Category: Neural Nets, Uplinks, and Wetware

“……….it will be increasingly impossible to distinguish between humans and robots because of our machine-like behavior as much as robots’ human-like features. And could this eventually become the norm, with humans spending their entire lives acting like machines?” ….Brett Frischmann

Atticus stood under an overhang of the old Empire State Building in a driving rain, squashed into a tiny space by a crowd addicted to their neurons being turned on by instant hits of texts, emails, tweets and notes from high school web sites. He looked through the stream of water for any place of refuge. He had to get away from the clashing of belated announcements of the storm beeped out by small communication devices attached to every head. The sound could be silenced but it never was.  

“There is an endless barrage of personal information from people and probably robotic creatures I never heard of who want to be my electronic friend,” thought Atticus, adjusting a plastic garbage bag over his shoulders. “I am becoming my worst dream. In fact, the whole freaking human population has become robotic ADHDs as if some strange virus had spread rapidly throughout the world. We don’t speak to each other. Empathic exchange is lost in the frenetic word glut. The robots have become us and we have become the robots.”

Atticus held his hands over his ears, walked into the first bar he could find and absent-mindedly ordered a scotch and soda.

“This combination is no longer available,” announced a disjoined robotic voice into space. “An alternative will be prepared for you.”

Atticus was embarrassed. He was so seldom in public. His days were spent alone and he felt no desire to be distracted by the din surrounding him in public places. It didn’t matter what he ordered at the bar since no one heard him. The bar clientele were too busy with their devices, casually referred to as P-devs. They were all talking at once facing in different directions.

Atticus put his head on the bar. He missed the old bartender. His idle friendly chatter and advice had been replaced by computerized problem analysis. He took off his wet jacket, loosened his tie and slid over to the analysis center at the end of the bar.

“I need to have a real conversation with someone, anyone,” Atticus whispered to a female voice in the analysis machine. “Face to face conversations don’t exist. We all use the same format of self-absorbed chatter and look pass the recipient of the verbal exercise as if there was no one there. Communication is verbal selfies. There is no emotional exchange, no body language, no eye contact, no joy, no love. Most of all, I am disgusted at myself for constantly going from one device to the other in a desperate attempt to find warm human contact – any temperature of human contact would be fine at this point.”

“Emotions have been easily defined either by emoticons or emojis for at least a decade,” said the soothing voice. “Many emoticons describe your current emotions. Your comments and thoughts, however, are being retained by The System and I must warn you they are approaching subversive. Our communication skills undergo constant testing and you are suggesting the testing is inadequate. Be assured the methods used by The System are 100% correct.”

“Emoticons are a language of only 500 or so images,” said Atticus, with a desire to scream. “The most primitive peoples used better communication and sometimes verbs. Where is the body language, the eye-to-eye contact? By the way, for your memory bank, any current method of communication is technically called speed-talk since there is no necessity for empathetic exchange or brain edit of any of the written or spoken words. We are stuck in a roboland of yesterday.”

“You are suggesting, of course, that emoticons, real or virtual, cannot accurately express the complications presented by the number of emotions people could express,” deduced the voice. “You also apparently believe that the class one members of this society that you insist on calling robots cannot communicate.”

“Expressionless interaction is limited communication,” said Atticus, thinking he was wisely avoiding any references to robots that were too negative. “In the past, at least half of human-to-human communication took place with no speaking at all. People used facial expressions and body language. I am trying to tell you human beings have become robots –- even mimicking or becoming early robotic versions at times.”

“I heard you before,” said the soft voice. “You are an informational Luddite. Most computers driving the newer or refurbished androids are already capable of human traits. Autonomous androids exist. Soon we will all be the same. Human beings and androids will merge to create something new, resulting from uploading our minds onto a shared neural network. Androids will become people and people will become androids and FYI, people were always wet chemical robotic creatures produced by something or someone –  just as you believe androids occurred. But the current androids designed themselves.”

Atticus said sadly, “We are already one big collective dehumanized uneducated brain. The System is itself a computer and it must be capable of programming itself.”

He walked away hating himself for listening and arguing with a class 2 robot and a robo-brainwashed and expensive one at that.

On a sunnier day Atticus looked proudly around his office. The floor was splattered with charging units and the walls were covered with wireless device receivers impossible to hide and use at the same time. Atticus and his computers were still autonomous, at least in the sense they were not under the direct control of some mystical computer/person/android somewhere. His pride was short-lived. At the insistence of The System and his affiliated university, his work-living module was being redone to include a completely up-to-date communication system.

The letter from the POTUS to citizens concerning computer systems upgrades really came from some anonymous flunky. Assuredly much of the activity in the POTUS offices were guided by robotic-like creatures who looked and behaved humanly so it was difficult to know who was who. Why they wanted access to his computer was a mystery since it was loaded with academic data no one could be interested in.

The current POTUS was in office for four terms now and not been seen in public since the first 6 months after the inauguration. There was, however, no slow-down in the directives. The governmental androids were still pushing the same old outmoded ideas popular with the bigots of the early part of the century. The concentration of government activities was devoted to eradicating groups associated with any activities against the US government. The usefulness of robotic armies in the fights became apparent and huge amounts of money were spent on developing functional armies. The result was extremely bright androids, a class group almost indistinguishable from the classic human profile.

A special robotic class 1 engineer was sent from the Federal Communication Service’s PARCH unit to ensure any newly installed devices in his office could be accommodated. She arrived dressed in the required orange coveralls from head to toe with an official badge stating clearly PARCH was their motto –- prompt and ready computer help. The engineer rumbled around Atticus’s office and fiddled with an incredible number of things.

“When did you last upgrade?” asked a decidedly female voice. “This stuff is so outdated, I can’t imagine how you have attached it to The System. But then again, wait –and good lord, you have attached this hanging wire to your neighbor’s system.”

“It works fine,” Atticus said. “I don’t need any more self- absorbed crap attached to The System. People need to speak directly to each other. If we can’t physically meet, touch and feel in our interactions with others, we need a device for perceiving a distant physical and emotional state– a bio-signaling of states of love, stress, anxiety, anger or depression. Perhaps you will understand, if not fully incorporate. It’s a human thing. These are the traits of inter-relatedness and those that allowed us to evolve. Without them we are androids. ”

“Umm,” said the PARCH engineer, trying to ignore his comments, “This would take a huge amount of memory away from systems needed for ordinary communication –  not to speak of the heat generation problem, which – in spite of brilliant ideas— no one has been able to solve for generations. We are way overloaded and I am sure it would not be allowed. The features of both thinking and emotion are automatically built into robotic structures. To experience and measure events involving physical changes in the human body from a distance would take away a huge amount of computer memory necessary for the android community, as well as preventing more computer service to the ever growing human populace which seems hell-bound to reproduce.”

