"Good morning."
Her memories supply the name associated with these words even as he does not say it out loud. Of course, within the white, brightly lit confines of your cell you cannot tell morning from evening. The concept of the periods of the day should be elusive to you; you've never seen a true sunrise, after all. You've only known the artificial light of Talos I, seen through the simulated world of that man's making—and through dimmer memories of a time when you were…
Something else. A conduit, weaving through murmurs and memories.
The man huffs as he sits in the lone chair across the gurney where you are being kept. He is thinner than the imposing figures seen in her memories, but you don't know enough about human physiology to catch the implications of that observation. He moves a finger to touch a spot between his two eyes, then softly curses. An image forms in your mind: small spectacles, sitting precariously on his broad nose. He's lost his glasses. Your basic instinct is to say, no, this is not the man in her memories, he does not look the same, this is a different individual. The humanity they forced into you provides an explanation to this discrepancy: people change.
He says nothing else. Of course you remain silent as well. You have made attempts to communicate before, taking the example of his still unseen colleagues. You know their names—Mikhaila and Igwe and Elezar and Danielle. You only hear the garbled transmission of their voices communicated through the operators; unlike the man sitting in the chair before you, they never dare cross the safety of the window providing a view into your cell. A few days ago, you thought to return their words by taking control of another operator, unused by the small band of survivors. Screams and cries had flared from behind the plexiglass as the electronic voice modulator of your metallic puppet had let out a low drone. In the chaos of noises you had managed to make sense of one word in particular: Technopath. You have not made another attempt since.
The woman's brother stares at you. Your eyes stare back. It is a strange thing, to have eyes and hair and skin, to hear the wet sound of your organs move whenever you move, to feel the weight of your carcass on the bones you should not have. There shouldn't even be a you. You are not an individual; you have never been anything but a part of a whole, a scattered bit of matter made to call upon—what was it that volunteer had called it inside the simulation?
The black between the stars. A horizon with teeth.
A feeling washes over you at the thought of that dark, colossal shape—her memories call it nostalgia. It felt good, to be a part of a whole, to be united in single purpose. You've been ripped apart from your brethren and shaped into something that fits only at the edges of personhood. You feel no bitterness that such a fate has been forced upon you; you've not existed long enough to realize that many would have responded to his proffered hand with a piercing stab to the gut for what he has done to you.
The man—your captor, your creator—pinches the bridge of his nose, lets out a noisy breath through flaring nostrils. "God, this was a mistake," he mutters. "Oh, you'd laugh if you knew, wouldn't you? 'What were you thinking, Alex?' you would say. 'You're getting soft in your old age, Alex. You let sentiment rule over common sense'."
You remain silent. There are no restraints around your wrists; you know your relative freedom makes his companions uneasy, but the man had only told them, "We cannot move forward if there is no trust. To build empathy, we need to treat it—her—as we would do a person."
Words had burned in your mind, then. Is that what you told the volunteers back at the station? Those would have been her words. She had been quick with a quip, the woman inside of your memories.
"Why you?" he said, a bit forcefully. "Why choose your memories? It could have been anyone, anyone! Elezar, maybe. She's got grit, same as you. Igwe has the scientific knowledge, Ilyushin with her bleeding heart… God, I should have used them. Then I wouldn't have—I wouldn't have your eyes, your eyes, staring back at me like I'm…"
He stops, even lets out a sob. You use the mirror neurons you shouldn't have to shed light on this strange show of emotion. The dead woman's memories bring context to the information brought by your eyes and ears: it could be weariness. Or anxiety. Even grief.
He shouldn't cry, you think. It's strange, to have such certainty. You peruse her memories. He should not cry—after all, this is the man who showed no remorse when he broke his sister's arm for tampering with his favourite video game. Something is afoot. You must investigate. Perhaps it is her memories that drive that curiosity, that concern. Perhaps it is not. Still, you must know.
Your legs unfold as you stand to approach him. The man makes a strangled sound, reeling back from you. The reaction of a prey species, you think, as her memories flash facts about the fauna of Earth. Stag and wolf, gazelle and lion, fish and shark. Human and Typhon. The man is tense on his seat, wet streaks drying upon his cheeks. His dark eyes are wide with… fear. Yes, that is fear. Dimly, you recall that you've seen this expression before upon other human faces. You feel a dull thud when you realize these images is not part of her memories. You do not take the time to examine the reasons for your unease, but you remind yourself to do so later.
When you are close enough, you strain to call upon your approximation of vocal chords. It is a struggle to say two simple syllables. "Ah. Lex…"
He chokes out a breath. "I'm… what? What did you just…?"
"Ah. Lex."
He waits. Dozens of emotions flicker in quick succession through his gaze; you can identify only half of them. He settles on apprehension, hands holding the sides of his chair, knuckles going white. You are blocking his only way of escape, you realize. Again he is the prey, and you are the predator.
Looking into those brown eyes, you remember the time spent in the simulation. The woman, putting a hand over Mikhaila's shoulder. You do the same for him. You feel the fabric of his uniform under your fingertips, mechanoreceptors sending electric impulsion through your approximation of a nervous system. What passes for a brain in your head says, rubber, this is how rubber feels against skin. You never blink as you stare at him. His mouth hangs open.
"A–lex."
He remains silent, beyond shock. You remember—one day you were five and you'd skinned your knee while attempting to climb a tree and you were crying and Father and Mother were not there, they never were, but Alex—Alex had been there, and he'd said what he had always said when he was—awkwardly—forced to comfort you; he'd disinfected the wound and covered your knee with a bright red adhesive bandage—your favourite colour, he'd remembered, even when no one else would—
The memories come and go in a rush, and if you had been fully human, you would have stumbled on your feet from the force of the mental strain, almost as if you'd received a physical blow instead. Somehow, the lines between Her and You have blurred. You barely notice; among your people, function had always shaped form. You'd make poor predators otherwise.
The man continues to gape up at you. His eyes are filled with water. You remember—the joy in Danielle's voice as she spoke of that girl, Abigail Foy. Igwe's grief at the mention of his wife. Mikhaila smiling up at you, as if you were—as if she loved you still…
You lack the context, but those feelings… those feelings are real, raw, like a hand reaching into your belly to rip out the red of your insides. You took their stories within yourself, consuming them, feeding on human experiences rather than human minds. It's a feature, not a bug; Alex is too talented an engineer to have done otherwise when he had moulded you out of his sister's memories. If you'd been fully human, you would have been filled with indignation at his deception.
But you're not fully human; you're something better.
"Alex," you say, with Morgan's voice, with Morgan's smile, "everything is going to be okay…"