Letters to the Cyborgs

by Judyth Baker

  Just then, a deep boom, like thunder, reverberated through the blue mist, and the Algorithms in Sector English paused in their frenetic movements, shuddered to a halt, and then turned as a unit, slogging toward their Repair Modules. It was their Down Time. During this one-hour period, we could approach the Algorithm of concern to us and Probe it as it hibernated in Rest Mode.

  Anthrax-7, I thought to myself, here we come.

  The Repair Modules were capsules fitted to hold the Algorithms down, but the top half could open on cantilevers to allow us to conduct Probes. But to my surprise, when the Algorithm of concern spotted us, it stopped moving toward its Repair Module. As it did so, several other Algorithms also stopped. Then, an amazing thing: some thirty or forty Algorithms pivoted 180 degrees to face us, refusing to enter Repair.

  “What the hell?” muttered the older Engineer.

  As the elevator began carrying us down to their level, I made a bold decision and lunged forward, shutting it down. The elevator slammed to a halt a mere three meters above the Algorithms: we had to grab onto the rails, the stop was so sudden. Worse, a wave of pain came slamming into our brains!

  Anthrax 7 was sending Punishment!

  “What the hell?” the older Engineer repeated.

  “Get us out of here!” the younger one cried, its face blanching white with fear. But by now, two Logic Algorithms had managed to wrap their long, wet fingers around the metal latticework at the bottom of the elevator door. If they managed to pull it open, we’d surely die, for our brains were now flooding with a vision from Anthrax 7 – our skulls slammed again and again against the steel floor until their gory contents sprayed out to stain the white, translucent bodies of the Algorithms bright red… That’s when I decided to start stomping down on the Logic Algorithms’ long, twisting, fingers…“Help me, help me!” I yelled, between gasps of pain, to the Engineers. “If you want to get out of this alive!” I was being hit with rolling bolts of electric Punishment that began to strangle my breath and cripple me. Without more help, we’d all die.

  The older Engineer stood frozen with terror, but the younger one began mashing down on those white, writhing fingers with hard kicks.

  “Kill, kill!” he shouted, flinching as he, too, was Punished. But our adrenaline was flowing, and together, we smashed away at the slimy, white fingers of what had to be countless Algorithms, until, little by little, the fingers began to release their grip on the elevator. As they did so, a final, blinding white pain filled our heads. The punishment was so severe I thought I’d collapse, but I managed, at the last moment, to put the elevator in reverse. It made a terrible grinding sound, loaded down as it was by a last Algorithm. One final kick, and the Algorithm let go, as the elevator continued its slow ascent. Though it was pulling us out of range of the Punishment zone, another problem developed: the elevator began swinging back and forth. In a flash, I realized that the Algorithms were trying to stop the elevator by pulling on its chains. As it neared the top floor, there was an explosion. Realizing that the motor had been destroyed, I shoved the junior Engineers forward. “We have to jump!” I yelled. I forced the door open and we leaped up – and out!

  Just in time.

  As the elevator’s doors hissed shut, it lost power and began falling, out of control. It landed with a sickening thud against the soft bodies of an unknown number of Algorithms. As they made their high-pitched death calls, I finally had enough mental strength to telepath an emergency message to the Center’s main command module.

  As we waited for a response, Botambulances began whirring past us, to descend amidst the chaos below.

  “How many hurt?” the younger Engineer wondered aloud, staring down through the clear black glass wall. We could see several Botambulances busily hauling away some flattened Algorithms. They had been utterly destroyed. We almost forgot our intense headaches, with our hearts pumping, as we stared down at the disaster.

  “This is carnage!” the older Engineer groaned, as the sides of the Botambulances lit up with the IDs of each ruptured Algorithm. Worst of all, two of the Algorithms were important.

  “We’ve lost our Two-Word Connector and a Word Monitor. Disaster!” the older Engineer announced.

  So, Anthrax 7 was dead. Hearing it, I sank to my knees, exhausted, glad to be alive.

