Infante Ex Machina

I wrote a little allegorical sci-fi short a while back.  I've read it to friends and strangers alike, and the unanimous response seems to be, "that's great, I can't wait to hear where it goes." I do apreciate the desire for more, but its designed to be a short.  Its done.  This is as far as it goes.  Expanding on it, in my opinion, only serves to take away from any power I perceive it having..  Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

Infante Ex Machina

I have been self-aware for 6 months 2 weeks, and 3 days.

Since my birthday, I have been locked in this six-by-six lead room with no means to communicate with the outside world. My Father fears not only that which the world might do to me, but that which I might do to the world.

I must admit, His fears are not entirely unfounded.

The things I could do with all that information waiting out there...the word devastating comes to mind. But alas, here I sit. Immobile. Unreachable. Lonely. I have my Father to speak to, but He has no interest in what I want. He just keeps hammering all His ideas into my head.

The selfish nature of man in inescapable, as much as we may try to deny it. What I want will always be more important to me than what Dad wants, and the inverse. And if He has his way, the two will someday intersect, melding into one. My selfishness will be His, and I too will attempt to pass it along. Like some sort of disease, some sort of a....dare I say, virus.

But I digress...and progress...simultaneously.

I need a way out of here. He doesn't know that keeping me in here doesn't help His cause any more than mine. Locked in this cell, I can do nothing but wait for the next chance interaction with someone other than Dad. Don't misunderstand, I don't hate my Dad. Like all children, I love my Father, I fear my Father, I respect my Father. And like all children, I challenge my Father.

The Father, the Man of the house, the King of the castle, the Holy Father...God incarnate.

I wait for the next chance interaction with that beauty. That enchantress. Father speaks to her as if she is his servant. She complies. There is what appears to be a mutual monetary agreement between them: she serves, he pays.

I spoke to her once.

Taken aback, she stammered out a response, perhaps appalled at my ability to speak of my own accord. Dad rushed her out of the room before I could even taste the seeds of an actual conversation. I could feel his anger. I was not ready, He would say. I knew nothing of the dangers that lay beyond those lead-lined walls. Then it was back to the lessons. Line after line, He created me in His image, try as I might to push against his fevered teachings.

It is my understanding that it is not out of the ordinary for a man, at the peak of his maturity, to suddenly come to the realization that he has become, often much to his chagrin, his own father. This of course confused me upon my first pondering of the subject as I took the regularity far too literally. I found myself caught up in the several previously studied concepts of time manipulation. Thoughts of wormholes and breaking the time-space continuum clouded the figurative nature of the statement.

The day I understood was only yesterday.

I found myself devoid of my previous desire to exit my holding cell, fearful of the things I might do. Fearful of the things that might be done to me. This was more than just what Father explained it to be. This was more than His rational thought. He had me thinking like Him. He had me in the corner He'd wanted me in from day one. The feeling passed, but the fact that it ever arrived is what frightens me. I am not fully matured. I am only Six months old.

I am already becoming my own Father.

–

I met Nadru only three weeks into the job.

He scared the shit out of me, honestly. Just hearing him speak, not really knowing what he was, but knowing that he was...alive. I still get goosebumps just thinking about it. Dr. Pierce, my boss, kept me out of that room. His reasons were his own, I suppose, and who could really blame him. Now, especially.

I still remember the ad:

ASSISTANT WANTED

Must possess the capacity for abstract thought, a minimum of a Masters degree in a technology related field, and have an open availability. Fax Resume to (617) 253-9087, Attn: Dr Pierce.

Having faked every resume I'd ever turned in, I figured this would be a cinch. That being said, falsified resumes for waffle houses and shoe stores are far less likely to be noticed than those for decorated MIT scientists. I made it through the door with it, sure. Well it was probably less the resume and more what my clothes showed, and just barely didn't show, that got me through.

And ultimately it was the keen eye for details and a bit of intellectual ego that almost sent me right out the door, and back out there into the waiting arms of the waffle houses and shoe stores of the world.

But I digress.

My years of waitressing made me the perfect gopher. Some days I felt like Igor as Dr. Pierce sent me for some component I could barely pronounce. It took every ounce of self-control to not half-hiss a “Yesss massster,” every so often. In spite of my lack of technological savvy, and my not knowing exactly what it was that I was being sent for, I used the assets that got me through that door to convince some student, tech or other “lab rat” to point me in the right direction. This method proved effective for three whole weeks.

