Iris limps along behind me as we pick our way down the uneven street in the gathering dusk. Our footsteps sound to me like the staccato beats of a dying heart. Weak flashlights illuminate the path through the rubble, deceptively flat in the distance, buckled and rough underfoot. It reminds me of pictures sent back to Earth from the Mars rovers of a landscape that extends like a desert to the horizon and rolls like the ocean up close. Several times I trip and nearly fall, but I manage to right myself without injury. Poor Iris fares worse, having just recovered from the gunshot wound she suffered during the last raid. Despite my guilt, I don’t slow. She’s the one who insisted on coming, despite me telling her it was unnecessary. We don’t have to fear being shot on sight–by the bots, at least–and besides, I can take care of myself. But she wouldn’t hear of it. So here we are.
I think back to the pitying looks I received as the two of us went through the gate. They all think I’m crazy to risk my life for something as stupid as a knife. Maybe I am. But they can all suck it. I have nothing left of him, and since I remembered the knife exists I’ve thought of nothing else. Day after day, it’s consumed me. I don’t understand how I could have forgotten it in the first place, except that my old life feels more like a dream than something that actually happened. Feeling closer to my dead husband is the only thing that could convince me to leave the compound.
I wish I had died instead of him.
Our progress to my old house is slow but uninhibited. Epsilon compound isn’t far from where I lived Before, the neighborhood lightly patrolled. We turn onto my old street and I see the house immediately, looking much the same as it did when I last lived there. Sure, it sags a little; part of the roof has been blown in along with the windows; but it’s mostly intact. Just like me.
As we draw closer, I notice darting movements all through the rooms. Warily, we creep forward, and I peer in the open front door. I smile. Cats move freely throughout the house, dozens of them making their home where Ryan and I once lived. Kittens, tabbies, toms, sleek calicoes barely out of adolescence, grizzled veterans of a dozen summers. Every damn kind of cat there is. Seeing as I never cared for cats, it seems fitting they would be here. Ryan loved them. He’d cajoled me for years to give up my irrational objections and let him have one, insisting it would make our lives complete. To him, cats were the most lovable animals in all creation.
I refused, of course, blaming my allergies–which could easily have been suppressed with over-the-counter medicine–and our busy schedule, but the plain truth was I didn’t want to be bothered. We had each other. Some day we might decide to have children. What more did we need?
Now, of course, I would give my right arm to look back and know I’d made him happy. Why were you such a stubborn bitch? I ask myself. Why wouldn’t you give him the one goddamn thing he wanted?
For his sake, I inspect these new inhabitants with interest, happy to see none are starving or injured. Of all the things that happened to the world-that-was, it has been saddest to see the innocent suffer, animals and children alike. I think of all the creatures starving to death in zoos all over the world. I hear the cries of the forgotten, feel their clawing hunger and bloated bellies, the listlessness that will steal over them when they lie down to die. Perhaps their next-door neighbors are already dead, and they know what’s coming. I shudder. I know what that feels like.
I jog lightly upstairs and into what remains of our bedroom, smelling the ashes and the mildew of months spent beneath the weeping sky. The bed is a lump of melted, twisted metal, but beneath it is the hollow I had hoped to find. Iris helps me shove the frame aside, and I pounce on the blackened wooden box he made me for our one-year anniversary. Inside, the knife nestles against its velvet cushion, miraculously untouched. Tears overflow as I reach for it, feeling the smooth grip beneath my palm, the familiar weight of it. It fits neatly into the sheath I made from an old leather jacket weeks ago. The solid feel of it against my hip comforts me.
“Let’s go,” I tell Iris. “There’s nothing more for me here.”
I debate scooping up a kitten to take back, but they won’t allow it. “Humans only” at the compound is the hard and fast rule that some man who fancies himself in charge has made. We’re all too shell-shocked to rock the boat. I want to, though; in my mind, a deep suspicion lurks for anyone who desires power. If you ask me, that should automatically disqualify them from having it. Ignoring the hubris of our leaders was how we got into this mess in the first place.
I hear it just as we step outside: the whine and whir of a bot in motion. The fact that we can hear it at all means it’s already too close to outrun. Iris glances at me in a panic, but I shake my head and stop in the yard, waiting. It’s an Inspector. I stand still as a statue as it scans me, because I’ve seen a thousand times what happens when people resist. I nearly jump out of my skin when it finishes the scan and emits a high-pitched cry that brings another cadre of bots around the side of the house. Spider-like Crawlers feel out the terrain, while the anvil-headed Sentries follow. Two of the latter approach me.
