Clay

by Tony Bertauski

  It was M0ther’s intervention.

  “I think M0ther has achieved self-awareness, Paul, and I don’t think anyone’s aware of it. The size of her processing capacity and redundancy pathways made that inevitable. Her directive was to save humanity by implementing the Halfskin Laws—shutting down people before they converted their bodies into artificial vehicles. If she achieves sentience, they’ll shut her down. I think she has, Paul. I think she’s evolved and understands what she’s capable of doing. ”

  He appears hollowed out, staring vacantly at the floor. Maybe he knows all of this already, and it’s just now coming to light.

  Cali doesn’t tell him what made up her mind. Am I her fail safe?

  “I can exclude you, Paul. I can begin a biomite transfusion that will take you off my frequency so that it won’t affect you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have to shut down for it to work.” She looks down, avoids eye contact. That’s a lie.

  “And Nix?”

  “I can’t reach him.”

  “You’re going to kill your brother?”

  “Shut down, Paul. There’s a difference.”

  “You shut down biomites. You kill clay. One percent of you—and Nix—is still clay.”

  “It’s not fair, I know.”

  Life’s not fair, Cali. Here we are again.

  “You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “No, Paul. I’m think more clearly now than ever. Don’t you see? I’m the key to every brick. Everything is linked to me. I can cripple M0ther by shutting down everything she’s done.”

  “And then what?”

  “The world will see what she’s doing.”

  “They already know!”

  “No, they don’t. There’s something about her that we don’t know, but she does, Paul. She wants to be shut down.”

  “Then why doesn’t she just do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s what I mean! If she wanted to shut down, she’d do it. She’d let the public know that she’s self-aware, she’d trigger an automated shutdown—it can be done. She’s up to something, Cali. She wants you to do this. Think about that. If she’s indestructible, why would she reach out for you to stop her?”

  “Trust me, I can feel it.”

  “You’re a scientist! You don’t go on gut-feelings, you analyze data; you look for statistical differences, not feelings. This is all wrong, Cali. Listen to yourself.”

  “She never should’ve been created, I think she knows this. Marcus Anderson and others like him were well-intentioned but they were wrong. It’s more than just shutting her down. Marcus and others like him need to be stopped.”

  She can taste the bitterness. She wants vindication from Marcus Anderson’s relentless pursuit. Her brother didn’t deserve to be shut down when he was a kid. Marcus made her turn Nix halfskin to save him. She never forgave him for that.

  It’s not that. Something feels right. She can see the truth, and it’s sitting across from her, shaking his head. It all makes sense now.

  He leans his elbows on his knees. “You’re making a mistake, Cali. I think you’re looking for reasons to end this. If this doesn’t work, it’ll be a waste.”

  She can’t deny that. She thought she found peace on the farm, that when she had security from M0ther, she could be happy. But something never left her.

  The hole in her life stayed.

  Maybe she’s manufactured this whole belief, spun this tale of a righteous heroine in her mind so that she’d end her life with purpose. It’s possible she seeded herself with coded thoughts and erased the memory of doing so. Maybe she’s insane and rationalizing suicide.

  Maybe.

  “The transfusion, Paul. Let me give it to you.”

  He stares at her. She meets his gaze, unflinching. He’s looking for an explanation in her eyes, a hint of doubt. What he sees is what she embodies. Total conviction. He paces around the room, looks out the window. Cali feels her breath slow down.

  “If you’re going to do this,” he says, “you take me with you.”

  He’s calling her bluff, daring her to take him, too. She doesn’t want to, he can sense it and she won’t deny it. But he can’t stop her. It’ll only take a thought for her to trigger the mass shutdown. But she had to give him an option. She knew he wouldn’t take it. But she had no right to do that, not even with his consent. She has no right to take the bricks, really. Perhaps the facts suggest they aren’t real, that they’re incapable of self-reflection. But there’s proof that one brick is self-aware.

  He’s standing in front of Cali.

  “Let me take one more sample from you, just to be sure.” She holds up a stethoscope-looking instrument.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll use it to check my work. Just to make sure everything is working.”

  He yanks his arm back. “Don’t inject me with something.”

  “Look, I don’t have time to run a full battery of tests. This is a speedy sampler. It just matches what I previously saw. That’s all.”

  She takes his arm and this time he lets her, but not without searching for her intentions, staring deep into her eyes. She looks back, unblinking. He’s suspicious. He should be. She’s never used this to draw a sample.

  She ties a band around his arm.

  The small vial containing a silver liquid is hidden from his sight, nestled beneath a cover she fastened in place. She knew he’d turn down her offer, so she was ready. He watches her while it does its work without any idea that she seeds him with another variation of nixes.

  He leaves the house, rubbing his arm.

  She drops the seeder on the floor and closes her eyes. She reaches out to Nix like she’d done a thousand times. Through the ether, she calls to him. She’ll leave a message and then call again. She has no right to shut him down, either.

  But life isn’t fair. Never has been.

  53

  The replicator hums, sending vibrations through the floor.

