The Incision of Being Page 2

  The mechanthrop stutter-stepped in place, its circuits shorted by the shock-cartridge. A few more paces and it would have reached the unconscious employee, bashed his head in, or popped it off with a twist of the neck. Programmed to kill in whichever means was most efficient, mechanthrops often aimed for the head.

  “Salamander, use the forklift to transport the Silver into our truck,” Annalease said.

  “You got it,” Salamander said.

  “These extra steps will catch up eventually,” Robert said. He kneeled to extract the tranquilizer round from the cop’s forehead.

  Annalease opened the loading dock door. Skink had already reversed the box truck into position. In a backpack on the floor of the truck were the explosives: six bundles of concentrated C4.

  “Robert, give me a hand when you’re done cleaning up,” Annalease said. “Salamander, load three 7th generation mechanthrops after you’ve finished with our blood-thirsty friend here. Ninety seconds we’re gone.”

  A brilliant golden luminance shining from within the back of a hitched trailer caught Annalease’s attention. Its legs and shoulders hunched, and its neck bent to accommodate its magnificent stature, the golden mechanthrop that Annalease had been awaiting for nine years was less than fifteen feet away from her. A paragon of mechanical beauty, Annalease could taste the density of its durable metal. “Liam came through,” she muttered.

  “Oh me, oh my, sorry old silver, but Annalease has a new guy,” Skink said, leaning her large head on Annalease’s arm.

  Annalease smiled. “Nine years, Skink. That’s how long we’ve been waiting to be freed.” She took a deep breath. “Anything on the radios?”

  “All clear. But we should leave soon.”

  “Okay.” Annalease rubbed Skink’s head. “Let’s give Salamander some room.”

  “Can I ride it?”

  “No.” Annalease guided Skink away from the trailer. “Salamander, grab this one next.”

  Robert walked over, the air rifle leaned against his shoulder like a soldier in a parade. “This is the one, huh? Our saving grace?”

  Salamander drove the forklift into the trailer and hauled out the golden mechanthrop. Everyone followed behind as he loaded it into the box truck. “The true harbinger.”

  Robert scoffed. “We’re the true harbingers. I don’t care what some prophecy from an instruction manual has to say. Any time we advance our cause, it’s because of us. Not some robot that’s come to save us.”

  “Shut up,” Skink said.

  Robert sighed and walked away.

  Annalease rubbed Skink’s head. “Get in. We’re heading out. And no climbing, I’m serious. If so much as one scuff mark…”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Skink said, saluting Annalease before grabbing the strap to close the truck’s sliding door.

  Annalease finished setting the C4 charges with Robert. Hundreds of racks of quarter-ton mechanthrops would come crashing down. Only a few dozen would be decommissioned, but they’d get the message.

  Back in the truck, Annalease handed Robert the Overrider to get his opinion. “It’s too dark, I can’t see anything,” he said. “I’ll check it out when we get back.”

  “It’ll be a major setback if we can’t repair it,” Annalease said. She slowed the truck as they rolled over the speedbump exiting the parking lot.

  “And yet you still smile,” Robert said. “You look like a child with a new toy.”

  “I’m not a child, and if your insolence persists, I will personally peel back your scalp and empty your skull.” Annalease had stopped the truck and was staring into Robert’s lifeless eyes. So brown they were almost black—like his soul. And mine, too. That’s what he’s reminding me of. My black soul.

  Robert nodded, turned on the overhead light, and opened the glove compartment full of tools. He got to work fixing the Overrider.

  Annalease eased on the gas. He could be a bastard at times, but Robert’s harsh words were always spoken with the best interests of the Harbingers in mind. A smiling child. The thought made Annalease want to smile again. But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t.

  Because that’s what they did. Those cooked up in batches at the Empyrean Genome Laboratories. Those walking above ground without a care in the world. But that’s not true. They have worries just like everyone else. NO, the voice in Annalease’s head yelled. THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO SUFFER. Not like we do. But that was about to change, wasn’t it, now that they had their golden mechanthrop.

