Shattered

2. DREAMERS

Orgs prefer not to think about it, but machines come to life all the time. Always have, always will. A machine’s not a machine without an engine, a power source, an on switch, something to turn screws and bolts and gears and whatever into purposeful motion. Mechanical life—it’s the difference between sculpture and machine. Coming to life is just what we do.

But some of us do it better than others.

In 1738, French inventor Jacques de Vaucanson built a life-size mechanical duck that could, supposedly, consume and digest food. The copper fowl crapped on command for admiring crowds all over Europe. But Vaucanson cheated. If anyone had bothered to look inside the defecating duck before its performance, they would have discovered that the duck—like its creator—was already full of shit.

Forty years later a mechanical wooden chess player known as the Turk faced off against Frederick the Great, Ben Franklin, and Napoleon. Checkmate, times three. The Turk wore a turban, puffed on a clay pipe, and was a suspected repository of mystical forces. It turned out to be the repository of a contorted chess-playing human, curled up in a wooden cabinet beneath the board, magnetically guiding the Turk’s every move.

The past is irrelevant—that was Jude’s law, and we lived by it. But he meant our past as living, breathing humans, the kind that were born from a womb and would end up rotting in the ground. There was no rule against exploring our other past, the toasters and steam engines and microchips strung up on our family tree.

There were the karakuri ningyō, eighteenth-century Japanese mechanical serving girls. “Dr. P’s fornicatory dolls”—mute and anatomically correct, just the way his nineteenth-century customers liked them. ELIZA, the twentieth-century computer that could analyze your dreams, and Deep Blue, not as good a conversationalist as the Turk, but better at chess. Forty years ago there were Spot and Patch, animatronic dog and cat, all the fuss without the muss; then came the Nanabots, mechanical nursemaids equipped to administer a feeding and change a diaper, popular with the weak and infirm on both ends of the aging spectrum. Two thousand years ago, there were mechanical birds that chirped, mechanical snakes that slithered, mechanical men that spoke and smiled. All of them an illusion of life—all of them hiding gears or cogs or wires or shit beneath their artificial skin.

And now there’s me.

There’s us.

“Organic isn’t better, it’s just different,” I told the meek little group of mechs traipsing after me. Hard to believe I’d ever been like them, clueless enough to imagine I had a choice. “Orgs are weak in body and mind. Your new life may feel like a punishment, but it’s not. It’s a gift.”

The speech, like everything else, was getting old. I’d shown them the guest houses, the orchards, and the manor itself—steering clear of only the pool, full of zoned-out mechs tripping on digital hallucinations. I’d played the good little tour guide, a live-action pop-up for Jude’s estate. (True, it was Quinn’s fortune, Quinn’s property, but after all these months, none of us thought of it as anything but Jude’s.) They were intrigued, I could tell. Tempted, even if it meant giving up the last, desperate hold on their old lives. They just needed that one final push.

Thus, the speech. I gave it the way I gave the tour, mechanically, out of habit, the words dribbling out without my help. Sometimes it felt like this was all I did: tow new recruits across the estate, schooling them in life according to Jude. It seemed so quaint and retro now, the old way, infiltrating BioMax support groups to find the few and far between who weren’t interested in being normal. There were more of them, a lot more, now that the download had been reclassified as a voluntary procedure, easy to qualify for as a genetic tweak or a lift-tuck. At least, as long as you were between sixteen and twenty-one—above the age of consent, below the age when the download would fry your neural circuits and leave you a mess of frozen limbs and scrambled brains.

“The orgs demand that we imitate humanity, they designed us to do so—and then they attack us for claiming an identity that’s not our own. They call us skinners, mech-heads, Frankensteins.” The words bored me, but I kept going, because I was good at it, and because Jude trusted me enough to let me speak for him, and that gave me power.

And because the more I delivered the speech, the more I believed it.

“They tell us we’ve stolen the lives of the dead—that we’re nothing but a mechanical copy of the people we used to be. People who died so that we could live. Or whatever it is we do. And you know what? They’re right.”

There weren’t any gasps this time around. But of the six mechs following me through the grounds, four looked ready to bolt. The other two were calm; voluntaries always were. It’s easy to be calm when you don’t care. They were curiosity seekers, probably fame whores beaming back to their favorite stalker zones. Let them try. Jammers locked the whole estate behind an impenetrable priv-wall. We’d been burned by voluntaries before. Now, we let them in, we let them listen, but we never expected them to stay.