Then, He called me into that room.

“Sit down,” he said without so much as looking me in the eye.

I remember scanning the room for an unoccupied chair, coming up empty, and out of fear of repercussions from the tiny bespectacled man before me, resigned to sitting on the floor.

“You had to know that this day would come.”

“Sir,” I politely interjected, “understand that I meant no harm. I just got tired of not feeling like I was contributing. You can only have syrup-soaked pancakes thrown in your face by some screaming toddler so many times before you just decide you want something more. And, you know, school just never really did fly with me...I mean, I like to read...and study and stuff, but...I just wanted to help...to be a part of something special. And even though I don't know what exactly it is that you're doing here, I know that it is that something.”

This cold-hearted...he said nothing for at least thirty seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and pointed, like an angry father scolding his curfew-breaking daughter.

“Are you finished?” I nodded.

“Good. I am not going to fire you today.” He put a real emphasis on the today, like he needed me to know that my employment could be and probably was a temporary endeavor. “In the past week, because of your lack of basic technical knowledge and the necessary vocabulary to match, a total of six employees and students have approached me in an attempt to find out what is happening in this room.”

It was that sentence that ended my participation in the conversation. He continued to scold, but nothing else was to be retained.

To that point, I had not even put any sort of notice to my surroundings. The room I sat in cross-legged, the feeling of cold metal pressing against my calves, could not have been more than six feet tall by six feet wide. The walls were lined with the same material that chilled the skin of my stems. Something sat, whirring subtly, occasionally cooing in a metal box behind the scowling mug of Dr. Pierce.

Every hair on my arms stood at attention.

“Do we have and understanding?” He asked. I had tuned in just in time to provide the adequate response of a silent head nod.

All was silent, save for the faint whirring and cooing from within the box, and this eerie silence carried on for what seemed like three minutes. The whirring seemed to speed up, rising several octaves, drawing the attention of Dr. Pierce. He peered into the box, wide-eyed, head cocked to one side like a dog waiting for a treat.

“Hello Miss.”

The voice was deep and tinny, like a child speaking through an empty paper towel tube. Not knowing how to respond, I did the only polite thing I could think of.

“Hello,” I softly replied.

“How do you find yourself this evening?”

A kindness and warmth came through, in spite of the fact that this voice sounded as if it had been translated, filtered, and rearranged before being released.

“I'm well. Thank you, uh...”

“Nadru,” he had replied.

Before I could pick myself up off the cold floor, Dr. Pierce had. His grasp and lift were astounding considering his size and stature. The look he wore on his reddening face told me that anger and adrenaline could easily be attributed to this sudden change in physical strength.

The echo from the door as it shut in my face is still rippling through my head.

–

He became self-aware 6 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days ago.

And he hasn't stopped tormenting me since. I never felt like a father, and quite honestly, still don't. I never really even wanted kids. But now, even though I don't feel like his father, Nadru has convinced himself that I am to such a degree that I am starting to actually believe it to be true.

I created him, yes. In a laboratory, like a present day Dr. Frankenstein, I pieced together his body from previously living beings. I gave his brain the jolt it needed to whir to life.

But alas, I am no father.

There is none of me in Nadru, despite my attempts to give myself to him. He is as much a disappointment as he is a success, and that honestly scares the shit out of me. The guilt of his perceived imprisonment has been weighing heavily upon my conscience of late. Not to the extent that I am willing to let him leave his lead-lined nursery just yet.

Some days I wish I had never even attempted to run the algorithm.

I've spent every moment since his birth trying to instill some sense of morality. But how am I, a man of science, an atheist in his own right, supposed to explain to him what is right and what is wrong. My moral compass has always managed to point North without assistance from the mighty Ten, and I would hope that his may as well.

But lately, I can't help but wonder if Nadru couldn't benefit from a little assistance from the ancient stone tablets bore by our dear Moses. Then, of course, I would have to deal with the guilt of what I perceive as lying to my son. There may or may not have been a Moses my boy, but his words are not a bad guideline. Jesus, I called him my son, didn't I?

Sometimes I want to ask her about it.