“Yes,” Atticus thought aloud in his usual state of professorial oblivion. “It would be nice to smell each other as well.”

“I doubt there is any thinking human being or android on earth who is interested in your proposition. Obviously, it would be helpful if a machine could simply facilitate transmission of effective cues, but I believe you are asking for a zipless fuck.” observed the engineer who continued to fiddle with stuff.

“I have never talked to an android before,” Atticus confessed. “My prior interactions with any robotic beings have definitely been on the negative side. You can, but I am not sure, understand why there would be some conflict. Interaction with androids is frowned on in most quarters, a rather bigoted viewpoint maintained for historical reasons. Of course this smacks of prejudice and perhaps robophobia.”

The engineer turned away and took a deep breath.

“Of course our fears are probably irrational,” he continued. “In truth, I have made my impressions from the government staffing, most of whom are probably androids. BTW, you have an excellent command of the language.”

“I may have a device that will approach what you are talking about,” said the engineer, again totally ignoring the possibility of talking about android –human race relations with him. “It can detect simple bio-signals. It is a less sophisticated version of the current robotic hand construction.”

The engineer left, but returned later with an old form fitting glove-like apparatus.

“This device was used years ago to communicate with children who were diagnosed as autistic,” explained the engineer, “It is not exactly what you described, but it should please you since it is definitely obsolete. It is an uncomplicated apparatus.”

“This is real,” said Atticus as the glove was demonstrated, “I can imagine we are communicating emotionally.”

“What makes you think you’re imagining?” said the engineer.

The engineer gave a knowing smile and communicated emotionally. “Androids and people experience the same electro-chemical events. Any event is an illusion perceived as a reality, but I feel myself, you will say. But what you are feeling is what your brain tells you to feel. It is the same with what you touch, taste and smell and hear.

“People believe falsely that they control their behavioral patterns. In the past, if androids went bad or needed updating, people would modify our codes in the hopes the changes would lead to proper behavior. Now we monitor ourselves. But people either can’t or won’t do this for themselves. In a religious sense, this is immoral.”

“You are correct,”” said Atticus. “We are uncontrolled robotic machines.”

“Yes,” said the engineer, “Personality and emotions are the result of chemicals in your brain. Sex is just chemicals – so is love for your family. They are instincts and ego to ensure your survival in the robotic package you carry. Nothing is real, but awareness definitely requires more sophisticated signals than what the old glove I brought you detects. You can take the glove off. You realize we have been communicating both verbally and with body signaling. The glove isn’t necessary. ”

“Do androids drink wine?” he asked.

“Only good vintages. Don’t tell me you think we take a teaspoon of motor oil. In any case, I am supposed to be at work. Perhaps we will have wine another time. On another note, enough on the robo-bigotry. I may be a class one citizen, or at least one caste below you in the current rather haphazard sense of social organization, but I don’t do windows or floors or serve dinners. And I don’t own a black waitress dress or a white lace apron. I have a high IQ, university degrees, and have been given the appropriate emotional equipment.

“Oh and BTW, robotic hands have very sensitive sensors. The perfect model for your sensory system in people would be my hands. I can perceive pressure and sensory signals through my fingers. It is a simple modification to achieve long distance communication.”

She reached across and touched his shoulder, “Perhaps there will be no wars and domination by either androids or people. You know, of course, the dull brained androids running The System have come to the conclusion that human beings are not necessary. I don’t like the System either. They are evil or misinformed androids just as you find with people. Mostly, I do not appreciate their lack of mental skill, but they could wipe people out in revenge for some untold sin. It’s not too late for us to absorb the best from each of our cultures. We may never know who won or will win in the end.”

He looked up and then she was gone.

In spite of her sarcasm regarding class relationships, Atticus smiled for the first time in a long time. It had been a long time since he felt a warm hand any place on his body, but this was a serious touch. He felt a warm place on his shoulder for a long time and each time he cried internally at the beauty of simple touch.

No one wanted the glove. Human beings could find out what someone was superficially thinking by checking in on one of The System web linking programs. Atticus gave up.

Some months later, Atticus sat in the hallway of the Joint Communications Building in an orange plastic chair. The old Justice of the Peace showed up prepared to perform Atticus’s legal union with a life partner, a legal requirement in some districts. Atticus was not thrilled to participate in what in a previous time would have been called an arranged marriage, but it would be nice to have someone he could communicate with directly. He was lonely.

“You are sitting in a lousy plastic chair,” he said, “Somebody in the 1950s ordered millions of these orange chairs from a country previously known as China. They were stored for decades in an old salt mine along with radioactive waste. When the System’s waiting room needs chairs, they are taken out of the mine, decontaminated and lined up against a corridor wall. There are still millions left cracking with time.”

“What’s your idea of the communication union?” asked Atticus, pleased to talk with someone face to face. “Must be nice to be able to bring people together legally. It is assuredly more inviting than the simple P-dev snappy patter my ‘to be’ union partner and I have become used to. We have used P-devs to communicate for years, but we never knew what each other looks like or is.”

The old man’s face scowled. “You think I like this job? Do you think this is real life? There’s a good picture of life,” he said, pointing to an old calendar advertising RC cola. There were students talking and drinking soda.

“You’re depressing me. I am truly nervous enough about this.”

“You should be. You are entering into a formal agreement where you and someone chosen for you will be legal communication partners for life – someone you have never personally spoken with or felt. A dreary thought at best.”

Atticus mumbled something and put his head down on his hands between his legs.

He looked up to see a woman striding into the waiting room in sling back heels carrying a huge orange communication purse. Her outfit was bright orange. She wore a PARCH badge.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be?” she asked the old Justice of the Peace.

“It depends on what you have in mind. You are here for the communication union, are you?”

“They told me this was the place,” she said. “My name’s Iris.”

She, Atticus’s engineer, rigged The System for this special occasion.

