The Wrong Unit: A Novel

by Rob Dircks

  “Tenner, buddy. Gotta go. NOW. Like really NOW.”

  “One moment… one moment…cameras disengaged… confirming destination… done! I can’t believe I just did that! However, I need to inform you that we have an approximately one in… five thousand chance of success. Is that acceptable?”

  “Shit yeah! Fire ‘em up.”

  Tenner activates the two drones, and they rise and prepare to move forward. “One more thing.”

  “No time. What?”

  “I appreciate your bravado about the beacon implant. But I need to check. It’ll just take a second.” He taps my code into the drone’s control panel. Looks over at me. Looks back down. “Clear. This drone cannot locate you. Apparently, despite a total lack of technical proof, you were correct.”

  “I told you. You owe me a bottle. A full bottle.”

  “I will build you an entire unauthorized distillery, Arch, if we live through this.”

  Tenner gives the drones the little push they need to get going. The props make riding on top impossible, so we’ll have to hang from below. As they start for the edge of the roof, Tenner and me crouch under them and take hold for dear life. God, this thing clearly wasn’t meant to take a load, we’re both dragging our backs on the gravel roof. I would laugh if I wasn’t currently getting the skin scraped off my ass.

  We clear – barely – the roof, immediately drop a bowel-releasing meter while I bite back a scream, and then… stability, speed, and silence. Thank God these things were made for stealth. And there are enough of them, throughout the day, that the units on the ground don’t even notice the monster human with his naked bleeding ass hanging out and his insane unit zooming silently past them about fifteen meters over their heads.

  We’re clear.

  And of course, as I’m having that thought, three units rush onto the roof, looking around frantically. Goddammit, we’re almost out of sight. But they spot us, heading south, and start firing. There’s no way they could hit us at this distance, we’re half a kilometer away.

  Scraalllcch!

  Tenner’s drone is hit. Fuck. It starts to wobble. Not good. He looks over at me and says, “Now what?”

  And I laugh, because I don’t know whether he meant it, but that was pretty funny, and the look on his face, and like how the fuck am I supposed to know what to do? “Tenner, reach over, get your drone a little closer, and maybe if we hold hands my drone will stabilize yours. Come on, lean this way.”

  He starts to lean, but it’s obvious he’s not going to get anywhere near enough to my hand before the props just shred themselves to pieces. Rifle fire is raging past us. Tenner pauses, smiles again. “Arch. Listen to me. I am going to crash this drone. When the units find and question me I will tell them you removed my tracking/transmission cluster and forced me to help you. I will say you are headed to Quad Two. That will increase your probability of success to one in… eight hundred.”

  “No! You’re coming with–“

  “Arch. Stop. Stop being so… human. Although I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you, Arch. I would like to think we were friends.”

  And with that, he leans hard away from my drone. It banks down, out of sight into the trees. I can just make out Tenner’s face, looking up at me, grinning like a lost kid who just found his way home.

  < 50: Arch >

  Home

  My hands ache. I’ve been clutching the belly of this thing for thirty minutes. But at least I haven’t been shot at since I lost Tenner back near CORE Perimeter. The other drones will be working overtime trying to find me now, so I gotta ditch this thing sooner than later.

  I’m over Quad Four. That’s what I told Tenner to program into the drone. I’ll bring it down nice and gentle here, and let them find it in a week, while I’m long gone over to my real destination, Quad Three. I’ll have to walk fifty kilometers, covering my tracks, hiding from the drones and the units, should take maybe six or seven days. Then home.

  Home.

  And Sarah.

  Are you still there, Sarah? It’s been thirteen, fourteen years. Did they find out? Are you gone? Or are you still there, keeping our secret, waiting? I can’t wait to tell you.

  Our son is alive.

  And he’s coming home.

  < 51: Heyoo >

  It means you’re going to die.

  < ELAPSED: TIME: 13 Years; 08 Months; 23 Days; OCT-10-2878 >

  “Hot diggity dog. We’re going home!”

