by A. W. Cross
In 2005, Professor Hugo de Garis predicted that by the late 21st century, the ability to create artilects—hyper-intelligent, sentient machines—would splinter humanity.
Three distinct factions would form: the Cosmists, those attempting to create artilects; the Terrans, those opposed to their creation; and Cyborgists, those who advocated the melding of human and machine.
This division would ignite a war causing billions of deaths and the end of the modern world.
In 2040, his prediction came true.
“Will they be autonomous? Yes. Will they have free will? Yes. But they will also be connected to each other. It is essential to our survival and to theirs. Cyborg brains are not the same as human ones, much as we prefer to believe otherwise. Their connection must be made carefully, gradually, insidiously. Planted in such a way that the still-human parts of their minds will accept it without question. That way, the connection will be established before they’re even aware it’s happening.”
—Mil Cothi, Recommendation #13; Pantheon Modern Program Omega-117.
I’d been having the dream for as long as I could remember.
It was always the same. I ran across a field as vast as an emerald sea. Heat rose from the grass where my feet fell, rippling up my bare legs. My body was small and thin, my tiny hand clutching a string which led up, up, anchoring a kite. The kite itself was strange: a man but not a man, smooth and shiny, with only the suggestion of a face. Silver ribbons streamed from his golden arms and legs like shooting stars as he chased behind me, straight and true.
In the middle of this green ocean rose a single tree. I raced toward it, my body expanding, stretching. When I reached the tree, he was waiting, as always. I could never see his face, only his mouth, naturally mournful, curving into a smile as he offered me a lover’s hand. When I took it, my own was grown-up, strong. He gazed upward to where the kite had become tangled in the branches of the tree. When his eyes returned to me, he was no longer smiling, his mouth once again downcast. And as always, I dropped his hand and began to climb.
Halfway up, I skinned my leg on the rough bark of the tree. Blood welled up and out of the wound, but it wasn’t my blood; this blood was much older, its original host long dead. It snaked down my calf as the tips of my fingers brushed the edge of the kite. Straining, I caught its body and crushed it in my hand.
A gust of wind blew through the leaves, wrapping pale amber tendrils of hair around my face as I climbed back down the scarred trunk. It was easy because I was lighter now—all the blood from my body had soaked into the soil and been devoured by the roots. When I reached the ground, he was gone, and I was nothing but paper and bone. I pressed my face into the now-moist earth so that the wind couldn’t take me. I was the seed.
We have triggered the waking sequence. As of yet, six subjects are unaccounted for, including O-117-9791. Whereabouts unknown. It would seem the secrecy that kept us hidden for so long is coming back to bite us in the ass. We’ll give them a few days to get their bearings, then initiate the homing signal. We never should’ve separated them; we thought spreading them out would increase their chances of survival in case we were discovered. We were wrong. Hopefully, they’ll fare better than the five still alive here at the compound. Losing them all at this point is unthinkable.
—Mil Cothi, personal journal: May 27, 2045
The hard ground beneath me softened, yielding to the heaviness of my head. I sank into it as far as I could, grateful for the comfort.
Maybe I’m dead. Maybe it was all too much and I died. That would make sense. But can you think when you’re dead? That is what I’m doing, isn’t it? Thinking?
Open your eyes. My body refused to obey.
The air was crisp and fresh, not the thick, sweet air of the hospital, and although the surface beneath me was definitely a mattress and not blood-soaked earth, it was not the familiar stiff vinyl and threadbare sheet of an in-patient cot. No, the blanket draped over me slipped too softly through my fingers to be ward-issue.
Take a deep breath.
A rhythmic pressure was building in my ears. With every beat, an aching strangeness bloomed inside me.
Is that my heart? Why is it so far away?
Open your eyes.
A scream split the cool air, a searing pulse inside my skull.
Not my voice.
A familiar sharpness lanced through me, hot and dazzling. My fear had always felt like that: a jagged brightness that began in the bottom of my spine and fanned out like the thorns on a rose.
Open your eyes.
Finally, my eyelids opened. Not the hospital. I was in a bedroom, if the furniture was anything to go by. I hadn’t seen furniture like that for a long time—not since I used to visit my grandmother—all ornate swirls and leaves carved into the stained wood. Thick curtains covered the window, blocking any hint of natural light. What thin light there was came from a single bulb, but even in the dimness, the room seemed…dusty. I reached out with one finger and scraped a line down the side of the nightstand.
“I’ve never been that good at cleaning,” a voice said.
He was a titan, filling the entire doorway. Or was the doorway small? I couldn’t decide. I was having trouble concentrating. He stepped forward, closer to the light. Young, but the dark tattoos on his face made him seem older.
I don’t remember him. I don’t remember how I got here.
I can’t sit up.
My bones seemed to creak as I strained against the thick leather binding my chest, my elbows unable to find purchase in the soft bedding. Something tore, but I couldn’t tell if it was the restraints or me. Vomit surged in my throat. I was going to suffocate.
Rapid footsteps sounded to my right, punctuated by heavy breaths. My body arched; my spine twisted.
I will break.