  Chapter 2

  For Ernest Emerson, the best way to recapture the glory days was to deliver the next hailed glory. The people needed to be awed. Left with an impression so great that they couldn’t help but utter Ernest’s name during dinner. On his way back up, they’d say. His family must be so proud.

  But the crowd filled only a third of the bleachers—if that. The number of spectators, colleagues, and sponsors were well below Ernest’s expectations.

  He glanced at the massive digital scoreboard to check the countdown. Two minutes until the exhibition began, and no sign of Emily. Their mother and father were also absent, although Ernest wasn’t surprised about the latter.

  Felix V. Emerson stopped supporting the family, physically, following the fallout of Emily’s second gene-splicing fiasco.

  But their mother, Erin M. Emerson, former Vice President of EGL and current ambassador of the trivialized Cell Biology department, hadn’t missed an important event in her children’s lives since Ernest could remember. Even after the tabloids crowned the Emersons’ The Most Hated Scientists of the Century, their mother advocated for Emily’s experiment to elongate the average lifespan of German Shepherds by infusing their DNA with the Queen of Termites’. The result: puppies that couldn’t refrain from gnawing on wooden furniture, no matter how well-trained.

  Ernest glanced at the scoreboard. Thirty seconds. At least his financial supporters, The Sharks, as they called themselves, were present. They had acquired the name by being dangerously lenient with whom they lend to rather than the use of predatory tactics. They were seeds in need of fertile soil that could grow their profits, and they were counting on Ernest to fill the bank. He got total creative freedom, and they ignored his family’s tainted reputation.

  Ernest glanced at the seats reserved for his family. Empty. Fine. They could catch a recap of the exhibition on the six o’clock news.

  “First off, I’d like to thank everybody for coming out this evening,” Kevin spoke into the microphone, the crowd hushing enough to hear the creaking metal of those still finding their seats on the bleachers. “It is my honor, along with everyone at The Building Blocks of Yesterday, to be a part of the progression we’ve made as humans. Led by doctor Ernest J. Emerson, the author of multiple scientific papers and the recipient of EGL’s Infusion of Genomes in Small Rodents Award, and the descendent of a noble prize-winning family, we strive together in our quest for a better tomorrow. Please welcome Doctor Emerson.”

  The applauding crowd evoked a surge of dopamine that flooded Ernest’s mind. He walked on air as he glided to the podium. The wind tickled the sweat on his palms. He could barely contain the excitement at the thought of winning so many accolades after his work had been shared with the world.

  “Thank you for the warm words, Kevin,” Ernest said, shaking his sponsor’s hand. “And thank you all for coming. We, uh…” They came. First row, middle section. The three seats that had been vacant less than a minute ago were now taken. Sister, Father, and Mother. All here. Every memorized line of Ernest’s speech had slipped away.

  His sister’s iridescent hair shimmered like a sparkling rainbow as she nodded. The whisper of his mother’s encouragement warmed his blood, and he could feel the intensity of his father’s expectations.

  “We are eager to show you the future of genome alteration,” Ernest said to the crowd. “We have already changed the building blocks of biology. If you look to your left, and to your right, you’ll find many unique faces. Different in shape, s
ize, and color, but connected through individualism. Grown in a batch unique to us and nobody else. Well, I’m here to share with you my ideal of keeping our differences. But first I must prove I have something worth keeping.”

  Ernest stepped away from the podium and stripped off his jacket and pants, revealing the athletic wear underneath. The crowd grew vibrant with quizzical murmurs. Someone expressed his suspicion that the exhibition was a hoax. Nothing more than a gag to gain attention and, more importantly, sponsorship. The shouter wasn’t entirely wrong, but Ernest kept his eyes on the track.

  Eleven runners crouched at the starting line, each a different build from the next; models that were the fastest of this generation, the previous generation, and a few prototypes plucked from the lab as part of their efficiency testing.

  Ernest took his spot in the middle of the lineup and hunched down, digging the balls of his feet into the synthetic rubbery asphalt. A new countdown began on the scoreboard.

