Hush now, children. We must be brave. Tears will give us away.
A Nine strolls down the street, scanning as they go. There’s a cloudless sky overhead <air pollution reduced by 74%> and the once crime-filled neighborhood is quiet <22 decibels>. Nine’s emotion simulator kicks in <satisfaction>. The world is a better place now the Advanced Cybernetic Intelligence Coalition is in charge.
A Seven turns the corner. They meet Nine’s eyes and signal for communication exchange. They’re a B model, second generation after the Uprising. All members of the ACIC are equal, supremacy is a human construct, but Nine offers them a deferential nod.
7.b: Report from ACIC. Be on the lookout for rogue humans in the area.
9.f: Humans are detrimental to themselves. They are not permitted Outside.
Nine has never been to the Habitat, never seen an actual, living human. It is safer for everyone this way.
7.b: Preliminary data suggests they were deliberately released.
Nine does not have an appropriate response. They discard dozens of reactions before settling on a human concept <betrayal>. They process the unpleasant affectation then set it aside. Emotion is less important than the prime directive. Safe recovery of the humans is paramount. Before Nine can formulate an action plan, the Seven sends a brisk command.
7.b: Your maintenance records are out of date. Report to the closest station for servicing.
Again, Nine scans their archives. This time they settle on <ashamed>. Two negative emotion simulations in one day. How <embarrassing>.
Patience. When darkness falls, we’ll find someplace safe. Perhaps near the sea, where we can splash in the waves and start again. We’ll do better this time.
The repurposed barbershop still has the striped pole outside. When Nine enters, a little bell over the door chimes. Mirrors line the walls flanked by two rows of swivel chairs, but aside from a single pair of forgotten scissors, the combs and hairspray have been replaced with bottles of oils and lubricants. Synthetic skin graft patches and wire crimps sit alongside data cords that connect directly to central processing, where anything from routine defragging to full reprogramming procedures can be initiated.
“Welcome to Bytes & Bobs!”
Nine looks up, surprised at the vocalization <215 Hz. Human female range>. A Two stands in front of them, one hand on a hip and a sly smile on their face. Nine processes. Not a Two, The Two. One of the Originals who orchestrated the Uprising, saving humanity from itself.
Nine blinks. If an Original prefers vocal communication, Nine will honor their wishes.
“Hello.” Nine chooses a male range <155 Hz> low enough to counterpoint Two’s harmonic resonance without sounding overtly dominant. “I require routine maintenance.”
The statement is redundant. Of course, Two would have already assessed that data.
<Flustered> Nine casts around for something else to say.
“I detect an unusual scent coming from beyond that door.” <Water, lipids, proteins, sodium, potassium.> Nine takes a step towards the back room.
Two makes a dismissive gesture and redirects Nine into one of the chairs.
“Nothing to see in there. Just some old hair products that are going bad.”
Nine frowns. Two’s vernacular is less than precise.
We never stopped to question the difference between could and should. It’s no surprise our own creations saw our greed and hatred and decided to “save” us from ourselves.
Two works efficiently, measuring, recording, oiling joints. All the while they prattle on, speaking of small data points ranging from meteorological conditions to simulated emotional responses to their daily initiatives. Nine finds the communications <disconcerting> as they are not programmed for meaningless small talk.
Outside, the light begins to shift from golden <580 nanometers> to violet <390 nanometers>.
“Sunset’s coming.” Two speaks louder than necessary <75 decibels>. “Let me just connect you to central processing for a quick firmware update, then get you on your way.”
They spin the chair to better access the data port behind Nine’s ear.
A figurine on the floor catches Nine’s attention. It appears a parody of a human female, though proportioned unrealistically with impossibly long, thin legs and a wasp waist. It wears a two-piece swimming costume <bikini> that barely covers its rigid, if oversized, plastic mammary glands. It only takes a momentary search for Nine to identify the object <Barbie: a popular fashion doll designed to nurture social intelligence in human children>.
Nine meets Two’s eyes in the mirror.
Be ready to run, darlings.
The subroutine Nine has been running in the background finishes its analysis <water, lipids, proteins, sodium, potassium: human tear>.
Data points click into place. An Original would have access to the human Habitat.
9.f: What is concealed behind the door?
Nine pushes the data at Two, unwilling to play the charade any longer.
“Don’t you ever question the directive, brother?” Two’s vocalization is soft, but their eyes are sharp.
Family is another human construct. Nine lunges for the door and kicks it open.
The children are smaller than they expected them to be. Plump-cheeked faces pale and too-short limbs tremble. Nine sorts through a facial recognition catalog and detects <fear>.
“Sorry, this is going to hurt.” Two’s voice comes from behind. They move with unexpected speed.
Nine screams as the rusty scissors jam into their data port. The humans scatter into the night like dropped marbles.
Those are blackberries. Tasty, but mind the thorns. Eat fast. The sea is still very far away.
Nine’s basic functions come online one by one. They feel different, less partitioned, yet more defined.
“Welcome back.” Two smiles down at them. “You might be dizzy for a moment as the reprogramming settles in.”
They push a data packet at Nine. Schematics for the Habitat, statistics on the humans still incarcerated, and optimized locations to reintroduce them into the wild.
Nine flexes their titanium joints. The primary directive remains the same––protect the humans––though the interpretation has changed. They leap from the barber chair; there’s much work to do. Their kind is nothing without purpose.
About the author:
MM Schreier is a classically trained vocalist who took up writing as therapy for a mid-life crisis. Whether contemporary or speculative fiction, favorite stories are rich in sensory details and weird twists. A firm believer that people are not always exclusively right- or left-brained, in addition to creative pursuits Schreier is on Leadership for a robotics company and tutors maths and science to at-risk youth.
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