by Rebecca Ore
“Training first,” Mike said.
“The training will be a real drode head orientation,” Kearney said.
Machines and I always got along when I was a kid.
SEVEN
ADULT CHILD, PART TWO
The second week in May, Dorcas got a fax photo at her house from her father. He and her mother sat crosslegged in front of their mobile home, a wide muddy river behind them, the light dim. Hanging from the top of the motor home was a huge catfish, lashed to the luggage carrier but dangling to its tires. Across the bottom, her father had scribbled, Crossing the Mekong this morning.
Her mother looked younger than ever, but wary. Her father grinned, one hand thrust back against the catfish’s head. Another fax came through—the fish had wiggled. Fresh faxes. Dorcas took off her shoes and wondered how the Feds were coming on their DNA audit, if this was a usual audit or if she’d failed to edit the brands out of the DNA she’d used for the mantises. Welfare was assigning her lab a new drode head. This one had been fitted, the welfare office said, with a new model subdermal pickup, one that picked up more brain activity without putting the drode head to additional infection risk.
Dorcas had never heard of subdermal pickups before. Henry told Dorcas that the drode head was part of the audit. Oh, well, she’d be wise to slow down making insects for a while. Let’s see how the mantises and the neuroleptic wasps fare.
A third fax came through her machine. Dorcas looked at the photos more closely. In the background, across the river, was an industrial plant covered with Japanese and Vietnamese characters. Dorcas faxed them back, I’ve only seen photos of those catfish dried before. If her parents got killed, she’d find out within the hour if their robot monitor could connect to a modem. Everywhere in the world was around the comer from a fax office these days. Everyone could bounce transmissions to a satellite.
In the next three faxes, Oriental women cut into the fish. Her father held up one vertebra without ribs while her mother looked at what the women were doing to a chunk of fish on a charcoal braiser. Dorcas wondered how many photos he didn’t send, discarding them as unbalanced or showing grim expression on Vietnamese faces, perhaps other American tourists.
Dorcas faxed another scribbled note, It’s the largest catfish species in the world. She wondered if it was endangered.
Her father wrote over the next fax photo, We’re going to fly-fish for Asian arrowana next. Preservation should pay for itself
And some people hunt people, Dorcas thought. She waited by the fax machine to see if her parents had more to show her, but in ten minutes, nothing more came through. She then microwaved her dinner. A drode head could be hunting her. Dorcas felt that was weird, like being bitten by a fax machine suddenly gone conscious.
Perhaps the drode head was only a conduit, not a conscious hunter. Perhaps Henry was the target. Henry should be.
Dorcas was curious, though. How did the Feds recruit a drode head for undercover work?
In the morning, Dorcas called for the new drode head. Allie, new or fake model, came in, wearing polyester slacks and tunic, but a real human hair wig. Dorcas wondered how a drode head got such a wig. Allie took off her wig and looked at the helmet and read couch. Dorcas noticed that she had scars on her hands, broken fingernails.
“What do you do when you’re not here?”
“I climb at a rec mall in New Jersey. I won a pass.”
Dorcas had a former lover who had a permanent ten a.m. to two p.m. Saturday pass to the Gunks, climbing cliffs near New Paltz. She’d gone with him once, passing two rec malls on the way up. “I’ve never been to a rec mall.”
“I didn’t until the lottery,” the drode head said.
Dorcas said, “Have you ever gone climbing in free air?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered.”
“You need to chat with a drode head you’re going to lay out unconcious after the chat?”
Dorcas felt bold. “Are you part of the DNA audit?” She wondered if the Feds knew Henry found out about the audit or if they’d told him they were auditing the labs.
“What DNA audit?” If Allie was a psychopath, not just someone too dumb to earn her own living, she could beat a lie detector, voice stress analyzer and all. Dorcas realized what she should have done was to have gotten the drode head under the reading helmet, then hacked her.
No, the Feds would wonder why. Dorcas should get someone else to hack Allie’s system. “You seem different than the other drode heads… Should I have used that word?”
“It’s what the State made me, isn’t it? I use the word myself.”
“Well, it’s rather crude, don’t you think? I’m a little unsure how to use your system. How much access do I have?”
“If you’re real curious about drode head life, I’ll throw up me and my lover.”
“You have a lover?”
“Yeah. We lead ordinary lives when we’re not paralyzed in a reading hood.”
“What do you mean, ordinary?”
“Like we cook, clean house, ride around on the subways on a space-available basis. Go climbing. Go to Coney Island.”
“Yes, you get free unlimited transportation passes.”
“Bull. It’s space-available. You just hear it’s unlimited because the system wants you to hassle drode heads for being freeloaders.”
“Aren’t you being a bit paranoid?”
“I know what my pass is. I know what you just said about thinking it was unlimited. Someone lied to you.”
Dorcas said, “Henry said he thought you were part of the audit.”
“I’m not. Why would I lie?”
“How would you know? You aren’t supposed to remember.”
“New equipment. Some things leak through. Actually, other drode heads tell me it’s not that uncommon. We don’t remember real accurately, you understand, but we get images here and there. More with me. Because of the new equipment.”