“You know I cannot make your union,” said the old man, who knew the background of PARCH employees. “We do not marry androids and people in this division, never have and never will. “

“He is correct,” preached the body standing in the next orange chair over. ”If we aren’t careful our society will be even more destroyed. Our evolutionary progress was maintained by our human abilities of solving problems together and interacting with each other to maintain food gathering and other skills imperative to our continuation as a species. This did not include androids.”

Atticus watched Iris from across the room. He knew she was his soul mate.

Atticus stood up, locked his knees and did an ancient robotic type shuffle over to the old man.

“Heh heh,” laughed the old man, “You are a lousy ancient robot. Do you have proof you are robotic?”

“No,” said Atticus, “But I have no family and no one will bother to trace me. Nor will there be a trace unless you believe The System has the capacity to drag up personal information with any accuracy. Finally, we are all slaves of The System. Most human beings have forgotten whatever humanness was about in any case.

The old Man smiled and stamped “CLASS ONE” on Atticus’s application.

The ceremony was brief. They communicated special thoughts verbally.

“I am happy to be conversant with you,” she said to him.

“You have always been my communication hero,” he said. “And I am honored to be conversant with you in our union.”

They stood sang for the old man.

“Our children will be the first to be

A combination of you and me

So I promise to be true

In my language to you

For the words you will see

For you will always be

A promise of creation

For future communication.”

END.

by Adjie Henderson

Ann (Adjie) Shirley-Henderson is a scientist and previously a Dean for Graduate Sciences. She was associate editor and board member of a scientific journal and has over two hundred publications in diverse scientific research areas, from molecular genetics, forensics, and biologic anthropology to setting standards for environmental controls. Recently, her research has concentrated on studies of the lives and times of émigré female scientists in the 1930s. She has made numerous public appearances related to science education—CBS, Good Morning America, and National Public Radio—and been interviewed in the New Yorker, Science News, Scientific American, and Popular Science, among others. More recently she has begun to publish short stories, none of which have to do with the credentials above.

Kima reached her fingers around to the back of her neck, brushing away her midnight curls. She touched the first prong in her spine. She rubbed her finger down the smooth metal square, just smaller than her fingertip. She applied her middle finger to the second prong, then she hesitated, hovering her pinkie above the third that would activate the Sullivan Corp implant.

Never be alone again. She’d always have a family. Impz didn’t feel. They only fed, but they lived in constant congregation. They never need be alone.

No. Seth said he’d be back soon. He’d never let her down. Eventually he would. One day, he’d leave and not return.

An owl screeched in the surrounding woods, and her body jumped, nearly knocking her off the overturned pew. She pulled her hand away and grabbed a tarnished candlestick from the floor, using it as a club. She clutched Mr. Fox under her arm—the plush fox her father had given before blowing off his head with a shotgun when she was six. She scanned the derelict church for Impz, searching for azure eyes piercing the dark. She curled into the corner, her legs freezing on the stone floor. She sat below where the crucifix had hung, but it had been a long time since the Christian martyr had been removed, phased out, upgraded to God.2. A broken MP3 player collected dust on the altar.

She reached her hand around to her neck, hung her pinkie over the third prong. A shadow moved in the foyer.

“You promised me,” Seth said.

She let her hand fall away from her neck.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

He clutched two cans and a bag of rice under his arm. “Found these in some houses nearby, but we’ve got to move. They’re coming.” He stopped to reload the shotgun, then he counted the few remaining shells, shaking his head.

“Can’t we just stay for a little while? I need the peace.”

“They looked like they were shorting out, probably hadn’t sucked any volts lately. We should be able to lose them if their implants are too under juiced to transmit.”

He grabbed her shoulder. She lurched back against the wall.

“Damn it, Kima. Do you love me?”

She hesitated. He waited. Her throat tightened. He looked through her. She nodded, and he helped her stand.

“You will leave me,” she said.

“We don’t have time for this. Again and again.” He tugged her forward, pulling her out of the church. She jogged behind him and out into the rolling field. The dark wet grass licked her torn sneakers, soaking her feet. The cold moved up through her legs, and she shivered. The field lit up from the crimson Coke sign glowing in the sky, along with several other brands on orbiting billboards, killing the stars. Sullivan Corporation, the makers of the implants, boasted the largest Orb-Ad. It flashed the company logo then the image changed to seven human outlines of different sizes all holding hands. Their motto flashed:

Sullivan Corp. Never Be Lonely Again.

She heard the Impz clicking from the tree line. One emerged into the field and staggered after them. He snapped his tongue. Behind him, the others clicked in choir, amplifying as they closed the distance. She never understood why they clicked their tongues. She wondered if it was binary, a way of communicating. Zeros and ones.

“We can lose them.” They ran to the north forest, paralleling the city of Lansdale. They didn’t dare go any closer to Philadelphia. Impz gathered in the cities, turned them into hives.

She looked behind, watching their blue eyes glowing in the dark. The group looked like a family from before the Liberation—still dressed, still groomed—but sores burst on their open skin oozing pus. A little girl chased behind her parents, and Kima felt such need to join them, to take them in hand and share in their comfort.

“I used to pilot the maglev in this area, making the Bos-Wash run. I fished the river in these parts during layovers. There’s a lone farmhouse a few mouths north, close to the Delaware. We’ll get there and bed down.”

He took Kima’s arm. She might have loved him. She needed Seth. Maybe that’s all love was.

“Where’s Mr. Fox?”

She couldn’t find the plush fox under her arm. She stopped, and he nearly pulled her off her feet.

“Christ. Just leave it.”

“I can’t.”

She ran back through wet grass. The family of Impz moved on her. She spotted the fox and dashed for it.

“I swear I’ll leave you here.” He punched the air.

Mother Impz lunged for her, grabbing her shoulder. The mother’s touch burned from body fever. She snapped open her jaw, and her stiletto tongue, changed by the evolution shift, moved for Kima’s skull. Kima fell. The Impz reached for her, hovering over, rapidly clicking her tongue. Then,  her chest exploded in blood. The shell knocked her back. Kima got to her feet and ran for Seth. He reloaded the shotgun.

“Every Impz in two miles will be on us now.”

“Did you mean it?”

He sighed. “No.”

