Claire, page 2
The EMT gently pulled off Claire’s stocking cap and examined the swelling bruise. “No blood. Looks like her hat helped a little. But we should have ‘em do a scan to be safe when we get her in. Any ID on her?”
The other shook his head. “No ID. Anyone here know her? No? OK, do a retinal scan, see if we can get a match.” The unique pattern of the inner eye had become a common way to identify a person in a medical emergency. Records could then be accessed immediately in case the patient had complications.
“Right.” The EMT pulled a square gadget with a cup-shaped end out of his kit bag and held the cup to Claire’s right eye, prying open her lids with his other hand. A blue light shone for a moment, followed by a beep. The tech held the device up and examined its readout.
“No match yet. She might not be in the local database. Wait…jeez, you’re not going to believe this.” He held it so the other could read.
His eyes bugged out as he read the screen, then looked at his partner. “Better call the Monitors.”
- Ͼ -
Claire floated in and out of consciousness, too weak and befuddled to respond to the world around her. Much of what she heard was a muddled jumble. At one point she felt herself in motion, heard a stranger’s voice nearby.
“…finitely one of ours. One of the newer Serie…es, sir, we’ll in transit now, should be the…eet you in the exam…”
She had passed out. She floated out of the gloom again and felt herself on some hard surface. More voices.
“…igure out for the life of me how they got it out of its su…stabilized, we’re adding a nutrient pac…no, it’s still unconscious. We can reinsert it now if you…”
Back into the gloom. She felt hands on her head, then all over. There was pressure, tightness, heat everywhere. Too much, she drifted off again.
- Ͼ -
She awoke in a fog. Dry-mouthed and itchy-eyed, Claire moaned and winced at the faint throbbing at the back of her skull. Must have fainted, she reasoned correctly. This was not the first time she’d had dizziness or lost consciousness since falling ill, but she had thought those days behind her. Hit my head, too. Great. There was a moment of apprehension as she realized she was not in the park anymore. She blinked and tried to gather where she was. She was lying down on something padded in a dimly-lit room. A muddled recollection of movement and voices added to her mental haze. Must be a clinic or something. Someone found me in the park and called an ambulance. Got lucky this time.
“Hello?” she called out weakly. “Anyone there? Hellooo? I’m awake now.” No reply. In fact, the room was completely silent. Claire though this very odd for a hospital. Emergency rooms were always abuzz with activity, and even the wards and private rooms had their own unique sounds. She had learned them well in her time.
Slowly Claire sat up and found she was on some kind of exam table. Her shoulder brushed against an apparatus like a sun lamp hanging over her. As her disorientation waned she noticed a strange all-over tightness and an odd, faintly rubbery smell. She also felt full, which was weird since she hadn’t eaten breakfast before going out.
The room was equally unfamiliar. It didn’t look like any hospital room she had ever seen, and she had seen far too many of late. The usual medical gear was nowhere in sight. Instead, it looked like some kind of workshop, a place to repair equipment. Had they put her in the wrong room? And, where were “they” anyways? She was the only one here.
It was then that Claire noticed her legs. More to the point, she noticed her legs were dressed in some kind of thick, black stockings. No, not stockings. A body suit? The bruise at the back of her head throbbed. She raised a hand to it and felt not the stubble-on-skin she expected but a smooth, almost slippery contact. A moment’s pause and confusion fed her perplexity as she stared at her fingers, sheathed in glossy black. She scanned her hands, arms, torso. All were covered in the same ebony coating. There was some kind of code printed on one arm, but she was still too foggy to read it. Maybe it’s some new thing, some kind of one-piece compression garment, a trauma treatment. How badly was I injured? Did I get burned or something?
She eased herself off the table onto wobbly legs, and discovered she also wore a pair of knee-high black boots. What the hell? This isn’t hospital gear. Her mind was starting to sharpen as she looked about and noticed the logo imprinted in silver on the arm of her suit, the same visible around the room on several bits of equipment. Capriccio? I’m at Capriccio? Why am I here? That’s when she caught her reflection in the door of a stainless steel cabinet. The imperfect image was enough to show her a familiar ebony silhouette, one that moved with her movements, and let out a frightened gasp as she did. It was an image she had seen many times, but never in a mirror. It was a Drone.