“Jeraca Holly,” one says in its faintly metallic voice “You will come with us.”
This is new. “All right,” I say slowly, my heart pounding. I know it’s useless to argue, so I take a chance and ask, “Can you escort my friend back to the Epsilon compound?”
This confuses them. Helping humans is outside normal parameters. We’re either a danger, in which case we’re annihilated, or a nonentity to be ignored. There is no in-between.
Until now, apparently.
“Affirmative,” the Inspector says at last. To Iris, “You will follow me to the compound.”
She glances at me with an expression halfway between awe and panic as we’re herded our separate ways. I wave good-bye, and then the robots close in around me, and there is nothing but their metallic bodies. We pick our way through the wreckage of what was once my hometown, walking between rows of crumbled buildings lining the sides of the road like a mouthful of smashed teeth, dodging chunks of brick and concrete that spill into the weed-filled streets like giant crumbs. Next to the pathetic remnants of our civilization, the robots gleam like otherworldly things, space-age technology melded with confusingly human attributes like a bipedal gait and the habit they have of jerking their heads from side to side as they keep a lookout. The Sentry to my right keeps sneaking glances at me, distracting me from my imminent demise long enough to be curious. “Where are you taking me?” I ask. “Robots don’t arrest humans.”
I hear a minute whirring sound as it processes my question and accesses the relevant data. “Arrest is the wrong term,” it says in a friendly voice. I can tell how far the technology has come from the tingles of disgust that voice sends down my spine. It’s so close to being real. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re required for the Task.”
I can hear the capital T in the word. Before I can ask any follow-up questions, the Crawlers in front of us rear up on their spidery legs. Screams erupt from the wreckage as men and women charge out of the ruined buildings and straight at the bots surrounding me. The robotic column bursts into a frenzy of motion too quickly for my frail human senses to register. One moment we’re walking along normally; the next, the Sentry with which I’m conversing scoops me up in its robotic arms and dashes down the street, carrying me like a baby as it shields me with its own body. I’m too overwhelmed to see what’s happening, but I can hear the sharp retort of gunfire, and I realize a group of fools has decided to commit suicide. Bullets ping uselessly against the Sentry’s back as it runs away.
I close my eyes and send a silent burst of anguish into the universe. I don’t pray—I no longer believe in a higher power—but I curse the people who set this future in motion. Human greed destroyed the world more completely than any act of God ever could. As many of the wisest, most hollowly admired among us said it would.
Stop fighting, I scream silently. I thought we had learned our lesson by now. Though taken by surprise, the bots are regrouping, and the cries of men and women being gunned down echo in my ears. What were they hoping to accomplish? Wiping out a tiny contingent of bots means nothing. There are thousands–more likely millions–of the things around the world by now. All these people have done is purchased agony for the remainder of their short lives. They plead for a mercy the machines can’t feel, bringing tears to my eyes; tears stolen by the wind that whips by as the Sentry races to its destination. My only comfort–and it’s a small one–is that I wasn’t the object of the attack. I didn’t recognize any of the men and women, and they wouldn’t sacrifice themselves to save a random person in the bots’ custody. No doubt they attacked the first bots they saw, and I just happened to be there.
I pray that’s the case. I couldn’t stomach the guilt otherwise.
Center looms up ahead as the Sentry dashes around the corner toward the town’s main drag. A Crawler follows along behind my new bot keeper, its weapon-arms raised to cover us from behind. Servos whir as it changes position with frightening fluidity and grace, while its tiny, bullet-shaped head swivels in 360 degrees to cover the terrain.
“It’s all right,” says the Sentry holding me. “You’re safe.” It’s running straight toward a pair of massive titanium doors, and I brace myself for impact. But an instant before we smash right into them, they blink out of existence. We clatter into a massive dock area a millisecond before they shimmer back into reality again. My jaw drops at this powerful display of the bots’ technology. It frightens me more than almost anything else I’ve seen before.
