(CON)SCIENCE BY PJ MANNEY EXCERPT – CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter noted what appeared to be femurs sticking out of one, wig hair coiled in lengths by color in another, and silicone skin draped in a third. Hanging on the wall were helmets, goggles, masks, compressed air, and HEPA vacuum nozzles on long hoses. Calibration probes, coils of Teflon tubing, heat and soldering guns, cabling of every diameter imaginable, from the nano to the macro. And to top it off, a collection of toy robots lined the top shelf near the ceiling: bobbleheads, old Robby the Robots, Transformers, and what he assumed were the latest biobots, crafted like living chimeras.
This was the best toy room in the world, to an engineer’s eye. He hoped that, once he was functional, they’d let him play in here.
“I didn’t sample your voice,” said Carter. “We found old recordings of your public appearances and built a new voice. Kang, please let Dr. Chaikin know that his stuttering’s not funny.”
“Ruth’s f-funny? Since when?” asked Peter.
“Dr. Potsdam,” said Kang, “I don’t think she programmed it.” A ticking sound came from behind his head. Then it stopped.
Carter’s AHI took 1.2 seconds to scan the vocal program, find the programming glitch, and fix it. Then he sent Peter a quick stream of all the specs of his engineered body.
“Speak,” said Carter.
“How long have I been asleep?” asked Peter.
“Check your internal clock. It’s all there.”
He checked. Saturday, April 3. The day after he awoke with Carter in the Manhattan penthouse. “My toes don’t move,” said Peter.
“Kang?” said Carter.
Peter heard the same ticking, which he assumed was Kang either
fixing his toes or messaging Ruth. “Where am I?” asked Peter.
“In a facility on the seafloor, in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“For real?” The architecture seemed too normal, too land-based. Perhaps they’d made huge leaps in pressurization and architecture in the years he had hibernated.
“Too real,” said Carter. “Fong, please let Peter see himself in the mirror. He’ll get a kick out of it.”
A petite man, with ears pierced by six diamond studs and a shock of pink hair, brought over a table mirror in a chrome frame and held it up to the android’s face, displaying a perfect facsimile of Peter Bernhardt’s own square face, chestnut hair, and azure blue eyes.
“Holy crap, man, that’s amazing,” Peter said, studying himself. “So you think I can function in the world like this?”
“You need physical agency to kill Tom Paine, right? Here you go.”
Peter imagined how this body might kill his enemy. He scrutinized his hands. Were they strong enough to strangle, or break, a human neck? The neck of the man who had murdered his wife? “That’s right. I will. But he’d recognize me like this.”
“Your face is easily changed,” said Carter. “Someday, we may try to use an organic body. Postmortem, of course. This is a first step.”
“This is some step.” Peter turned a little to the left, then to the right, looking himself over as he tested his body. “The schlong’s not that accurate.” No one laughed. But the Yiddish slang made him wonder about Ruth. “Uhhh . . . your download says Ruthie is lonely? I mean, is she okay?”
“We’re not sure,” said Carter.
Peter glanced back at his genitals, an unnecessary addition to a robot designed to kill. “Wait, I’m not supposed to have sex with her, am I?”
“Good God, no,” responded Carter. “But hold on. Well, maybe? If she wants to. She’s always had a crush, and a machine may be the only way she’d do it—she’s so touch-phobic.”
“Don’t I have a say in this?” asked Peter.
“Damn it,” said Carter, “just spend some time with her. Figure out what’s bugging her, and let me know. A happy Ruth makes a happy team.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Peter. “But someone’s gonna have to help me out before I kick any ass. How do I get up?”
Copyright © 2021 by PJ Manney
No comments:
Post a Comment