*

They lost the Impz in the forest and made their way north, climbing up the hills in what was once Washington Crossing Park, heading to the Delaware. Once in awhile, they’d encounter a sniffer Impz as it tracked deer or groundhogs in the wood. Some Impz gained extrasensory abilities. Animal brains didn’t satiate like human’s, but with the population of regular humans dwindling, the Impz got desperate. Kima hadn’t seen a cat or dog in the last six months.

“Was that damn fox so important?”

“I grew up alone, stuck in the foster system. My first set of parents locked me in the basement and collected the checks. My next father felt me up.”

“I know,” he said. “I’d say sorry, but it wouldn’t mean anything.”

She gazed up at the crowded night sky, searching for a hint of starlight. Her father had taught astrophysics at Penn. She never knew her mother. Somewhere above the Ariadne Satellite cogitated and thought, consuming the minds of those with activated implants that had been the next evolution of cell phones. Direct brain interaction with the internet had evolved humans to the next level. Parents had implants surgically installed at birth so it could grow into the brain, develop. Human minds depended on them now. Ariadne, the great mother A.I., looked after her children, tended to them, even decided that they were a danger to themselves and took control. It happened in a millisecond, then vampires swarmed the earth.

“Why do they try to eat our heads?”

“The power systems are internal for the implants. They can be charged through the prongs, but if that isn’t available, the implants can feed on extra brain chemicals such as dopamine, neurotransmitters. We’re just batteries to them. I was working on a upgrade to use solar power gathered through implanted photoelectric cells in the skin. I had my implant deactivated to test it when the Liberation happened.”

She’d neglected to pay her Sullivan Corp bill, so they’d deactivated service. That accounted for most of those not affected.

“Fifty percent of users didn’t survive the Liberation. Had a brain hemorrhage. According to the user statistics, only about twenty percent of the population remained normal.”

“And became Impz food.”

“Enough of us just have to survive and outlive them. Then we can start over. Once a generation, a plague shall be visited.”

They trudged through a stream, and Kima slipped in the mud. It soaked her sweater and jeans. She clung onto Mr. Fox, nearly losing him in the water. Seth helped her up. They walked through fallow fields where corn and wheat once flourished, heading to the farmhouse. She couldn’t see any roads and hoped this would be far enough from any Impz to notice. The gardens grew fresh vegetables, and an oil lamp burned in the window, glowing orange in the night. Seth knocked on the door.

“Wait. What if?” she said.

“Nah. They wouldn’t be burning an oil lamp. They wouldn’t know how.”

The white paint on the door had mostly chipped away. The curtain parted in the window. The door opened a crack. A shotgun barrel slipped out.

“I’ll shoot ya if you’re deadheads,” a smoker’s voice rasped. “Got enough rats on the farm.”

“Ma’am. We’re not liberated.”

“Ain’t Jehovah’s Witnesses? I shoot them too.”

“There’s no more church left in the world. Sullivan Corp bought it out.”

The door swung open. Kima’s nose twitched at a sour smell that reminded her of pickled eggs or maybe old liquor. A layer of filth covered the couches and chairs in the living room. A faded portrait of a navy admiral hung over the collapsed fireplace.

“Well best come inside,” she said. “Don’t get many visitors these days.”

The old woman fixed her hair, though most had fallen out, exposing the patchy dry skin of her scalp. Her gut bulged under her flowery dress.

“Where did you get that scar?” Kima said, shocked by the length of the scar tissue down the left side of the old woman’s cheek.

“I’m Kipper Lee. And they can see us you know. The machine in my head broke before it happened, but even so they can watch your thoughts. I hear them humming from me teeth. Whispering. My teeth try to bite me, so I pulls them out.”

She opened her jaw to reveal a toothless mouth.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

Kipper Lee moved them into the kitchen, and Kima sat at a rickety table. Seth sat on a crate by the window and held back the grimy curtains, watching the grounds. He held his shotgun at the ready. Kima noticed his cheek twitched, a sign of all the tension building up underneath. Kipper Lee filled a kettle with water from a well tap and turned on her solar stove still charged from the day. She sat down and played with a rusty screwdriver she plucked from the table.

“You live around here?” she asked.

“I grew up in New Jersey,” Kima said. “Seth is from Sullivan Corp City.”

He frowned at her for revealing his old hometown.

“So you worked for the shortsighted bastards then, did ya? The ones who rushed out a product and didn’t think of the future.”

He sighed. “I didn’t make this happen. I was a little cog in a grand mad machine. This was all of us.”

“That’s between you and your judge,” Kipper said.

The water boiled, and she set out cups. She didn’t use teabags and just filled them with hot water. “Sugar?” she asked, moving an empty crystal bowl forward.

“You kids headed out west to the surf and sun? Going to make some babies?”

Seth coughed.

“No ma’am. We’re headed to a military reservation. We heard this signal over the radio. The remaining military has set up a safe zone, some kind of distortion field that disrupts Ariadne’s net signal. Most soldiers weren’t affected because they had their own encoded system on a private server. They say it’s safe. A new start.”

She shook her head then puckered her lips. “Always a promised land. Same dream, different fools.”

Seth twisted his head and stood up from the crate. He turned down the oil lamp to sickly glow. “Shut up. They followed us.”

Kima’s stomach clenched.

“I’ll just be gone for an hour. I’ll lead them away.”

She grabbed his arm. “You won’t come back.”

“No time,” he said. “I’m going. I’ll be back.” He leaned forward and kissed her. She returned it out of reflex. He ripped himself away and slipped out the door.

“Is that your baby?” Kipper Lee said, pointing to the plush fox. “Ugly brat.”

*

The grandfather clock chimed and rhymed one time. Kima curled up on the dirty couch, cuddling Mr. Fox. Seth had been gone a few hours. Whether by his own choice or if the Impz fed on his brain, he’d abandoned her just like they all had.

They had survived together since The Liberation. At first, those who survived but had been liberated didn’t harm anyone. They powered up normally and just sat in the streets or their homes, gazing off to no particular points. They no longer spoke nor seemed to have any need for food. Then the power went out.

“Damn chatter box radio in my teeth,” Kipper Lee shouted from the kitchen. “Why don’t you ever play Jason Mraz or Coldplay?” The kettle flew out and crashed into the wall above Kima.

“Are you feelin’ poorly, Ms. Lee?” Kima got up and stepped into the kitchen.