  3….2…1…

  POP!

  Ernest surged forward, the wind slipping over his cheeks like water splitting over the edge of a knife. It howled in his ears, screaming for him to pump harder, run faster, and ignore the burning acidity of lactic acids building in his calves, thighs, chest. It was the pain of a body that spent most of its time in a science laboratory now thrusted onto a track to compete with some of the fastest runners in the country. Even so, it would be nothing compared to what he had planned at the end of the race.

  Two runners passed him, joining the ranks of those leading. Ernest had put little thought into his ending placement. He doubted it’d be first, or even top six…but last?

  He leaned into his sprint, on the brink of tipping over. Another smear of a body passed on the left. He wanted to count how many runners were in front of him, but if he lifted his eyes for only a second, he’d trip and become the newest laughingstock of the Emerson family.

  Faster, he willed his legs. But it was of no use. They weren’t designed for this. What was I thinking?

  Ernest rounded the final curve of the track and watched in blurry vision as every runner crossed the finish line ahead of him. A complete disaster. What was the worth of losing something that had zero starting value?

  But as he made his way back to the bleachers, he was met by a standing ovation. Everybody had gotten out their seats to applaud his efforts. Even his father.

  Ernest hurried to the podium. He had to keep up the momentum. “Thank you. Thank you. So much.” A pat on the back. Ernest turned to see Kevin, who was gesturing toward the other eleven runners, lined up on the track hand-in-hand preparing for the final bow. “Please put your hands. Together. For our powerful. Runners,” Ernest stammered between breaths.

  The applause continued, and Ernest joined in. He couldn’t help but envy the runners. They were composed and ready for another race, whereas Ernest gasped and blubbered for air. A spectrum of colors from dark to light, short to tall (although the shortest still stood taller than Ernest), each runner stood a paragon of creation. And the Emersons had contributed toward their perfection.

  A fact they’ll remember, Ernest said, turning toward the crowd. “I would like to take a brief moment to speak on the past.” The crowd quieted and took their seats. “Some say the sharp edge of the past haunts us. It carves away at our critical thinking. ‘This is how it’s always been,’ some may say. Or, ‘If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.’ To this I say, we’re not fixing it, but improving upon its structure.”

  The crowd gasped as Kevin unveiled the guillotine. “A device of the past,” Ernest said, resting his hand on the guillotine’s wooden platform. “Used to dismember a person’s existence from this world. A hand for stealing. A head for lying. But what if we could get back these lost parts?”

  Ernest climbed the steps leading to the guillotine’s platform. The crowd had completely forgotten about the runners, their focus hijacked by the main event. “I am not going to chop off my own head,” Ernest said, trying to rein in his father’s faltering support. But Felix didn’t slow his shuffling toward the bleacher’s exit, and soon he was gone.

  “Lost limbs,” Ernest said, slipping his legs under the guillotine’s blade.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” someone called from the crowd.

  “Each year, 185,000 people lose their limbs in our great country,” Ernest said, his eyes watching the blue sky just beyond the silver edge of the guillotine blade. “The cause of a little more than half that number comes from vascular disease. Nearly another half is caused by trauma, and a small sliver by cancer. But what if we could regrow?”

  “Ernest, you stop this charade this instant,” Emily said, her Helium-high voice shushing the crowd.

  “You will all see me in a few months’ time, back on this very track, racing against the nation’s greatest runners with brand new, regrown legs.” Ernest nodded at his sponsor, and the blade came whizzing down.

  A spritz of warm blood dabbled Ernest’s thighs. He heard the voice of his mother, calling to him in a way that made his chest hurt. He told her it’d be okay. He told his sister to see the method in his madness. He envisioned the proud look on his father’s face, after all was said and done.

  New limbs, he thought, his vision tunneling and his ears ringing. But to get to new, you must get rid of old.

  Chapter 3

  They walk like us, yet are less agile. They threaten violence, yet are some of the most fragile beings in the galaxy. Ferocious for the sake of never having to meet a creature of harsher intentions.

