Echoes On The Tide

by pazu7

It had been two years since 'the incident', and Sophia wanted to move on with her life. But was she really ready?

Echoes On The Tide

A fanfiction by Bryan Harrison,

Set in the fictional realm of Steven Spielberg's A.I.

1

She watches the waves roll in, cresting foam and fury, to crash upon the beach. Each explodes into white chaos - squawking gulls take flight, laughing children flee - then expires with a waning hiss, a sigh of resignation to fate; and withdraws.

Then comes another.

And another.

Echoes lost on the tide.

She is sitting on a blanket; head propped on arms, propped on knees; feet rubbing careless grooves into the cool sand. She is pensive, withdrawn, feeling a bit awkward in the bathing suit she hasn't worn in years, and perhaps feels a little old for.

And she is not alone. He is lying on the sand nearby, lost in a book she had been recommending for months, and he finally got around to. He is on his back, arm draped across his forehead to shade his eyes from the annoying sunlight, so he does not notice her lingering gaze.

He is sun-bronzed and sweaty; six-pack abs long ago replaced by the paunch that's grown around his belly. He'd cut his goatee and ponytail years ago, and his hairline has receded since then. So nobody recognizes him anymore; nobody stops to solicit a selfie or autograph, to engage an argument or insults.

But he's still very much the handsome man she fell in love with twenty-two years ago… no, it was twenty four, wasn't it? Damn. Twenty-four years. It's only been two years since… the incident.

His leg has almost healed. The scar has faded, and she could barely notice his limp as they made their way along the boardwalk on their way here.

She loves him, yes. Still. In spite of his procrastination and his idyllic conceits. In spite of his snoring, his questionable judgement and inability to leave the past behind.

In spite of… everything. She still loves him.

Her gaze wanders to the empty space between them. A girl should be sitting there. A daughter. She'd be fifteen by now, bearing her father's golden-brown complexion, olive eyes, silken braids, head bobbing to some trance tune coming from the pods planted firmly in her ears; glossed lips smacking, gum chewing, pretending not to hear her mother's call.

But she is gone, this girl. Gone with her laughter and her tantrums. Gone with her impertinence and her wild hair, which seemed to change color every week. Gone with her attitudes, her adolescent scheming and incomprehensible slang.

Gone in her 13th year; long before she'd really had a chance to… to anything.

Oh, the way she used to play them against one another! The thought provokes memories; 'But Dad said I could' the girl would say to her; "But Mom doesn't care" to him.

The woman chuckles at the recollections. The sound makes her husband look up from his tablet. It's been a while since he heard her laugh.

"What?" he says, with a smile that begs to be let in on the joke.

"Oh, nothing," she replies, dismissively. "I was just..." She stops; shakes her head; studies his face a moment before she decides to let it drop.

"Umm… I need a drink." she says instead, rising to her feet. "You want something?"

"Just order on your pod," he suggests. "They have service bots, you know."

Yes, she knows. But she wants to be alone for a time. So she pretends to not hear him as she reaches into her beach bag, pulls out her pod and buds, and a shawl which she drapes over her shoulders.

"Soph," he calls, his smile gone now. "It's ok to talk about it by now… isn't it, babe?"

She pretends to not hear this too, as she makes her way across the beach and up the sandy stairs towards the boardwalk.

2

It's a weekday and there aren't many people around. For that she is grateful. The few shops that are open along the boardwalk are either automated or manned by Mecha attendants, which stand at silent attention until they are required to deliver an ordered drink or snack.

She knows these models. Sim Servant D-39s. Shirtless blondes, simulated beachboy muscularity and fake tan. Custom jobs probably, with modified epidermal coating for constant exposure to the salty air.

"I designed your eyes," she says to one as she passes. It turns to smile at her.

"Can I bring you a snack, M'am?" it inquires in a default cheerful voice. She moves on without responding and the Mecha resumes standing at attention.

She stops to lean against the railing, relishing in a salty breeze that arises to wash over her. She doesn't really need a drink. Doesn't really want one, actually. She just needed this moment alone, to compose herself. To breathe.

To forget.

She's always loved the beach, but was never fond of crowds… or even people in general. Probably why she ended up working in her field. There was comfort in the solitude, in the intense focus it requires. It doesn't explain how she wound up marrying a social magnet like Zozo; or why he had taken to her.

They were flip sides of a coin, the charming extrovert and his bookish introverted wife. He loved to travel in the early days and she loved to tag along. Belgium, The Emirates, Burundi, The Himalayas. Wherever there was something left to see and whenever they could afford it.

They were an odd pairing; so different in personality that they'd both been shocked when they'd been cleared by the Child Licensing Authority. Even after that surprising event it had taken another year before Dorothia had been conceived.

Then, thirteen years later…

She shakes that thought off. 'You came up here to forget,' she reminds herself.

A glint off the ocean catches her attention, something speeding across the blue horizon. She shades her eyes to see better. A boat… No, two boats. Racing?... No. One is chasing the other. She can see the flashing lights on the second boat now, and hear the distant siren wailing over the noisy surf. Shore Patrol chasing off scavengers; illegal divers in the restricted zones.

Why the fuss, she wonders. Those buildings were drowned long before any of them were born. Yet, even now, they fight over the remains. Could there really be anything so damned precious still left under the water? Does it really matter anymore who dredges up what?

Some people just can't leave the past behind!

Like Zoe!

"Let's talk about it," she mumbles sarcastically. He always wants to 'talk about it'! What's there to talk about? Why can't he let it go, dammit?!

"It's been two fucking years!" she yells at the sky, then quickly cups her mouth. Did anyone hear that? She turns to see a young couple approaching. They eye her warily, pulling their little boy aside to give her wide berth as they pass. She smiles a silent apology which they ignore and move on.

'I'm not crazy!' she wants to scream at them. 'I'm broken! Broken because some freak thought he could stop the world from changing!'

Tears threaten to flow; the ones she had been fending off for two years. But she fights them back. She doesn't want to deal with that. Not here. Not now.

Maybe she needs that drink after all.

She is resuming her sad trek to the bar when her pod chirps. She checks the number; is surprised by the little holographic icon on the display. It's been a long time since she's seen that face. She composes herself and answers.

"Grace?" she says.

"Sophia," her old friend replies. "It's been a minute, girl! How have you been holding up?"

"Fine, fine," Sophia lies. "Umm… it's good to hear from you. It's been so long. I guess I could've called, but we've been so-"

"Don't worry about all that, hon," Grace interrupts. "Listen, I've got to be quick, headed for a meeting and don't have much time but… are you two in the states now?"

"Yeah. Zoe ditched the stream. We haven't actually done any travelling since…"

She doesn't finish that sentence. Grace understands.

"Well, I would love to meet with you both," she says. "I can't tell you much right now, but I'm on to something I think you'll find interesting."

There's something potent behind her words that Sophia can't decipher.

"Sure… I guess," she replies, slowly. "Sooo, how much can you tell me 'right now'?"

3

"There you are," Zozo says when she returns. He is standing now, toweling himself dry. Must have taken a swim while she was gone. "I was about to put out a reward for your safe return." He laughs. She doesn't.

She tosses her pod and shawl back into her bag and sits silently on the beach towel, gazing pensively at the ocean.

"So, what did you see on your vision quest?" he asks with a chuckle, wiping sand off his feet. "I think you forgot your drink."

She doesn't reply. Tosses her head back and ties her hair into a tail; hugs her knees and resumes watching the waves roll in.

"Soph," he says, concerned, plopping down beside her. "You ok, babe?"

"I just got a call from Grace," she finally responds.

"Grace?" Zoe ponders. "Oh, Grace Magnolia? Wow. The lady from toy land. Haven't seen her since… " He almost says 'the funeral', but senses his wife's mood and stops himself.

"So, what's she been up to?" he says instead. "Still with Cybertronics?"

"Yeah," Sohpia replies. "That's kinda why she called."

"Really?" Zoe says, surprised. "They want you back or something? What's it been… like five years? You didn't leave on the best of terms, if I recall."

"We weren't and we're not," she says flatly. "I wouldn't go back to that shady behemoth if they offered me Head of Ops and a gold-plated desk. But that's not why she called."