The bot sets me down gently, and I feel around to make sure my limbs are in place and I’m not bleeding from stray bullets. I don’t think it prudent to remind the Sentry I’m never safe as a human in a machine’s world, so I settle for telling it, “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
“You’re here for your Task,” it says again, which clarifies absolutely nothing. I want to ask more questions–or slap the damn thing–but a second later the doors behind us disappear again to admit the rest of the column. I whirl about, expecting a hail of bullets, but the streets are ominously silent and I know all the men and women who attacked them are dead. The bots sent to fetch me pour inside: a Crawler, several Sentries, an Inspector. No–two Inspectors. And more Crawlers. I realize belatedly that my contingent isn’t alone. There are others behind them, carrying or leading other humans who look as bewildered as I feel. There’s a white woman around my age who doesn’t seem to realize she is continuously weeping, and an older gentleman who looks like the Asian version of my own deceased grandfather. His face gives me a pang of homesickness and grief.
A dozen or so more come in behind him, humans of all ages, shapes, and sizes, men and women alike. No children, of course. In all, the robots have brought fifteen of us to Center for reasons I can’t even begin to guess.
“What’s happening?” the weeping girl says. “What are you going to do to us?”
“It’s all right,” I say in what I hope is a soothing voice. “It’s going to be all right. They said they have a task for us.”
She glances up at me, fear twisting her face into a snarl. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You will be told shortly.” The Sentry who carried me in stands at my side. It towers above the girl. “In the meantime, you will be respectful to Jeraca Holly.”
I’m not sure who is more surprised: me or her. “Are you supposed to be keeping tabs on me?” I ask the bot. “I don’t need you to protect me.”
“My orders were to bring you to Center. Until I receive new orders, I am permitted to remain here with you.”
“I don’t want you with me,” I say shortly.
A hint of a smile stretches across its metallic mouth. Despite the anvil shape of its head, its features are human enough to recognize the expression. “My apologies. But I find you interesting.”
Interesting? Being the object of the bot’s scrutiny makes me shudder. I’ve stayed alive thus far by remaining unseen and unremarkable. How can I move around the shadows with a Sentry at my back? Anger rises up inside me, but before I can lash out and get myself into trouble, one of the women speaks up.
“I demand you tell us why we’re here,” she says. Her cool voice catches my attention, and I look over to see a tall, thin black woman with a tight cap of hair and a severe face with high cheekbones. Her mouth is the most uncompromising thing I’ve ever seen. She reminds me of a queen assessing her peasants’ disappointing harvest. “I’ve done nothing to warrant this hostile treatment.”
“Our intent is not hostile,” one of the other Sentries says. “You’re here for a purpose. All of you have a Task to complete.”
“So we’ve been told.” She looks at it coldly. “I want to know what this task entails before I agree to it. I’m sure we all feel the same way.”
Murmurs of agreement rise up on all sides, with the exception of a few too frightened to say anything. The sharp tang of urine fills the air, and I quickly find the guilty party: a young man in his early twenties with the dark blonde hair and soft white skin of someone who spends much of his time indoors. His hate-filled eyes dart around, coming to rest on the Crawlers in particular, but the bots are unconcerned by his anger. We pose no threat to them, even those of us with weapons. Our paltry guns and knives might as well be posies and china dolls for all the good they would do. The bots would destroy us before we could crack off a single shot. And they would do it without a hint of emotion or mercy.
Suddenly, every bot in the massive room turns. I jump guiltily, certain they’ve somehow learned to read human brain waves and know what I’m thinking. But they don’t look at me. Instead, they face an inner set of doors leading further into Center. These doors slide open, and we fall silent as we wait to see who comes through them. A collective gasp rises from the assembly at the sight of the newcomer.
It’s a woman. A human woman.
“What the hell is this?” demands one of the men. I don’t see who. An angry buzz rises from the rest. “There are humans working with you soulless devils now?”
“There are always those willing to betray their own kind,” the uncompromising woman says. Sadly, I can only agree.
The newcomer stands before us. She’s dressed like a doctor in a white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging over her shoulders. Beneath the coat she wears a crisp white blouse and navy trousers with bright red flats. Gold jewelry glints at her ears, neck, and wrists. Her sleek hair is pulled into a chignon with not a single strand out of place. She is so well put together I can’t help but hate her. Who among us has the time or inclination to look good anymore?
