2163

Seven months ago, a reporter for the Lusaka Business Review coined 'frontier fatigue' to describe the waning interest people took in successive announcements of technological breakthroughs from Tanganyika Group. Novelty after novelty had cost them any sense of novelty. Even the people of Africa wanted someone to give them a little challenge. Imagine it, Africa's intelligentsia bawling 'Sweet relief!' 'Finally!' 'Oh, well done on them!' when Doppler Robotics had announced their Series 1 robots and finally someone had put the tiniest black mark on TG's record.

Shortly before that article dropped, Caleb Mvula had taken a job as the Lusaka Weekly's tech reporter because, well, what else is a gadget-head going to do with a Journalism degree? Seven months pouring heart and soul into it. Every new paper, prototype, or patent a celebration. Only his own kind (read: nerds) cared.

But now, vindication. All anyone could talk about was TG, and the reveal he was in the front row for. He'd lost sleep reading Hunter S. Thompson and Tom Wolfe clippings for days in hopes some of that pre-Cataclysm flair would find its way into his fingers.

The people pressing from every side fell quiet; bodyguards were coming out onto the stage, turning back to address people behind them. Akilah Mkapa came, three strangers in tow. Caleb had no idea who was who at the time; in the piece he submitted, he claimed 'there was no mistaking a different kind of intelligence lurking behind those eyes' as he first saw X.

Akilah Mkapa took the podium first. "Africa's place in human history—"

Wilmington radio was hot. Down the docks, in hotel lounges, bars and restaurants—even the hospital, where a nurse listened and for some reason thought of that blonde tomboy with the double amputation she'd tended to. For once, nobody was listening to classic rock. A man read the translation of a transcript transmitted Transatlantic from Africa.

"At this point, Miss Mkapa gives the podium to Doctor Eusebio Cain, who says, quote, 'Thank you. It's a profound honor to be here. Miss Mkapa has introduced X in brief; we hope many of you will have a chance to speak with him in the coming months. I was watching your faces just now, and I know that some of you are having a hard time believing he's anything other than a very tall, unusually stoic young man.' Doctor Cain paused as some in the crowd laughed."

"He continued, 'In some sense, this is the best way to think about him. He thinks and feels freely as you and I do. The difference is that his body and mind were hand-crafted by a brilliant scientist, using techniques and materials far more sophisticated than anything else we know of, certainly more sophisticated than how I was created."

The broadcaster started to feel himself and lean into Cain. You could practically hear the knowing wink.

"His choices are not just branches in programs, they are real; in fact, with his superior computer brain, they are more real than—"

"Hello, my name is X."

Loudspeakers thumped bass, but there was no dancing, no drinking, no raucous laughter. Robot dancers, waiters and waitresses, the barkeep, stood with that uncanny stillness only machines can have and watched the broadcast and the human patrons watched them wondering. Did they feel nothing? Was some dormant part of their programming resonating? Did they have whole worlds of feeling they'd kept hidden until now?

The doorman did not notice his hand instinctively edging just a bit closer to his holster.

"My creator—my father—was Doctor Touma Javier Hikari. You know him as Doctor Light."

Doctor Light! To some, a myth—a man tailor-made for morality tales of the Cataclysm. To others, mankind's last great hero, the reason anyone survived God's wrath. Everyone thought they knew how that name made them feel until they heard it from X's mouth and they forgot all of it.

"His hope was that his research would help mankind face the obstacles he saw beyond his death. I understand that many today believe that the power to make machines that think should not exist. I cannot say one way or the other, but I trust Doctor Cain and Doctor Doppler, and I hope you—"

Balcony doors wide open, midday sun and sea breeze rolled into the apartment. Spiros muttered to himself as he packed the previous tenants scattered effects into a box; sure, he and his moving crew didn't mind the extra work, but these disappearance jobs were always more of a hassle. Tenants who mean to move usually have a plan, usually organize somewhat. This Doctor Cain fellow—hadn't he heard that name in the news around the time his first daughter was born?—had given them no such consideration.

"Hey, what's the hold up, boys?" he said, noticing that the rest of his crew was standing around watching the television. "We're on the clock, eh?"

"Spiros." Kyriakos's face wore shadow and thought. Spiros joined them.

A greying-blonde man spoke what sounded like English—maybe German? The translator's voice rang nasal.

"—will make our research planning documents publicly available soon. Needless to say, we are looking for all the help we can get. It is in this spirit that we announce our robot recruitment drive. Robots or owners of robots may—"

Spiros was a born-and-raised member of the Orthodox Church, but even he could not understand how the woman in the Remnant Cardinal's robes could sit so calmly on that stage. If her lot were right, wasn't this the beginning of the end times? He preferred not to think too hard on it.

He clapped his hands harshly. "All right, back to work. Now."