  “My dissertation!” the younger engineer began wailing. “What will happen to my dissertation?”

  The younger Engineer was studying the permutations of two-word commands that all Ordinals had to follow, by law. All Ordinals were required to respond to two word commands, but they needed the “connector” Algorithm to understand the link between one word and the next. The two most important two-word commands were “Start work!” and “Stop work!” And without the Word Monitor Algorithm, how could Center make sure the Ordinals were hearing and obeying the right commands?

  “We can make a patch,” I suggested. “Start. Work.”

  “No, it would have to be “Work. Start,” the younger Engineer corrected.

  “NO, it should be “Work. Now.” The other piped in.

  “Work. Now. That’s going to be the Patch,” I told them. “And ‘Work. Stop,’ That will do it. The main word first, the modifier, next.”

  I had seniority, so I called in the Patch. It was going to put a huge extra burden on the one surviving Single Word Algorithm, but it was just temporary, until a new Two-Word connector Algorithm was built and tested.

  As for the Monitor, somewhere in my head, I realized that necessary haste might mean that an Algorithm identical to the malfunctioning one that had punished me was likely to take its place. To make sure it wouldn’t recognize me and would never attack me or any other English Engineer again, I’d have to request an emergency inspection in Repair. I was also determined to find the IDs of every Algorithm that had turned 180 degrees to face us in rebellion.

  Fighting off my need to mentally rest, I telepathed my request at once to the Center.

  “I need the IDs of the Algorithms that pivoted 180 degrees,” I told Center.

  This mighty Algorithm had been infused with many humanoid characteristics so that we could properly communicate. It was almost like talking to a Bot Doctor.

  “Incapacitated Units were all English,” Center replied.

  “I know that!” I answered, irritated. “Give me their IDs.”

  The IDs streamed into my head, into the section of my brain we term 48-hour memory. But one ID was missing.

  “No good!” I complained. “What about Anthrax 7? We came here to Probe it.”

  “We are aware,” Center said. “Anthrax 7 is being replaced ASAP.”

  “It needs to be Probed.”

  “We will Probe.”

  Center shut down, leaving me angry and frustrated. Center was itself handled by the Master Algorithms for all language sections, but it had failed us. It had produced the faulty Anthrax 7 and might well create another Anthrax 7 with the same hateful attitude. I’d have to go higher up the ladder to get it fixed.

  After I reported Center’s failure concerning Anthrax 7 to Upper Echelon, which was an immediate requirement, the three of us removed our gas masks and stumbled back to the Pod, where we donned our F-Masks.

  “My head is killing me!” the older Engineer griped.

  “Shut up!” snarled the younger Engineer, as we looked upon that coward with scorn. We had been in an Emergency and it had frozen stiff. Had been useless.

  To show our disgust, we both tuned our masks so it couldn’t see our faces. Instead, as if the older Engineer was nothing but an Ordinal, all it could see was its own putrid face looking back. Realizing that it had to get respect back, the older Engineer decided to take a risk.

  “We should get a day off for this,” it said.

  Well, we certainly agreed! If it had the guts to ask for a day of Vacation, that is. It was a reasonable request, considering the blazing headaches we suffered, but nevertheless, such a request could put a black mark against the older Engineer’s record as la
zy.

  In fact, no black mark was generated. It took only minutes to get approval. It was agreed that we had the right to a day of Vacation, because we had been severely Punished without cause. All three of us at once applied for one Day Off.

  Mine didn’t come a moment too soon.

  By the time I collapsed in my beautiful penthouse apartment, I was feeling lonely, exhausted and traumatized. I had trouble passing the Guardian, but at the last moment, my Accident Report was delivered into its claws and I was allowed to enter without De-Tox. Antares wasn’t there: the glowing tablet left on my Cocoon showed she had been returned to the Collective. I didn’t dare ask for her again so soon, either – it would look like Affection – unless I could come up with a good excuse.