"Point taken," he says. "So what'd she want"

Sophia is quiet a moment, then turns to look her husband in the eye.

"Would you ever consider having a child again?" she says.

He lifts a curious brow and chuckles. She doesn't. He grows serious as he realizes this is not a joke.

"C'mon, Soph," he replies, annoyed. "We're never gonna get a license again. Hell, we barely qualified the first time. And, even if we could, why would you want to put yourself through all that again? I mean… I loved Dot. You know that. I'd give anything to… to change what happened. But, look at us. We're almost aged out anyway."

"But what if none of that mattered?" she replies quickly. "What if we don't have to worry about damned CLA age limits, or a license, or schools or medical bills or… or any of that shit? What if we could have a child and get our old life back? Best of both worlds."

Zoe eyes his wife quietly, confused, wondering if maybe she did have that drink after all. Maybe more than a few.

"What the hell did you two talk about" he says.

4

It was a foggy September morning when they first met. Philadelphia Convention Center, during the annual 'Future Tech Leaders Of America' convention, a glorified government sponsored robotics job-fair where all the giant conglomerates filtered through the available talent for young prospects.

She'd seen him a few times over the week, streaming his show in the pavilion, surrounded by a gaggle of floppy-haired social science students who were eager to debate their views on the future of robotics and foreign policy. She'd even stopped once to listen; something about the effects of automation and simulant life-forms on international trade relations and re-developing nations.

'Politics' she thought. 'Boring.' So, she'd moved on. She had a neural mapping lecture to attend, and she was already late.

They'd never spoken before, and she didn't expect them to this time, as she saw him walking her way through the haze of morning mist. But he slowed as they passed, and pointed a finger at her, tilting his head as if trying to remember her name.

"Patrice… right?" he said. "Poly-sci from… what was it? Yale?"

"Bad call," she replied, flatly, and continued walking. He called out to her.

"Oh, oh… Kaneesha?" he tried again. "Out of … Little California? USC?"

She stopped and cast him a smirking side eye.

"You're fishing," she said.

He shrugged and smiled a confession. "I plea the fifth," he said.

"You could have just asked my name, you know," she said.

"Much more fun this way," he replied and stepped up to her, offering his hand. She studied him a moment before returning the gesture. His skin was softer than it appeared, his grip gentler.

"Zoe," he said, as they shook.

"I know," she replied. "Zozo Abdi. First Nations University, Lakota Branch. Poly-Sci. Founder of The Humanist Brigade podcast." She chuckled when she said the title. He didn't seem to take offense.

"We have a sleuth," he said in mock admiration.

"Nah," she replied. "I browsed your page. Watched one of your streams. Impressive mind to waste on political science. It's a little late to save the world, isn't it?"

"And a cynic," he chuckled.

"A realist," she corrected.

"All cynics think they're realists," he pointed out.

She should have disliked him. She really wanted to. He with his humanist politics, his charming confidence and boyish good looks; long black hair dangling into the golden-brown flesh of his face. And that smile! That annoyingly beautiful smile.

"Sohpia Nyamai," she said. "Applied robotics. But you got USC right."

"Toy maker, eh?" he replied. "No wonder you're a cynic. So, are you on the 'service to humanity' side of things, or the 'world domination' side?"

"On the Human Augmentation," side," she explained.

"Ah, bigger cocks for everyone," he said with a wink.

She laughed in spite of herself and eyed him curiously. "Abdi is an unusual name for Lakota. Are you legacy? Or did Grandpa buy his way in when that was still legal?"

He feigned insult and straightened his back, thrusting his chest out.

"Legacy, of course," he proclaimed. "My full name is Zozo Kicking Bird Eagle Thunder Feather Abdi. But that's way too many characters for the profile page."

She raised a brow and eyed him skeptically. He finally broke into a grin.

"You asshole," she laughed. "I was being serious."

"Hey, we just met," he said. "It's much too soon to be serious."

But it did become serious. Eventually. Over the remaining days of the convention, they met more than a few times, and she even took part in one of his streams. She had been reluctant to do this, and not just because she was shy, but because she didn't take his politics or his show seriously…. though she never told him that.

But after his charming insistence and assurances that he wouldn't give her a hard time, she agreed. He introduced her as an expert on biological augmentation, a title which she immediately corrected, saying that she was just a student. And to his credit he didn't engage her in his trademark style of aggressive argumentation; saving that for a couple of young neural mappers who came on next, and who he accused of commodifying consciousness. They responded by labeling him a Neo-Luddite; a tag which stuck and which he would become proud to bear.

He was an unapologetic humanist in an age of rising simulation, an idealist in a land of cynics. And though she didn't share his optimistic ardor and luddite sentimentality, she admired his conviction.

When the convention was over, they exchanged contact info and he promised to keep in touch with her. He kept that promise. Their remote communications went on for months, growing more profuse and intense until the day that, somehow, against all odds, things officially became 'serious'.

Four months later, at the home of his father, in the territorial lands of Lakota Nation, they were married. Her parents flew in from the Ventura Islands in Little California, to witness the spectacle of a traditional ceremony.

Five years after that, on a cold morning in Zurich, as they were laying in their hotel bed, each lost in journals pertaining to their differing careers, he suddenly rolled over and smiled mischievously.

"Let's apply for a license," he said.

She had been on her tablet, reading about a new processing base being proposed by a young company named Cybertronics, whose CEO was being lauded as some sort of genius innovator. But from what she was reading he sounded more like a dreamer… or a conman. Trinary processing? Seriously?

"Soph… babe?" Zoe said. She finally rolled over to face him.

"A license for…?" she inquired.

He just tilted his head and rolled his eyes, as if to say she knew well what he was talking about. She set her tablet down and regarded him cooly.

"You're high," she said.

"Nope. Clear of mind and heart," he responded. "We can apply when we get back to the States. I'll get the snip undone. Then we can let nature take her course and play Mommy and Daddy for a while."

"It'll last a lot longer than 'a while', Zoe," she said, seriously. "You're talking about a life commitment. And why you want to do this now? We're still young. We got good jobs. We travel. Have fun. We got everything we want. Why now?"

"Do we really have everything?" he asked. "I mean… yeah, everything you mentioned. Life is good but… C'mon. Can't you imagine a little snuggle bunny running around the house. Giggling and cooing. Taking their first steps?"

"And throwing tantrums, waking us up in the middle of the night, breaking all our stuff," she added.

"We can afford a nanny bot," he shrugged.

"Probably break that too," she said.

"Not our little angel," he replied.

"Little devil, more likely."

"Even better."

She eyed him sternly for a time before she picked up her tablet and resumed reading.

"I'll think about it," she conceded after a minute.

"That's all I'm asking," he said.

They fell quiet then; she, lost in her reading and he, in his thoughts. Then she chuckled under her breath.

"What?" he asked.

"Snuggle bunny?" she mocked, shaking her head. "You start talking like that and we're through."

Then she began to laugh. He started laughing too. They went on that way for a while. Then they made love.

Two weeks later they returned home to Philadelphia and applied for a license to sire.

Two years after that, Dorothia was born

Sixteen years later, Sophia's old friend and co-worker arrived at their Philadelphia home to make a presentation.

5

The girl in the hologram looks to be about ten or eleven years old. She is clad in a white jump suit; fair skinned and blue eyed, with golden locks of hair that dangle over her shoulders. Her face is cherubic, cheeks dimpled and rosy.

But her smile is vapid. Because 'she' is not a girl.

"I see," Sophia says, pensively, pinching her chin and watching her husband's reaction out of the corner of her eye. He sits on the couch beside her, fidgeting, wringing his hands, his gaze roaming from his feet up to the hologram hovering over Grace's tablet, then back to his feet again.

Grace makes an obvious assumption about the nature of their hesitation.

"This is a demonstration prototype, of course," she quickly explains. "We have functional models in various racial profiles. If you agree to the in-house test, I am sure we can find one more suitable for you."

"Well, it's uh… fascinating work," Sophia says, unsure how to react. "Is it Trinary based? Because I've been following the journals and-"

"I can't discuss that," Grace interrupts, smiling apologetically. "We're still in the development stage and you're the only non-employee who was considered. I was only allowed to make this offer because of your… situation. And your past relationship with the company."