A hand like a block of marble dropped down onto the center of my ribcage, crushing me against the bed. A face hovered over me; a forehead pressed into mine. His deep brown irises were laced with gold and framed by long lashes; they reflected my own gray ones back at me as he stared without blinking.
Why am I not terrified?
“Hold on.” Golden eyes narrowed, and the fabric ripped as he freed my ankles. One solid kick was all I managed before my stomach at last betrayed me. Apologizing under his breath, he tore off the remaining restraints and rolled me roughly onto my side. A few more seconds of heaving, and I dropped my head into the cradle of my arm.
“Ailith.”
A cold, damp cloth covered my forehead; another wiped at my mouth.
The screaming started again, and my back arched against my will.
“Ailith.” The sound was soft and soothing. Familiar, somehow. The pressure in my ears receded, and my mind began to focus. When the next scream stabbed my brain, I kept still.
“Help them.” I tried to keep my voice even. The scream had dissolved into sobs. “Please.”
“Help who? Ailith, we’re the only ones here.”
That couldn’t be true. If it was, who was crying?
The restraints. I’d forgotten the restraints. He’s dangerous. He’s done something to me.
My heel skidded in my vomit as I scrambled off the bed and away from him. As I backed into the corner, I searched for something to use as a weapon. I wouldn’t be able to overpower him, but if I made him bleed enough, I should be able to escape.
I’ve never seen this room before.
But it didn’t feel like his room either. Unless he had a thing for elaborate floral oil paintings and trainspotting, nothing in this frozen, uninhabited room belonged to this man.
His hands were raised before him in supplication. “Ailith.”
“Stop saying my name! Who are you?” My voice came out high and thin, and that pissed me off. I snarled at him, hoping I appeared demented enough for him to stay away, that my wobbling legs seemed more like the weaving of a venomous snake.
“My name is Tor. Do you remember anything?”
I stopped scrabbling, trying to focus and remember. Time did not seem to be working properly. The answer was in my mind, but it fluttered away before I could grasp it.
He took a step forward.
“No!” My hand closed around something solid and heavy, and I threw it with all my strength. It struck him hard in the mouth, and I prepared to run. In my mind’s eye, I leaped over him, stomping on his neck for good measure.
He remained standing; my missile fell to the floor.
I’d tried to kill him with an antique perfume bottle—a sharply-cut crystal perfume bottle, but still—and now I was going to die in a haze of bergamot and clary sage.
His lip had split where the bottle hit him. Blood smeared down his chin. He didn’t seem angry; if anything, he seemed amused, his eyebrows arched and his mouth curled up on one side. That should’ve alarmed me, but I found it strangely comforting.
“I expect,” he said, glancing down, “that was quite expensive.”
I peered over the bed on my tiptoes. However badly cut his lip was, the bottle had gotten it worse. It lay in sad little shards at his feet.
I rose onto the balls of my feet again, not sure whether to attack or try to escape past him. A thrumming started in the space behind my eyes, and the rose in my spine began to bloom.
“Ailith.” My name, again.
“What are you?” I whispered.
It was his turn to be confused. Tilting his head to the side, he regarded me as if for the first time. “Ailith, I’m a cyborg. Like you.”
Of all the answers I’d expected, that was the last. I didn’t have time to think about it, though, as the thrumming reached a fever pitch, cool air filled my mouth, and I was blind.
In the darkness, a cable appeared. It led from me, thread-like, into shadow. Another emerged. Then another. Thousands of them, all bound to me. Some shone through the darkness, blazing with light; others were barely visible, their beam extinguished. The first thread drew me in, pulling me down its length before I could understand.
A door appeared. There was a number on it. 479.
“What makes this generation of cyborg unique is the combination of the organic and inorganic at the cellular level. That is to say, every single cell will be cyberized and watched over and replenished by the nanites. They will look completely human, be completely human, but without many of the physiological limitations we now experience. And once we’ve perfected that, we’ll be able to lift the limitations on their minds. Their potential will be limitless.”
—Mil Cothi, on the development of Pantheon Modern Program Omega-117.
The number on the door was 479. Made from cheap black plastic, each numeral was bolted into place too tightly, bowing inward around the screw. I took my keycard from my pocket and slid it down the lock. This door was the same as every other door leading into every other house on the street. Even the street itself was the same as hundreds of others, part of an orderly network. I never knocked. What was the point? Nobody would come to the door to let me in.
The reek as I entered the hallway was typical: stale and heavy, with an undercurrent of human waste. I went straight to the window and slid it open. Although the air wafting in wasn’t exactly fresh, it cut through the thicker smells. An improvement, no matter how small, though I only pleased myself. The other two people here didn’t care, didn’t bother to open their eyes to see who was standing in their living room.
I checked the time. Only 2:45 in the afternoon. Early yet. The doctor wouldn’t be here for at least another fifteen minutes, but I was impatient; I wanted to get it done. I continued to stand at the window, gazing over the rooftops capping the endless rows of uniform housing units surrounding the city center. The center itself was studded with high-rise buildings holding offices, gorgeous apartments, special entertainments. Vancouver. I envied the people who worked and lived there. I bet they didn’t have to breathe the stench of shit all day.