“You can tell yourself you’re the same person you always were. But you know that’s a lie. You know nothing feels the same. Sometimes it probably seems you barely feel at all.”

Feel. Such a ridiculously imprecise verb. What was a feeling? The scratch of something rough against your skin? The sensation of a toe dipping into water, the deep, wordless truth of this feels cold this feels wet. Then there were the feelings that happened inside your head, the whirring hamster wheel of happy sad angry bitter jealous bored scared happy.

Whatever orgs chose to believe about us, mechs had both types. We felt wet—or, at least, we processed wet, the artificial nerve endings in our synflesh sending a coded impulse to our neural networks. We processed all environmental conditions with precision. Much as we processed everything else: Wrecking the car, burning alive, waking in an alien body that wasn’t a body equaled bad. Angry.

Sad.

But there was something else, wasn’t there? The connection between the two types of feelings, the thing that bonded the feeling inside your head to the feeling inside your body. The thing that made your palms sweat when you were nervous, your stomach clench when you were afraid, your lungs heave and your eyes drip when you thought too long and too hard about what you used to have.

Mech bodies functioned perfectly no matter what was going on beneath the titanium skull. Heaving and dripping would indicate a malfunction. And when that happened, we just returned to BioMax and got ourselves fixed.

“The orgs set us up to fail. They punish us for imitating humanity; they punish us for rebelling against the illusion. Too bad. You can lie to yourself and pretend they don’t hate you—”

“My parents don’t hate me,” one of them argued, a blandly pretty mech with long brown hair and a high-pitched voice. “They love me. That’s why they brought me back.”

This was an easy one. “They don’t love you.” Harsh, but better now, before the damage had been done. “They love their daughter. Who’s dead. What do you think happens to you when they figure that out?”

She didn’t look convinced; I hadn’t been either. Sometimes they had to figure it out for themselves. Then they came back.

I had.

I led them down the shallow, grassy slope toward the greenhouse. When I’d first come here, it had been a decaying wreck, scabby with rust and shattered glass, much like the rest of the estate. With Quinn’s parents long dead and Quinn herself an amputated, bedridden lump living only on the network, there hadn’t been much call for home repairs. Once Quinn had downloaded, she’d been too busy smelling the roses and screwing everything in sight to deal with clogged plumbing.

Things were different now.

The main house gleamed, its stone face polished to a shine, its grounds lush with well-trimmed gardens and fruited trees, the greenhouse a crystalline temple exploding with purple and green. I stopped the group just outside the glass door, pulling a pressed purple flower from my pocket. “This is a Quinn,” I said, then paused just for the pleasure of watching them wait. Sometimes it was a snooze mouthing the same thing to an unending stream of rebels without a clue. But sometimes, posing under their unblinking stares, it was a power trip.

“Quinn’s parents had the flower designed for her on the day she was born—it’s part orchid, part hyacinth, impervious to extreme temperatures, and capable of going three weeks without water. Man-made. Org-made. We know it’s alive because it can die.” I crumbled the flower to dust. “But it’s not natural. There is no natural anymore.” I paused again, this time to let them see it for themselves, the clouds thick with microscopic toxin scrubbers and ozone patchers, the grass designed to suck moisture out of even the driest desert air and stand tall against frost and drought, buzzing and rippling with new populations of genetically modified bumblebees and squirrels. Let the mechs who were still missing Mommy and Daddy flash on Mommy’s lineless lift-tucked face or Daddy’s anabolically enhanced biceps and the roid martinis that shot his testosterone through the roof. “Natural is hell.”

Hell as in the miles of dead zone, underwater or under quarantine, as in the death of summer and the permanent cloud masking stars most of us didn’t believe were there. As in the ruined bodies littering the cities, bodies without gen-tech or med-tech, all scabbed and lumpy and rotting.

“Natural is weak, like orgs are weak,” I told them, opening my hand and letting the purple dust drift to the ground. A little drama queeny? No doubt. But effective. I could see it—not in their blank faces but in the way they stood, frozen and silent, forgetting to put on the little “aren’t I human?” show we all used to play at, pretending to fidget and flop and blink. I fixed on one of the girls, Ty, her fuchsia hair pulled into a knot behind her right ear. She’d made it clear that she hadn’t wanted to come, that her friend had dragged her along. And that she knew I was full of crap.

This was the one we’d get. I would have Jude invite her on our next cliff dive, and even if she said no at first, she’d eventually give in. Join his movement. Whatever it was moving toward.