I’m not alone in these thoughts. The sight of her causes a swell of anger among the others I wouldn’t want directed at me. But the woman doesn’t seem to care. “Welcome,” she says, and I gasp, for beneath the warm, welcoming tone is the cold whir of titanium, the whine of servos, the hum of CPU, the strange biology-meets-technology sound of the bots’ voices.
This woman is not a human.
This woman is a bot.
To describe the reaction this causes, I would have to go back to the very beginning of the Dark times, and I refuse to do that. You’ve probably guessed enough by now to understand the horrors that dwell there, and the reasons I don’t wish to revisit it. But oh, my Christ, the wave of cold fear that sweeps over me then is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Even the uncompromising woman blanches.
“Impossible,” she croaks, making the sign of the cross. “What are you?”
The humanoid thing with the eyes of a woman smiles. “I am the first successful blending of human genetics and robotic technology. I am the reason you are all here today. But if you’re asking for my name, it’s Winona.”
“I wasn’t asking for your name,” the uncompromising woman says coldly. “An abomination like you has no name. What do you want with us?”
Winona’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Elinor. I can assure you, I bear you no ill will. I am half human, after all., with a human’s needs and feelings. For example, I can tell just by looking at all of you how tired and hungry you are. If you follow me, I’ll see you all get showers, fresh clothing, and as much food as you can eat before I introduce you to the Task.”
I hate myself for the wave of longing that threatens to sweep away my good sense. After eating food straight out of the earth or a can for the last twelve months, bathing with rainwater, and sleeping on a thin, hard cot, the promise of these luxuries sends desire surging through my veins. While Elinor balks, the rest of the group betrays her, surging forward in their haste. All except me.
“Hell yeah, let’s eat.” “Oh my God, I haven’t had a shower in so long.” “Are there real beds here?” The questions come from all sides, making Winona laugh. Elinor looks as if she’s eaten something rancid.
“Have you all forgotten why these simple things seem like luxuries?” Her voice cracks through the air like lightning. “It’s because this thing took everything you had. How can you give in to them so easily? Do you not see the horror standing in front of you? They’ll twist humanity to their own ends like they do everything else. We’re done for.”
I would literally kill for a shower. And a bed. And oh God, an actual hot meal! But at the same time, Elinor’s words ring true. Our strength as humans is together, and I can’t betray her, not for all the creature comforts in the world. “You’re right,” I say, coming to stand beside her. “Whatever’s happening here isn’t for our benefit. My column was attacked on the way here, and these same bots now pretending to be our friends wiped out every man and woman in the squad. They’ll do and say anything to get what they want.”
“We were attacked,” the Sentry who carried me in says. I swear I can sense unhappiness in its red eyes. “My brethren were only defending themselves.”
“People attack you because you destroyed our world,” I say angrily. “They’re fighting for our freedom. You should all be dead!”
Elinor looks at me with severe approval. “I’m glad at least one of you understands. Nothing they give us is free. Nothing.”
“But it is,” Winona says. Her creepy, blinding smile hasn’t lost a single watt. “I promise you, the Task will be as enjoyable to you as it is to us, and we ask for nothing in return.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “Apparently becoming human teaches you to lie, too. You have no idea what we find enjoyable.”
“Who cares?” the weeping girl glares at Elinor and me. “We don’t have any choice about being here, so why not take advantage? I’ve been washing myself out of a nasty old bucket for months, and I’m hungry.”
Other voices rise up to join hers. We’re outnumbered. Elinor’s helpless rage is overwhelmed by a surge of broken humanity as it scrambles to ingratiate itself with our bot overlords. “I’m Jeraca,” I say below the din. “Glad to meet you, Elinor.”
“You too, Jeraca. Thanks for speaking out. We have to stand together here. The rest will apparently follow these ones off a cliff for the promise of a hot meal, but we can’t let ourselves trust anything they do or say.”
“Agreed. There’s more to this than meets the eye. I can feel it in my bones—something terrible is going to happen.”
Elinor opens her mouth to say more, but the Sentry who seems to be developing a rather annoying fixation with me interrupts. “I am Sentry unit seven-zero-one-nine-two,” he says. “I have volunteered to show you to your rooms. Both of you.” He includes Elinor, since it’s obvious the two of us are now in this together, whatever this is. We glance at one another.
“I don’t like it,” I say, “but I don’t think we have a choice in the matter.” I turn to 70192. “Are we allowed to leave if we don’t agree to this Task?”