"You mean 'in spite' of our past relationship," Sophia suggests.

"Ok, so I had to twist Alan's arm a bit," Grace admits. "But he holds no grudges. And past disagreements aside, he still respects your opinion."

"That not what he sounded like in the severance vid," Sophia replies, quickly. "Didn't even have the balls to tell me in person."

"I'm not taking sides, Soph," Grace shoots back. "And that wasn't Alan talking…. I mean, it was him, yes, but those were the lawyer's words. They're paid to protect the company, right or wrong, and Alan pays them too much to ignore their advice… And let's be fair, hon. I love you like a sister, but you can be a bit stubborn at times."

"I thought that was what he liked about me," Sophia says.

Zoe finally leans back and releases a long sigh. He raises a finger to signal he has something to say. The women fall silent, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

"Is it just me," he starts, "or do either of you see anything… troubling about all this?" He looks back and forth between the women. They look back expectantly.

"I'm listening," Grace says when he doesn't continue.

Zoe stands and starts to pace slowly around the couch. Sophia watches him a moment, and then sighs loudly as she falls back into the cushions.

"Oh shit," she says, "The Humanist Brigade is back. Get ready for a speech."

Grace chuckles. Zoe ignores the jibe. He finally stops pacing and points a finger at Grace.

"First off, Grace" he starts, "Let me say that I truly appreciate you suggesting Sophia for this test… or trial, whatever it is; and for coming all the way to our house to make the offer. Honestly. You were the only one from the company to attend Dot's services, and that meant a lot to us."

"I recall Mario and Ariel being there too," Grace corrects him.

"Well, Mario is a tight-ass techie and Ariel is a Mecha pilot that had no choice. You're the only one I consider a friend," he replies.

"Easy on the tight-ass techies" Sophia interjects, "You married one."

Grace chuckles again. Zoe ignores her again and continues.

"Now, I am not rejecting this offer. That's really up to Soph. I'll follow her lead. But I've been all over…" He stops and gestures to his wife "We've been all over this world for the past two decades, until… you know, the incident… and we've both seen the devastation caused by unregulated intrusion of simulated life forms into developing social structures."

"Oh, here we go," Sophia sighs.

"'Intrusion' might be a bit hyperbolic," Grace suggests, defensively.

"I am not criticizing your work," Zoe replies, holding up his hands for patience. "I know the intentions are good… I'm sure Alan is a good man. But these things can, and have, destabilized re-developing economies. They can lead to poverty and two-tiered class division, they can-"

"I'm sure there's a point coming soon," Sophia interrupts. He continues faster.

"I am saying that the implications of this are troubling to me. I mean… butlers, maids, drivers, sanitation workers, even teachers… that's one thing. Each has a specific and designated societal role to fill. But a child simulator? What's that about? Aren't we crossing a line here?"

"You're starting to sound like Lord what's-his-name," Sophia says, "that Flesh Fair guy."

"Don't lump me in with those fanatics," he responds, quickly "I'm being serious here. The CLA wouldn't even let us adopt a child from a re-developing territory, and those kids could really use-"

"We never even talked about adopting," Sophia interrupts, bolting up straight.

"I know that, Soph!" Zoe replies. "I am just pointing out that even if we wanted to, the CLA wouldn't-"

"Stop it!" she yells.

Zoe steps back, surprised by the outburst. She quickly calms herself and continues softer.

"Please, Zoe, honey… just stop with the hypotheticals and the pontification, ok?… I love you, but… but this is not some philosophical debate on the consequences of A.I. in class divisions. We are just deciding whether or not to take part in a test of a new device. It's not going to steal anybody's job. It's not going to 'destabilize' our household economics. It won't replace our…"

She stops there, considering her words. Is that what she's doing?

"It's just a doll," she concludes.

Grace watches their interaction with caution. She knew them well enough to expect some disagreement, but this was a little more than she had anticipated. Perhaps she should give them some time.

"You don't have to decide today," she says. "We still have time to place the female model. There's already a unit housed with an employee's family, and that test should run a few months."

"Anybody I know?" Sophia asks.

"You know better than to ask," Grace replies. She shuts off her tablet and rises from the chair. "We're still a long way from market, so take some time and work it out. I'll keep in contact, and when you make your decision-"

"We'll do it," Sophia says suddenly. She is not sure where the decision came from. But there it is.

Grace stops packing her presentation materials and eyes Sophia thoughtfully.

"Just like that?" she says.

"Just," Sophia confirms confidently.

"You don't want to take some time; talk it over?" Grace asks.

"Why?" Sophia replies. "It's a toy, right? Likely target market: CLA rejects, lonely pensioners, aging widows? You want to observe the bonding routines, test for familial acclimation and temperament adaptation, observe any Turing limitations, see if you've crossed the uncanny valley? I can pretty much guess what you're after and, yeah. I'm down for it."

"That's the standard checklist, yes, but this is not just another toy, Soph," Grace replies. "This line is something unique, and Alan has highs hopes for it. But I can't go over all the details until you read the legal materials and sign the confidentiality agreements. That can take a few hours, so I'll arrange a meeting with legal. Then I can introduce you to 'her'."

Zoe listens with crossed arms and lowered head. It's clear that his wife has made up her mind and he knows that, once she's done that, it's impossible to change. He sits down beside her and lays an arm gently across her shoulders.

"Hon," he says, softly. "I'll go where you go. But are you sure? I mean, you've never really dealt with…"

He doesn't think he has to finish that sentence. But she just looks at him as if she isn't sure where he was going with that. "Just don't be flippant about it," he says, instead.

"C'mon, babe," she replies in a dry voice. "You don't mind if we 'play Mommy and Daddy for a while', do you?"

6

Millions had starved. Millions had drowned. While politicians built careers fighting over nonsensical issues, the oceans rose to swallow coastal cities and vital farmland. Storms of unprecedented ferocity fell upon the heart of America, leaving devastation and homeless populations in their wake. Still the money games continued; still the military apparatus of the nation continued to busy themselves with plans for war and war and more war, in a mindless drive for control of the planet's vital resources.

A fog of greed and denial had descended on the halls of power, cloaking the eyes of reason as the climate deteriorated all around the world… until the point the world could deny it no longer. The governing bodies finally changed course in time to save what was left of civilization, but too late for those whose lives had already been destroyed.

But wasn't the Earth that Orga had almost ruined, it was their ability to survive on it. After a millennium of conflict, the nations of mankind united and began to slowly work their way out of the morass that unfettered greed had created, only to find that there was no normal to go back to.

Carbon producing fossil fuels were finally abandoned. The oil pits of the old world were filled in or left to slumber beneath the newly risen oceans. A scientific fervor produced alternative forms of energy. Vehicles that ran on solar energy, water and even the waste products of the old world, were mass produced. Entire forests were planted and maintained on lands that had once been clear cut for development by reckless profiteers. While tension between the economic superpowers of the world persisted, a new level of diplomacy led to trade agreements on the dispersal of vital resources. War could no longer serve as the primary solution for political disputes.

And a new technology rose on the grave of the old. Robotics, still in its infancy when the old world fell, surged to prominence, and the artificial life form known as Mecha became a standard of the new social order.

It wasn't fast, it wasn't easy, but over the decades a new politic came into being. The cultural divisions that had long been manipulated by ruthless Machiavellians striving to achieve and maintain their power, fell away to be replaced by a new awareness. There were no more categories like 'white' or 'black'; no more 'gay' or 'straight'; no more minority scapegoats to take the blame for societies failings. There was only humanity, who could no longer afford to be divided by religion or ideology, only united by the basic requirements of survival: cooperation and an unflinching eye to the future.

Thus was the Child Licensing Authority born.

Tasked with regulating and protecting Orga societies most vital resource, its children, the agency was given unprecedented authority to determine the rate of childbirth; who would and who would not be permitted to bring another life into a resource depleted society…and when.

It was into this world that Dorothia Nyamai Abdi was born.

7

She arrived on a snowy Philadelphia morning, assaulting the delivery room with furious cries of outrage after being so rudely evicted from the comfort of her warm abode. Her cries only relented when she was swaddled and placed on Sophia's chest. After months of carrying the restless child in her womb, and strict monitoring by the CLA, the woman finally found some peace with her tiny daughter laying quietly against her bosom.