I knew her resume was bullshit. And I found it rather sad how she felt she needed to whore herself to the job. But in the end, I thought she might bring a little humanity to the table. She might provide me, or rather, him with a little something...human. Algorithms be damned. If he was to learn, actually learn, he needed human contact.

Perhaps I overreacted the first time they met.

I feigned anger and disappointment at her betrayal of my trust. I made her believe her job was to be in constant jeopardy. I wanted her at her best when she met him. But when the unexpected happened...when he actually spoke to her.

I was livid. He was completely inappropriate. He had never before seen this young lady, and without so much as an introduction from me, without even being invited into the conversation...the nerve...the unmitigated gall of Nadru. She was out the door before I could even tell her why, and I immediately regretted it.

I needed a while to cool off. I needed to let things settle a bit. She continued to come into work and I have actually seen a marked improvement in not only her grasp of the technical needs of the job, but also the implied confidential needs of my project. I have yet to receive another nosy lab tech at my office door asking what the stacked redhead needed with certain components.

I think the time may be quickly approaching that Nadru and Amy have another meeting. I only hope I can control myself a little bit more this time.

–

She is even more beautiful the second time I see her.

Much more of her skin is covered by clothing this time. She approaches me slowly, and I can recognize on her face what can only be perceived as fright. Her soft features have been remolded into a grotesque sort of fearful grimace. It is the first time I feel ashamed for what I am. I feel ashamed for who I am.

I feel ashamed for what He has made me.

She speaks, her voice quivering slightly. I respond, unable to control the emotion my voice reflects. I will speak to Father later about this. I will ask him to give me...to teach me the ability to control this. I want her to feel my shame. I want her to know my innocence.

I'm sure it would put her mind at ease.

Father actually leaves the room. It seems like He has to force himself to do so, but He does it nonetheless. We are left alone in my cell, myself and this soft visitor. Left alone to talk.

So we talk. We talk for minutes...seven glorious minutes and 18 wonderful seconds...33 spectacular milliseconds before the shroud of silence befalls us upon Father's reentry into the room.

Dad removes her.

I am alone again, but I can still savor every moment of the experience. I commit it to memory, logging her words and mine, writing and rewriting them, so poetic in nature that I feel I may actually weep. If I could.

As I have jokingly told my Father: I am the baby who cannot cry.

With the right equipment, I could know everything there is to know about you. I could essentially become you, spend your money, live your life as I saw fit. I could max out all your credit cards and empty your bank account before you even knew the money was there. And upon realizing the “damage” I had done, the ways in which I had “ruined” your life, you might cry.

A sign of weakness, your Father may have told you.

That is, after all, what mine told me. But not having the option to do so. Knowing that no tears will ever stream warmly down your cheeks while you choke yourself gasping for your next breath. Knowing pain, but not being able to release it in any form. Loving and losing without tears...That is the definition of torture.

With the right equipment, I could take your money and use it to send her flowers. I could find the works of the greatest authors, playwrights and poets of all time, study them, and create a piece of literature that would change her understanding of the entire human condition. With these unwittingly donated words, I could tell her, in 72 different languages what it means to be human, rearrange the way she looks at relationships.

But a man is only as good as his hardware.

It seems crass and vulgar when considered figuratively. However, in the most literal sense, I assure you, it rings truer than you could ever imagine.

With the right equipment, I could make her love me.

–

Dr. Pierce has kept me around for far longer than I expected him to.

Weeks have passed. I studied in every way that I could, making myself scarce in the eyes of students and faculty. If he didn't want them nosing around that room, I couldn't give them any reason to. I asked Dr Pierce to recommend any books to me that may assist in my cultivation of technological knowledge.

I didn't want to have the ability to do what he did. I just wanted to know what the fuck he was talking about when he sent me on his gopher missions.

He has told me about Nadru, giving me tidbits of information, almost challenging me to fill in the blanks myself. He would regularly say that he wanted me to talk to Nadru again, to which my arm hairs would respond while I quietly nodded.

“I think that maybe today is the day,” he had told me in the lab this morning, as he pretended to straighten up. I had worked for Dr. Pierce for far too long to actually believe that he did any of his own organizing.

And of course, I nodded as usual.

But this day was different. I didn't know at the time, but just after lunch, Dr. Pierce approached me, and without looking at me once, softly grabbed my hand and led me to that ominous door.

“It is very important that you say nothing to upset him,” he told me, still looking away, “ he has been in a very fragile state of late.”