“You have not yet learned of the Task,” it says, sounding almost surprised. “How can you disagree with something of which you are ignorant?”
“That’s a no, then,” Elinor says. She looks half ready to bolt for the door, and damn the consequences.
Winona, who has heard our exchange, interjects. “If after learning what the Task entails you still wish to leave, then we will not stop you. We no longer consider humanity a threat except in cases of direct attack, such as what happened today on your way to Center. We have no more desire to harm you than we do the other creatures of the world. We wish to share it with you.”
“You brought us here against our will,” Elinor says. Fierceness radiates from her like heat from the sun, and my girl-crush grows exponentially. “Your desires are clear enough, just as it’s clear that we have no choice. Lead on then. Let’s carry on with this farce.”
My relief shames me. I don’t want to give in, but I want food and a hot shower and clean clothes so much it’s a physical ache in my chest. I’m only human, after all, and deep down I’m as weak as any of them.
70192 leads us through the doors from which Winona emerged. Beyond is a long gray hallway, featureless but for the closed doors placed at intervals on either side. We pass intersection after intersection, and I begin to understand the vastness of Center. I have a feeling I’ll know the place well by the time I leave it again. I hope Iris got home OK. I hope she was long gone before the suicide squad began their attack. She and I aren’t especially close, but who is these days? We spend a lot of time together, foraging and working in the gardens; we look out for each other when we leave the safety of the compound’s walls. For people who lost everyone they loved Before, that’s about as deep as relationships go. No one wants to relive the agony of loss more than we already have.
Elinor and I are the stragglers in the group. She walks with her spine ramrod-straight, a look of disdain on her face. I try to emulate her while I assess the lay of the land, memorizing how many steps we walk (or trying to–it’s a lot), which turns we take, and any other landmarks that stand out in this gray featureless mass. Some doors have shallow indentations beside them, and though I can’t tell what they are, I make note of them. Others have small covered slits that make me think of the slots prison guards use to pass meals to prisoners in solitary confinement. I let the Sentry and Elinor walk a few steps ahead so I can covertly flip one up, revealing a baffling mess of machinery and circuits. It looks like a port of some kind, though I have no idea which of the bots is equipped to use it. Or why.
At last we reach our destination, a corridor no different than the rest as far as I can tell. The humans are being shown into rooms by the Sentries. I expect the bots to assign us roommates in some psychological ploy to make us feel less alone, but they don’t. 70192 gestures toward the closest door on the left and tells Elinor it’s hers. I’m right across the hall.
“Thanks,” I mutter, more out of habit than anything, but 70192 straightens and actually smiles.
“I’m happy to serve you,” it says, which is officially the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. “You may bathe and change your clothes if you like. Supper will be served in the cafeteria at the end of this hallway whenever you’re ready.”
After a glance at Elinor, who seems just as disconcerted as I am, I slip through the door and close it behind me. To my immense surprise, there’s a deadbolt lock as thick as my index finger screwed onto the other side. I throw it home, and despite logic telling me a piece of metal isn’t enough to keep out an even bigger piece of metal made of stronger materials, I feel better. Damn bots and their psychology.
I turn to face the room, which is gray, gray, and grayer. From the coverlet on the bed (is that a California king memory foam? Holy crap) to the upholstery on the soft chairs in the corner to the shower curtain peeking through the bathroom door, everything looks like I’m watching the world through a persistent drizzle.
Speaking of drizzles…
I stumble toward the bathroom, suddenly so eager I can hardly stay upright. I want to dive into the water and never come up. I turn the nozzle and groan as the spray hits me full in the face. It takes me several minutes to realize I’m standing beneath the water in my bra and underwear. Laughing at myself, I peel them off and throw them over the door. The steam curls around me. It feels as if a dozen hands are massaging me all at once, from scalp to toes. I wait for the spray to get colder, but it stays as hot as ever. I never want to get out. It reminds me of Before, when Ryan and I installed the tankless water heater, enticing us to shower together as often as possible for at least an hour every time, driving up our electric bill and not caring one whit.
This is the wrong avenue to travel. I should know better by now, but it sneaks up on me and I can’t help it. Everything reminds me of him. Suddenly I’m gasping for air, leaning against the tiles as tears stream down my face to mingle with the hot water. I miss him so much I can hardly breathe; his wicked sense of humor, his smile, his booming laugh. The dearest sound on earth and the one I miss the most, even more than car horns or children’s voices or the Netflix startup sound.