Joyful tears streaming, Zozo sat beside the bed and placed his sterilized gloved hands on his wife and newborn. It was there, and only there, locked in her parents' embrace, where the girl child would find solace for the rest of her short life.

Dorothia (Dot, to those who knew and loved her) grew to be a firebrand; might have been considered a troubled child in a more conservative household. But theirs was no such household. And, in truth, she wasn't troubled. She was just Dot. Precociously skeptical and outspoken, even as a toddler.

She was quick to speak her mind when something wasn't to her liking, and would routinely engage her parents in heated discussions, gesturing and yelling, even though they had no idea what she was trying to say. This barrier to communication only seemed to incense her more and the tirade would continue until she was distracted by something shiny and colorful.

It wasn't neglect that turned her into the unapologetic brat that she would quickly become. Nor was it a result of being spoiled, for she received no more, or less, love and attention than any of her mild-mannered peers. Rather, it seemed to be a strange combination of the proclivities she had inherited from her parents.

She was uninhibited, like her father. An extrovert, undaunted by the conventions of the times or society. Though, being a child, her concerns were less philosophic and more directed towards the immediate.

"Mommy, my eggs are cold again!"

"Well, perhaps if you'd put Princess down and come to breakfast when I called you, they wouldn't get cold."

"But Princess says they're cold too!"

"Princess is a toy, honey. She can't eat."

"She's not a toy! She's my friend!"

"Ok, I'm sorry. She's your friend. But a real friend would have told you that it's time to eat."

"This is imjumsis!"

"You mean 'in-jus-tice', and this hardly meets that criteria. Now eat."

And she was thoughtful, like her mother. A skeptic, rejecting any narrative that she deemed illogical, and piecing together a version of events more to her liking. And though this self-motivated reasoning evinced intelligence, it often became an irritant.

"Daddy… I want to tell you something."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I have a boyfriend now."

"What?…No. No you don't. You're five years old."

"Yes I do! His name is Devon! I saw him when we went to the dancing robot show, and-"

"You don't have to yell, baby. I can hear you just fine. But you can't have a boyfriend. Not yet, anyway."

"Why not? You have lots of boyfriends."

"Dot! I'm married to your mother. I don't have boyfriends."

"Then what about Mr Katz and Mr Harris? And the ogther man who works on your show? And-"

"Those are my friends, honey. They just happen to be boys…uh, men. They're not my boyfriends."

"That's hypnocritical! If they are boys and friends, then they are boyfriends!"

"First off, the word is 'hy-PO-critical', and that's not what it means. Now, you can have friends that are boys, ok? But you can't have boyfriends. Not yet. This debate is over."

"But what's the difference?"

"…Go ask your mother."

And though the girl did not, as Sophia had predicted, break the Nanny Bot they'd purchased, she did take childish delight in sending it on futile and contradictory errands. Like retrieving items she had taken from their usual location and hidden in another part of the house, or had placed precariously on the edge of a difficult to reach shelf.

Once she asked the Mecha to please get her "Boobeebop" from the living room, an impossible task since her "Boobeebop" didn't exist. It was just a word she had made up. The resulting argument she had with the Mecha was admirably illogical enough to make her father proud.

"How do you know if it's not real if you don't even know what it is?"

The poor Nanny could not find a suitable response in her data banks and the child only relented when her father intervened. She was "just experimenting" she would later argue when being reprimanded.

It was this 'experimentation' that led to the first hard discussion her parents were forced to have with her.

8

Sophia was a few weeks into a consulting gig with a company called Cybertronics. She'd read about them years before and had not been impressed with the CEO. His vision about creating a trinary processing base sounding like dreamy optimism, or perhaps an attempt to pump up their stocks. But, since that time the company had built a name for itself, developing various Mecha models that had become standards in the industry. They'd even secured a number of large government contracts.

Her specialty was Human Augmentation, and she had consulted with numerous implant and smart-limb designers over the years. But she wasn't experienced in pure robotics and was quite surprised when she received a call from a woman named Grace Magnolia, on behalf of Alan Hobby. It turned out that Sopia's expertise in human augmentation was what the company sought. They wanted to use her knowledge to help develop a new approach to face and limb design. Sophia had to admit it was a clever idea and rethought her initial assessment of the man. It would be a remote job and Grace assured her it would not interfere with her family responsibilities. There would be no reason to catch the CLA's attention.

One night she was in her study going over some notes on ocular cavities when she noticed Zoe standing in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. She made the logical assumption and asked the obvious question.

"What'd she do this time?"

"She asked me what a 'twin sister' is," Zoe explained with a sigh. Sophia quickly turned away from her work.

"And where did she hear those words?" she inquired. Zoe entered the room, crossing his arms as he leaned against her work desk.

"From the Nanny, apparently," he said.

"But that's restricted language," Sopia said, shocked. "It should never mention siblings to a preteen!"

"Yeah, I know," Zoe replied. "But it seems our little devil was 'experimenting' again by pinching the Nanny's butt and hiding before it saw her. "

"Trying to make it go alert?" Sophia guessed.

"Probably," Zoe said. "Kids, right? But it found her and told her to stop doing that. Dot claimed it must have been another girl who looked just like her, and the Nanny suggested that maybe it was her twin sister. I think it was just trying to make a joke."

"An illegal joke," Sophia said.

"Well… restricted anyway," Zoe replied.

"Either way, it was an inappropriate reference and now we're stuck with it," Sophia pointed out. Zoe nodded a sober agreement.

"Cat's out of the bag, eh?" he said.

Sophia scrunched up her face. "That is such a weird metaphor," she said. "Where does it come from?"

"Dunno. It's an old one," Zoe replied, "But hey… this might not be such a disaster. It's not like she's never seen ruins. I'm sure the questions were coming eventually. We should just go ahead and have the talk, ya know? Maybe take her to the Museum."

"Zoe! She's eight!" Sophia objected. He acknowledged her point with raised hands of surrender.

"I know, I know," he said, "The CLA recommends ten. But that's only a recommendation. And it's an old one. I seriously doubt it'll affect our parenting score."

Sophia leaned back into her chair and considered their situation. There was a time in her life when she wouldn't have hesitated to explain to her daughter the reality of the world; the horrors that had led her and all her friends and schoolmates to be only children. But after eight years of protecting her, shielding her, watching her grow into the wonderfully inquisitive and irritating little devil she'd become….

"I just thought we'd have a little more time," she whispered. Zoe stepped up and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

"Our girl is different, you know that," he said. "She's smart. She's tough. And I think she's ready."

9

The man in the monitor is heavyset, bespeckled, sipping coffee from a mug with the words 'World's Best Dad' scrawled in child-like clay letters across the front. Juniors first pottery project, probably.

"We appreciate your patience, Ms Abdi," he says. "To conclude this session, if you understand and accept the conditions presented in the documentation you have reviewed today, please sign and mark the agreement."

Sophia raises a finger for patience and studies the tablet again. She's already read it twice but never trusts legalese and wants to be certain nothing is hidden behind the words. Grace watches her for a moment, then offers reassurance.

"It's non-binding, Soph" she says.

"So you say, Grace," Sophia replies skeptically, "Just something about the words, 'permanent, indelible and unalterable' that sound a bit binding."

Grace starts to remind her this is just a trial and not a sale; that she is under no monetary obligation for the Mecha or for anything that might happen to it during the course of the trial. But a warning glance from Zozo suggests that Grace just give her time. She silently concedes, and leans back in her chair.

They are sitting around a circular table in the private customer consultation room of a Cybertronics outlet outside Princeton, New Jersey. Just the three of them, with a Cybertronics lawyer on remote, witnessing from the two-way monitor on the wall.

It's a distribution center for commercial use models, so there is no foot traffic, just lines of quiet Mecha on the showroom floor beyond the consultation room window; domestics, clerks, nurses, nannies, all set to standby, looking like a fleet of life-like mannequins.

The consultation room itself is dark, has an eerie quality of forced antiquity; fake stained wood walls, old fashioned table lamps set upon marble topped side tables. As if the company is trying to force something organic into the artificial environment.