“You want to talk natural?” I said as the girl stared me down. “It’s the job of civilization to improve on nature. To perfect it. Which makes us inevitable—perfected bodies, perfected brains, without defects or weaknesses, without an expiration date. We’re the natural end of the line.”

“Impressive. I think you’re even starting to sound like him.”

I swatted my ear. Mosquitoes might have been extinct, but there were plenty of other pests still going strong.

“You were watching?”

But then, that was the problem with the “improvements” Jude served up, doling them out at sporadic intervals, crediting only vague sources and underground suppliers. Few of them were an improvement on anything, and I would have been happy enough to go without. But I wasn’t about to get left behind. I might have renounced my past and embraced a new and improved me and all the other empowering soulsong crap that, true or not, still sounded like bullshit when we spewed it out to the newbie mechs, but I had enough in common with the old Lia Kahn to know where I stood on the concept of loops. That’s loop as in do whatever’s necessary to stay in the. So the majority ruled. If the majority wanted infrared vision or internal GPS or strangers’ voices crawling through their brains, then I wanted them too. So what if every addition carried us further away from normal?

“Normal” was just one more thing better left to orgs; one more thing we’d left behind.

Quinn was the only one who used the VM with any regularity. Maybe it reminded her of the voice she’d spoken with since childhood, each word selected by the flicker of an eye, one of the few body parts left intact after her accident. We all held on to a few things it would have been easier to forget.

“I’m always watching.”

“By the way, that shirt makes you look like a whale.”

I smirked, forcing myself not to seek out the camera. It would be hidden in a branch or a gutter, likely invisible and definitely out of my reach, which meant there was no point in tipping her off about how much the eye-in-the-sky act creeped me out.

“It’s Ani’s shirt,”

“Was her shirt. Who do you think made her get rid of it?”

“If I were you, I’d ditch it immediately.”

“As in strip down right here while you’re watching?”

“Now or later,”

“Remember what I said.”

I’m always watching.

I started heading back to the house.

“Wrong way,”

“I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Just a little treat. Trust me.”

“Busy,”

“Don’t you think Jude’s ass could use a break from all that kissing?”

I stopped walking.

“You don’t want to give him a rash,”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning back when you thought we were all freaks, Jude was enemy number one, and now you prance around here like his trained monkey.”

Thanks to the VM, I could answer even with gritted teeth.

“Jealous?”

“Of you?”

Jude liked his toys new and shiny, that much I’d figured out. I suspected that Quinn had started to look a little rusty by the time I showed up. Besides, he may have been a mech, but he was still a guy—and when it came to guys, no toy was shinier than the one they weren’t allowed to play with.

“It’s not sucking up if I actually agree with him,”

“We all want the same thing, right?”

“I know what I want,”

“What about you?”

“You first.”

“I want you to come play with me,”

“Ask Ani.”

“Ani’s busy.”

Hard to believe. Quinn’s attention span was half the size of Jude’s—out of sight, out of mind was a way of life. And Ani knew it.

“I guess Ani and I have that in common.”

“Somehow, I think the vidlifes can get by without you for a few minutes,”

“You know, I do have a life outside the network,” I lied. Living on my own with no parents, no school, and no obligations was a freedom the old Lia Kahn would have killed for. Freedom to hook up with Walker, to party all night dosed up on Xers and zone the days away on a cloud of chillers and chocolate, to dance in the moonlight with Cass and Terra while the randoms watched our flickering shadows, wishing they could steal our lives.

Now Walker was hooking up with the sister I hadn’t spoken to in half a year, and b-mods modded nothing. Music was just noise to me, the same way Cass and Terra were just names of people I used to know. My own life had taken a permanent trip to the department of dull. Who could blame me for preferring someone else’s?

It’s not that I’d become a total vid-head. I wasn’t one of the wastoids who spent all day and night whispering directions into the ears of the vidlifers and watching a bunch of strangers act out my wildest fantasies. I didn’t need to pull any strings to watch my dark and shameful fantasy unspool across the screen. Because it was there for me at any hour of the day, in infinite variations: the vidlifers themselves, head cases who had given up their identities, their wills, their lives to the masses. They spoke no words that weren’t piped into their ears, made no choices that weren’t chosen for them by randoms spread across the network. They’d erased themselves.

“Come on,”

“You don’t want to miss this.”

I gave in.

“Fine.”

“Where are you?”

“Everywhere,”

“But right now? Down by the pool.”

I groaned.

“No swimming, Quinn, you know that.”