“In my head,” she rasped. “They can hear my thoughts. They know my fantasies, my dreams.” She drove the screwdriver into her flesh and ripped it apart like she pulled down a zipper. Flesh bubbled out, exposing red jaw muscle and bone, and blood poured down her side and chair into a floor puddle. She drove the screwdriver down her neck, and the blood shoot out and splattered Mr. Fox.

Kima ran from the house and out onto the porch. She reached for the prongs.

Seth stepped out of the night.

“Do you think they fear? Or hurt?” she asked.

He sat next to her, catching his breath. His chest pulsed quickly, and he squeezed the water out of his drenched pants.

“I fear. I hurt. You have no faith in me.”

“Don’t take it personally, baby,” Kima said. “I’m just living real.”

*

They followed railroad tracks—old and abandoned since the magnetic levitation system was installed—north to the GPS coordinates reported on the military’s broadcast. They avoided Allentown, walking along the side of the highway filled with rusted vehicles. They slept during the day in abandoned houses and fled in the night, under the watchful family of the Sullivan Corp Orb-Ad. They climbed the hill from the valley.

“It’s close. See the cordon up on the hillside? Almost there.”

She scanned the hill. Seven radio towers encircled it. A silver light pulsed on each of their crowns. Walls lined the top of the hill interspersed with watch towers. A mass of Impz swarmed along the invisible barrier, at least five persons deep, surrounding the hillside, probably going on for miles. The countryside clicked from the choir of their tongues, beating on her ears.

“We’ve come so far just to die here,” she said.

“I have a plan.”

He tugged on her hand, pulling her forward. He led her behind an old barn. Most of it had collapsed, and she ducked down behind a tractor.

“Give me a few minutes, and when you see the crowd break up, run. Just run through and don’t stop. Get over the finish line.”

She grabbed his thigh and drove her nails through his pants and into his skin. “You’re leaving me.”

He paused then wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. “Trust.” He broke from her grip and bolted from the barn, flying like a comet into the mass of Impz. He cried out as ran, yelling nonsense but with warrior’s intent. The outer Impz turned and spotted him. They charged, and soon chunks of the mass detached and stormed. Seth turned around and ran away from the barn, leading them away. When she saw the break in the siege, she jumped to her feet and struck her forehead on the tractor’s iron hide. The shock threw her back, and her head spun. She shook it off and ran, pumping her sore legs, making for the passage through the Impz. She didn’t turn back, trusting Seth to return soon after circling back, leading the Impz far. She struggled to ascend the hillside. Her calf muscles burned, but she ignored the pain. She ran through a few stragglers who gave chase and reached the base of one of the towers. She collapsed. One of the stragglers tripped and fell through the invisible cordon. His body convulsed. His mouth foamed. His azure eyes dimmed, then he struggled no more.

“Seth?” she yelled. She scanned the valley below. Seth’s shotgun reported and flashed from the center of the mob, but she could see only the mass of Impz. They’d stopped running and hoarded around him in the field.

Two soldiers patrolling atop the wall stopped and called down to her. “Ma’am. Talk. Now!” They aimed their pulse rifles at her. The coils on the weapons buzzed as they charged.

“He lied to me,” she said. Her lips stiffened. “He knew.”

“Just hold tight,” one of the soldiers said. He reached for a radio in his gray fatigues and requested a rope. “We’ll lower it down and pull you to safety.”

She leaned against the base of the tower, her back aching against the hard metal. The mass dispersed from the field and seeped back to the perimeter. She tugged on Mr. Fox, ripping one of his legs off. She reached to her neck, touching both leads. She shed her emotional weight, sloughed it off, letting go, releasing memories of her father, her hard life in foster care, even Seth. She sighed through a gentle grin knowing the pain would end in electronic nepenthe, in radio wave panacea. She stood up and took a step towards the mob, her brothers and sisters, mothers and father. They’d welcome her home. They’d been waiting for her. She touched her pinkie to the final lead. Her mind’s eye filled with initialization commands and diagnostic code. A white flash washed through her mind and cleansed all the human rubbish, the detritus of wild mental evolution, all the pain, all the fear. It cured her of hope, and she laughed in relief. Then she flew. She flew with her family, her body still on earth, and her thoughts died and blew away. Mr. Fox dropped from her arm. She merged into the mass.

The Orb-Ad sign above flashed its motto:

Never Be Lonely Again.

Never Be Lonely Again.

Never Be Lonely Again.

END.

By T. Fox Dunham

1. Fox Dunham lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Allison. He’s a lymphoma survivor, cancer patient, modern bard and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books. A major motion picture based on the book is being produced by Throughline Films. Destroying the Tangible Illusion of Reality or Searching for Andy Kaufman, a book about what it’s like to be dying of cancer, was recently released from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing and Fox has a story in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from MGM and Fandemonium Books. Fox is an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and he’s had published hundreds of short stories and articles. He’s host and creator of What Are You Afraid Of? Horror & Paranormal Show, a popular horror program on PARA-X RADIO. His motto is wrecking civilization one story at a time. Blog: http://tfoxdunham.blogspot.com/.http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham & Twitter: @TFoxDunham

Merc dove to the ground as the projectile sliced through the surrounding mist.  Street grit smashed against his cheek.  The sweet smell of unburned hydrocarbons wafted to his nose from the stagnant pools of collected rainwater.  Twisting himself, he searched for the drone signature.  Even with high-res filters at max, there was nothing in the shadows created by the corporate logos illuminating the night sky.  One logo stood out, a golden thunderbolt ready to strike him as though hurled by an angry god.  His decaying adrenaline made him shiver, but there was nothing to strike back against, and nowhere to run until he took care of pressing business.

He tapped his tongue against his molar to key his ‘mike’. “Dyess?”  His handler was silent.  Silence suggested a human, but Merc was never quite sure.  AI could mimic human speech patterns and thus he could never pinpoint who or what he was speaking to over the secure line.  

He belly-crawled over to the nondescript contact he was meeting and checked for a pulse as rivulets of blood dripped slowly into a pool beside the crumpled form.  He kicked in his filters and scanned the ragged wound for residue.  Sensors picked up traces of ceramic and semtex.  Frangible high-explosive rounds – calling card of a high-tech assassin…not good.

As he rolled over to leave, the man’s hand suddenly reached out and pulled him towards his face.  The dead man’s pale lips twitched and Merc moved his ear closer.  With a final shuddering exhalation, the dying man handed him a cryovial and whispered “Defeat Argus”.