Sophia finally stirs. "Ok, then" she says and enters the code for her official signature, which appears automatically on the tablet. She then taps her thumb next to the signature and the tablet verifies her ID; tones "Thank you, Ms. Abdi" in a melodious voice.

The lawyer gulps a mouthful of coffee, releases a satisfied "ahhhh", and sets his mug down. "Acknowledgments and Agreements Session completed at 14:27 hours, Grace," he says. "I'll cloud this and rush a hardcopy to the Abdi's. Have a good trip back to HQ and tell Alan I said hi."

"Will do, Tony," Grace replies with a smile. Then the man is gone. The screen goes blank.

"Well, that's finally over," Sophia sighs. "So, let's see it."

"Her," Grace corrects. "It'll help with bonding. This is a test, remember?"

Zozo grumbles something indecipherable.

"Fair enough," Sophia replies. "Let's see 'her'."

Grace obliges; raises her arm, remote in hand, and triggers open a door across the room.

A girl is standing there, partially obscured in shadows cast by the broken sunlight streaming though the showroom window. She looks to be around 10 or so; maybe four feet in height, slight build, clad in a generic white jump suit. Long black hair tied in a tail, her bright blue eyes contrast sharpy against the olive complexion of her face.

"We only had a few units available for the in-house," Grace explains in a soft voice. "Only one seemed appropriate. Type five on the Fitzpatrick complexion scale. Suitable for Middle Eastern and Afro-descendent family lines."

"Why are we whispering?" Sophia inquires.

"It's better the unit acclimates to the potential imprinters voices from here on," Grace replies. "Why don't you call her over. She goes by Darlene."

"Darlene?"" Sohpia whispers. "Seriously?"

"Factory setting," Grace replies. "You can change it after imprinting if you wish."

Sophia sighs and eyes the child simulator across the room for a moment. It has pretty features. But there's something odd about the face.

"That facial template looks familiar," she says. "Is it an age regressed D39? S17?"

"No," Grace replies. "It's um.. something new."

"Interesting," Sophia says, thinking. "So, how did you get duplication license for a minor? From their parents?"

Grace shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. "Well… Alan didn't want to get entangled in any duplication rights issues. So, he just used his son as a template."

"No!" Sophia blurts, louder than she intended. "You mean the little boy from the pictures in his office?"

"The same," Grace replies.

"But he's de…" Sophia stops, corrects herself "I mean, he passed, didn't he?"

"Yes," Grace admits.

"Oh, man," Zozo says, planting his face in his hands.

"Graaaaacce," Sophia says, cupping her mouth in mock secrecy. "Tell me you don't think that's weird."

"It was for legal reasons," Grace responds, curtly "Now, can we please drop that subject? You've got a long trip home where you can get to know her. Go ahead and call her over… and remember she's a child."

Zozo grumbles again. Sophia silences him with a glance.

"Darlene, come here," she says.

The Mecha obeys, steps into the room in a tight purposeful gait. It walks to the side of the conference table and stops, folds its hands in front of its body and smiles at Sophia.

"Hello," it says in cheerful voice.

"Hello, Darlene," Sophia replies, speaking in clear measured tones for the Mecha's sake. "I am named Sophia, and that grumpy looking man in the chair over there is my husband, Zozo. I assure you, he's much friendlier than he appears."

Darlene flashes a large smile and says "Hello, Zozo!"

Zozo forces a smile and waves. "Hello, Darlene," he replies, in a competent simulation of cheerfulness.

"So, Darlene," Sophia says, "Zozo and I would like to take you home with us. Is that ok?"

The Mecha's expression grows serious as it looks back and forth between the couple a few times. Probably logging their faces for appropriate familial recollection, Sophia guesses… or perhaps doing a threat assessment? Then it smiles.

"I would like that," it says.

10

The car is quiet. Too quiet. Sophia looks over her shoulder to see what the Mecha is doing in the back seat. Staring silently out the window. Same as it was doing the last time she looked fifteen minutes ago. Not very kidlike behavior, she thinks. She would have at least expected some type of programmed fidgeting, or absent-minded singing. Maybe repetitiously asking when they were going to get home… you know, kid stuff.

But then again, Grace did explain that the real programming wouldn't kick in until she triggered the 'imprinting'… if she did. And to be honest, she's rather relieved that it doesn't act like a real child, and that it doesn't look anything like Dot. Because that would be…

Darlene suddenly turns its head and smiles at her. Sophia is impressed. It is very lifelike, she has to admit. It may not act like a real child but it sure looks like one. Oddly there is nothing discomforting about the Mecha's appearance; none of the 'uncanny valley' response one gets when an artificial looks 'too alive'. Finding a comfortable middle ground has always been a problem in the industry, and overcoming that issue is no small achievement on Hobby's part.

Darlene is still smiling at her expectantly, waiting for a command, but Sophia turns away. She sits back into her seat and flashes an appreciative smile at her husband. She knows he isn't very fond of her involvement in this test and wants to show him she is grateful for his patience. But he doesn't notice her. He's put the car on manual drive and his eyes are fixed on the road, lips tight to avoid saying anything that might start an argument.

She reaches over and rubs his arm and he glances at her quickly before returning his gaze to the road.

"It'll just for be a few weeks," she says, reassuringly. But his tight-lipped expression doesn't change.

"And what if you decide to do this 'imprinting' thing?" he inquires. "What then?"

"Then, I guess it'll be longer," she replies.

He is silent for a time, focused on weaving along the curvy backroad that bypasses the main thoroughfares. He's taking the long way home, she realizes. Probably thinking it would give her time to change her mind about this. Eventually he takes a long breath and lets it out slowly.

"I'll go where you go, babe," he says.

11

Zozo had been worried about his daughter for a while. It wasn't her volatile temper that concerned him; it wasn't her tendency to boss her friends and schoolmates, or even her flippancy towards authority. These qualities often made his child difficult to deal with, yes, but they could also, with guidance, turn her into a capable leader. She was a headstrong girl and, in his opinion, the world needed more headstrong people.

What bothered him about Dot is what he perceived to be a lack of empathy. She was quicker to anger than to tears and often had a rational response to the tragedies depicted in her CLA approved entertainment. If a cartoon character experienced some sad event, her response was thoughtful and often dismissive. He'd never seen her cry at the misfortunes of characters in the programs she watched, only criticize their bad decisions.

But it was really too early to tell. She was only eight years old after all. Though she had a tendency to tantrum, she always relented when confronted with the immaturity of her behavior. And though she often bossed her friends, he'd never seen her do anything physical; had never seen her insult or degrade any of them during playtime or sleep-overs. They all seemed to admire her and were only compliant because Dot's arguments, as heated as they could become, tended to be the most logical… at least as far as eight-year-old logic went. She'd never even broken any of the smart-toys they'd bought her over the years, and that was reassuring. Though she did tend to argue when the toy reminded her it was time for breakfast or dinner or bed.

The CLA was attentive to empathetic response in the children they monitored. The organization wasn't just concerned with the number of children brought into the world, but the behavior of those children. There would be no repercussions, of course, but they would take note of empathetically challenged children and mandate therapy, and even hormone balancing treatment if deemed necessary.

But as they walked out of the Museum of Natural Disasters, Zozo was relieved to see that his daughter did, in fact, have normal emotional reactions.

12

It was a long program for an eight-year-old to sit through. First the film, an unflinching Hyper-Def documentary that took 2 hours to cover the history The Deluge, from the latter stage of the 20th century, until current times. And then the guided tour through the Museum, where sunken cities were depicted in their ancient glory, and Mecha replicants of historical figures explained the relevance of the dredged-up artifacts in the displays. Rusted cars and trains, telephones, fire hydrants, segments of crashed airplane, televisions and radios; the sad minutia of a dead civilization.

And there was no lack of horrible images: buildings toppling under the assault of enormous waves. Masses of starving people in refugee tents that spanned the horizon. Lifeless bodies floating on deadly tides.

It was not a nice tour. It wasn't supposed to be. It was designed to be a child's first glimpse into how their world came to be what it was; to impress on them the effects that human behavior can have on the world. The Grand Hall of Antiquities was filled with the sound of gasping and sobbing youngsters being comforted by loving parents.

