The Incision of Being, page 22
“I don’t keep much contact with even close acquaintances, but even so, that’s a lengthy interim,” Ernest said.
“We can cultivate a stand-in, if you like,” she said. “He’ll be given low-tier tasks in the lab, have everyday colleagues, a schedule, the works.”
“This keeps getting better.”
Agent Welding crossed her arms. “Part of my debriefing over the past couple of days included videos and documentation of your self-mutilation. You had a purpose, something to prove, and went so far as cutting your own legs off. Such an act requires extreme mental fortitude, as does transforming yourself into a mechanthrop. My initial assessment pinned you as the perfect candidate, but our conversation here so far has been lackluster.”
Ernest grabbed the wheel grips of his chair, intending to turnabout for the elevator. But he didn’t budge an inch. The intensity with which Agent Welding spoke reminded him of days long past. He could almost taste the fire of old ambitions. “Why don’t you go?” he asked.
“It’s not in my trajectory,” Agent Welding said. “You’re the pioneer, and I’m the repeated formula.”
“Will I ever be put back?” Ernest asked.
“Back how?”
Ernest motioned at his arms, chest, flesh. “A person.”
“There’s no reversal procedure,” Agent Welding said. “But who knows what the definition of a person will be in ten, twenty years.”
“Well, Agent Welding, I can’t say you lack stimulating conversation,” Ernest said. “I’ll need some time to think about it.”
Agent Welding gave a stern nod and shook Ernest’s hand. “Take a couple of days, then get back to me.”
She marched off.
Ernest wouldn’t see her again for another three days, when she dropped by his office for an answer. She would’ve gotten it sooner—Ernest had his answer prepared only hours after leaving the basement—but he wanted to cherish his last days of being human.
The first day he spent in the city, purchasing clothes he’d never wear and tasting the flavors of three different restaurants. The second day he tracked down his old colleagues and offered to take them to a movie and dinner, but Jake and Nita were swamped with work. They could barely spare him fifteen minutes, and he resorted to having lunch with them in the cafeteria.
The final day he dedicated to the lake. He sat on a pier, fishing pole in hand. People of all ages and backgrounds came and went. They made picnics, played in the water, or simply lounged and spectated those around them. Ernest fell into the third category. He couldn’t remember a time he felt more relaxed.
Chapter 22
Neither Skink nor Robert showed at the safehouse before Annalease decided to leave with a new crew. They were headed south, and their ride was waiting. Annalease could think of a hundred reasons why she should stay: her Harbingers would show at any moment, the safehouse had food and water to spare, the beds were some of the comfiest ever made, the fireplace was warm and soothing…
But then came the risks: a possible PD raid, the place was getting crowded, and perhaps the greatest deterrent, the owner had denied many requests of permanent residence. She hadn’t given a departure date or time, but everyone took her words to heart. Some offered to do supply runs in exchange for a spot, and one person suggested a physical competition to decide who stays and who goes.
“If you’re coming, then come,” Chirp said. She wore loose-fitting jeans, a wind-breaker jacket, and a cyclist’s helmet. Strapped to her back was a rucksack filled with clothes, hygiene necessities, and some food and water.
Annalease had some new items of her own. She had traded her footwear for a pair of rugged boots the day before, striking the deal as she stood guard over the washer and dryer. Another barter for a hand-drawn map of the Harbinger’s hideout, along with every sewer tunnel she could remember, afforded her a backpack with replacement clothes, a toothbrush, soap, and a baseball cap.
“Okay, I’ll come with you,” she said to Chirp, and thanked the old woman one last time before leaving.
Their ride was a small four-door sedan. They fit the rucksack in the trunk, but that was it. Annalease’s backpack, along with Bear and Rattler’s bags, had to be placed on their laps.
Installed in the headrests of the driver and passenger seats were small TVs. Rattler requested they be tuned into the news. He and Bear had a bet of how long the safehouse would last before getting raided. Bear said it depended on how long it took the refugees to stop pouring in. If they continued to show up at all hours of the day, for multiple days, it’d be sooner than later. But Rattler pressed for a concrete date.
“Seven days, from the day we leave,” Bear said.
Rattler and Chirp both laughed.
Bear became defensive, but then grew confident in his prediction after learning that Rattler believed seven days was too long, but Chirp believed it was too short. “That leaves me with middle ground,” he said cheerfully. “How many days, Rat?”
“Days?” Rattler repeated. “That place won’t last seven hours.”
Chirp scoffed, apparently offended. “Neither of you give that woman any credit. You saw the blue and pink balloons tied to the mailbox. As far as the community is concerned, there’s a celebration going on. And besides, she fed us. Show some respect.”