What!? She raised her hands to where her face should be. The reflection showed only eyes and a mouth against a black oval, one partially covered by gloved hands, the Capriccio logo centered on its forehead. Panic swelled within. This can’t be, it’s impossible! Frantically she tugged and pulled at the suit but was unable to find an opening or fastener. Everywhere she tried it seemed she was pulling at her own skin. A flash of dizziness and nausea cut short her panic and left her bracing herself against the cabinet with outstretched arms, gazing with horror at her new reflection.
Is this how they do it? Is this how they really make Drones? They say they grow them, but they don’t! They kidnap people and do stuff to them! She shook off the dizziness as best she could. I have to get out of here!
Claire spotted her running clothes in a discarded heap on a nearby table, along with a large white shipping envelope and some paperwork. She grabbed the clothes and shoved them into the envelope, in her haste scooping up the papers as well yet failing to notice a small white fob that fell out of the bag to the floor. Reflexively she rolled the end of the envelope closed and clutched it tightly.
Natural instincts were kicking in. OK, calm down! She told herself. Find the door. Find a way out. Go to the police. NO! The police have to be in on it. How else could they get away with this? I have to get out. Get home! There was a door at the far end of the room. The small window in it showed a brighter space beyond. A glance out the window revealed an empty corridor. Then, movement as a Drone walked by. Claire noticed it held a package in both hands. She had seen Drones move this way when making deliveries around the city. Something of a plan presented itself. OK, when in Rome… With a deep breath, gripping her envelope tightly in one hand, she reached for the doorknob and ventured out.
She did her best to maintain the poise and measured pace of the Drone now walking in front of her while flicking her eyes to and fro to get a clue as to her location. Her knees knocked together and her hands shook from fear and exhaustion. As they walked she noticed increasing activity. More Drones of varying types walking to and fro. Some were masked like herself. Are they like me, kidnapped? Brainwashed? Claire dreaded the answer and kept on walking.
It wasn’t long before she saw her first humans. Most wore smocks of varying colors over their street clothes with a Capriccio patch on one sleeve and an ID clipped to the breast pocket. Claire tensed as they approached but they were engrossed in their own conversations, ignoring her as they did all the other Drones. A moment later she followed the Drone in front of her through a passage and into a large lobby with its many entrance doors. Here Claire felt a jolt of fear when she saw the uniformed security near the exit. They seemed bored and also ignored the Drones who passed in and out of the building. Lightheadedness washed over her again. Was she going to get past them? Fate lent a hand at that moment as someone, a visitor perhaps, came in through the doors and asked the guards a question. While they occupied themselves giving him directions Claire walked past them and outside. She was free. Fighting the urge to run she made her way down the busy street, still clutching the envelope, trying to get her bearings. She needed to get home before they discovered she was missing.
- Ͼ -
It was shaping up to be a busy morning for Niall. Barely was he in the office when a panicked call came in from one of their service agents. A Drone in very poor condition had been found in one of the city parks. He assumed at first that some gang of skinheads had done her for a bit of fun. He hoped it was salvageable. That they had sent it to one of the R&D labs instead of the factory proper suggested this was the case, though why they were sending it his way was a puzzler.
Niall shuddered at the thought of having to supervise a decommissioning. He had only been present once, when they brought in a Drone that had been hit by a sedan while crossing the street. The method used was meant to be painless and quick, putting her – it, he had to remember to call them it – to sleep before the end, but it had locked eyes with his, sheer terror in the face of oblivion. He’d been scolded for taking its hand, returning its desperate grasp before it faded away.
He seemed to be the last person to arrive, as the room was already abuzz with activity. Grabbing a lab coat and some disposable gloves, he caught the eye of a tech with whom he occasionally worked. “How bad is it?”