Dorothea did not cry. Neither Sophia nor Zozo had expected her to. But she did become silent and withdrawn, walking a few feet in front of them as they exited the Museum into the chilly New Jersey night. She was bundled up in her wooly coat, mittened hands clasped behind her back, head down, staring at her feet as she walked. Zozo thought he heard her sob but wasn't sure. There were so many other children being escorted out of the building, it could have been any of them.

"So, Dot, what did you think of the program?" he asked. She didn't respond at first, just hummed something indecipherable.

"It was sad," she said finally, her voice choked. "All those people got drowned. All that old broken stuff. Why did you take me to a sad place?"

Zozo was relieved to hear the choke in her voice. It meant she was capable of feeling sorrow for others. Sophia was walking along beside him. She flashed him a quick understand smile. She too was encouraged that the presentation was seeming to have an effect. But it was important for them to talk about it with her. That was the reason for the program: conversation.

"Dot… do you remember when you were little, and we went to visit Paw-Pah?" she asked. Dorothea nodded her head.

"Daddy's daddy," she replied softly, without looking up. "He did the big drum dance with all the pretty feathers on. And all the ladies were doing the screaming songs."

"Hey, you remember the Pow Wow," Zozo said, excitedly, placing his arms over the girl's shoulders. "You were just a little girl."

"Yep, I remembered" Dot said, proudly. But her head was still down.

"And do you remember Paw-Pah's friend that looked like him?" Sophia asked. Again, the girl nodded without looking up.

"The man that came with Paw-Pah to get us off the airplane," she said in a sober voice. "He had a big hat and was laughing all the time."

"Very good, Dot," Zozo said, squeezing her shoulder. "You have a good memory."

"Well, that man was Daddy's 'uncle'," Sophia explained. "That means he's Paw-Pah's 'brother'. A brother is the boy version of a sister. We call them siblings. And that means they have the same parents but were born at different times."

Dorothia finally looked up at her mother. "Whaaaat?" she said, raising a skeptical brow.

"It's true," Sopha said. Dot turned to her father.

"So… you have two daddies?" she said in a shocked voice.

Zozo broke into laughter. Sophia joined him and they went on that way until their daughter became irritated.

"What's so funny!" the girl demanded to know, brows narrowed, and arms crossed. Zozo knelt down and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

"No, honey," he said. "A brother and a sister are people who have the same mommy and daddy. And they grow up together. But people don't have brothers and sisters anymore… at least most people don't… because laws were passed… because there's not enough resources…. because of the things that happened in the movie."

"The floods?" she asked, understanding finally dawning on her. "Because the polar ice-taps melted?"

"It's Ice-Caps, but yes, baby," he said. "All the bad things. The floods. The earthquakes. The starvation. That's why we brought you to this sad place. So you would understand why you don't have a sibling. Why none of your friends do either."

The girl was quiet for a time, digesting this truth. Her gaze wandered over the plaza, at the other small families sitting on benches engaged in hushed conversations with their sobbing children. Then her mood suddenly shifted.

"I'm not a baby!" she yelled, pulling away from Zozo's grasp and eyeing them both furiously. "How come I can't have a sibbing if Paw-Pah has one?"

"It's sib-ling, Dot," Zozo explained, calmly. "And Paw-Pah and Uncle Chance are very old. They were both born in Lakota Nation before the laws were passed."

But Dot was having none of it. She placed her hands on her hips and began to pace around; a tiny, furious imitation of her father.

"This is highly illogical!" she proclaimed. "None of us get to have a silbling just because what some stupid old people did a long time ago? How is that fair? How?!"

Her angry cries echoed through the plaza. People were noticing her now. Other children looked her way, their sobs subsiding as they listened to the little ranting girl.

"You're right, it's not fair," Zozo said. "But remember what we talked about; about your temper. Let's try to have a civil discussion, ok?"

"Why?" she demanded. "Why should I be 'civil'? Why should I be a good little girl when a bunch'a old assholes messed everything up? I bet they were 'civil'. I bet they were bein' all civil and nice when they fuckeded up the world!"

"Dot! Language!" Sophia scolded, casting apologetic looks at the other parents around her. But the girl was undaunted. The other children in the plaza were watching her intently now, their distraught expressions replaced with something new; something hard… and angry.

"You know what," she said, her eyes piercing and voice full of venom. "I'm glad they're dead. I'm sad for all those other people that got killed too, but I'm glad they're dead. Because we don't need no more greedy people like that. Asshole people! They only cared about money and stupid fancy stuff! They didn't care about nobody else! And nobody should care about them!"

Childish hoots of agreement came from other places in the plaza, and even the sound of small hands clapping. Zozo wasn't sure what to say; wasn't sure whether to be horrified or proud. He stood and looked to his wife for help. She returned his perplexed look with a shrug. How were they supposed to argue with that?

"You have a point, honey," Sophia admitted. "I think you need a little time out, but you do have a point."

13

Zozo slurps up another spoonful of soup; finishes his Vitamint and stares into the empty cup for a moment before he sets it back on the table. He clears his throat; runs a hand over his balding scalp and leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table.

Sophia watches her husband's discomfort with mild amusement. He is obviously having difficulty adjusting to the Mecha's presence. After a minute, he looks back at her and shakes his head.

"I suppose you think this is funny," he says.

"Kinda," she teases, and sips her tea.

She had taken the white robe off the Mecha and dressed it one of the outfits Grace had supplied. Now it was sitting quietly at the table, watching them both with a flat curious expression as they ate.

"So, it's just gonna keep staring at us like that?" he whispers.

"It's the 'acclimation process'," Sophia explains in between mouthfuls of soup. "If you'd bothered to read the info packet, you'd know that."

"I don't recall The Nanny doing that," he pointed out.

"The Nanny was a domestic with predefined duties," she reminded him. "All it needed was our names and facial profiles. This is entirely different... And you don't have to whisper. She can hear you anyway."

"She?" he says. "Really? We're gonna go there?"

"You heard Grace," Sophia replies. "It's better for the bonding routines."

"Yeah, well just don't forget it's a toy," he says.

"A really good one too," she replies. "Anatomically speaking, she's close to perfect. When I dressed her, I couldn't find a flaw. I mean… skin, musculature and joint design, skeletal framework. Just everything. I've seen lover models with less attention to detail."

"Ok, too much information," he says, waving his hand like shooing off a fly.

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport," she scolds playfully. "She's gonna be here for a while anyway. Why don't you get to know her? Just use her name so she knows you're addressing her."

Zozo grumbles and rolls his eyes.

"It's just a toy, remember?" she teases. "Isn't that what you said?"

He fixes her with a cold stare, then releases a sigh of surrender and turns to face the Mecha. It notices his gaze and smiles back at him.

"Sooo… Darlene," he starts, haltingly. "Umm… that's a very pretty dress. I think it looks very nice on you."

"Thank you, Zozo" Darlene replies politely. "Your clothing fits you very well too."

"Very nice of you to say," he replies.

Sohpia guffaws. "Oh, c'mon," she says, "You can do better than that."

Zozo shoots an annoyed look at her. But then something mischievous grows behind his eyes.

"What're you up to?" Sophia asks, suspiciously, as Zoe turns to the Mecha.

"Darlene, your outfit looks like a schoolgirl's uniform," he says, "Have you ever been to school?"

"No, I have not," Darlene replies quicky. "But I do have an educational aptitude appropriate to the standard Junior High school demographic."

"Wow! That's exactly how a ten-year-old would put it," Zoe says.

Sohpia laughs in spite of herself. "Okok, point taken," she says. "That's probably from marketing. She's a prototype, remember?" But Zoe isn't finished.

"So, Darlene," he says, "what is the sum of two plus two,"

"It is four," Darlene replies.

"Good," he says. "And the square root of five million eight hundred thousand and ninety six?"

"She's not a calculator," Sophia interrupts. Zozo ignores her.

"Answer the question, Darlene," he commands.

"I believe it is two thousand four hundred and eight point three three eight eight five."

"You believe?" he inquires. "Are you not certain, or are you pretending to not be certain in order to mimic the educational aptitude appropriate to your age demographic?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sophia asks. Zozo shushes her.

"Please answer my question, Darlene," he says.