  These were the rumors lacing the airways of Mechciety. Humans, they were called. And from what Orvil 7D had witnessed of these fleshy animals, the rumors were true.

  Worse, even, he thought, replaying the memory of a woman dressed in poorly designed fabric, her torso bulging from a hardened apparatus—they apply secondary exoskeletons to boost durability. And the tool she wielded…it controlled the Silver’s motor function, compelling him forward as the woman threatened another human.

  “Some humans have faulty programming,” Orvil’s teacher had explained, “harming each other instead of fighting for the species.”

  “Species?” Orvil asked, unfamiliar with the term.

  “A species for them is what Mechciety is for us. Each biological creature is its own species, yet they differ in terms of life cycle and method of performance.”

  Orvil identified the human known as Skink as the most idiomatic of the group. She was shorter than the others and possessed the urge to be in constant motion. Since entering the transport, Skink had climbed Orvil’s back, bounced around on his shoulders, and then jumped down to nibble his finger and “test its authenticity.”

  The second human in the transport, Salamander, tapped a knife against Orvil’s back and said, “It sounds right. We’ll know for sure when we get underground. If it’s not the one we’ve been waiting for, I think Annalease will lose her mind.”

  “She lost that a long time ago,” Skink said, and did something that had intrigued Orvil. She laughed. The sound was a sequence of high-pitch noises akin to the whining of bent metal.

  Orvil added the unfamiliar name to his catalog: Annalease. She was the human that had wielded the Overrider tool at the transport pickup station. A frightening notion, having one’s autonomy yanked away at the click of a button. Orvil would maintain an elevated sense of awareness around Annalease.

  And then there was Robert, a man that alternated between obsessively scratching his neck and checking the external clock on his wrist. A deadly human, willing to shoot another human in the head with a low-velocity projectile at a moment’s notice.

  Spoken by Robert, 2248, 15Nov2667:

  “The mechanthrop will terminate that man’s life. I advise letting it be.”

  Skink tumbled into Orvil as the transport truck made a sharp turn. The sweat on her face smeared his leg, and his microscopic sensors absorbed Skink’s DNA for analysis. Soon, Orvil would be able to locate her by scent.

  “
You should stop messing with the golden mechanthrop,” Salamander said.

  “Why?” Skink said, climbing her way up Orvil’s torso.

  “Annalease isn’t the best driver. What if she hits a turn too hard and the mechanthrop tips over? The first thing she’ll assume is that you were dangling from it like a jungle gym and threw off its balance.”

  Skink shifted her grip and began using Orvil’s neck as a pull-up bar. “Big, expensive, five-hundred-pound mechanthrop can’t survive a little bump on the head?”

  “I’ll give you a bump on the head.”

  “Why do you refer to me as a mechanthrop?” Orvil asked.

  Skink released her grip and landed flat on her back. She scurried away from Orvil, putting her back against the wall.

  Salamander broke out in wild laughter. It sounded very different from the way Skink laughed earlier. Slower in cadence. And wider. If Skink laughed like bending metal, then Salamander laughed like chimes blowing in the wind. Orvil rotated his torso one hundred-and-eighty degrees to face Salamander and repeated his question.

  “Um…I’m not really sure,” Salamander said, his nose crinkling as he glanced up at Orvil. “It’s just what they called you when we got here. I mean, your kind. Skink and I are still newish.”

  “What’s my kind? New to what?” Orvil asked.

  “Um…” Salamander lowered his gaze, presumably to glance at Skink. He bit his lip, then picked his teeth with his knife. “Uh, maybe…”

  The truck slowed. Salamander stopped picking his teeth and sheathed his knife. “Our leader can provide an answer for your question.”

  Orvil rotated his torso. Skink remained hunched in the same position, her eyes wide and mouth quivering. Her scent of sweat had more than doubled since she had used Orvil’s neck as a pull-up bar. “You have an error in your programming,” Orvil said.

  “You’re not supposed to be awake,” Skink whispered through chattering teeth. She almost rolled backward out of the truck as the door slid open.