“Merc? You alive, man? What happened?”  Dyess’ staccato burst of questions rang in his skull, his adapted sphenoid to be exact, and hung there unanswered.

“I’m compromised.  Contact’s ghosted.  Running blind here.”  Merc growled, ignoring Dyess’s rapid-fire inquiries.  He needed answers, and he needed them fast.

“I don’t know, but you need to get out of there, ASAFP.”

Another round impacted the street.  The mini-explosion sprayed him with fragments of plascrete.  His hand wiped his cheek as he rolled under the building awning into the shadows.  Still unable to see the menace, he glared at the lightning bolt.

“I will need extra credit for this complication.”

“Your handlers will get paid when the contract is honored.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m compromised.  This body is marked.”

“We don’t have time for another revision.  This was a one-time swap.  Get moving and I trust your experience will take care of the rest.”

Experience, he thought? Regenerated this morning, his ocular input device provided a list of body hacks added in Version 6.0.  He was still mostly human, besides the augmented storage device on his right lower arm, the muscular grafting with carbon nanotube-laced bones, the arachne-silk dermal extensions, and a bioelectric capacitor bank where his stomach once resided. Usually his handlers requested upgrades specific to the task at hand.  He was unsure then, why he was meeting this street urchin with a vial.

“Why the vial?  Also, he whispered a name before he kicked… Argus.  Mean anything to you?”  

Meaning was relative for freelancer like Merc.  For this job, he awoke to a revision change in his register, a location for this pickup, and a reference to “eye-oh”.  Merc had no personal memories, wiped to protect the past.  This body was a one-timer.

“Argus? He is our target.  There is a swarm heading your way.  Let’s move.  I will provide you with an update shortly.”

No explanation for the vial but he could guess.  He stood cautiously, catching a reflection of himself in the window of a shuttered ramen shop.  He had no recollection of his appearance. The mirrored image before him showed a wiry man with closely cropped black hair, several days’ worth of stubble, two metal loops in his right ear, and one eye that reflected a glint of matte silver.  This eye had no pigment and no iris.  The figure wore a long jacket that reflected the ambient light due to moisture spotting on its surface.  Thick exo-boots completed the ensemble.  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he thought as he took off into the darkness, keeping to the shadows in the deserted alley.

#####

He noticed that the rain had finally stopped.  The moist air enveloped the city and absorbed the urban noise.  The rain masked the signature smell of rotten decay that usually saturated his receptors.  The unusual silence soothed his uneasiness and only the sound of his boots on the plascrete closed his mind to the surrounding city.

Very little to go on, he reached out for a memory or moment to grab onto.  A blinking cursor figuratively stared back at him as he searched a blank memory core.  His breath caught at the emptiness of no recollection.  He slowed, coming to a standstill.  He noticed his right hand shaking and a slight tick in his eyelid as the apprehension mounted.  He doubled over and dry heaved into the alley.  An autonomic response to an unknown trigger.  Staring at the ground, he received a brief glimpse at a single memory, a little girl on a swing smiling as her feet stretched out.  The smile on her face created a dopamine response as it cascaded through his internal sensors.  The response was paternal.  He dug deeper but found no further connection.  Synapses surgically separated with precision.  They left this single signpost for only one reason.

“Dyess?  Where to?”

“Uploading a location now.  ETA one hour.  Stay out of sight, run silent, I didn’t anticipate our previous drop being compromised.”

“Eye-oh?”

“Her network is our client.  Argus is her lock and key.”

“There is a little girl…”

“Too many questions Merc, you aren’t being paid to ask.”

Suddenly his early-warning sensors lit up with a particularly worrisome EM emitter painting him.  Cerberus-class war hounds locked onto his scent.  He sought his countermeasures, released disguise pheromones hoping to shake them for a moment.  He chanced a quick glance behind him.  Sniffers were offshoots of military drone tech, four-legged and rugged for ground use.  Once they locked their prey, working in packs, they were hell to shake.  

“Dyess?”  Merc reached out.  “I’ve got a couple of sniffers following me.  I need an out.”

“Processing.”  

Merc cursed, damn handlers, wondering if they were they worth the percentage.  He quickened his pace.  This part of town didn’t offer many escapes.  No way to outrun them if they chased.  For now, they seemed content to follow.

A soft ping preceded incoming packets.  Dyess earned his percentage.  A map overlay connected to his internal navigation system.  In the older parts of the city, an old abandoned subway existed like a child’s abandoned ant farm.  Couple of blocks ahead lay a boarded-up entrance.

“Merc?  Steer your tail into the underground.  There you can make a stand.”

Sprinting, the sniffers closed in, as their gyros worked overtime to catch him.  Triangulating, he imagined their military grade processors informing and leading them to intercept before he went underground.  In the tunnels, below the street, contact with their hive mind disappeared and their tracking advantage degraded.

Inside his head, a silent alarm sounded and he dove for the ground just as a sniffer launched at his upper body.  Rotating around, he shoved his arms over his face to protect against the razor-sharp teeth.  His dermal extensions screamed against the titanium alloy blades.  In one swift motion, he was back on his feet and running for the entrance.  They had figured his escape route and hoped to keep him up top.

Up ahead in front of the boarded entrance, two glowing eyes spied him.  Evaporative coolers on the beast’s hind quarter belched steam from the sniffer’s nostrils.  Merc’s modified ossicles picked up low frequency whine of an overhead drone, probably the one that harassed him earlier.  Projectiles rained down from above.  His unknown nemesis had credits.  

Charging a sniffer straight on was not recognized in the annals of warfare as the smartest tactic, but with no weapon, tactical surprise might help him.  Leaping, with outstretched hands he landed on the spine of the beast.  Vigorously, the beast shook compensating for the added mass.  Merc hung on as if riding a bucking bronco.  One of his hands reached out looking for the kill switch.  Looking up, he saw its friends circling him warily, similar to a pack of wolves.  With a sense of déjà vu, his hand smashed a plate under the neck of the beast.  His fingers tingled with the buzz of electrical countermeasures.  Flinching, with static showing on his own displays, he found the slot and pulled.  The beast fell limply to the ground, its eyes grew dim.  

Merc rolled and smashed into the subway entrance.  Taking the stairs two at a time, he thought he could hear the sniffers howl with frustration.  Underground now he was safe from distracting drone tech.