  The filaments run back and forth in slow, methodical rhythm, hissing as they lay down biomites a microscopic layer at a time. Another set of filaments flail around the disc dispersing fine mist. It starts as footprints on the silver disc and slowly builds feet. The cross-sections of bones, muscles and nerves are visible, like watching a thin series of dissecting cuts in reverse.

  Her veins bulge on the tops of her feet, just as Nix remembers them. Her toenails are translucent, the tips slightly white.

  A miniscule layer at a time, it goes.

  By the end of the first day, the knees have been completed. Under the artificial lights, her brown flesh is closer to beige than tanned hide. Now, on the second day, the upper thighs are nearly complete. A pair of legs—slick with moisture—stand independently of each other, waiting for the pelvis to join them.

  The cloying scent of putty is strong.

  He hardly notices his reflection—the visage of a young man. He couldn’t hold the disguise through the upload. There was no point in resuming it. They know who he is now.

  Jamie exits a side room where thin bunks are available. She yawns with a coffee cup in each hand, gives one to Nix. They watch the hypnotic filaments finish another layer. The misters keep the newly formed flesh moist. Soon, they’ll fabricate the intestines and uterus. Already he’s daydreaming about having a child, and she’s still not halfway to the flesh.

  “You sleep?” she asks.

  He dozed off when the fabrication was midway up the shins, remembering the scar she earned falling out of a tree.

  Jamie walks the perimeter of the glass cube, studies the legs from all angles. She’s been withdrawn since the fabrication began.

  A new technician checks the monitors. At some point, Mr. Hansen and his assistants were replaced by a heavyset black man and a short white woman with spiky hair. They don’t talk to Nix; they barely acknowledge him.

  “You uploaded her,” Jamie says. “Didn’t you?”

  �
�You ever heard of Dreamland?”

  “The biomites-induced hallucination?”

  “I just close my eyes and go there.” His reflection is stoic and distant. “I’ve been going there since I was a kid.”

  Given everything they’ve been through, it’s not hard for her to believe.

  “And so you dreamed her up.”

  “She was just there—living and breathing when I discovered I could go there.” Go there, like it’s a place. I still want to believe. “But Dreamland depends on me to exist. I was out here and she was trapped inside. If something happens to me, Dreamland is dead. And so is she.”

  “So you’re bringing her out.”

  The filaments break their rhythm to reconfigure. The legs are complete. There’s a hesitation before the filaments begin circling. They begin at the bottom of the buttocks. Eventually, they’ll complete the mid-section and torso, then the shoulders and arms before starting on the head.

  “You’ve got to understand something.” Nix addresses Jamie’s reflection on the glass cube. “The details of what I know about her aren’t memories. It’s a grand design that goes all the way to her genetic make-up. It’s information that I couldn’t possibly know or remember. Memories are biased, Jamie. We’re all guilty of running them through filters until we’re left with distorted images of the people we love.”

  He taps the glass.

  “That’s not how I remember her. That is her.”

  She sips her coffee, nodding. “What’s her name?”

  “Raine.”

  With slow, careful steps, she starts around the glass cube, again, making it around before returning to the bunk room to lie down. He wants to tell her more, tell her he’ll become a regular person now that she’s in the flesh. Maybe they’ll hide on the farm with Cali. He won’t need anything else, really. No reason to explore the world. He’s always got Dreamland for that. And they’ll start a family, too. They’ll have a boy named Joshua. Or a girl named Pearl. Either way, they’ll be as human as the clay farmers that live around them. Happiness is on the other side of the glass. He could almost touch it.

  On the other hand, Charlie’s fabrication is impossible, she knows that. That’s why she leaves Nix to watch his dream girl alone. Will it stop her from fabricating Charlie?

  It wouldn’t stop me.

  Soft pressure swells behind his eyes. Bing. Cali is calling again. He dumps the message. There’s nothing she can say to stop him. He should probably thank her. In a way, she forced him to turn Jamie halfskin. And that’s what brought him here.

  And Raine one step closer.

  54

  Cali locks the basement door and puts the key on the kitchen table. In case things don’t work out, she puts Hal’s name on a sheet of paper with an explanation scribbled beneath it. It starts out as an apology. She didn’t want him to discover the truth about her, at least not in this way. They’re good people—people she wishes, in another life, she can emulate.

  She drops a white envelope next to Hal’s note. There’s a different name on it. There are explanations inside.

  The musty smell of the house is rich today. She hasn’t noticed it this strong since she moved in so many years ago. That was a day she stopped right where she is now and felt the memories of the previous family saturating the old walls. This home, though, never felt like hers. She was always a stranger. She had hoped if she lived there long enough, the memories would become hers.

  They were just borrowed.

  She goes to the front porch and pulls the door closed, caressing the slick surface. She won’t open that again.

  Paul’s in the gravel driveway, throwing a tennis ball across the field. The muscles ripple down his arm, lean from days of fasting. The dogs return, one of them with the ball. Paul sends them on another chase.

  For a moment, she sees Nix playing with the dogs.

  Cali slings an old wool blanket over her shoulder. She stops next to him. The dogs only have eyes for the ball. Cali heaves it one last time. Paul turns to her. He smiles briefly. It’s lifeless.

  No one is ready to die.