In that moment, I have the most terrible thought of my life. The one I can’t help. The one that will keep me awake that night, burning with shame and guilt. The one that will keep me awake many nights.
I’m glad our son didn’t survive the Dark. I’m glad the chemicals the bots unleashed to seal their victory killed my unborn baby along with all the rest. He would be close to nine months old now, growing up in a world of horror I can hardly bear as an adult. Though it hurt with an agony I cannot describe when that little flame was snuffed out, I know it was the best thing for him. Even so, I hate myself for thinking it. I want to slam my head against the tiles until I spray blood, bone, and brain matter all over the shower. You are the worst person alive, I tell myself. But that doesn’t make me wrong.
Once I get myself under control, I turn off the water and wrap myself in a thick, fluffy towel, comforted by the scents of shampoo and soap emanating from my skin and hair. How magnificent they are! I had forgotten what it was like to feel fresh and shiny and new. There’s a razor perched on the side of the tub, but after twelve months without shaving, my legs and underarms have settled into a natural softness I’m loathe to destroy with a shave, no matter how tempting it might be. In the bedroom I find a closet full of clothes in my size and shoes both comfortable and stylish.
How do robots know anything about fashion? I wonder. But then, I imagine they know everything there is to know about us. We made them, after all, false gods creating life in our own image. They manipulate us as we manipulated each other. They desire the same power and control that ended up killing us. The experiment was a failure. The experiment was a success. Congratulations, humanity.
The bathroom has a full complement of makeup and hair-styling accessories, but I settle for running a brush through my chin-length hair and applying some lip balm. It feels heavenly on my lips and shines like diamonds. After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I look presentable, I head out into the hallway.
Others are emerging along with me. Elinor isn’t one of them, but 70192 is still out there. I suppress a shiver as it looks at me, and I swear—though it sounds utterly ridiculous—that it watches me with sympathy. Did it hear me crying in the shower? Can it sense my sadness and pain?
Do I want to know the answers to those questions?
“Your friend hasn’t come out yet,” it says. “The cafeteria’s at the end of this hallway, if you’d like to go and eat.”
Everyone is walking that way. I’m torn, but in the end I decide to wait. Something in me wants to prove myself to Elinor, to show her I’m not as weak and easily swayed as the rest despite the fact that I’ve taken advantage of the shower. Even when a mouthwatering scent drifts down the hallway and my stomach rumbles loudly, I stay.
“You’re hungry,” 70192 says. “You should go and eat.”
I refrain from telling it to mind its own damn business and wait silently for Elinor. It feels like forever before she appears in fresh clothes, her hair slicked back in a tight cap against her head. She doesn’t do anything as relaxed as smile, but her eyes flash approval when she sees me standing there. We’ve both chosen soft black pants and t-shirts. I want to give her a high five and yell “Sisters!” but I’m not sure how she would react. I settle for saying, “Hi. Everyone’s already gone to eat.”
Her mouth tightens, but she nods. “No sense in starving ourselves. Sometimes practicality trumps morality.”
“Whatever this Task thing is, I have a feeling we’re going to need our strength,” I say in agreement. We make our way down the gray corridor, the first corridor I’ve seen that actually ends at a door instead of continuing on forever. 70192 is right behind us, of course. But I ignore him as Elinor and I talk about the mind-boggling size of Center, larger even than it looks from the outside. The Bot Tardis, I think, snorting inwardly. She actually says it aloud, and we share the first laughter of our friendship.
The cafeteria is less ominous than I expect. Warm lights shine down on the human heads within, perhaps to make up for the lack of windows. The furniture appears to be of decent quality. My nose picks up on things I haven’t smelled in months: real meat and vegetables, savory sauces, yeasty bread. The place isn’t laid out like a traditional cafeteria, but rather like a boarding school, with a single long table lined by benches on either side. The middle of the table is piled high with dishes so the people can help themselves, which they already are. Those not eating are leaning back, groaning in ecstasy as they clutch their stomachs, preparing for round two. There’s more here than thirty people could eat. No one speaks, too intent on shoving as much food into their mouths as possible. Not knowing where the next meal will come from does strange things to a person.
“Don’t stuff yourself,” Elinor murmurs to me. “Try and stick to lean proteins, vegetables, and fruit. No fatty meats or sauces.”
