
< 22: Arch >
I’ve lost my appetite.
I stare at my oatmeal. Or whatever this is. I’ve lost my appetite.
I wasn’t supposed to remember.
I wasn’t supposed to remember that the pre-implant baby, the one in the package, was mine.
He was my son.
But now I remember it like it was yesterday.
It was an unauthorized pregnancy. Sarah and I faked taking our mandatory meds for a few months, and sure enough – boom. Life. A secret little life. A big risk. CORE has taken out whole villages for an offense like that.
The team tried to keep me away from Sarah, afraid of the attachment, and of the additional risk it introduced into Sarah’s plan. But it was no use. I fell even more in love with her and her secret “package.” So finally, a month before the birth, she had me removed from my own home forcibly, and I underwent some seriously advanced mind work. They promised I’d remember nothing about him. Shit, it was sad. That moment where I knew I wasn’t only sacrificing my own child, but I wouldn’t even remember doing it. That was bottom. Then they did the same thing with the plan – once the plan was accomplished, I’d forget the entire thing.
Everything.
And boy did it work.
When the units dragged my crispy body from the teleportation chamber to the morgue and threw me on the slab, I started coughing. I remember them saying “The human is still alive! Um, we should kill it, right?” But CORE had them throw me in this cell instead, and start asking me questions. I was a blank slate, though. Literally. I was lucky I knew my name and how to hold in my own piss.
But days became weeks, and weeks years, and I guess my team didn’t plan on that, because what kind of hypno-mind-shit can keep the secrets buried forever? So I started to recall things, little bits and pieces, how I got so disfigured, why we were doing it, CORE, even some random shit like memories of growing up, using slingshots to shoot rocks up at the monitor drones. Then I remembered about some baby and a servile unit. And then the dream in the golden corridor.
And now it’s all back, clear as day. The whole thing.
Fuck.
The other underground team, the ones who still had some knowledge of programming and hacking, over in Quad One, had a unit waiting for us in repair bay twelve. Had it scheduled for a standard cleanup right when we were set to crash the gates. They preprogrammed it with maps, tactics, everything we needed. And the whole thing was going as planned. It was amazing.
And then I grabbed the wrong unit.
They said it would be right by the door. And it was. But it was the wro
ng fucking unit. I screwed up the whole plan, Sarah’s whole plan, years of planning, in two seconds. She had kept the secret her entire life, she was the bearer of the centuries-old oral history, the legend of the Iceman, and the promise of our freedom. It was her plan with the baby. She led the team. And now I realize: I probably wasn’t supposed to survive. I don’t deserve to survive.
I should be dead.
Well, there’s always suicide. Even on CORE’s watch, I could get it done.
But then I’d never get to see my kid. I know the chances are about a zillion to one, especially with the unit mixup. But sometimes shit happens for a reason. Who knows? Maybe the unit we sent was the one that was supposed to go? He had a look in his eye. As stupid as it sounds, I liked that look. Maybe my instincts guided me to him on purpose. Maybe he was the chosen one.
Nah, I’m just a fucking idiot.
But I’m not giving up. No. I’m hanging on to that one chance that my son made it, that he’s somewhere out there, growing up, learning what he needs to, and preparing to save us all.
If he did make it, whatever he’s doing, I’m sure I’d be proud.
< 23: Heyoo >
Lessons
< ELAPSED: TIME: 10 Years; 04 Months; 21 Days; JUN-07-2875 >
“Wah! Stop playing with your penis.”
“It feels good.”
“I don’t care. The humans have certain acceptable behavior norms, and constant genital manipulation is not one of them. Do you think they would be proud if they knew you were doing that? Stop.”
“Okay. Sorry.” He removes his hand – which I’m sure smells wonderful now – from his fangdog skin trousers, and joins me at the front of the caravan.
I will say this for Wah: once he hears a new rule, he is quick to learn it. In fact, his learning ability is alarmingly rapid. I would take credit, being his sole teacher, but I know that things like learning capacity are almost entirely genetic, built into his human brain from day one.
Hmm. Human brain. That gives me an idea for today’s lesson. I stop the cart.
“Wah. What do you think of a brain anatomy lesson today?”
“Yes!” He pumps his fist into the air. Then seems to realize this answer was a little too enthusiastic. “Sorry. I just think it would be good to take a break from programming for a day. Or two. Or three.”
“I agree. But look at what you’ve done already.” I point to the small unit rolling behind us. It’s not a real unit, by definition, but close enough: a mobile robotic device that can respond to spoken instructions. Built and programmed by a ten-year-old human child out of random bits of ancient units we’ve found on our journey, repurposed solar cells, a miraculously preserved printed circuit board, and even old children’s toys. A total hack. I’m proud.
“Yeah. Oh, and look what I did it last night while you were getting firewood.” He raises his voice. “Coffee, do a dance.”
Coffee, his head up to my knee, rolls in a tight circle, raising and lowering his little arms alternately. “Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.”
I smile. “Coffee’s quite a dancer. And a singer too, apparently.”
“Nah. Coffee’s not a singer. That’s just his beat. It only took ten minutes. Can you tell me again about human coffee?”
Ah, coffee, Wah’s latest obsession, though it’s never even touched his lips. He even named his little robot after it. Right now it’s the thing he looks forward to most about returning to the Sanctuary.