  Numbered breaths bring a stark realization of one’s mortality: when the light goes out, life ends. If she was Christian, perhaps this moment would be a little more joyous—she could hope for a reward. She had lived the best life she could. As a scientist, she had always professed, with steel honesty, that she didn’t know what happened after death. Her uncertainty slows her breathing. Each breath becomes more precious than the one before. She’s not ready to die.

  No one is.

  They leave the compact driveway and traipse through the burgeoning green field. Clumps of May wildflowers sway outside the pasture. The crippled swing set is still standing. Cali drops the blanket beneath it. Paul helps spread it. They sit down, arms resting on their knees. The birds sing in the distant trees and a breeze rustles through the grass. The dogs return without the ball. Instinctively, they know she’s done.

  Is this what you want? Cali looks up. Are you toying with me? Am I caught in your perception field, made to believe my actions are just?

  Her desperation to find more breaths fuels her doubt; maybe Paul’s right. She should reconsider. But there is no room for thinking. She’s tired.

  They lay back.

  The clouds crawl across the sky. A hawk glides in the updraft. The last moments of life rest gently, never to be captured, only to be savored. She’s but a conduit through which they pass.

  Paul’s hand moves warmly over hers.

  She looks past the rusted chains of the swing set, into the endless blue heavens with a secret smile. Perhaps she knows why M0ther sent Paul.

  She doesn’t feel alone.

  55

  Nix fell asleep sometime after the torso was finished.

  The thrum of the replicator and hiss of the filaments was a distant lullaby.

  When he wakes, a headless nude body glistens on the silver disc. Several misters work to keep it moist and sealed, preventing the inactive biomites from separating. The moisture beads and streaks like perspiration.

  He stands the remaining hours.

  The strokes are slower, more methodical. The full lips are pink. Her nose slim. Eyelashes long. Moisture runs down her cheeks, drips from her chin. With each pass, she becomes less of an object, more of a dark-skinned woman. He presses his palms against the glass as if he’s magnetically drawn to it.

  The filaments finish her short hair with a sweeping flurry.

  They draw up to the ceiling and lock into the mounts. The replicator no longer churns out biomites.

  Silence.

  The body of Raine is motionless, inanimate.

  His breath fogs the glass with short and erratic strokes.

  “Beautiful,” Jamie whispers.

  He moves to the doorway—a seam etched into the wall. A burst of moisture is applied, running down her stomach. Water pools between her toes.

  “We’ll need some time to verify connectivity.” Mr. Hansen is back, along with Mr. Sing and Ms. Chen.

  Paul has waited years for this moment, but the next few hours feel even longer. The rudimentary tests are torture. Finally, her fingers flinch.

  Her chest inflates and the flesh stretches over her ribs. Slowly, it releases. This is repeated over and over. Each time, a knot of anticipation lodges in Nix’s throat. The inflations become consistent, closer together, until her chest rhythmically rises and falls.

  She’s breathing.

  He leans against the glass.

  The misters continue. A pulse begins thumping on her neck, light reflecting from the wet skin. She’ll open her eyes any second. She’ll see the outside world through flesh.

  The lab is flung into darkness.

  Red lights flash.

  Generators grind to life in another room and emergency lights come online, splashing a yellowish hue across the room.

  “What’s happening?” Nix calls.

  Mr. Hansen and the others scramble to their computers. He’s shou
ting at Mr. Sing, something about power failure and redirecting pathways. The computer monitors begin to glow; tiny green lights flicker beneath the benches.

  Raine is still breathing, but her eyes remain sealed.

  “What’s going on?” Jamie asks.

  Nix bangs on the glass. The inch-thick walls barely shimmer beneath his blows but the reverberations echo inside. She won’t open her eyes. Adrenaline dumps into his system, poking fear with a cold stick.

  “Open it! Open the door!”

  Jamie hammers on the glass, too. Their appeals thunder inside the cube.

  “The emergency exits aren’t responding,” Mr. Sing says. A quiver in his voice suggests ideas that don’t include Nix and Jamie.

  “We’ll override it.” Mr. Hansen starts taking off the white coat.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Nix grabs his sleeve. Mr. Hansen whirls around.

  “You did this!” Mr. Hansen shouts. “You bastard, you did this!”

  He throws a glancing blow off of Nix’s head. He tries another and gets slammed against the cube. Nix has two fistfuls of his lab coat bunched under this chin. “You realize what you’ve done?” Mr. Hansen says. “You betrayed us, you fuck; led them right to us. This might be the last fabricator in the world, and you just handed it over to them.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Watch your lady disintegrate, you bastard.”

  “No.” Nix flings him to the floor. Mr. Sing and Ms. Chen help him up, the red light splashing alarm across their faces. “You’re not leaving. Get back there and finish. I haven’t done anything.”

  They step away.

  Their movements, though, begin to slow, like they’re going through a thick and invisible substance. Mr. Hansen appears to harden, like a flash-frozen statue.

  And then Nix feels it.

  Pressure.

  It fills him like viscous fluid. He blinks, slowly, turns to Jamie; words try to escape her throat. Their bodies betray them, their muscles seize.