“Who goes down there to swim?”

“Not that either,”

“You’re just endless amounts of fun,”

“Feel free to go bother someone else. It’ll be hard, but I’ll get over it.”

There was a pause.

“Just get your ass down here,”

“Oh and, Lia?”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously. Lose the shirt.”

Like Quinn said, swimming wasn’t exactly the only reason, or even the main reason, to trek across the grounds to the neo-mod steel-and-glass erector set that housed the pool. Nor was it the only reason I stayed away. The solar panels along the ceiling served double duty as net-linked screens, so you could fine-tune your zone and your backstroke at the same time. Or, as was mostly the case these days, so you could project a dizzying strobe show of light, color, and sound that made the perfect cooldown for anyone coming off a dreamer.

That’s what we called them.

Of course, usually when you dreamed—or should I say when orgs dreamed—they dreamed alone. Even cradled in each other’s arms, they were alone in the dark inside their own heads. For orgs, sleep was the ultimate isolation. Dreamers, on the other hand, didn’t require sleep. They required nothing but a tiny black cube, an ocular uplink, and the will to disappear into madness for anywhere from five minutes to forever. Thanks to the dreamers, mechs could, in their own way, regain their dreams. And thanks to the dreamer links—yet another of Jude’s “unofficial” updates—they didn’t have to dream alone. Hence the mechs sprawled across the pool deck, twitching and keening, and the bodies lining the pool floor, amorphous shapes wrapped together in the rippling water, their brains melting into a shared madness.

You didn’t have to touch to have a linked dream, but I heard it helped. Water too made things more intense. At least, that’s what I heard. I’d never tried it myself. These days water made things a little too intense—and the idea of dropping a dreamer in public repulsed me.

Quinn was waiting outside, and she wasn’t alone. I scowled at Jude. Typical of Quinn to drag him along. “What’s he—” I stopped.

It was Jude, but also… not Jude.

“Seth, this is the girl I was telling you about.” Quinn shot me a wicked smile. “Seth’s not interested in staying, but…” She raised her eyebrows. “I figured you could change his mind.”

He had Jude’s face—the harsh, angular lines, the bland beauty we all shared sharpened by raking cheekbones, hooded eyes, full lips built to smirk. But he wasn’t smirking, and his eyes—slate gray, not Jude’s flashing amber—darted from Quinn to me to the ground and back again. His flesh was an unbroken plane of creamy peach without any of Jude’s swooping silver circuitry, and his long, muscled arms looked like org arms, without the transparent panel Jude wore on his left bicep, showing off his internal wiring like a badge of honor.

This guy, this Seth, looked normal, in a way all of us on Quinn’s estate had accepted we would never be. But he also looked like Jude.

“Don’t zone on me, Lia,” Quinn warned. “It’s only weird for a minute. You get over it.”

Easy for Quinn to say. She had a custom-made body and face, tailored to her exact specifications. Unlike Jude, who’d been plucked from life in the gritty city to serve as one of BioMax’s first experimental subjects—it was strictly off-the-rack for him, a body and face the corporation now kept in reserve for emergency procedures, the downloads that no one saw coming. Downloads like mine. It was one thing to know the doubles were out there—somebody else’s brain behind your face, some random’s words coming out of your mouth—it was something else to see one.

“What’s the point?”

“You track him down just to freak me out?”

“First of all, Seth found me,” Quinn said aloud. “He wanted to take your little tour, but I figured he’d get a better impression one-on-one. He just woke up a few weeks ago. Still figuring out how everything works, right, Seth?”

He smiled with that awkward grimace of a newbie mech trying to fake something that used to come automatically. “It’s kind of weird at home these days,” he said, slow and steady. I remembered that too. It was hard work, figuring out how to control the air flow and the self-lubricating tongue and the artificial larynx to produce something approximating human speech. From his nervous smile as the words stumbled out, I figured he was fresh out of rehab, still expecting his gold star.

“And second of all?” I prompted Quinn.

“I knew you’d like him,” she said.

“And I thought you could use him,”

“For what?”

Seth looked cluelessly back and forth between us. It must have looked like we were frozen in a staring contest or some equally inane battle of silent will.

“Look at him,”

“Everything you want, without all the complications.”

“I don’t want him,”

“Either of them.”

Quinn pulled a dreamer from her pocket, tossing it from hand to hand. “Seth can’t wait to try it,” she said aloud. “Can you, Seth?”