  That’s what Brick says every morning as she rises from her slumber and relieves me of my watch on deck. I could, theoretically, take all of our watches, around the clock, as I shouldn’t need rest. Even though my reactor is nearing the end of its usefulness, it’s functioning perfectly. But I’ve found something curious: with so much activity in my VEPS, increasing every day, every month, every year now for nearly fourteen years past my deletion date, I find I can make it only sixteen hours before I’m exhausted, and desperately in need of sleep. Sleep! A unit! Can you imagine? But it’s true. I sleep. Every day now.

  And I dream.

  At first, of course, I was certain it was another symptom of my impending insanity. But Wah reassured me that my VEPS is acting more and more like a human brain, for better or for worse, forming new and more complex neural relationships, and that dreams are part of that new experience.

  I have one particular dream that repeats every few days. Very interesting. I’m walking along a corridor, a golden corridor, guiding a small child by the hand. We are walking towards a hooded figure, quite tall, imposing. And then light, brighter light than I’ve ever seen. And then I wake up. The small child is a symbol of Wah, of course, but the golden corridor? The figure? The light?

  “It means you’re going to die.”

  “Why thank you, Brick. That’s comforting.”

  She unties the rolling hitch knot she’s been teaching me, offering it for me to try again. “Oh, come come, Heyoo. We’re all going to die. Jung would say, Carl Jung, founder of analytical psychology, big dream guy, anyway, he would say the corridor and the hooded figure symbolize your fear of death. It’s a very human thing, subconscious fear of death.”

  “But I’m not afraid in the dream. In fact, my Fear-of-Death Index has never been lower.”

  “Your fear of what?”

  “Fear-of-Death Index. One being boundless courage, and one hundred being unrelenting terror. I’m currently at thirty-six point eight.”

  “Um, okay. Whatever floats your boat. So if you don’t feel fear in the dream, what do you feel?”

  I wave off the knot, lumber down to my cabin. “Tired. That’s what I feel. Good night. Good morning. Whatever.”

  “Sweet dreams, Heyoo…” Then she whispers so I can barely hear, “…about death.” And I can hear her cackling to herself as I drift off.

  < 52: Heyoo >

  B.S.

  I wake to the sounds of shouting up on the ship’s deck.

  Scrambling, as best I can, I hurry to offer assistance. I have been learning much about sailing, preparing for a moment such as this. I can reef the main sail in high wind, tack or jibe, adjust the boom, and read the compass.

  As I climb the cabin stairs, I realize: it’s laughter along with the shouting.

  “B.S.!”

  “B.S. on you! Take them!”

  Brick and Wah are playing a card game from centuries ago called, appropriately, B.S. (Brick privately informed me the game is actually called “Bullshit,” but back in the twenty-twenties it wasn’t appropriate to say “bullshit” in front of thirteen-year-olds). All the cards are dealt, and each player in turn puts down the next numbered card: three nines, one ten, two jacks, etc. The first player to run out of cards wins. Otherwise, there are no rules. And Wah likes that part best – the bluffing and deceit, putting down the wrong cards, trying to get away with it, and of course screaming “B.S.!” when he doesn’t believe Brick or myself. Wah flips up his eye-patch – Brick made him one from leather so they could play another game called “pirates
” – and waves me over.

  “It’s okay if I join you?”

  Wah pats the seat next to him. “Yes! Sit right here.” He covers his cards. “But don’t cheat.”

  Watching their play, I’m amazed at how quickly these two have bonded. But I shouldn’t be amazed. They’re both smart, mischievous, and risk-takers. And it’s natural – they’re the only humans outside the Sanctuary. Except for the mysterious “others” Brick mentioned back in Shanghai. Who I assume are human. I wonder. But before I can raise my hand to ask her again about them – though I really don’t expect an answer – I notice something: a little scar behind Wah’s right ear.

  No, not a scar.

  A port.

  Wah notices my gaze, and pulls his cards even closer to his belly. “You looking at my cards?”