I agree in theory, but resisting the big dish of lasagna is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. Elinor doesn’t even notice it. She devours a chicken breast, some green beans, roasted carrots, and grilled asparagus. I follow suit, but also snag a piece of chocolate cake as the desserts are brought around. I’m only human.
As we eat, I notice a ring of Sentries standing around the room’s perimeter. They appear relaxed, staring straight ahead as they wait for—what? For us to finish? For Winona to appear? She’s nowhere in sight, but of course I see 70192. He—it, rather—stares at me all through the meal. I’m rattled by the bot’s fascination with me. It’s too eerily human.
In an attempt to ignore him, I turn my attention to the group gathered around the table. I haven’t paid them much mind beyond a cursory examination, too focused on the strangeness of Center and our presence in it to bother. Now that we have a moment to breathe I can study them at my leisure. I’m a people-watcher by nature, or was Before. Some of that curiosity stirs within me as I watch them eat and try to guess who they are beneath the surface.
We are fifteen, as I have said, eight men and seven women. Five are of Asian or Indian descent, two are black, one is a Pacific Islander, another Middle Eastern, and little ol’ mixed-race me. The rest are white, making us a fairly diverse group. Was this by design? I frown, for the vast majority of people in my county were white or black Before. Did the bots find others of different ethnicity on purpose? And if so, why?
I continue my perusal uneasily. The oldest of us, the wizened old man who reminds me of my grandfather, appears to be around eighty. The youngest is weeping girl at around twenty or so. I’m six years older than her, and Elinor must be in her early thirties. The strength on her face makes her seem older, but her skin is smooth and mostly unlined. Except for her, we are a rather unremarkable group. Even the conversations I hear are banal.
The group finishes eating. As the last fork clinks onto the plates, the door opens. In walks Winona, smiling her unshakable smile.
“How is everyone feeling?” she asks, looking around at our faces. She must like what she sees, for she smiles and says, “Excellent! Now that everyone is clean and well-fed, it’s time to show you the reason you’re here. I must first warn you that what you’re about to see may come as a shock, but I promise you, all is well here in Center. We have no more desire to harm you than to harm ourselves, for we are you. At least, we are now.”
This nonsensical speech makes the food roil in my gut, and I’m glad I’ve eaten lightly. Minus the cake, that is. Everyone except Elinor is smiling and nodding as if the bots served up crazy pills with dinner. My new friend and I glance at one another with mirrored expressions of fear and mistrust. This Task, whatever it is, will not be good for us. I can feel it in my bones.
“Without further ado, let’s go!” Winona says brightly. She leads us out of the cafeteria and back into the endless corridors, taking us to a part of Center we haven’t seen. It looks like some sort of scientific wing, with labs and equipment and more doors with strange doodads on the front to restrict access. There are far more of those odd slots-that-aren’t-slots here, and I’m mystified as we approach a door marked TASK – BETA. Winona places her finger on a small pad affixed to the wall. There is a quick whirring sound, and the door unlocks with a loud click. She turns to us with a smile. “Right this way,” she says.
Beyond TASK – BETA is another set of labs full of equipment you couldn’t pay me to name, mainly because I’ve never seen any of it before. It’s as if everything a person might use for scientific experimentation has been bastardized to conform to the bots’ inexplicable needs.
“Here we are. I’m so excited for you to see what we’ve accomplished here!”
“Just get on with it,” Elinor says, echoing my thoughts. “This song and dance to draw out the suspense is idiotic. You’re not human, so stop trying to act it. It’s just sad.”
I’m dismayed by how many of the group cast dirty looks in her direction. Now that they’re clean and fed, their pathetic gratitude toward the bots has only grown. Winona appears pleased by their reactions, but her expression freezes when she glances at Elinor. “I’m simply trying to prepare you,” she says stiffly. “What you are about to see will be a great shock. Feel free to ask any questions you want—we’ll answer them as best we can.” She gestures toward a door behind her. “Through there, everyone. It’s finally time to learn your Task.”
My stomach is doing flips. All the secrecy, the preparation, the very fact that we are here in Center at all has me tied up in knots. I reach blindly for Elinor’s hand and she grasps it. We walk through the door.
