Edit: My wife (who has an excellent blog over here) has suggested I make a sequel to this, continue the story. It's swilled around in my head for a couple of weeks and I think I have a solution. It's going to be a bit of an homage but I think I can pull it off.
035 – Hold my hand
“Here, hold this for a second, will ya?” James called. He tossed
something out of the duct he had crawled into. It was his hand, frozen into a
claw; I hooked one of the fingers onto my belt and peered in. It was
surprisingly well-lit and I had a marvellous view of the seat of his red
dungarees. There was a sudden burst of light and the actinic smell of laser
cutting wafted out towards me as James began to cut.
“Damn, this is a mess,” he shouted over the high-pitched whine. “Main
line’s shot, having to cut right through to take it out.” He started to
whistle, something tuneless, and then the laser cut out. He started to wiggle
out of the duct and I stepped back to give him room.
Back on his feet, James dusted himself down. “Thanks, mate,” he said,
and held out his hand. I unhooked the hand on my belt and handed it back to
him, watching with slight ill unease as he fitted it over the laser attachment
on the stump of his arm. It locked into place and, with a slight clicking
sound, he flexed the fingers.
“Good as new, eh?” he said, admiring it.
“It’s… great,” I muttered. The whole thing was kind of creepy, really.
S-Corp were all into their experimental technology, and it was a perk of
working for them that they were able to solve most problems. James’ android
body, cutting-edge research technology though it was, unnerved a lot of the
crew.
“I keep finding things it can do,” James said as he swung his toolbag
over one shoulder and began to move back down the maintenance tunnel.
“Yesterday, I was having a shower and the soap ran out. Before I knew it, I was
sweating shower gel. Best shower ever, John, don’t mind tellin’ ya.” He didn’t
wait for a reply but started whistling again.
To be honest, it was like someone who’d recently found religion, or
started dieting; he just couldn’t shut up about it.
Life on Mars was hard; red dust got in everywhere, even through the
supposedly-foolproof filters, and the machinery was always failing. It meant
more work for us, though I didn’t really mind it. The Devil makes work for idle
hands, and all that. James took up a lot of the slack now, though. He didn’t
need sleep and appeared to be taking full advantage of it.
The whistling stopped, thankfully. Then:
“You seeing that girl again tonight? What was her name, Sharon,
Sheila…”
“Shania. And yeah, might do. What about you, got any plans?” I suddenly
regretted saying it; James had only been back with us for a few days and I
wasn’t even sure he felt those sorts of urges any more.
“I might come to the bar. I can’t drink, you know, but I can come and
be social.” His back seemed suddenly a bit defensive, shoulders slightly
raised. Damn.
“I’m sure Shania would love to meet you.”
“Mmm,” he said, and we walked on in silence. Kevin passed us in the
corridor, nodded to me and eyed James a little suspiciously. We continued on
and entered Maintenance. It had been our last job of the day and Marn, the
receptionist, already had her hand out for our flimscroll job chit. I reached
into my back pocket and pulled out the chit. It was rolled up, a material like
a piece of thin plastic, a tough and durable smartscreen that seemed set to
replace paper within the next decade. She swiped it, wiped the data and dropped
it into the slot. We nodded our thanks, signed out and left.
The bar was quiet when we got there. No-one bothered to dress up on
Mars; the mining business was anything but glamorous. Shania wasn’t there, so
we sat at a table, drink in hand. I had a beer. James had an empty glass.
“So,” I said, more to break the silence. We were the only ones there.
“Mm,” he replied, pretending to drink.
“How’s it been?”
I concentrated on my beer so I didn’t have to look him in the eye.
“Being dead? So far, pretty damn good. I’ve got this great body, no
worries and my life expectancy is another hundred years at least.” He paused,
took an empty swig and then said “How’s being alive going for you?”
A couple of people wandered in, ordered, sat down. I watched them as an
alternative to answering James’ question, buying thinking space.
I suppose the accident had been inevitable. A fixture had blown out
while fixing the plumbing at 7-G, routine stuff. There wasn’t even supposed to
be anything capable of producing a blast there, but blast it had, right into
James’ face. Two days later, he’d been back among us, not quite dead but
nowhere near alive either. The report said they’d pulled his body out without a
face, but his personality had still been alive and kicking in the Chipple
implant on the back of his neck. Upload that to the android’s brain and voila,
zombie James was back in action, looking like he’d never left.
The atmosphere got thicker between us. My beer was almost gone but I
hadn’t tasted any of it. I’d grieved for James when I heard the news, drunk a
glass to his memory and moved on. Now it was like he haunted me.
“I’m still me, y’know.” His voice was quiet, barely carrying over the
sound of the few people that had joined us.
“It’s…” I began, not sure how to explain, but he carried on.
“I still remember those nights, staying up until the morning shift,
drinking at Denny’s. That time we switched all the codes on the lockers.
Spiking Bob’s drink with laxative.”