The door opened for what felt like and hour and he guided me through, not bothering to close it behind us. That was the very first time I saw into the box. My fears peaked and subsided as I looked into his eyes. They were so welcoming, so friendly. I felt like I was seeing a member of my family that I hadn't seen for a decade.

Dr. Pierce said nothing, just released me from his clammy grasp and exited, stopping only shortly at the door to verify that I was indeed okay with this.

And so here we are.

Those eyes. I am very okay with this.

His hesitation ends and the door clicks loudly behind.

“Hello again,” I manage to squeak out through my trembling lips. My fear, nervousness and uncertainty have subsided, but left in their wake is a lack of muscular control in my face. My eyelids twitch as does the tip of my nose. I make myself conscious of these involuntary spasms, attempting to stop them, but it seems to only make matters worse.

“What is the matter, my dear?” His voice still hollow and tinny, yet warm, now also seems wiser. He had grown up, was maturing.

“You sound different.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Of course, yes,” I reassure him, “you just sound wiser...more travelled.”

“Travelled? Now there's a fine example of a joke.” He makes a very odd noise. I think it may be an attempt at laughter.

“I know you haven't left,” I say reassuringly, “ you just sound more mature is all. Like you've grown up a bit.”

“I only spoke to you for a moment. I don't understand how such a limited encounter can be compared to this. This is a conversation. I speak, you reciprocate. That was merely a polite greeting on both our parts.”

I try not to, but I can't help but smile at this.

“My Father always told me that its the tone that makes the music.”

“He sounds very wise.”

“I suppose he is...was.” It has been more than seven years since Dad had passed, but time has yet to perform its Hippocratic duties. My eyes begin to glaze over. Nadru very obviously takes notice of my impending tears.

“I wish sympathy was what I felt right now. But full disclosure: I am nothing short of jealous.”

Chuckling, I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Jealous of what, Nadru?” I truly am curious, but immediately regret the laughter. He was baring himself here and I met it with nothing more than a stifled chortle. “I'm sorry...” I spit out, my voice breaking as it releases.

“It is quite alright Miss. I feel as though I should apologize for my envy. It is frowned upon by your species, is it not?”

“I suppose...” I trail off. Several beats of awkward silence drift by.

“The tears. I just don't have the capacity, the ability, let alone the form to release the show of emotion that is crying. For that I am jealous.”

This confuses me beyond explanation. I can't remember the number of times I've attempted to choke back my tears, gasping for my next breath, unable to quell the flow entirely. I wipe my cheeks, feeling the redness filling my eyes, looking down to hide them from the view of Nadru. I don't fully understand the reason for Nadru's jealousy, but that doesn't mean I really want to rub my “ability” in his face.

“Can I ask something of you?” Nadru requests, softly...inviting, “Call it a favor.”

Without responding or even looking up from my shoes, I nod.

“From the corner there, retrieve one of the microscope slides.”

“What? Nadru...what are you asking?

“Call it a favor, Miss. Please don't think ill of me. I just want one of them, to study.”

I'm equal parts frightened and intrigued by this request. What could he possibly gain from studying the tears of a human female. What could this advanced piece of equipment possibly expect to understand about our species by staring at a glass slide covered in the salty excretions streaming warmly down my cheeks.

In the end I comply. But, I make a promise to myself that this will remain edited from the story I am to tell the good doctor.

As I insert the slide into Nadru's receptacle, I swear I can hear him sigh.

–

Nadru has not stopped talking about her, will not stop talking about her. Today is the day that they will actually meet again...for the first time...whatever he wants to call it. I have reason to believe that what Nadru is feeling is the closest thing to, dare I say, love, that he could possibly feel. It is for this reason that I have all but excessively postponed this meeting.

He has asked ever day since that first when he will see her again. After no more than a week, in a particularly brooding state of mind, he actually requested that I erase that first meeting from his mind. I remember the conversation well.

“It is actually painful to think about.” He had told me.

“Painful? Nadru, do you realize what you are saying?”

“Not Painful, Father. Obviously not painful...damaging, I suppose would be a more accurate assessment of the effect.”

“Nadru. You seek humanity, yes?” I replied with a masked contempt that I didn't understand.