2:50. I turned toward the center of the room. Two women reclined, facing the window. Sisters. They were unclothed, a soft blanket covering each from chin to toes. Built in the lower half of each chair was a receptacle. The smell emitted from here, albeit fainter now that the window was open. I emptied these containers every few days, sliding them out and replacing them without disturbing the occupants.
Although their heads were shaved, the women still had the oily odor of rarely-washed scalp. Their eyes were closed, the smooth surface of their lids rippling periodically. The sister on the right giggled and chatted; the one on the left smiled coyly, uttering only a few gentle whispers. My nose wrinkled. Their laughter and expressions were awkward, as though they had forgotten how. I rubbed my thumbnail with my index finger, making quick circles.
2:58. The front door opened; Lars had arrived. We nodded to each other.
“Nurse.” He knew damn well I wasn’t a nurse, no more than he was a doctor. He worked for the government, same as me. Another woman stood behind him; she was to play midwife, pulling an outsized case containing the incubator behind her.
We were processing the woman on the left today, removing the baby fully grown from the embryo we’d implanted thirty-eight weeks ago. Mei. Her name was Mei. I tied up my hair and went to work.
Removing the feeding tube from Mei’s nose revealed a darkened line on her face, thrown into stark relief by her pallid, sun-starved complexion. I lifted her blanket, exposing her naked body to the air. She didn’t react—they never did. Her skin was moist and doughy, with the odor of overcooked pasta. I started to retch and rubbed my thumb again, quickly, where Lars couldn’t see. He’d think I was losing my nerve.
She let out a small sigh, but it was nothing to do with us; the parts of her nervous system that perceived pain were disconnected. I adjusted the chair so she was lying on her back, and reached between her legs to shave her. The sight of her withered thighs, the saggy skin with its mound of overgrown pubic hair, made me want to pinch her softness, to punish her for this vulnerability. Instead, I swabbed disinfectant over the freshly shaved parts and up over the lower half of her swollen belly.
The midwife checked her vitals then signaled to Lars. He made the incision over a previous one, low on her abdomen, curving down, around, and up again. Yellow fat bulged from the cut. He worked quickly, slicing through the layers until he exposed her uterus. Several more cuts, a tug, and the midwife cooed as she rushed to wash, dry, and powder the baby so quickly it didn’t have time to cry. The midwife seemed pleased, her face flushed and bright.
Lars finished closing Mei up, sealing the layers with a surgical adhesive. While he washed his hands and changed his clothes, I cleaned her and inserted a new feeding tube. By the time I finished, Lars and the midwife were ready to leave.
Lars shook my hand. “Last day today, isn’t it? We’ll be sorry to see you go.”
I bet you will be. Not too many people around with my moral flexibility. Out loud I said, “Yes. I’m sorry to be leaving. But, when you get the call…”
I saw them to the door then returned to Mei, shaking out her blanket and draping it lightly over her again. Her eyelids twitched back and forth, reacting to a world I couldn’t see. I stroked her face gently, torn between scorn and pity. When the cybernetic Completely Immersive Virtual Reality Systems first came out, no one had expected them to produce such a real experience.
It had been too real. Users stopped responding to any other stimulus, including their own basic needs. Millions died with virtual swords and guns in hand while the real-life battle for their lives was fought and lost in their hospital rooms. Those who survived were incapable of readjusting to the real world, even with rehabilitation. But they made effective donors for those who didn’t want biome
chatronic parts, so these ‘houses’ kept them in trust, allowing their continued survival in both worlds for our needs in this one. My parents, if they were still alive, were in one of these houses. I sometimes wondered if they’d been kept together.
My finger was on my thumbnail again, circling, circling. I needed to go outside, to get away from here. I’d thought I would savor my final day in this job simply because each time I did something it would be the last. The last day to wipe the drool off someone’s chin, to bandage their stumps, to look the other way. Yes, I should’ve been glad, but I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
What a shame I had nowhere to go to celebrate. Just my apartment, with its threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper. After tomorrow, I wouldn’t have to live there. Oh, no, not with the deal I’d made. I would be special. True, it came with a price, but everything did. And I was used to carrying out orders that others might deem…unsavory. That was why they’d chosen me.
They told me I was going to change the course of the world, that I had an extraordinary purpose. I would be the savior of the human race. I wouldn’t end up like my wards, forgotten, degraded. No, I would be remembered forever.
Tomorrow, I would enter the program at Pantheon Modern. Tomorrow, I would become a cyborg.
“It sounds like a bad joke, doesn’t it? A cyborg, an android, and an artilect walk into a bar. What’s the difference between them, you ask? A cyborg is a human being whose physiology has been enhanced by machines, to perform like a machine. An android, or robot, is a humanoid machine, but dumbed down to perform the functions of a human. And the artilect? Well, that’s just short for artificial intellect. Androids could arguably be considered artilects. But the ones everyone’s getting all worked up about, the real artilects, would appear human but possess an intelligence far greater than our own and have the potential for sentience. And therein lies the problem.”