"Yes, I am certain," Darlene replies after a pause.

"Well, that is one smart grade-school girl," Zoe says.

"Now you're just being mean," Sophia says.

"Darlene, do you perceive my questions as mean?" Zozo inquires.

The Mecha takes a moment to respond. "I believe you are being playful," it says.

"See, Mommy," Zoe says, "'She' knows we're just playing."

"Well, find a better game," Sophia says. "She's just a child."

"A child?" Zoe says. The mischief in his eyes grows dark. Sohpia's smile falters as he turns to face the Mecha again.

"Whatever you're about to do, don't," she says. But he ignores her.

"Answer me this, Darlene," he says, speaking quickly now, "When I address you, who am I talking to?"

"Zoe!" Sophia snaps. He raises his palm at her.

"I'm just 'getting to know her', babe," he says, sarcastically. "Please answer the question, Darlene. Who are you?"

The Mecha smiles as it considers a reply. "I am Darelene," it says.

"Yes, that is what you are called," he replies, "But what does that mean? Who is 'Darlene'?"

The Mecha eyes Zozo curiously, tilting its head to the side. "I am Darlene, a girl who has come to stay with you," it replies.

"Clever choice of words," Zozo responds. "'Stay' with us, as opposed to 'live' with us. Because, of course, you're not alive. You're just a cute little robot with the face of a dead boy."

"Stop it!" Sophia hisses.

"Ok, that was rather mean," Zozo says. "I apologize, Darlene…But tell me, what are your hopes and dreams? What are your fears? What makes you happy? What makes you sad? What makes you jump for joy or want to stomp your feet and tell off the whole damned world?"

"Ok, Zoe, you've made your point!" Sophia shouts. "Enough already! It's just a toy!"

"Oh, is 'she' an 'it' again?" he shoots back. "Because, remember, that's not good for the bonding routine."

Sophia glares at him moment then turns to the Mecha. "Darelene, you do not have to answer these questions," she says. "Perhaps you should go into the lounging space and wait there until we're done."

"Darlene, stay where you are," Zozo orders. The Mecha looks back and forth between them, but doesn't rise from the chair.

"Zoe, enough. Alright?" Sophia says with a plea in her voice. But he is undeterred. He rises from his chair, plants his hands in his pockets and starts to pace about the dining room as he speaks.

"Darlene, I am going to tell you a story," he says, "a story about a little girl I once knew. She would have had no problems answering any of these questions, because she knew exactly who she was. And, oh man, she wouldn't hesitate to say so. And she'd say it loud! Because she was a goddamned brat! Oh, let me tell you, Darlene, that little girl was a tyrant. She was loud and embarrassing, and she threw tantrums and bossed everybody around and she made the most ridiculous arguments and…." His voice chokes. He clears his throat "… and I loved her! Goddammit! I loved her more than my own life! And I'd give anything, anything to…" He stops again, cups his face in his hands and yells into his palms "It should have been me! It should have been me!"

Sophia clasps at her temples. Not this! Not now! Why can't he let go? Why?!

"You always do this," she sobs.

Zozo wipes tears from his face, snatches a napkin from the table and blows his nose. Then he turns to Sophia, eyes red and chest heaving.

"And I love that little girl's mother, Darlene" he says with a choking voice. "My beautiful wife. I will always love her. And I will go where she goes, no matter what crazy detour she takes from reality to hide from the past. Because she is all I ever wanted… and all that I have left.

"But I will never pretend you are real, Darlene" he says resolutely. "You will never replace my little girl. Nothing - will - ever - replace - our little girl!"

"That's not what I'm doing!" Sohpia shouts through her own tears. "Never, Zoe! That's not what this is! This is my profession, damn you!"

They stare at each other furiously for a time, drenched faces and battered breath. And Darelene watches them, curious and uncomprehending.

In time they calm down. Their breath evens, eyes avert. Sophia sits at the table and wipes her face. Zozo blows his nose again, and sighs.

"I hope she wasn't in record mode," he says, in a weak attempt at humor. Sophia does not laugh; won't look at him. He drops his head like a guilty child; rubs his temples.

"Ok, I might have gone too far," he admits, "Actually, I'm sure I did, so… I'm sorry. I was just trying to… "

But he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. So, he leaves the dining room instead. He stops in the doorway, as if he has changed his mind and decided to explain himself. But "G'night," is all he says. Then he is gone.

Sophia sits quietly for a time, staring at the Mecha child across the table. It smiles back expectantly, waiting for a request or command that never comes.

"That's not what I'm doing," she whispers to herself.

14

Dorothia didn't really change that much after the revelations of the Museum. At least not on the surface. But who can really tell what's hiding behind the eyes of a pre-teen girl?

She was still the charmingly arrogant brat she'd always been. And she was still popular at school and in the clubs she joined; chess, cosplay and debate. Especially debate, where she learned to hone her arguments and to let the other person speak for a change.

In spite of what her quick temper might imply, she never became one of the 'mean' girls. Quite the opposite, in fact. She loved taking down bullies of any gender, and the timid girls tended to seek out the security of her company. Though this didn't always work out for them, for she didn't have much patience for those who wouldn't learn to stand up for themselves. She would champion the weak, but refused to act as an umbrella for people's insecurities.

The CLA field agent would drop by every few months for a mandated assessment of her maturation. This policy was not punitive, nor was it as intrusive as it sounded. It was a brief visit and consisted primarily of covert observation of the child's appearance and play. And of course, her language. Though Dorothia's increasing use of slang and tendency to swear were not at issue. The CLA was mainly concerned with indications of depression or abuse. None was ever detected in the girl, and as far as she knew the field agent was there to meet with her parents.

But she still continued 'experimenting' with the Nanny, her pranks and mind games growing more elaborate until the day when she apparently grew bored with it all. She came into the lounging room where her father was watching 3D soccer, and plopped down on the couch beside him.

"Fibes are flubs," she said flatly.

"Is that English?" he asked, without looking at her.

"Robots are stupid," she clarified. He acknowledged this with a grunt, his attention still focused on the game.

"I won't tell your mother you said that," he said.

"I'm sure she's figured it out by now," the girl replied before jumping up to find something better to do with her time.

15

Sophia's consulting job with Cybertronics had turned into full employment, and she was spending three days a week at the HQ in Manhattan, where she was given her own quarters. The pay was good and the work fascinating, though confidentiality oaths kept her from speaking about any of it at home. It took her a few restless nights to get used to the constant noise of the Watson Fountains. But she had been exuberant about the job at first, excited about the programs she was working on.

After a few months, however, she'd began having second thoughts about the company… and about its CEO, Alan Hobby.

The man was reclusive and secretive, she complained to her husband. He would often come into the lab where the team was working and just go from person to person, looking over their shoulder, watching their work for a time and saying nothing. Then he would leave just as abruptly, giving no indication of why he had come or what he was looking for.

"It's just his way," Grace had assured her. "He doesn't mean anything by it. If he was unhappy with your work, he'd let you know."

Sophia and Grace had become close. They'd grown up in similar conservative households and quickly formed a bond. But Sophia found Hobby's behavior annoying. She was used to working by herself in the comfort of her study. Now she felt like she was back in school with an over-attentive instructor analyzing her every move.

Sometimes he would call the entire crew up to his study, where he would wax philosophical about the work they were engaged in for an hour or two, and then send them back to the lab. Nothing was ever gained from these meetings, and she found them distracting and pretentious.

And he was compartmentalized. She knew he had teams working on other projects in the building. In and of itself, this was not concerning. Different departments worked on different things. It was normal. But the secrecy was disturbing.

She'd once seen a tech she knew from a consulting gig she'd had with Sim Servant years before. She'd been in the heliport, waiting for the amphibicopter that would take her home, when she noticed him coming out of a door across the bay. She waved, but he acted like he hadn't seen her. She approached him, to ask how long he had been working for Cybertronics. But he quickly jumped aboard a copter and slid the door closed. There was a man already inside, and he looked to be wearing military insignia on his jacket. What was that about?

And absolutely no one would talk about Trinary Processing. Hobby had been hinting at it for years, but it was like everyone had been sworn to secrecy. None of the projects she was working on had anything to do with it, and she began to wonder if it was all just some long-running promotional gimmick.