  “No, young one.” I tap lightly on the port. “I was looking at that. What is that?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I rise, jerk him toward me. His cards fall to the deck. “No. I have enough mysteries from Brick and her need-to-know and her ‘others.’ I will not tolerate it from you. Now what is that?”

  He pries himself from my grasp, looking wounded. “It’s not a bad thing.”

  “I don’t care. What is it?”

  He fidgets, rubs the port with his finger. “Remember when we talked about you making changes to your Shell Code?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “And I asked if I could change my own brain?”

  I’m stunned. I grab his shoulders. “You haven’t…”

  He looks down. “I did. It’s a digital-to-human brain interface. Brick’s been working on it with me. The onboard computer is powerful enough. It’s safe.”

  I glare at Brick. “You! You sacrifice your life to free humans from things like this, and you put one into Wah?!”

  Wah jerks aways, darts across the bridge. “It’s not her. It was my idea!”

  Brick rises, in front of him, meeting me eye to eye. “Relax. Relax. It’s safe. I’m being very cautious. And he’s extremely advanced. And it could help us. Really. It’s a good thing.”

  I feel the rage rise again. “No! It’s a dangerous thing! Wah, I am here to protect you! Even if I need to protect you from yourself–“ and I stop short.

  An image of keeping Wah in a little box.

  Brick nods. She sees.

  She gently takes my hands, and Wah’s, and we form a ring. “Listen. Listen. Now just look at the three of us. What we’ve all been through. Dangerous is our middle name. No. It’s our first, last, and middle names! Dangerous, Dangerous, Dangerous!”

  I laugh. I don’t know why. I surrender to it. I need to trust them.

  Brick joins me. Then Wah giggles and whispers, “Dangerous, Dangerous, Dangerous.”

  A sound. We turn to see a small pod of dolphins splashing, breaching the surface next to the catamaran. They race alongside, jumping and playing. A small dolphin weaves past a larger one, staying close but then racing ahead and leaping across the starboard hull. We watch in awe. Beautiful.

  I kneel down, against the rail, facing Wah as he watches the dolphins.

  “It’s true. You are accustomed to danger. And I must control my impulse to be too protective. But I want you to be extremely careful.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Take no risks. And use the interface only for data storage and retrieval. Information that will help us. But no more. Do not reprogram anything.”

  “I promise.”

  “And be careful of circular reference allowance functions.”

  “Um. Sure. Whatever that is.”

  “And no more secrets.”

  He shifts on his heels, turns to me intently. “No more secrets.”

  < 53: Heyoo >

  Heyoo The Pirate

  Dinnertime.

  My favorite part of the day. Ironic, as I don’t even eat. And the “food” we have only makes me miss the farms in the Sanctuary. But I’ve gotten my “sea legs,” as Brick told me, and now find the undulating movement of the catamaran tolerable, even enjoyable. As the sun sets, the glimmer on the crests of the waves is breathtaking, reflecting the oranges and purples of the sky. And I’m here with Wah and Brick. And I’ve decided to enjoy the present, as I know the future is probably going to “suck big time,” to borrow a phrase from Brick.

  “Heyoo, darling dearest, would you pass the carrots?”

  I look around at the various containers in the middle of our dining table up on deck. “Which paste is the carrots?”

  “The orange one. I think it’s carrots anyway. I like to think there’s some reason it’s orange.” She spoons some on to her plate. “So Wah, how was school today?”

  “Parallel thread programming. So okay, I guess.”

  I frown. Not exactly an enthusiastic endorsement of my teaching. But Brick rescues me. “Well, Heyoo, my friend, I for one adore parallel thread programming. I could listen to you wax parallel threads for hours. Hours!” And she pokes me in the ribs with her fork and grins. Actually, I’m not sure if that was a rescue or if I’ve just been marooned.

  Wah seems eager to change the subject away from parallel threads. “Brick, tell me about baseball again.”

  “Yes. Baseball, baseball, of course. My favorite. Two teams, nine players each. The first team tries to hit a ball and run around four bases to score runs. The second team tries to stop them. Then they switch. You know, describing it makes it sound downright silly. But it wasn’t. It was like living in a dream to be a kid at the game.”