“How did you get to be the one used for this new equipment?”
“Unluck of the draw, I guess.”
“How did you manage your electrodes before?”
“Didn’t have them before. This is a post-prison gig.”
“Oh.” Allie was a sociopath, then. “How long did it take you to get caught?”
“Years,” Allie said. “You want action video memories? I could make you virtually me.”
“I think you’re part of the audit.”
“What’s this audit?”
“They’re checking the DNA stores to see if we’ve used some we’ve not accounted for.”
“When you can just make it fresh from any tissue sample, some gene breakers, and a splicing computer, only I understand it’s not just as simple as snip and paste. The bits got to work in synergy. Maybe they’re trying to see who acts nervous, Dr. Professor.”
“I’m just Dr. Rae. Not a real professor. How did you learn this?”
“Someone taught me. If you don’t keep getting postdocs, you could end up under the wire, too.”
Dorcas said, “I have independent money.”
“So, do you want me to lie down and entertain you? You got work for me? Or am I a guinea pig for liberal guilt?”
“What were you in prison for?”
“The badger game.”
“What?”
“Whoring illegal, really just pretending to be an unlicensed whore, then ripping off the fool johns.”
“People generally only go to unlicensed whores for…” rough trade. Dorcas stopped her tongue in time.
“Well, me and mine were meaner than they’d expected. You could learn from me about handling men.”
Dorcas resented that. “I knew some of you were unemployable for other reasons than stupidity.”
“We are employed. You don’t admit it. We come too cheap.”
“I should report you to Welfare.”
“Do that. Or put me under the wire so I don’t have to be here talking to your face.”
; Dorcas realized if she didn’t come across like a guilty liberal, she’d come across like the one nervous about the audit. “I’ve always been curious. I’m sorry if I pried.”
“Hey, we both got ahead for being promising and cute. I got caught. You got your position. Under Henry, right.”
“How do you know about Henry?”
“Everyone knows.”
“You’re very brazen, but I do have a post-doctoral position and you did get busted.”
“Like to humilitate drode heads? You can have me limp and down anytime you say.”
“I feel like I ought to see you as people, but it’s hard.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been using you as terminal links since I was a kid.”
“You plural? We’re not all alike.”
Dorcas felt like a guilty liberal. She sighed a little. “Does it hurt?”
“Scanning? A little claustrophobic, but I loaded a few movies before I came in. You won’t need my whole brain.”
“You’re the first drode head I’ve really talked to. Maybe exposed electrode connectors made me squeamish.” Dorcas felt that neatly combined liberal guilt with a need to know more about this woman. “Can we chat more?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“How did you get started in the badger game?”
“It was a family tradition. My brothers were the screaming husband and his friends.”
“I didn’t know families like that still existed in America.”
“Lots of things still exist in America you don’t get on the news nets.”
“I’m going to do a literature search. You want to lie down?”
“Not particularly, but as I said, I brought a few good movies.”
Dorcas resented that she didn’t get the drode head’s entire cerebral function. But no one did. Drode heads kept their conscious personalities for off-duty. “Slide under,” she told Allie. I’ve never known a drode head’s history before. Hardly even their names.
Allie slide into the helmet. Dorcas activated the circuits in the helmet and watched Allie’s body go limp. Motor cortex out, involuntary breathing muscles still going, like dream sleep. Poor tough bitch, to come to this. Dorcas said to the unconcious but processing ears. “I want a literature search of all projects involving attempts to prolong human life from last year on. Look especially for projects that disappeared.”
Let’s get Henry in trouble.
Allie’s voice said, “You don’t need to worry about me now. I’m safe.” She sounded tender.
“What?”
“What?” Allie’s voice sounded flattened, a voice from the computer/brain complex, not a personal voice at all. “Ah, Willie.” Allie was behind her voice now. “I’ve got work to do. I’m sure you do, too.”
“Allie, did you hear me?” Dorcas said.
Allie spoke in an uncanny imitation of Dorcas’s voice, “I want a literature search of all projects involving attempts to prolong human life from last year on. Look especially for projects that disappeared.”
The voice shifted back to the affectless one. “Printout or media storage?”
“Allie, who were you talking to?”
“Allison isn’t here now. She’s in the visual cortex with a movie.”
“Who was Allison talking to?”
“Willie.”
“Who’s Willie?”
“Allison controls access to that file.”
“Okay. Will Allison remember this?”
“Allison got bored and went to a movie.”
Agh. “Okay, load the scan on a write-overable. I’ll take it home and read it later.”
The disc drive whirred.
Dorcas pulled the disc out and slid it into her wallet. She loaded a laser disc into another slot and said, “Copy Allison’s movie.”
“Allison’s movie is copy-protected. Its title is lie and Lelia Rescue. You may rent it at any Masters of Video store.”
Dorcas said, “Could you search for three reviews of the movie, preferably New York Times?”
“Unauthorized use of computer time for non-research projects must be paid for by researcher.”