“We’re not being disrespectful,” Bear said. “The balloons were a nice touch, but how many days do parties usually last? It’s already been three, and to me that’s pushing it. You watch, all those refugees going in and out, calling attention. Well, Chirp, what’s your answer?”
“She’ll be fine. I say the place won’t ever get raided,” Chirp said, but with little conviction.
The price of their bet: first rotation on guard duty for the rest of the month. But when the news aired, it wasn’t the safehouse being discussed, but the rejects who had turned themselves in.
“Is there sound?” Annalease asked.
The driver turned up the volume.
“Over fifty former castoffs have come forward in the past three days, and more are still trailing in,” the news reporter said. The speaker’s image shrunk and drifted to the top-left corner of the screen. Occupying the rest of the picture were cycling photos of the individuals who had stepped forward.
Most were people Annalease didn’t recognize, but one in particular struck a nerve. Liam Smith Miller. His eye was swollen shut, and he had a fat lip. His image lingered longer than the others before switching to a different photo, and then it appeared again around ten images later. The pattern repeated as the news reporter provided commentary.
“Nothing but cooperation and understanding from those who have come forward, people that will be crowned heroes in the days to come. In an act of incredible altruism, many have volunteered to save the lives of those hard-working citizens that have fallen prey to unlucky health circumstances.”
A light squeal slipped from Annalease. Skink was on the screen. Fear haunted her eyes. A shallow gash spanned her right cheek. Her expression was that of a delirious person lost in the desert.
The others must have sensed the tension. They talked among themselves, identifying people they recognized followed by a quick memory. Their conversation often anchored back to Liam and their disbelief that he’d be dumb enough to turn himself in.
“The only problem with hope,” Bear said. “It sometimes leads to dumb decisions.”
The remark reminded Annalease of Robert. He had always veered on the side of caution. Never in a hundred years would he give himself to the enemy without a fight. Annalease wouldn’t either, but she often argued with Robert. Maybe it confused Skink. Sent conflicting signals. We made her picks sides.
And in the end, she picked neither.
Annalease wanted to say a few words, as the others had for the people they recognized. But the moment passed, and Skink’s picture was replaced by another. Maybe it’ll cycle again, as Liam’s has, Annalease thought, but the channel went to commercial, and when the news returned, the story had changed.
“…Which will cost two hundred and thirty million dollars to repair,” the reporter said. “But as you can see behind me, reconstruction is already under way.”
The camera panned to show a crew of forty or fifty mechanthrops working to clear debris from a destroyed purification tower. The UZ’s black wall of pollution had crept forward a few feet since the towers had fallen, and Annalease predicted it would creep a few more before the mechanthrops could finish reconstruction.
“In a couple of days, it’ll be like nothing happened,” Annalease said.
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” Bear said. “In a couple days, everything happens.”
“I don’t follow,” Annalease said.
Chirp flashed a stained smile and reached in her backpack. She pulled out an Overrider. “Ever see one of these?”
“Yeah, a few times,” Annalease said. “Are you…” but she trailed off, unsure if asking so bluntly would render an unfavorable response.
But Chirp wasn’t put off. She nodded, smirking. “We’re going to take control of them.”
“After watching that Gold and his coppers cause mayhem in the city…” Bear whistled. “Can you imagine what a batch of them could do?”
“And not like those dumbasses at MR&H that tried to take control of the whole facility,” Chirp said. “The secret is only a few. Maybe six groups of three, all let loose like rabid dogs in the city and suburbs. Even rural areas across the river. Mechanthrops don’t need sleep or food. PD won’t be able to keep up.”
“And you’re going to do this with just one Overrider?” Annalease asked.
“We have two,” Bear said. “The other’s in my rucksack.”
“And I should be getting mine tonight, if all goes well,” Rattler said.
Bear grinned, then turned his gaze back to the road. “Stick with us, little bird, we’ll get you there.”
“Little Bird,” Chirp said. She returned the Overrider to her backpack. “I like it.”
“Looks like your part of the crew,” Rattler said, patting Annalease on the shoulder.
Chapter 23
Ernest couldn’t remember the operation, the recovery, or how he had gotten in a transport truck bound for the UZ. He couldn’t remember telling his legs to stand, nor walk to the back of the truck to disembark. His arms, two long masses of dense golden-silver alloy, also moved without his command, taking hold of the handrails as he shuffled out the truck’s exit.
He hopped down, catching a glimpse of his massive golden feet. They looked powerful. Felt powerful, as he landed with ease on a dirt patch that tickled the undersides of his toes.