  “Tell me about the stadium. At night.” Wah holds my hand, like he did when he was much younger, when I would tell him a story before sleep. He curls up against me, smiling, to listen to Brick paint her picture of the past.

  “Ahh, yes, yes. That’s the dream. Seats behind third base. The night’s black as ink, but the moon is huge, hanging like a lantern out over left field. And the lights – God, the lights – make it look like daytime inside the stadium. A little perfect bubble of daytime out in the dark. Magical. Fifty thousand people, all watching a little white ball. And listening to the crack of the bat and waiting, waiting, waiting to see if that little white ball makes it over the wall. Come on little white ball, you can make it. And it does, and the people go wild. Crazy. And when you finally sit back down, there’s a guy right next to you, carrying a steam tray full of hot dogs, and your dad gives him five bucks and the guy hands you one. And as the first taste of that hot dog touches your tongue, sitting there next to your dad in the light in the dark, you realize you’re in heaven.”

  She stops. Sniffs.

  “Anyway. Want some carrots, Wah?”

  ——

  After dinner, Brick and I stand on the bridge, looking down at Wah. Before he starts his watch, he likes to walk all the way out to the tip of the starboard hull and lean against the pulpit, putting his baseball cap on backwards to keep it from catching a gust of wind and being lost at sea. This life agrees with him. I can imagine him as a sailor, creating new trade routes in the new world.

  “He’s an amazing kid. You’ve done a good job with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Great job.” For emphasis, she gives me a hearty slap on the back.

  And my right eye pops out.

  “Oops.”

  I flail my arms helplessly as the eye shoots through the open windshield, bouncing down, down towards Wah.

  “WAH! MY EYE! COMING YOUR WAY!”

  Wah, caught off guard, spins and loses his footing, grabbing the pulpit railing to keep from falling overboard. “I see it!”

  Brick and I scramble down from the bridge, onto the deck. The eye bounces and rolls, straight for Wah. Thank goodness for small miracles.

  But as Wah reaches out for the little sphere, just another millimeter, so close, a wave strikes the bow, sending
my eye careening back towards us. It rolls right through Brick’s legs.

  Then mine.

  Then into the ocean.

  Plop!

  Gone.

  My eye.

  Gone. As I adjust to the loss of stereoscopic vision, the rolling sea once again wreaks havoc with my stabilizers. A wave of nausea almost drops me, and Brick must hold me steady. There are no words. And then Brick finds some. “Well, I didn’t see that one coming. Get it? Eye? Didn’t SEE? No. How about this: I’ve heard of rolling your eyes, but this is ridicu–”

  “Brick. I am NOT amused.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. You know, friend, I vaguely recall a verse, hold on… yes! Matthew, six twenty-two: ‘If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.’ So this is a good thing. In a way. Everything depends how you look at it. Which in your case, is no longer in stereo.”

  “Brick. Please.” I take stock. Obviously, after my little run-in with the security unit back in Shanghai, things have come loose. This is terrible. I just want to go home. Wherever that is now.

  Calculating… I’m currently composed of 43.3% original components.

  I turn to Wah. “I’m now less than half me.”

  He reaches up and pulls my head down to his level. Digs into his satchel and pulls out the eye patch. Carefully ties it around my head, covering the hole that was occupied just a moment ago.

  “No. Now you’re even better. More you. Heyoo the Pirate.”

  I adjust the strap. The patch serves absolutely no purpose, but it is certainly “badass.” First Heyoo the Servile Unit. Then Heyoo the Wanderer. Now Heyoo the Pirate. Hmm. I kind of like that. “And the rules for being a pirate, young one?”

  “Just two. First, you have to be brave. And two, you have to say ‘Arrr!”

  “Arrr.”

  Brick puts her hands on her hips and thrusts her chest out – perhaps like a real pirate would? “Come on, Heyoo, like you mean it!”