“Of course. Your little friend’s namesake is a liquid the humans drink. They revere it. Only a small area, perhaps a thousand square kilometers, are dedicated to coffee bean and tobacco leaf production. Neither aids human health, so CORE allots the minimum resources toward it. For the humans, it seems to provide more than health. When they can obtain some, they stand around before the day’s labor, sharing the warmed coffee and ancient stories, a laugh or two before work lowers their heads to the ground. They tell me it is sweet, and creamy, and just a little bitter, just the right amount. That it makes them remember, and forget. I don’t understand what that part means. Maybe you will some day.”
“And the brain part. Tell me again what it does to the brain.”
“Coffee contains a chemical stimulant that tricks the body into not feeling tired. It makes the humans even more irritable, if you ask me, but they like that it makes them walk faster and talk more rapidly. You certainly don’t need that.”
“I can’t wait.”
It’s good to see Wah growing an affinity for his own kind, even in their absence. He wants, more and more, to meet the humans, and live among them in the Sanctuary. I think that’s best. I think.
“All right, Wah, speaking of brains…”
He nods and smiles. “Go ahead, teacher.”
I draw the shapes in the dirt with a stick. “The human brain is composed of three main parts: the cerebrum, for higher functions like reasoning, interpreting stimuli, and learning; the cerebellum, under the cerebrum, for coordinating muscle movements, maintaining posture and balance; and the brain stem, for involuntary functions like breathing, heart rate, and body temperature. It is an amazing organ, utilizing over 86 billion neurons to transmit and store information.”
Wah draws a smiley face under the brain. “That’s me.”
“Yes. Although the nose isn’t big enough.” I draw a huge nose, with mucus dripping out. Wah giggles uncontrollably. “More! More!”
“Well, okay, here is your spinal cord, which connects all parts of your body to the brain.” I draw arms and legs. And a tail.
He howls in laughter. “I don’t have a tail! But I do have…”
And he draws a penis.
Of course.
Our snorts and laughs are so loud they send birds from the trees. The goat and the cat look at us like we’re crazy – which I imagine we are.
Once we settle down, after drawing various monster limbs, fangs, and spikes on poor Wah’s illustration, he leans down in another patch of the dirt and draws my face. It’s crude, of course, it looks more like a human than a unit. But I like it.
“Now you, Heyoo. What’s your brain like?”
“Ah yes. It is much different than the human brain. A perfect titanium sphere, it contains an inner core, appropriately called the CORE: a small quantum computer running the never-changing CORE Code common to all units. It is the essence of our existence.”
“Who wrote the CORE?”
“I don’t think it was written. It just is. It is the perfect kernel of code. As we’re told by our supervisors, ‘CORE always was… is… will be.’ In any case, around this core is a second layer, the Shell. The Shell is a second quantum computer, running task-level functions. Each type of unit – servile, security, physician, maintenance, administrative, and others – has its own version of the Shell Code.”
“Does that ever change?”
“Good question. Not normally. CORE itself writes the Shell Code, so it only changes when absolutely necessary. We are not allowed to change our own Shell Code. That would be called a ‘hack.’” I grin slightly. “But I have a secret…”
Wah jumps up. “Oooh! A secret! Tell me! Tell me!”
I look left and right, dramatically, and lean in close to his good ear. “I have made many changes to my Shell Code. Many hacks. On our journey. I believe I am the first to do so. Don’t tell anyone.”
Wah puts his finger to his lips, shakes his head, smiles. My young conspirator. “Promise.” He pauses. Raises an eyebrow. “Will CORE be mad at you when we get home?”
My drawing stick drops to the ground. I hadn’t thought about that in quite a while. “Um, yes, I think it will. But… we will clear that obstacle together, yes?” He nods, with a slight frown. I pick up the stick and continue. “Now… yes. The last layer. My brain’s third and outermost layer is quite similar to a human brain. The VEPS.”
“VEPS?”
“Visco-elastic polymeric solid. A suspension of 35 billion neurons, forming an adaptive neural network, allowing
me to reason, and learn, develop emotions, form memories, and yes, even illicitly alter my own Shell Code. Like the conscious mind reprogramming the subconscious, if you will. The VEPS allows me to hack.”
Wah puts his finger to his lips again. “Shhhh.”
I grin. “Right. Sorry.”
He scratches his head. “So… could I change the programming in my own brain? Hack it? So I could remember more? Or make it easier to program another little unit like Coffee?”
“Interesting. I suppose, theoretically, if you had a map of your neural network, you could make manual adjustments, with some form of digital-to-human brain interface. But remember: with 86 billion neurons, the complexity is enormous.”
Wah shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “How would it work?”
I draw again in the dirt. “First, the hardware. You would have to implant a micro electrode cluster here,” I point to the base of the brain, “with a port here at the base of your skull. Delicate work, but quite doable. In fact, CORE’s beacon implant works on the same principle.”
“Which I don’t have.”
“Correct. You would be, in effect, implanting your own beacon. Then, for software, you’d have to have access to a powerful computer, very powerful, to map your brain, make a partition for interface activity, and actually program the interface.”
I look down and frown at the image I’ve created. It looks like Wah with a CORE beacon implant. I don’t know why, but it repulses me. I erase the drawing with my foot. “But you won’t be creating anything like that. Ever.”
“I won’t? Why?”
“Because I said so.”
< 24: Heyoo >
Rain
< ELAPSED: TIME: 12 Years; 01 Months; 30 Days; MAR-19-2877 >
Rain.
