by B. Wulf
“Do you boys need help getting down from there?”
A man in blue overalls and red-toed gumboots gazed up at us. I liked the way he blinked. The sun was in his eyes.
“You're such a muppet Fletcher. I bet, secretly you've read Pride and Prejudice like twenty times.”
Darkness. Again. It was oddly pleasant, like conscious sleep. I felt a tingle drift about my senses.
“Fletcher can you hear me?”
“Kate? I... I thought you were...”
“Fletcher can you hear me?”
“Kate? I... I'm so sorry... I didn’t want…”
“Fletcher... Can you hear me?”
I realized I wasn't speaking. I found my mouth would not move. It was like stone. How do you speak through stone?
“Fletcher? Cole, are you sure you sorted out his...”
“Sasha?”
My mouth may not have moved but I consciously formed the word. I remembered each formation of the lips which would produce the desired consonant and which contortion of the mouth produced the needed vowels. I did not enjoy it. It felt like I was speaking through granite.
“Fletcher, yes it’s Sasha. Welcome back. Not long now.”
I went back to sleep, if that is the correct term. It was nice. I like sleep.
***
I had written my parents a letter. It seemed more dramatic that way. I should have called, but I knew that hearing my mother banter on about the new neighbors and the latest gossip would change my mind. She would talk about small things, miniature problems like one of the cats getting stuck on the roof, or how our cousin was having trouble finding work. Beauty is small and unassuming; just like my mother.
My father was not small. He was rugged, with calloused hands and a fiery temper. At the farm a bull once charged me when I strayed into its paddock. My father beat it off with a fencepost he ripped from the ground.
I wished I had thought of them more. It was too late now.
***
“I don’t want my parents to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”
It was Cole who responded. “Why?”
“They won’t...” I stopped talking. Tired.
“What should we tell them?” Cole's voice was flat.
“Plane crash.” I thought of mum. I got emanations. Nothing tangible.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Pain fades. People forget.
“It’s probably safer this way,” said Cole, “Safer for your family. It will be hard on them though, to think you are dead.”
“I am dead.”
“You’re more alive than ever,” It was Sasha's voice. Warm.
“One of me is dead,” I said, “I’m new.”
“You are new,” said Sasha.
***
The months blew by like a plastic bag caught in a hurricane. I went through rehabilitation, as Cole called it, which consisted of me regaining my faculties and undergoing psychological assessments. I kept getting the feeling that no one expected me to get through the transformation without some form of mental implications. When I first saw myself I started to realise why.
I was walking around the halls of CANA with Cole. He never caught me when I stumbled; I was too fat so he told me. He had an odd way of attempting to lighten the mood.
“So I'm kind of like the Six Million Dollar Man then?” I asked Cole.
“No you're not, you are worth much more.” More sad humor. “Should we take a walk in the courtyard? The azaleas are blooming.”
As I stepped outside for the first time since the 'integration' I was still expecting the kiss of the sun's warmth on my face. It didn't kiss me. It didn’t even hug or at least try to appear happy to see me. I was aware of the temperature increase but it was no longer a sensory awareness. I just knew.
It may sound silly but up until then I had been too frightened to examine my hands. They stayed at my side. My head focused directly ahead. I avoided mirrors and metallic surfaces.
We sat on a bench beside a meticulously tended garden. Tentatively, I raised my hand to touch a pink azalea's petals. I cringed mentally when the limb entered my peripheries. My hand resembled a knight's gauntlet. It looked almost black with silver filigree spiraling about my fingers.
“With all those billions...” I stopped, stuck. My hand halted before the flower. “With all your money, you couldn't make me appear human? Why do I look like a toy soldier?”
“Fletcher, you are not human any more. You are much more. We could have made you appear human but we need humanity to see the future. You, Fletcher, are the future. Perfection.” He paused and put on a pair of aviator sunglasses, “Your basic form is still the same. Hopefully it creates empathy.”
I didn't know how to react. I thought I could start again. Perhaps this was the best kind of start. I was the first of a new species; well second counting Frederick. I finally grasped the azalea's delicate petal between my thumb and forefinger and plucked it from the flower. I held it up to my eye and then let it fall into the palm of my hand. It was not bruised or blemished.
“So why aren't you like me?” I asked.
Cole scuffed the ground with his left foot. “Perhaps one day. But right now my place is here, assisting the integrations.”
“Where is my place?”
“In the world's eye. Showing them that you are not something to be afraid of.”
I didn't respond. I didn't particularly like what I heard. Turning my head I caught a glimpse of myself in Cole's aviators. Gleaming obsidian eyes set in a featureless face. The basic form was the same, I had just lost all the little parts that made me human.
That said, I was beautiful.
***
“Ever wanted to meet the president Fletcher?” Sasha's voice crackled over the phone.
“I... I've...”
I assumed that meeting the President of the United States is a big deal and acted accordingly.
“Well don't get your hopes up.” Sasha laughed or attempted to. “I am arranging a meeting between you and the Secretary of Homeland Security.”