“Not too bad, but, well, better see for yourself.” They walked over to the exam table and peered between the others. Niall was caught short by what he saw. It was a CLR Series, rolled on its side as a technician examined something on its backside. But it was one unlike any Niall had seen before. For one thing, it had hair, and fingernails. And it was naked.
“What the hell?” It was all Niall could manage to say. Nothing more was needed. Everyone present knew from the mere sight of the Drone that something unprecedented had happened. He knew this Series, had played a peripheral part in the team that developed it. All units in this Series were sealed into total enclosure Drone suits, bonded to the Drone’s skin. The suits were durable and meant to protect the Drone from any kind of skin damage by in essence becoming a new superdermal layer. How had this Drone been removed from her – its – suit? Removal would be like flaying it alive. Yet this unit had an undamaged natural dermis. No, not entirely; there was evidence of sun damage, years of mild exposure. Niall looked from the readout on the wall to the now-naked Drone on the exam table and back again. This Series is barely a year old. How is this possible?
A technician approached. “Sir, we’ve got it stabilized, and we’re adding an anal nutrient pack now. Doesn’t look like it had one in there recently. Our exam is complete, no major injuries but some very unusual blood markers. I’ve sent it off to the lab for a full analysis.”
Niall nodded and grunted in reply. “Is she, er, it awake yet?” He checked himself again for using the wrong gender. No one batted an eye; they were used to his slips.
“No, it’s still unconscious. Prep team is nearly done with cleansing. Hair and nail removal are in progress and we’ve given it the usual injections to prevent new growth. We had the standard issue suit for its Series sent over from Manufacturing, just arrived. Reinsertion can commence at your discretion.”
“Might as well. Once it’s in we can try to wake it and get it to tell us what the hell happened to it. We’ll need a talkboard set up, this Series is mute. Oh, and get a dermal scrape and some pictures before insertion. I want to know why this one is ageing so rapidly.”
The tech saw other puzzles in the Drone’s skin. "Here, have a look at this." She pointed and waved with her pen to indicate various points on the Drone's body. "Needle marks, most likely from an IV, or blood samples taken. Someone has been running experiments on this unit. No wonder it looks so poorly." She took the right arm of the Drone and pointed at a spot between bicep and triceps. "And this little scar is right where one might put an implant for long-term drugs dosing." She dropped the arm unceremoniously and looked at Niall. "What the hell were they doing to it?"
"Nothing good, that's for certain", said Niall after a pause. "Question is, who are 'they'? We've a mystery on our hands."
Another of the techs was slowly rolling the Drone’s head to one side and back. She glanced up at Niall before continuing. “Have you seen these ears yet? Fantastic job they did, whoever they are. Perfectly natural-looking.” Niall leaned in to take a closer look. All of the hooded Series had their outer ears removed before insertion to ensure a better fit and to reduce complications that might come of them, leaving only a pair of small, reinforced holes in the suit to facilitate hearing and wax removal. But the CLR before them had for some reason been grafted with new outer ear structures. Niall was impressed. Someone had put some thought and effort into them. There were even what appeared to be closed-up piercing holes in the lobes. Such attention to detail. Don’t know who the designer is or why they bothered, but we should offer her a position.
“Yes, beautiful work”, he said with a sigh. “Pity. Remove them as well, but save them for analysis. See if we can’t trace who made them.” The tech nodded and reached for a laser scalpel as Niall turned to examine the initial metabolic readings, the hiss of scalpel against skin behind him almost ignored.
His desire to get the Drone back in a suit was more than practical. The suits were also essential in psychologically transforming the Drones from a mere human clone into the perfect utility object. It was more than a marker separating them from their masters. Drones were conditioned to see themselves as non-human, a product, and the suits reinforced this identity to the point that Niall was concerned the Drone on the table next to him might have suffered psychological damage without it.