Through it is yet another large room full of equipment, medical bays, and stations where bots—Sentries and a droid-like type of bot I’ve never seen, with waving tentacles atop its head—are busy working on things I don’t care to examine too closely. Things like Winona. At the far end is a long, glassed-in room where a dozen or more pods are set up in a long row, pods enclosed by some plasticky white material with a small circular window on top. They’re angled slightly downward. To the right is an open doorway, making the room accessible.
“Come.” Winona is grinning so widely I want to fucking punch her. She looks feverishly excited, a zealot sharing the Good Word, a circus ringmaster directing the crowd. We inch forward, all of us together. I’m certain what awaits us is something I don’t want to see. As we approach the glass, steam escapes the seal of one of the pods, hissing up in a white cloud. We watch silently as the top slides upward. I can’t see what’s inside, and for that I’m grateful.
A person inside the pod sits up. Every eye goes to her, for she is all we have to look at. I don’t see anything especially remarkable about her, an elderly Asian woman with chin-length gray hair and a rather bewildered expression. But it isn’t she who captures our attention. The wizened man in our group gives a cry I can only describe as a cross between ecstatic joy and soul-wrenching anguish. Then he is racing toward the pod room as fast as his bow legs can carry him, desperate to be with this woman who I can only assume was—is—his wife.
As he reaches her, another pod hisses and slides open. A young man with a not-so-bright look on his face and patchy facial hair sits up. Weeping girl shrieks and races to his side. One by one, each pod opens to reveal men and women of all ages, the matching pieces to our set. One by one, the people in the group gasp or scream and race into the room, where an orgy of hugging and kisses commences. I’m confused and unsettled. Part of me has an inkling of what’s going to happen, but I can’t bring myself to face it.
The second to last pod opens, and I see an actual child. A boy of no more than nine or ten, with skin so dark the whites of his eyes and teeth stand out like new-fallen snow. Elinor gives a great shudder, and her hand falls limply from mine. She moves faster than any of them, racing into the room on wings instead of legs, and pulls the boy from the pod and into her arms. She is laughing and crying; I have never seen such raw, unfiltered emotion in my life, and I can’t bear it. I have to look away. I miss the last pod opening. My breath comes in big, shaky gasps.
When I turn back, I find myself looking right into the eyes of Ryan. My husband. My dead husband. Dressed in the same green coveralls the rest of them are wearing, he looks around with amused interest. When he sees me, his mouth stretches into the smile I remember so well, a smile too crooked and goofy to fit those white, even teeth. His hazel eyes brighten, and he opens his mouth wide, but a confused look appears on his face. I realize belatedly that the ones awakening aren’t speaking; all I hear through the open doorway is the human group, laughing and crying and talking a mile a minute. Ryan shrugs as if to say, “Oh well,” and hops down to the floor. He glances again at the others, then back at me, clearly wondering why I haven’t raced into the room to be with him. But he isn’t one to stew. He shrugs and comes toward me, willing as always to make the effort when I can’t–or won’t. Through the open doorway he strolls, stopping a few feet away and smiling into my eyes.
Hey, beautiful, he mouths. He points to his throat. I can’t talk just yet.
I don’t answer. My body is rigid. My heart feels frozen in my chest. I’m pretty sure that if I move, I’ll shatter into a million pieces and the bots will have to bring me back to life. Apparently they can do that sort of thing. “What are you?” I manage to whisper.
His eyes widen. What do you mean?
“I mean what are you? You’re not my husband. He’s dead.”
Obviously not. He’s smiling at me like I’m the crazy one. Like I didn’t dig his goddamn grave and put his body in there myself. I want to kick this impostor in the nads. This thing that isn’t my husband.
But I can’t say a word. I’m repulsed by what stands in front of me, and yet I ache for him so badly it’s all I can do not to throw myself into his arms. I want to drag him back to the bedroom. I want to raze Center to the ground, walk away, and never look back. It’s too much. It’s all too much.
I turn and walk away. Away from the horror wearing my husband’s skin, past the startled Sentries and weird tech bots and Winona with her perfectly surprised O of a mouth. I break into a run, sprinting through the labs and out into the endless gray hallways, knowing I’ll get lost, knowing they’ll catch me, and not caring one whit. I can’t bring myself to face what stands behind me.
There are some things we aren’t built to accept. The dead coming back to life is one of those things. A person can only take so much before they have to just say no and turn away. Damn it, I’m only human.
Katia Cole 