I wasn’t surprised. I still remembered my undignified scuffle with Agent Jones. I didn't know who this guy was but judging from the tone of Sasha's voice he was one of the big men of America.
“He wants to know if we are a threat. Please try not to act like a psychopath around him. Use a bit of your Kiwi charm.”
“Ok.”
Enough said.
“How are you holding up Fletcher?”
“Good.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m fine.”
It might sound bad, but I was fine. I was already becoming as cold and unfeeling as the metal skin that encapsulated me.
I mean that in a good way.
***
The Secretary's office was symmetrical. Oddly so. I had navigated numerous security checks, passing through a vestibule oozing suave from its velvet couches and into a central atrium. You could see all the fifteen floors from the base of a tired old plaque in the center.
I had expected men in black suits with little earpieces and slick sunglasses. I got a Kevlar clad armed offender platoon packing nothing less than fifty caliber. They weren't taking chances with me.
I'm pretty much just a kid. What the hell am I doing here?
We took an elevator up to the twelfth floor and I was marched down a corridor by four men. I was easily a foot taller than any of them. I got that schoolyard pride. Shame shorties. I contemplated poking my tongue out. Then I realized I didn’t have a tongue.
At the end of the hall stood two massive oak doors lurking behind a flat faced, scrubbed up hobo in a fastidiously fitted suit. His facial hair was his most impressive feature. Must be a southern boy.
“Fletcher?” He said offering his hand.
I took it. Cautiously. Careful not to harm his fragile pink skin. Agent Jones was at his side. Jones looked wide-eyed and sweaty. His bald head gleamed. I don’t think he realized who I was.
�
��My name is Kevin Cosworth. I’ve heard lots about you.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you Secretary Cosworth. I haven’t heard much about you.”
The Secretary looked mildly surprised. “I had not expected you to sound so human.”
“I’m working at the moment,” I said, “Not much time for terrorizing the innocents. A monsters gotta earn his way just like everyone else Secretary Cosworth.”
He laughed hesitantly. I should be slipping into an imperiously self-assured demeanor. They need to see me as an exemplar of sentience. So Sasha had drilled into me.
“Well Fletcher, you may call me Kevin.” His eyes changed. The pupils dilated as he squinted. “Are you going to kill me?”
What the hell are you on boy?
“Of course not. I apologize if I seem intimidating.”
Kevin shrugged and opened a door.
“Come in.” When his bodyguards tried to follow, he held up his hand and said, “Please give us some privacy.”
The Secretary's office was boring. Books, mainly biographies, and little statuettes lined the shelves that picketed the room. A coffee mug with three smiling children and the words 'Grumpy Gramps' took pride of place on his desk. He didn't sit at his desk but opposite me on one of two armchairs.
“Sit.”
He motioned with his hand towards the cookie coloured armchair.
I sat. The secretary, Kevin, was balding just like Agent Jones. It must be the stress. I wondered if he used buffer on his scalp. It gleamed like a crystal ball, reflecting the sunlight from the window behind his desk.
“Firstly,” said Kevin, cupping his hands, “Why am I not talking to Doctor Neumann?”
I'd rehearsed this. The lines were written on my eyelids- figuratively of course.
“Sasha thought it would be best if you saw this firsthand.” I paused for effect. “To demonstrate that I am just a normal guy, devoid of death.” I contemplated repeating the line for emphasis. I didn't. Kevin didn't give me a chance.
“Who are you Fletcher?”
Of all the questions to ask.
“Well you’ve been having me followed lately so I thought you would know.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said the Secretary, “Who are you?”
“Do you mean who was I? Or who am I?”
I thought I detected concern in Kevin's eyes.
His brow furrowed. “I was hoping there would be no difference.”
“I... I'm...” I had stuffed that up nicely. “I'm a twenty year old Kiwi from Otorohanga. I went to…” I stopped when I tasted the lie on my lips. Figuratively again. There was a difference.
An entire reality separated me from me.
“Do you feel emotion?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What did you last feel?”
This interview was supposed to be about CANA and it's mission statement. Kevin was a giant douchebag in my opinion.
“It is a simple enough question.” He looked smug. Though I knew I was plastering emotions to his dispassionate visage.
What do I tell him? The black loss? The red pain? The white realization? The gray confusion?
“Fear,” I said at last, “Fear and regret.”
Kevin smiled. Not a victorious smile, a sympathetic smile.
“What do you regret Fletcher?”
I did not reply so the Secretary continued.
“At least you have convinced me that you are still human.”
We talked for two hours. About football and skiing and school.
It felt good.
Chapter 14
“You did well.” Cole was debriefing me.
“I screwed up.”
“You displayed emotion and vulnerability; it is the best thing you could have done.”
I stopped talking. Recently it had dawned on me that I was pathetic; just the casual epiphany I know. I was a reaction to the situation. I know that for some people this would have spurred them onwards to a greater level of self-control but I was tired. Damn tired. The type of tired that envelops your mind with lethargy while your body continues at the pace of the world. I was a sleepwalker.