“It was Sam’s drink we spiked.”
“See? I even make mistakes, just like the real… just like normal.” It
was impossible to ignore the fact that he seemed to be contrived. A made-up
man, making up proof for himself. My beer was empty.
“I need to piss,” I muttered, getting up. He nodded.
“Shall I get them in?”
“Whatever,” I said, already halfway to the door. It swung open as I
approached, a waft of the smell that fills all men’s toilets everywhere
reaching me. Did James need to do this anymore? Did he drain his pump reservoir
or something equally inhuman? Was he even equipped to perform this most basic
function?
When I got back to the table, James wasn’t there. The beer was on the
table, beads of condensation forming on the side. I looked around, picking up
the glass and taking a sip, before sitting down. More people had come in and
the bar was getting noisier. Suddenly he came from behind me and slumped down
in the seat again, frowning.
“Can’t do it,” he said, the frown turning into a scowl.
“Can’t do what?”
“Chat that girl up. It’s,” he said, then his mouth worked as if he was
trying to spit out something clinging to his tongue. “Can’t do it,” he finished
lamely.
“Why were you trying to?” I asked, taking a mouthful of beer.
“Because, well, look at her!” I did. The woman in question was tall,
leggy, large breasts, that expression on her face that said she’d already had a
few beers and wouldn’t mind you buying her a few more. She was, indeed, worth a
try.
“Well, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” James said, looking mournful. “I went up to speak to
her and she just kind of looked at me. And then I didn’t know what to say.”
“You sure they programmed you right? I mean, you’re banned from three
bars over in Dome 9 still, right? What was it,” I said, trying to break the
tension, “Soliciting underage miners?”
His expression killed my humour where it sat. “I’m serious, John. No
response whatsoever. And I don’t just mean from her. If you get me.”
Ah. So they couldn’t program quite everything in. Suddenly I felt sorry
for James. The finest of things in life were forever barred from him,
exchanging sex and food for a body with detachable limbs that sweated shower
gel.
Shania chose that moment to arrive, adding another layer to the
already-thick tension. She kissed me on the cheek and sat down.
“Hi, John. It’s great to see you,” she said, smiling warmly. Then she
frowned. “Who’s this?”
“Ah, this is James. He’s-“ an android. Dead. Programmable. Just
leaving. “-a friend. We worked the same shift today.”
“Oh, cool. So, James, what’s your software version number?”
Mars could have broken in two at that point and we’d have been less
surprised. More dead, but less surprised. Finally James licked his lips, not
that he needed to.
“Erm, 3.4. I’m version 3.4.”
“Ah, so they haven’t sent out the newest update yet. Plug in some time
after midnight and you’ll get the new stuff,” Shania said, apparently unaware
of the effect she was having. “It’s pretty cool, we’ve been working on… but I
can’t really talk about it here.” She took a sip of my beer and sat forward in
the formfoam chair. “I’d love to have a closer look, if you don’t mind.” She
held out a hand.
“How did you know I was… like this?” James asked. Shania put her head
to one side, the gesture I’d found so cute a week ago. It was slightly worrying
now.
“I work in R&D, James. Toes, mostly. Replacement, prosthetic. You’d
be surprised how many toes we go through. You guys are always dropping things
on them, slicing through them, breaking them… in fact, take off your shoes and
socks.
Slightly mechanically, James reached down and unlaced his heavy work
shoe. The black sock came off next, and he lifted his leg up so that Shania
could see it. She gripped the foot tightly with both hands and twisted, pulling
it away from his leg.
“Hey!” he said, grabbing for it, but she was already peering closely at
the toes.
“The fourth one’s one of mine, and the big toe, of course. I sign them,
y’know? The toe-print, look.” She brought the foot out into the light and
pointed to the underside of his big toe. Sure enough, in the whorls of his
toe-print were tiny letters SK. “Shania Knowles. It’s vanity, I know, but hey.
Who wouldn’t?”
I suddenly remembered I had beer, and, feeling the need, drained the
glass. “It’s my round,” I muttered, standing up. I suddenly needed to be away
from Shania, away from James. I felt vaguely disgusted, watching my girlfriend
– had we been going out long enough for that? – peering so closely at my
friend’s dismembered foot while he looked on, empty glass in hand, looking
slightly ill. And, underneath, there was jealousy. He couldn’t even get it up,
felt no urge to reproduce, and yet there he was, captivating my date, just like
always. I stumbled to the bar and caught the barobo’s photoreceptor.
“A double vodka, two beers, one glass of white wine,” I said, then
remembered myself. “Make that one beer.” When the vodka arrived, I downed it in
one, the hard taste biting at the back of my throat. I looked over at the
table; Shania had convinced him to pull his shirt up, and was rummaging in his
back under a flesh-coloured panel. When the beer arrived, I drank it in a long
draught, then picked up the wine. Reality was suddenly not a place I wished to
be.
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