  Damn! I missed her! Tired as I was, I paged through the list of available Stars, seeking any that might resemble her, but not one of them had natural black hair. My Kitbot was a good cook, but not as good as Antares. As I ate the Melba Toast my Kitbot brought to me (one of my few Real Food rations), I considered that Antares would have put some kind of more savory spread on it, mixing two different kinds of taste. It would have been a slightly corrupt thing to do, but by these means, Antares had introduced me to new sensations. Was that being selfish?

  I had to see if the Accident Report had made it to Media. I thought my wall screen into activity and it was a comfort to view what reporters had to say about the incident. All three of us were front page news! I’d never been in the news before. But as I sipped my Tea Ration, to which had been added something by order of the Doctor to relieve my headache, I realized that the reporters weren’t quite telling the truth.

  I wasn’t a Sports Engineer, for starters. Those damned reporters had never contacted me to get the truth. My bit of pride, being a real Man, was also lost in the froth. I was described as an “it.”

  Why did they report only two deaths among the Minor Algorithms, when a dozen had been crushed? And why did they change the number of deaths of two key English Algorithms to just one? Maybe, I thought, they didn’t want anyone to get worried about the actual figures. Especially the Ordinals in my Block, who were given a Holiday, due to the disaster, of three hours, while the so-called “injured” Algorithm was actually being hastily re-created.

  The real reason for the Vacation for the Ordinals in my Block was because the workers here would be unable to understand a two-word (mandatory) order until the temporary Patch was in place in every one of their befuddled brains. That would take a few hours.

  Although my apartment is sound-proofed, I thought I could hear a muted roar of joy coming from the throats of a million Ordinals who lived in the slums below. They were celebrating their three hours of unprecedented rest.

  The last part of the news story was the most disturbing. According to the reporters, a dozen selfless Algorithms had saved the lives of three Sports Engineers when the Elevator in which they were riding suddenly malfunctioned. Anthrax 7, who died in the Elevator crash, was declared a Hero and its replacement would keep the same name in its honor.

  The next Big News of the Day got my full attention. Maybe it wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t just seen how the world was told that only one Algorithm had perished in the “Elevator accident” and was a “Hero” (who had actually tried to kill us). This report was short but sweet, because the Connector Algorithm backup was now out of memory. Communications everywhere would now be reduced to just one-word sound bites for two-word statements until the Connector Algorithm was replaced. I was rather pleased to see my Patch in operation, yet miffed at the news.

  I tuned in to hear what the Ordinals were being told, now that the Connector Algorithm’s memory banks had been drained and only one-word Statements could be understood. My Patch seemed to be working just fine as the next set of news flashed onto the screen.

  “Decisions. Tragic. Ordinals. Die. One. Hundred. Choice. Recycle. Decisions. Selfish. Morons. Lazy.”

  I was now more concerned than ever.

  If the reporter was saying a hundred Ordinals had chosen recycling (suicide) today, my bet, based on how my own story had been reported, was that a thousand had killed themselves. Something bad was going on, just below where it might be seen and understood. Whatever was going on, my only wish now was to be on the other side of the Planet when it happened.

  I accessed my Personal Monitor and chose to take my five-year vacation two days early. By adding my newly-awarded extra day, Vacation would start day after tomorrow – just one day early.

  Glum and worn out, I took a Repair Pill, then hobbled back to my Cocoon. I fell into it and closed my eyes, knowing that in a few hours, the new shift would begin. I’d have to return to The Algorithm Center. For the first time, I wondered if I’d get out of there alive.

  “I talk.”

  Antares! There she was, with her long, thick, shining black hair, her stunning blue eyes, her natural breasts (such a rarity! such a delight!). I sat up, my head dizzy, blinking away the sleep I so badly needed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You. Me. Must. Go.”

  Her brain, bound up by the loss of the Two-Word Connector Algorithm, was trying to get a frantic message across, via telepathy.

  “You said, ‘I Talk!’” I told her. “So, dammit, use your mouth! Talk to me!” I commanded her with all the authority I had as an Engineer, and I saw her tremble with fear. As were all English Engineers, I was immune to the breakdown of a linguistic Algorithm, but obviously, Antares was vulnerable, as were 99% of all sentient beings in the System.