“Try not to look so glum...”
I felt like I had achieved something. It's no mean feat making yourself look sad when you have no facial features.
“You're going to a dinner party tomorrow. Full of congressmen and statesmen. Secretary Cosworth will be there.”
Oh joy.
***
Dinner.
Clean cut waiters; their smiles being the only curve in sight.
Delicate faced ladies whose foundation was a second skin hiding the smallest imperfection.
Square jawed men standing in triangles engaging in circular arguments.
I stood in the center. They fawned over me. They lusted over the idea which I embodied.
Immortality. Perfection.
God, if only they could see in my head. I was a bundle of nerves- figuratively and literally.
“May I touch you?”
“Can you fly?”
“So what strings does a man have to tug on to become like you?”
“It's like Doctor Who and those robot chaps.”
“If we melted you down how much would you fetch on the open market?”
“Angelic, simply angelic.”
“The human form perfected, such beauty.”
The parties, functions and presentations continued for months. I even got to lead the Christmas parade. It was pretty cool. I still hadn’t seen Stuart or Sasha since the integration.
***
“Er… Fletcher?”
“Yup, that’s me,” I said, getting to my feet.
“Um… my name is Amy and I’m the makeup artist…”
I was in the waiting room, ready to go on live TV for an interview.
“It’s standard protocol that I do each person’s makeup before they go on.”
I nodded, “Yeah I could use some lipstick.”
Amy stared at me, her mouth wide with uncertainty.
“I’m joking,” I added, “Don’t worry about it. Hopefully I’m not too shiny on camera.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Amy quickly, “I had better be going now. You’re on in five.”
“Thanks,” I called after her retreating form.
After pacing the room for a while another lady came in.
“Fletcher?”
“Yup,” I said, “that’s me.”
“You’re on,” she said, “This way please.”
After navigating a few corridors I was directed on stage.
“And here he is,” said the host, “The one we have all been waiting for. Would everyone please give a round of applause for Fletcher.”
I strode on, my optics struggling to cope with the flashing lights. It wasn’t until I had shaken the hosts hand and sat down on a couch that I noticed the silence. Not a single sound louder than a gasp emanated from the crowd. I saw a man, just off camera, waving a sign saying ‘APPLAUSE’ frantically.
Looking at the crowd, I said with a little wave, “Hi guys, I’m Fletcher.”
The crowd erupted in relieved applause. At least I didn’t sound like a monster.
“Well Fletcher,” said the host, “You can call me Dave. And I must say that you look amazing.”
I crossed my legs and slouched back on the couch.
“Cheers Dave. I’ve been working out.”
Dave nodded solemnly, “Yeah it shows.”
The man with the sign started to wave ‘LAUGHTER’ about. The crowd acquiesced and I began to relax.
“So tell us, Fletcher,” said Dave, “What exactly is a synthetic?”
“Well, say you have a leg amputated and you have to wear a prosthetic limb?”
“Yeah.”
“Well a synthetic is the extreme case of that.”
“So I think we need to make this clear for our audience Fletcher, you used to be one hundred percent human?”
“I’m still human, Da
ve.”
“Oh right,” said Dave, “Of course. My apologies.”
I laughed, “It’s fine. I still freak myself out when I look in the mirror. It does take some getting used to.”
“Yes, I bet it does. We usually offer our guests a beverage Fletcher…”
“Got any motor oil?”
“Um… we could…”
“I’m just kidding, I’m fine Dave.”
Dave nodded while pouring himself a glass of water. He was sweating.
“Our other guest for the night,” continued Dave, after downing the entire glass, “Is the rising star, comedian, actor and script writer, Hurley Banks.”
The crowd applauded as Hurley entered. He was a little man, barely five foot, with a smooth face and a crooked mouth.
“How ya doing Dave?” he said, shaking his hand. He then turned to me. “And hi there big guy.”
I stood and took his hand. “Fletcher,” I said, “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” replied Hurley, taking a seat, “Ever since I heard about you synthetics I’ve wanted to meet one. I’ve got a few anatomical questions for you. Probably best left for after the show though.”
I laughed. “I’ve got more questions than you do.”
“You sound young,” said Hurley, ignoring the host, “How old are you?”
I paused, realizing that I had missed my own birthday. “Nearly twenty two.”
“Wow,” said Hurley, raising his eyebrows, “Got a girl? An eligible young man like you must be swamped with admirers.”
I laughed but stopped myself. I think my laugh made people uncomfortable.
“Not exactly,” I replied, “I think women view me more as an appliance than as a potential lover. I think I’d have more luck romancing a fridge.”
I got a genuine laugh from the crowd. The man didn’t even have to wave his sign this time. Dave, the host, was pouring himself another glass of water.
“So, Fletcher,” said Hurley. I guess he was controlling the interview now. “What are your plans for the future? And you got an especially long future to plan for, so I hear.”