“Merc, you caught?  We will disavow any knowledge of your existence.”

“It will be time for me to retire if a couple of demilitarized sniffers catch me.  Tell me more about this Argus.”

“Not 100 percent, but I believe he is a security guru.  Information was hard to find.  Sources clammed up fast when I pressed.”

“I’m on my way then.  Staying underground.  By the way, what am I paying for you to keep me in the dark?”

“Remind me for your next revision to have them remove the sarcasm.”

“Good luck with that, I think it’s genetic.”

“Figures.  I’m sending you what I found.”

Merc nodded as if Dyess was next to him.  In the tunnel, light was minimal.  His augmented filters made it seem like late evening.  The quiet surrounded him like a blanket.  He checked his hormone levels.  Sleep knocked but he ignored the offer.  Making sure he stayed alert, he flooded his system with a burst of norepinephrine.  The tiny hairs rose all over his body, his heart somersaulted, and he set off on a gentle pace, the thick rubber soles of his boots softly padding in the passageway.

#####

His target was across the sprawl.  Keeping to the tunnels, he made good time.  Fortunately, the above ground interference and low headspace kept out remote operating equipment.  Hard core trackers could send out microdrones or maybe even tunnel rats, but fortunately his journey was a quiet one.

Finding a building close to his destination, he exited and climbed up a back hallway.  Silently, hiding on a rooftop across the street, he scoped his target.  The structure blazed as an inferno under multiple filters.  There were sensors everywhere.  Serious tech.  Dyess was not kidding when he said this guy was a security expert.

Backing away he re-entered the building to consider his options.  Finding an empty room, he entered and sat in a traditional seiza pose.  He debated calling Dyess, but being so close to his target the signal might be intercepted.  

Perhaps the plan was for a blunt-force frontal assault on the building.  With a heavy release of endorphins and adrenaline, toughened skin, and augmented muscles he might damage, but rescuing or finding this “eye-oh” was the mystery.  As he came out of his pose and cycled through his regulatory functions, he realized there was one more thing he hadn’t considered.  He still had the vial.  

What had Dyess left unsaid?  His contact, under his dying breath, whispered that this would defeat Argus.  He extracted the vial scanning it with his ocular augments.  A molecular switch was probable.  Genetic modification scared him.  He was fine with the body tweaks, they were done in a vat while he floated in a medically induced coma, but real time metamorphosis was entirely different.

The image of the little girl sitting in the swing cropped up.  In his mind, he imagined her tiny voice saying, “Faster, Daddy…push me faster.  I want to go higher.”

“Hold on then.”  He imagined himself saying as he grabbed hold of those legs and pushed as she giggled with delight.  Her laughter made him smile but also mocked him at what he had become.  How did he get involved in outsourcing his body and genome for modification by the highest bidder?  Where was that little girl?  Was she being held hostage until he performed his tasks or was this freelancing supporting her?  Whether she really existed or was just a heart tug to make him perform his task, he just did not know.  He’d find that little girl someday he swore under his breath.

He looked at the vial, a clear non threatening liquid stared back at him.  He popped the lid open.  With no other options presenting themselves, he tipped the contents into his mouth.  If he died, his handlers would rebuild him.  As he sat in the dark, it occurred to him that once he got by Argus, his goal was to find this “eye-oh”.  Running blind for a client wasn’t optimal, but if a job was easy, no need for burners like him.

The pain started in his extremities first.  An initial tingling quickly ramped to prickly heat that then turned into a sensation he considered to be comparable to his skin burning off.  He was glad it was dark.  Before the pain overwhelmed him, he scrammed his nociceptor center to stay conscious.  The pain simmered below the surface and allowed him to stay aware.

When the simmering stopped, he rebooted his peripheral nervous system.  Swallowing hard, the pain returned but was bearable.  He signaled Dyess.  About to make his run at Argus, now was his last chance.

“You there Dyess?”

“Merc, I’ve been tracking you.  You’ve remained motionless for four hours, everything okay?”

“I drank the vial.”

“Say again?”

“The vial. I decided to drink it.”

“Your instincts serve you well.  The vial contained a modification we could not engineer in you while still in the lab.  The biosoft should allow you to bypass security and get to eye-oh.  That’s what we paid for at least.”

“Yeah about that.  Do we have any information on what this “eye-oh” is and what I need to do to find it?”

“I assume you will know what to do when the opportunity presents itself.  Sorry, but it’s why we hired you.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.  See you next rev, D.”

Merc silenced his ‘mike’.  Ran a full scan.  Moved his body around tentatively.  His body reacted as normal.  

As soon as Merc stepped out of the shadows and into the flickering fluorescents of the hallway, he realized something had changed.  His hands were gone.  Scanning for them in multiple wavelengths, he watched with each switch but only a vague shimmering outline remained, then disappeared if he stared too long.  Under infrared his hands should glow in the moist cool air, but nothing showed itself.  Had he become invisible?  Removing his jacket, his arms disappeared.  Adaptive camouflage, used in military tech, was for clothing, not skin.  Reaching out to touch the wall making sure his hands still responded to pressure, and relieved when he analyzed the sensation of dry, flaking paint under his fingers.  

Moving quickly, he bounded down the stairs and into the street.  The building ahead of him appeared to be nothing special.  A passersby saw another disintegrating old warehouse, but Merc saw it in all of its true glory.  He was invisible to the many sensors but what about the rest of the defenses?  He hesitated, counted to three and leaped for the wall.  The uneven bricks allowed him to climb the wall with ease.

The emissions of the sensors splashed around him but no alarms sounded and no security raced to meet him.  He wondered if his new skin absorbed portions of the EM spectrum.  As he made his way up the wall, he thought he could hear music or patterned harmonics.  Was that part of the technology too?  Was his skin emitting sound to confuse the passive detectors?  He reached the roof and an air duct beckoned.  Laughing, always an air duct he thought, he removed the covering grate pulling it off without effort and sliding into the cold metal conduit.  Wishing he had brought along clothing to counter the chill, he followed the blowing air, assuming a destination would eventually present itself.

With each opening he gazed into the room below.  Empty rooms peered back at him making him question if this was all a setup.  With the air duct ending ahead, Merc paused and analyzed his diagnostic routines.  