Mild panic set in when he tried to take a step in one direction but went in another. He soon realized he had no control over any of his limbs. The machine, the mechanthrop he inhabited, was making the decisions for him. “What is happening?” he tried to say, but no words came out. Panic morphed into terror. But he couldn’t express it.
Ernest was on the verge of a full-blown mental breakdown. His hemorrhaging mind would drown in its own blood and nobody would know.
I’M NOT IN CONTROL OF MY BODY, his mind screamed.
“I’m not in control of my body!” he heard the mechanthrop yell.
“It’s okay, calm down,” a familiar voice said. “Hey, Ernest, look down.”
Ernest did, and so did his mechanthrop’s head. Standing in front of him was Agent Welding. She wore all black except for the shiny Homeland badge dangling from a chain.
“Remember, slow. Okay?” she said.
Ernest glanced at the ground, his big feet and stern legs coming into view. He smiled, then laughed, then shook with joy.
“Ernest, focus,” Agent Welding said.
He did, bringing his gaze up. But he couldn’t stave off his desire to lift one leg. Then the other. He went back and forth like this until he was jogging in place.
Agent Welding did her best to remain patient. She pursed her lips and surveyed the UZ.
“Sorry,” Ernest said. “This is just…amazing. I feel like I can—” without realizing what he was doing, Ernest had crouched close to the ground and launched himself straight up into the air. He reached half the height of the nearest air purifier, about a mile away. Astonishingly, he was able to clearly see the crew of mechanthrops currently rebuilding it.
He came down with a slam. The impact shook the ground enough for Agent Welding to trip and fall. She regained her feet, looking mad enough to test the durability of Ernest’s new body with a few shots to the chest.
“Initiate top-tier protocol automation,” Agent Welding said.
All joy escaped Ernest. Once again, he had no control over his body or vocal cords. The mechanthrop stood still as a statue, its gaze forward. Legs, arms, head, eyes…unresponsive.
Stay calm, Ernest told himself.
“I’m sorry, but we need to remain discreet,” Agent Welding said. “Part of your dual personification dictates that the mechanthrop’s command takes precedence. I gave it the command to remain silent. I will dismiss that command now, but you must stay calm, okay?”
Agent Welding waited a few seconds before speaking again. “Resume low-tier protocol volition.”
Ernest felt the air leave his lungs. But he failed to hear his exhale. “Am I breathing?” he asked.
“No,” Agent Welding said. “It’s no longer necessary.”
“But I feel like I’m breathing,” Ernest said.
“We’ve included biological response simulations in your programming to help you adjust,” Agent Welding said.
“I can’t believe I’m walking again,” Ernest said, stealing another glimpse of his legs.
“We need to move forward with the mission,” Agent Welding said.
“Crossing the border…”
“Correct. Remember, you’re one of the mechanthrops from MR&H, and your only goal is to find High Society.”
“And the mechanthrop will take control automatically for all interactions?” Ernest asked.
“Yes. Much of the time you’ll be an impassive spectator, advising subsequent motions in respects to the mission.”
“Intelligence gathering.”
“That’s it,” Agent Welding said.
A sense of emptiness overcame Ernest. A hole of sorts, like the void of failing to bring his legs back. That hole had begun the size of a pin prick and slowly grew beneath his feet like an ever-expanding gulf. In the back of his mind he knew the hole would eventually get too big for him to straddle and he’d fall in.
But this new void was something different; it was the tingle of saying goodbye to something familiar for the unknown.
“Thank you for taking me in,” Ernest said.
Agent Welding nodded. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”
Ernest swallowed, then turned for the UZ. He breached the smoky wall and was soon submerged in total blackness. Fear tugged at his heart again, but the mechanthrop must have sensed it and taken control. They walked together, as one, toward a society built for and by mechanthrops.
I’ll be the first human in Mechciety since the Great Separation, Ernest thought, and was shocked at what he saw on the other side of the border.
It wasn’t the buildings, so tall they became lost in the ubiquities haze that grew denser with altitude, nor was it the small machines buzzing between the buildings, carrying parts. It was something Ernest recognized from when he had first met Agent Welding at Human Productions.
Large, egg-shaped vats, brimming with embryos.
Thousands of them, being transported on a labyrinth of moving parts, gravitating toward the sea.
The sight startled Ernest so much that he tried to turn around and warn Welding.
Stop, turn back, Ernest told himself. Turn back now! Resume low-tier protocol volition!
But his legs wouldn’t abide, and soon he was just another mechanthrop in a chain of many, going about his tasks.
A J Jameson, The Incision of Being