Dorcas slotted her credit card into the helmet. “And print out the reviews.”
“Turn on printer.”
Dorcas said, “Turn on printer.” She wondered why the machine couldn’t turn itself on, then realized how the drode heads could abuse their systems if that was possible.
* * *
ANOTHER CALLIE AND LELIA RESCUE
NEW YORKER MINIREVIEWS: In the spirit of director Silva Purcell’s earlier woman’s weepie, Callie and Lelia, the eponymous heroines find another wounded male to tend. More shots of beautiful tough women with guns and the wounded male they save, tend, and set free. If you like this kind of thing, it’s the kind of thing you like.
NEW YORK TIMES: One wishes these women would have the sense to drive off the edge of the Grand Canyon in the 20th Century tradition of women’s buddy films. Instead, they rescue a sensitive poet being mistakenly stomped for homosexuality by ugly drode heads. Their wounded pet recovers, screws them both, and drives away into the sunset while our heroines look for yet another male to rescue for Callie and Lelia Three, which one cynically assumes will be made if this flick is as successful as the first Callie and Lelia movie. Available on media as of January 1.
MS. MAGAZINE: We hate to admit this, but American women have a sadistic side, with movies like this appealing to all of us who fantazize about the open and vulnerable male as a care object. Director Purcell takes this fantasy to its ultimate, the male, bleeding like a sacrificial object to testosterone poisoning fulfills our need to have our men reduced to childhood. But bleeding? In the subtler forms of this trope, the male is psychologically wounded, is frequently the point-of-view character. His women help him recover his balance, but he’s the center of the female audience’s attention. In late 20th Century films, the wounding became more physical, bleeding blondes all over the video stores. Women should not find pleasure in seeing themselves as intact defenders of damaged fellow humans. This merely reverses the sexual polarities, doesn’t eliminate the inherent cruelty of reducing intact, functioning adults to passivity.
Dorcas thought she needed to see the movie and that Allie needed to see the reviews. She said, “Print another copy. Log all future time to the university.”
Allie’s flat voice said, “If it’s valid research.”
“Literature search. Henry Itaka’s publications.” Dorcas shoved the disc with the earlier literature search back into the small disc slot. “Add it to the small disc.”
The drive whirred.
“What is Allie looking for?”
“Allie is with the movie and cannot answer that question.”
Is the target me or Henry? Dorcas knew she couldn’t ask that without setting off alarms in the whole system. The Feds could be after both of them. “Literature search: Recombinant work with insects, publications in the last year.”
Was it her imagination or had Allie’s muscles tightened, lost their slackness? “Allie, are you back from the movie?”
The disc drive whirred. If I kill her, they’ll know it’s me. Dorcas realize Allie wasn’t tied down, wasn’t socketed to the helmet. Could be watching through the building security system, could come out from under the helmet fighting. probably can’t kill her.
“Allie, would you like a mantis? One of the big ones? They might make you feel better.”
Damn, I’m pushing it. Damn, damn, damn.
Allie, personality in the voice, said, “No, I had one already.”
“What happened to it?”
“I tore its head off. I hate being tranquilized.”
“Allie, what are you here for?”
“Slot card for non-research related inquiries.” Allie was gone again.
Dorcas stared down at Allie limp body. She tried not to look at the scanning cameras. Damn, and what have I told them?
As much as she’s told me. She said,
“Open grants search. Biological insecticides.”
I’m telling them more. She pulled out her credit card, and said, “General reporting search and literature search. The large neurologically reactive mantises.”
Am I self-destructive or what?
Fifty-five major grants for biological insecticides, including ten specifically for mantises with cockroach gene enhancements. Only five articles in the popular press about the mantises.
“I’d like copies of the complete proposals for grants three, fourteen, thirty-seven, and forty-five.” Include one grant going against the mantises.
If you hesitate now, they’ll know you’re responsible. Dorcas wanted a court record search of trials of researchers who’d abused their facilities, but not through this drode head. Maybe the Feds were scanning many labs? Maybe this drode head was only a prototype for a newer model?
Maybe if Dorcas knew more about the drode head’s off-time life, she could find a safer way to kill her there. Or hack her.
“Slot another disc.”
Dorcas slotted another disc. “I want to look at the grant applications at home,” she said, trembling slightly when she heard how her voice sounded. Stress analyzers would have her. Maybe she should play guilty liberal again? She turned off the interface. Allie slid out of the helmet without Dorcas’s help and looked at her with aware eyes. “Allison?”
“What?”
“Help me get over my bigotry about drode heads. And I copied some reviews of your movie.” Dorcas handed Allie the paper.
“If you were a drode head, you’d understand the appeal of my movie,” Allie said.
“Where do you have your rec pass?”
“Out in Jersey, some recycled dump.”
“When do you go?”
“When I can get out,” Allison said. “You know your boyfriend played nasty games with his drode heads when they were female. Welfare doesn’t send him women anymore.”
“He said he thought male brains processed faster.”
“Bastard wants to make rich people immortal, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. It would be ecologically incorrect.”
“You are a cute little girl, aren’t you?”