Niall supervised its insertion into its new suit. The technicians had cleaned and prepped the dermis, removing nearly an inch of hair growth from the scalp. “That’s more than a month of growth” he mused. “How long has it been out of its suit?” They then applied the bonding agent and slid the suit onto it, slowly drawing it over its legs, hips and bust, making sure the lower half was properly fitted before feeding the arms into the sleeves, working out the air pockets as they drew the suit over its shoulders. The hood was then drawn up over the head, turning it into an anonymous black mask, only the eyes and mouth visible. Niall thought that a waste, this was a Series with quite attractive features, but the design spec called for it. The team done, they stood back from the table. Where moments ago a pretty young woman had lain naked there now was a glossy black mannequin, anonymous, stamped with the logo and identity marks of a Capriccio product.
A biofuser was wheeled over and its coffin lid lifted while the technicians slid the Drone off the table into its emitter-lined confine. Arms, legs and head were properly aligned while protective covers were fitted over its eyes and lips. Then the lid was lowered and the required settings entered. A loud THRUM was heard to indicate the unit was active and the bonding process begun, sealing the suit onto the Drone. The fusion was semi-permanent, lasting years beyond the life of most Drones, or so Niall had been told.
“I simply can’t fathom how they got her out of her suit”, he said aloud.
The head tech looked up from her screen a moment. “Dunno. But it won’t be getting out of this one. Should be done in a few minutes.”
“Hm. Okay, I guess that’s it for now. Let me know when she’s awake and we’ll try to figure out what happened. Get those samples to the lab for final analysis.” He turned to leave as the tech did the usual nod and grunt.
That went a lot better than I expected. Niall went to get a cup of coffee and prepare his notes. Two hours later, after having been summoned to Mr. Big’s presence and making his report, he would be informed that the Drone had gone missing.
- Ͼ -
It had taken Claire nearly two hours to reach her apartment building. She had no money for transport, not that it mattered as Drones were not allowed on the bus. Making her way down side streets to avoid detection, sticking to shadows where possible, she had been forced to stop and rest at several points, leaning against walls and light poles as those few passers-by who even bothered to take notice of her gave the exhausted Drone curious looks. She had to squelch the urge to ask a stranger for help. Odds were they would only call Capriccio and report her, another malfunctioning Drone, someone else’s problem. Gritting her teeth, she walked the final few blocks to her front door, thankful there was no one in sight.
But the door did not open. As she made to enter, the door failed to recognizer her as Claire De Berg, resident of Apartment 17. Instead, the facial recognition system, unable to get a proper scan of her features, made a wider scan and identified the Capriccio markings on her suit. A soft chime sounded, followed by a cultured female voice which asked her to state her business.
“What? What business? I live here!”
Chime. “Incorrect. You are not registered as the servant of any resident of this building.”
“I’m not a Drone, you stupid door, I’m a resident! Claire de Berg, Unit 17.”
Chime. “Incorrect. Miss de Berg has not registered a Drone with this system.”
“I am Claire de Berg.”
Chime. “Unable to match facial features to those on file. Please remove any headgear, eyewear or other items which might cover your face for proper recognition.”
Claire groaned. The security AI could not recognize her in the Drone suit with its all-covering hood, and she could not remove it. Much as she did not want to involve her, she decided to ring her landlady. “Call for Superintendant.”
There was a lengthy pause before the AI chimed again. “Superintendant is not answering and may be busy at this time. Please send a text-”
“Oh, go to hell!” Claire turned and stomped off, frustrated to the brink of tears. She could not get into her own apartment. Even the building AI thought she was a Drone. As she walked away she could hear the door saying it would send a message to Miss de Berg alerting her of the encounter, and asking her to not use such coarse language in the future.
Claire made her way slowly down the street towards the city center. Still weak and woozy from her ordeal, she tried to clear the fog from her mind and think of what to do next. She knew that the world would see her only as a Drone, an artificial human, someone’s property. She had heard stories of Drone abuse by thugs who got their kicks from it, seen otherwise nice and normal folk turn sour at the mere sight of a Drone. The feeling of vulnerability, of exposure and nakedness, was overwhelming. She needed help, and she needed it quick.