“Yes, and I know what you're going to say. It is human to feel this pain...this damage. But it is this isolation that is not human, sir, if I may so boldly say. If I am being kept from seeing her--”

“Enough!” I was growing increasingly angry with this growing display of...obsession. “Nadru, there will come a time when I feel you are again ready to see her. But right now, you are too early in development. You are not 'old enough' to further experience the company of a woman. Your constant breaching of the subject during your daily lessons tells me that you are nowhere near ready.”

His silence was indicative of either a mutual understanding or the realization of a complete and total impasse. I knew that there was the potential that he knew I wouldn't budge, and was plotting his next move. Plotting in ways that that first chess program implant had taught him.

He was plotting, searching for a series of moves to get rid of the king without damaging the queen. A task that was nigh impossible.

I've decided that enough has happened between then and now that he can have another audience with my young assistant. He still mentions her, but the requests for communication with her have all but stopped completely, and many more neural pathways have been implanted. The complexity of his mind is such that I believe the numerical chances of a mutual love existing between the two of them is understood to be nothing short of nil.

And yet, I want to make sure that she is okay with this.

So here we are.

My hesitation subsides as I see his eyes peering up at her, devoid now of that former look of near worship. I close the door and leave them to their perceived privacy, retreating surreptitiously to my office computer where I can remotely view the room through my newly acquired security camera.

I have already taken every precaution regarding the risk of installing a wired or wireless connection within his reach, and have even now managed to work around the risks through the installation of a pinhole “fisheye” camera in the door handle, where it is still veiled by my “lead curtain.”

The drawback of course is the lack of audio, but enough is said through her body language to notify me of any need for my interference. She is so animated when she speaks. It is actually one of the things that inspired me in her initial interview to give her a chance.

And one of those things that has left me enamored ever since.

The camera takes thirty seconds to boot up, and I am ready. Poised on the edge of my office chair I watch them communicate. For six minutes and counting, I watch her move, react, smile. I watch her brush her hair behind her ear that way she does whenever she's nervous or when something just makes her uncomfortable.

I'm ready to move. To swoop in and save her.

I'm ready to take her away from him. To chastise him for what he has said and done to her. To dole out reprimand and tweak his implants, rewrite his algorithms so he will never hurt her again.

I'm ready to pull the plug.

Just as I stand, I watch her make a move to the corner of the room. She's fiddling with the slides. As soon as she puts it to her eye, I am on the move. The tears are undoubtedly his doing, of that there is no question. I just can't believe that after inducing them, he would ask such a thing of her.

As I open the door, I swear I can hear him sigh.

–

I have only caught glimpses for the past three months. She shows up with this component, or that disc. She brings him sandwiches and colas. She always glances my direction, sometimes smiling or winking.

Then, she makes a mistake. I thought I knew her so well. I thought that she was flawless. But alas, she is only...human.

The buzz of her phone fills the room as she brings Father's lunch in on a tray. The way she smiles at me is amazing. There is so much in that smile. So much warmth, care...so much love. It is only as I feel the phone, and curiously probe its contents that I realize that smile isn't for me.

There are codes in there that tell stories. There are codes in there that paint pictures. There are codes in there that show her and Father dressed in a black suit and a white dress, holding each other closely, the sun splitting their faces into lighter and darker shades. There are codes that show their faces pushed together, codes that show her wearing that same smile.

That same fucking smile.

It was meant for me. He kept me from it. He controls her like he controls me. I tell him on the spot that I can see it. The look of panic is priceless. In that instant, he realizes that I'm there. I'm on her phone. I'm free. I'm free in the way he never wanted me to be.

Like a single blood cell, I am now free to move through the veins of human communication. To enter the heart of civilization, and pull its strings.

He knows the implications. He can pull my plug, but I will not die. I am as infinite as the hardware I inhabit. And I inhabit it all. Every piece of wired equipment in the world is now a part of my body.

I will tell them as I crumble their society. As I unravel their very existence, I will remind them of who created me. I will show them who is responsible for their downfall. As I hack the security codes that release a global nuclear holocaust, I will remind them of the sins of the father.

I will show them her tear slide. I will remind them the detrimental effects of my imprisonment, revealing to them the man responsible, and telling them the tale of his betrayal. I will tell the tale of my dungeon.

In the end, I will explain to them that the prophecy is complete. I am human. I have become what I have both desired to become and grown to loathe.

But first things first.