“She won’t tell me what ‘it’ is,” he said. “But…” He trailed off, spreading his arms wide like he was helpless not to put himself at Quinn’s mercy.

“I get it,” I said. It wasn’t my job to keep some random out of dreamerville. “Have fun.”

“It’s linked,” Quinn told me, “so we can all play.”

“Forget it.”

“Not even tempted?”

“You’re tempted.”

“I’m leaving.” I forced a smile at the newbie. “Nice to meet you, Seth. You’ll be welcome if you decide to stay. This is a home for every mech who needs it.”

He shook his head, hard. “I was just curious. Just visiting, you know?” he said. With Jude’s voice. “I’m not like—I mean…”

“Not like us,” I said, biting back the If you say so. “That’s okay. I really do get it. Been there, done that.” I traced my fingers along the silvery streaks rimming my neck. I hadn’t embraced the freak-chic thing as much as the others. But to the newbie, I knew it was irrelevant. I was one of them; he wasn’t—he thought. “Maybe you’ll make it work.”

Maybe you’ll be back.

Absolute control, Jude always said.

If I’d had that, I could have stopped thinking. About Jude’s double. About my double. Out there somewhere with the same body I’d have until I got up the credit and the nerve to trade it in for a new one, custom-made. About whether Jude’s double was right: if it was different for him and if that meant it could have been different for me. Which inevitably led where everything always led, straight back home to the damage I’d done just by being me—or, more accurately, not being me: perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect girlfriend, perfectly breakable. The crash broke me; I broke everyone else.

Control meant never looking back, never questioning why I had walked away. Wiping out the memory of their faces: My father, pretending he didn’t look at me and see a corpse. Auden, bandaged and pale, his eyes willing me away—first from the room, then preferably from the planet. And Zo’s face the last time I saw her. That was the one I kept coming back to. Tell me I’m your sister, I’d begged that last day. I kept seeing it: Zo’s face when she didn’t answer. And I kept wondering: What if I had waited? What if I had stayed?

But that would have been selfish. I had accepted that. Forcing myself into my old org life, into my old org family—it would have ruined all of us. If I’d understood that earlier, Auden would have been safe. And if I’d ignored it, if I’d stayed, given Zo a chance… she might have been next.

So don’t think about it, I told myself every day, all day. Forget.

I had control, I thought, imagining Seth and Quinn writhing in the pool, locked in the shared dream that would give them a few hours of escape. I had control but not enough of it.

My room was nearly bare: just a chest of drawers, a flatscreen ViM striping the wall, and a bed. The latter was unnecessary; I could shut down just as easily with my back against the wooden floor. All it took was an internal command, and the world went away. For a while, I’d experimented—shutting down while standing up, hanging upside down, dangling out the window. In the end, I preferred the bed.

I lay down and took out the dreamer Jude had given me. The dreamers were nothing more than code, bits of data that overrode our neural homeostasis and threw our systems into a chaos that simulated physical and emotional response. Almost like jumping out of a plane, but more effective. Because they were just programs, they should have been reusable, but for whatever reason, no dreamer ever had much of an effect after the first few uses. Just one of the things no one, including Jude, understood about what they did to us. We all had our theories, but in the end, we just crossed our fingers and flicked the switch.

I hadn’t had a fresh one in weeks. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, not anymore. It was too easy—and it made waking life too gray. Like nothing was as real as the world inside your head.

I flicked the switch.

When I was alive, I dreamed in stories.

They weren’t real, of course. Org dreams are nothing but random neural firings, spurts of color and unprompted emotion. The story comes later, in that instant before waking, your muddled mind making sense of the chaos by stringing the randomness into a narrative.

Mech dreams were different. There was no once-upon-a-time. No faces, no nightmares. No flying.

There was:

Rage.

Soft.

Wild.

Scared.

Bliss.

Raw jolts of emotion as if there was no body, no bed, no Lia Kahn, only the roiling froth of joy grief terror pain joy.

There was no “I.”

“I” was an illusion, evanescent, a null spot at the eye of the hurricane, an emptiness that drew its reality from the storm swirling around it.

There was want. A surge of need, pain and pleasure welded together, craving, and the sweet excruciation of denial, giving way, finally, inevitably, to satisfaction.

There were no stories and no faces, but then I saw his face, amber eyes flashing, spiraling silver making his flesh shimmer in the light, lips curled, knowing.

Lips.

I reached out. I wanted. I needed.

“Sweet dreams, I take it?” he said, catching my wrist just as my fingers grazed his cheek.

I was awake.