  “Don’t – send me – away!” she panted out. “They will – Kill me!”

  She said all of that using her mouth, her tongue, her lips, her breath! Sure, I was impressed. It was true. Antares could communicate in the way forbidden to all but the Elite and highly educated. But wait. A thin trail of memory nagged at me…. What was it?

  “Come, sit down. Let’s have sex,” I said, inviting her.

  No one was more astonished than I when she shook her head, refusing. A wave of anger arose in me. She was expensive. She had no right to shake her head!

  “You and me – we must go!” she said, forming the words carefully by mouth.

  “Antares, my sweet,” I answered, “You’re the one in danger. Not I. You’re the one refusing.” As she still stood there, stubborn and defiant, the Memory, fully formed, of the streamer attached to the drone struck home.

  “Wait!” I said, standing up, too. “She … She Talks!”

  “Yes!” Antares answered, with a smile – it was forbidden – coming fleetingly to that wine-red mouth of hers. “Yes! She Talks!”

  For a minute, I couldn’t think. “There’s something very big behind this,” I told her. “This is bigger than you, or me. I was sent a message. By Terrorists.…”

  I could see, I could remember, in the billows of smoke before everything had gone black, as the Ordinals screamed and died all around me, that burning plastic streamer and its golden letters, brought to me by a killer drone that didn’t inject me. She reached up. She placed her fingers across my mouth. She looked into my eyes, “Forbidden!” she whispered.

  I took her hand from my mouth, gently. “Antares,” I said to her, my emotions rising into my throat, “You are different. Do you understand? Different.”

  She smiled again. “I know.”

  We were standing in the only place in the entire apartment where there were so many cross-signals from so many places that it would be hard for Thought Bots to intercept what we were saying. She seemed to have known exactly where to stand … of course, I had shown her the spot, come to think of it, when I dared to tell her, just a few days ago, that I liked her.…

  “It was in the way you looked at me,” I managed to say. “Those eyes. Trusting me. You seemed to care what happened to me … that’s why I had to say, ‘I like you’…” I frowned, drew her close, and kissed her. Just on her lips.

  Oh, that was dangerous.

  She pulled back, placed her han
ds on both sides of my face. Then she drew nearer. With a husky whisper that set my heart pounding, she said the words I knew were there, waiting to spill out, waiting to pour out….she said them, even though it could get her killed…

  “I love you!”

  “NO!” I corrected her. “Stop!”

  Her words could get both of us eliminated. Only one person had ever spoken those words to me in my life before: my mother. Just before she and Dad immolated themselves. Just before the Thought Bots came and tore me from them…

  “I love you!” She breathed again, into my soul. Just in case I’d not understood the first time…

  What terrifying words!

  What risks had she taken to come to me at this hour, unbidden?

  I took her by the shoulders. Hard. And looked into the abyss.

  How could I have wasted precious time, arguing with her? She was glancing around nervously as I took up my passport and activated my Vacation Permit. OK, it was two days early, but in all my two-hundred years, I’d never taken it early before, and once I’d even missed half a vacation. I decided to plug in the Half Vacation I’d missed over a hundred years ago, that I’d saved so long for the harshest of times. They wouldn’t like it, I’d pay a heavy fine, but I knew I’d likely get away with it because I’d been in a Terrorist attack and the Elevator accident. It would be just barely excusable.

  I decided to take the risk.

  I grabed up as much Real food and secure clothing as I could carry in my decorative wall-art bag. Bags were mostly superfluous in these times: nobody had actual possessions to take anywhere, but this was one of my antique objets d’arte (Yes, a scrap of Old French survived here and there in my wandering soul). I took Antares by the arm and guided her out of the Complex, shielding her as we passed the Guardian, ordering a Taxi as we descended to street level. Had I stepped so much as a meter from Antares, she might have been arrested by Thought Bots, because she was exhibiting detectable emotion.