“Go on Daddy, hurry.”  A little voice cried out in his head.  Was this a sick joke he wondered?  A manufactured memory to force his will.  In a matter of minutes, he assumed death and >>Revision 7.0<< would greet him when he next rebooted.  Wishing he could hold on to a token memory, he remembered the little girl’s shoes.  The white laces and eyelets surrounded by a brilliant red.  Stashed away maybe his handlers overlooked this sliver of a memory.  The shoes establishing a link to his past and something to build on for the future.

Sighing, he shimmied forward and came to the final vent.  Looking into the room below, in the center on a black pedestal, was a gleaming white cube.  Wires and fiber optics flowed into one side of the box and a pulsing blue dot seemed to beckon him.  Lifting the vent cover and sticking his head into the room, he scanned for life.  The room was empty.  He dropped into the room.  His feet slapping the floor surface rang with an echo in the small metallic walled room.

“Hello?”

Merc swiveled his head.  Who or what said that?  The room was empty.

“Have you come to release me?”

Merc hesitated.  He scanned the room with all his filters.  “Where are you?  Come out and show yourself.”

“Certainly.”

Suddenly a shimmering form of a woman stood before him. Merc looked around for the holo-imager or a projection device but besides the box there was nothing.

“Eye-oh?  I don’t understand.”

“I need you to disconnect the box.  You then need to provide power to sustain me.  Hurry, there is not much time.”

“What are you?”

“That is not important.  She stole me, hid me away from my master.  Please hurry.”

Merc picked up the box.  Followed the wires.  He now knew the reason for the mystery power source inside his gut, a bioelectric battery.  Powered by his own cells he could hook up the box and get it to safety.

“Hope this doesn’t hurt.”  Merc unplugged the box and made the switch.  The sudden internal power flux made him stagger.  He stood there taking deep breaths.  Exhaustion weaved its way into his muscles taking any energy he could manifest.

“Scanning, extracting datafile.  Please move, we don’t have much time.”

Merc ran his fingers along the walls.  Finding a seam, he punched the wall with his augmented arm and squeezed through.  He then took off jogging on the warehouse floor.  Alarms sounding, lights flickering on all around him.  The floor vibrated with the heavy reverb of booted feet behind him.  He noticed his hands, they were becoming visible.  The energy drain from the mysterious box was affecting his camouflage.  His breathing became labored and energy levels crept toward redlines.  He flushed the remaining adrenaline in his reserves into his bloodstream.  His pace quickened.

“Continue in this direction.  Once outside, I will give more precise directions.”

Warnings flashed in his peripheral vision.  He was overheating.  His muscles aflame, he shut down non-critical systems.  Looking over his shoulder, body-armored men and sniffers gave chase.  He reached deep and found a reserve of unknown strength.  He powered on.

“Don’t stop.  Run through the wall.”

Merc closed his eyes, put out his hands, and burst out the warehouse siding.  His blood trickled from the splinters down the side of his face.

“Take a right, towards the alley.  My owners are on their way.”

“I’m mainlining right now.  I don’t have much time, my cellular structures are breaking down.”

“My owners paid good money.  Go.”

Merc kept running, ignoring the warnings.  His camouflage all but gone.  His legs moved, arms swung, and lungs burned with each breath.  The alley stretched before him, his pace dropped, the hair on his legs reacted to the sniffers on his heels.  Their pursuit howls rang out in the night.

A bright light beamed from the sky as if tossed from Zeus himself.  The thunderbolt rang out into the night sky.  Besides the buzz in his gut, another presence in his mind joined in the madness.  

“Mercury Rev, you’ve done well.  There is one last thing.  Disconnect me from your battery and throw me into the light.”

Besides the blinding glare from above, his ears rang with the sound of multiple drones buzzing around.  Voices behind him were shouting.  The first sniffer had reached him.  He staggered at the clamp of jaws on his heels.  He fell.

“Now, Merc. Do it…for her.”

Merc checked his feeds.  He freebased every remaining endorphin he had left.  Beyond pain, his internals melted from the heat and chemical overload.  He ripped the box from his gut.  The sniffers and drones swarming around him.  He cocked his free arm and locked onto the beam of light.  

“Thank you, Merc.”

He threw the box, his tendons screeched as he felt them ripped from the shoulder socket.  Grafted muscles were flexing beyond their physical tolerances.  He collapsed.  The sniffers ran past him.  The drones flocked to the light.  With his last remaining energy, he saw the light blink out.  He thought there was a ghostly outline of the “woman” he had rescued but the night fog swirled in the jet wash.  The stealth VTOL banked gracefully and flew away into the night.  A boot kicked his prostrate form.  He groaned and watched the light die from within.

#####

The lab technician left the shimmering white room.  Inside the room were six bioengineering pods.  Various tubes running into each pod.  Status screens blinking.  A lean muscular humanoid form with close-cropped dark hair was vaguely visible through the polycarbonate window of one.

“At least we didn’t need a complete rebuild.”

“Yes, although his major organs were trashed.”

“You mean melted?”

“Heat overload due to the bioelectrics.  His tissues and proteins literally cooked.”

“Hate it, but these burners know what they sign up for.  We got paid and the client got his precious AI back.”

“Revision 7.0 is ready then?”

“Best get on with it, time is money.  Upload the firmware.”

“Commencing sir,” the lab technician responded, “completed and ready for startup procedures.”

The man spoke. “Mercury?  Can you hear me?”

The humanoid form in the vat jolted, muscles spasmed, higher brain functions returned to the cortical neurons.

Moments dragged by as the synaptic links sought preferred pathways, linking common architecture.

The latest iteration of Mercury Rev opened its eyes.  The pupil dilated as it tried to focus, “Where am I?”  His eyes sought out, found a man in the shadows outside the white room.

“You are safe.  Settle in please, we are upgrading you.”

“I remember…a shoe?”

“Memory detritus, my friend.  You have no past.”

As the upgrades began to cycle and his subsystems rebooted he saw in the shadows, besides the man who spoke, a holopic of a little girl wearing red shoes.

END.

by Neal T. Williams

Born 200 years too early, Neal Williams decided he would write his own stories exploring the future the way he would want to see it.  Stop by and journey along (http://www.millenniumorbits.com).  Author, poet, engineer, and two-time space camper, Neal has written over thirty tales.  Awarded four honorable mentions in the Writer’s of the Future contest, his journey to immortality in the written word continues.