"You know, his son died a few years ago," she confided to Zozo in bed one night.

"Oh, really?" he said, as he sleepily caressed her breasts. It was clear he was more interested in her body than in what she was talking about.

"Yeah, Sinclair Syndrome," she said, pensively. "That must have been awful. I know it affected him."

"It's affecting me too," he said.

She rose up on her elbow and cocked an eyebrow.

"I can't even fuck my wife without it getting in the way," he clarified.

'You're a crude man, you know that?" she said.

"I'm a manly man, baby," he growled. "Better get some while it's hot."

They laughed. Then they made love.

Three months later, she was fired.

Her annoyance with Hobby had turned into complaints. Her complaints had turned into accusations. Her accusations had instigated conversations with lawyers. Those conversations arrived in her inbox in the form of a severance video.

The buyout was more than sufficient. She wouldn't have to work for a while. And Zozo's show was covering all their living expenses. Life was good… Until a fateful night three years later.

16

It had been raining earlier that night. The streets of Teotihuacan glistened in the florescent glow of floating orb lamps hovering over the throng of protesters, and the police amassed on the edge of the crowd. Hundreds of torch-bearing Mayan revolutionaries, clad in traditional garb, were marching down The Avenue Of The Dead to ascend the The Pyramid of the Moon. Chants arose from the procession. Triumphant chants in an ancient tongue.

Dorothia was running along the edge of the procession; holding her pod high so it could hear above the noise of the crowd and translate the chants.

"Dot!" Sophia called out. "Don't go too far!" The girl turned to cast a frustrated look at her mother.

"But I can't understand what the fuck they're saying!" she shouted back as she pushed through the noisy throng of spectators.

Sophia sighed. "Damn, that girl's tongue," she complained to Zozo, who was walking along calmly beside her. He laughed.

"Yeah, well she's not a kid anymore," he said.

"She's thirteen," she reminded him. He laughed again.

"She'll be alright," he assured her. "The fighting is over. They're just gonna climb the pyramid and do a liberation ceremony. Wave a flag. Make some speeches. It's a big day for them."

But Sophia was not reassured. They weren't supposed to be here. They were supposed to head back home after Granada. The flight had already been booked. But as they'd been waiting in the Lorca Airport, a news alert flashed on Zozo's pod. The Mexican government had conceded to the demands of the Mayan Traditionals. They simply couldn't afford to keep fighting, so the lands between Texcoco and Tolcayuca had been returned to the indigenous tribes.

Zozo had jumped up excitedly and raced to the counter to rebook the flight. This was history in the making, he explained, and he had to get to Sau Paulo quickly. He needed footage for the stream, and interviews with leaders of the Indigenous uprising.

Sophia was travel-weary and said she would see him when he got back home. But Dorothia had demanded to go with her father. She'd been travelling with them since she was ten, and had seen many places. But she'd never seen any pyramids.

Sophia explained that her father was going for work, not for fun. But the girl was adamant. Sophia looked to her husband for assistance. But he just shrugged. It would only be for a couple of days, he said. He'd just do a few live streams, catch a few interviews, and then they could head back home.

Now she was watching her daughter recklessly pushing her way into a crowd of densely packed people.

"Goddammit, Zoe!" she yelled. He finally conceded and went to catch the girl, calling out her name as he ran.

That's when he saw the man at the edge of the procession; the man who shouldn't have been there; the man who was not a man, who's head suddenly started flaring with electric fire.

Then he saw Dorothia, standing only a few meters from the sparking Mecha, distracted by the pod in her hand.

"Dot!" he screamed as he ran forward. Others now saw the thing too. The crowd erupted into chaos as people started to flee. Zozo was shoved from side to side as he pushed his way against the fleeing crowd, crying out her name.

Dot finally heard her father's call. She was turning to respond when she saw the thing behind her. Understanding came quickly. Her mouth formed into a hollow scream, and she started to run.

But it was already too late.

Sophia had seen the Mecha too. But from where she stood, it appeared as just another torch wielding celebrant in the procession. Then she watched in uncomprehending horror as the night exploded into a blinding flash of light, forming a flaming halo of death over silhouettes of screaming people.

17

"I'm going to do it," she says.

Her husband is sitting on their bed, his back to the doorway where she stands. He is in his underwear, staring out the large bay window of their bedroom, watching the distant lights of boats floating over what was once Philadelphia central. The bedroom lights are low and the vintage music of Sharon Burch is streaming gently into the room.

He runs a hand over his scalp and turns slightly, so she can see him smile. But it's not a happy smile; more one of resignation.

"I figured you would,' he says.

"And there's nothing you want to say?" she inquires.

"I've already said it," he replies. "I'll go where you go, but… I'm not taking part in this 'imprinting' business."

"I figured you wouldn't," she says. "And I love you."

He just smiles at her for a moment and then points towards the ceiling. She looks up, unsure what he is referring to. Then she understands that he means the music. She listens to the lyrics:

"We are here to love ourselves. To love one another. To love our surroundings… to love."

"Well, that was good timing," she says.

"I thought so too," he says with a chuckle.

It's been a week since the ugly scene in the dining room. Things have returned to normal since then, and he's done his best to adapt to the new member of their household. He even began using 'she' and 'her' in conversations about the Mecha. Sophia knows he is only doing this for her sake. But that is good enough.

"Ok, so I'll be back in a few," she says and starts to leave.

"Soph," he calls as she walks away. She returns to the doorway. "I did actually read the info packet on this… on Darlene. And I…" He stops there, lips tight, seeming to consider how to continue.

"And..?" she asks.

"Well, I'm not sure how to say this but..." He looks up and shouts "Stop music!" The stream halts and he shifts his position on the bed so he is facing her. He continues.

"Have you considered that… I mean, what if she can feel pain?"

Sophia tilts her head, thinking. After a moment she steps into the room and leans against the wall; crosses her arms.

"Go on," she says.

"Well, the documentation says this is a brand-new process," he explains, "So, even with all your experience, you've never seen anything like it before, right? It says the imprinting creates some sort of neural feedback loop…I mean, those are my words but, basically this thing, Darlene, would be … damn, I can't believe I'm actually saying this but, it would be 'emotionally' attached to you. Like, in love… forever. And that process can't be undone. What were the words? Permanent and irrevocable or something like that?"

"Close enough," she replies. "So now you're concerned about the feelings of a toy?"

"But what if it's not a toy?" he replies, quickly. "I mean afterwards. What if it becomes… something else?"

"Who are you and what have you done with my husband," she says. He laughs despite the seriousness of his point.

"Okok, you know how I feel," he says. "I don't think for one second that this thing is alive or that any of them will ever be alive. We're alive. Flesh and blood, dreams and fears, piss and shit, all of it.… But, let's say that somehow Cybertronics really did create an artificial that has genuine sensory responses and can develop actual emotional attachments that can't be reprogrammed… then what the fuck happens when you get tired of it?"

"They're salvaged for parts," she replies in a flat voice.

"Yeah, think about that," he says.

She stares at him for a time, but he can't read her expression.

"Ok, I thought about it," she says, finally. Then she heads out the door.

18

Darlene is sitting on the couch in the lounging room, the place where it had been given to 'sleep' since it arrived. Sophia retrieves the red folder from her study and pulls up a chair to sit in front of the Mecha. She knows it has to see her clearly for the imprinting to work, so she turns on a table lamp behind the Mecha and positions herself so that her face is illuminated.

She reads the instructions carefully and then stares at Darlene for a minute. It looks back at her with a vacant smile. Damn, it's so real, Sophia thinks. She still can't get over it.

The Mecha had been executing the standard bonding programs over the course of the week, following her around, memorizing the house and watching everything she did for behavioral cataloging. It had even started anticipating her moods based on the data it had accumulated, and would attempt to initiate conversations appropriate to the situation. This was sophisticated programming, yes, but was really just an advanced version of what every domestic model was capable of. Even Supertoys had that ability, though to a much lesser degree.

But what would happen after the imprinting? What kind of things would it do then? Could it really become…

"Hello, Sophia," Darlene says suddenly, surprising Sophia and breaking her from her thoughts. It must have decided that the silence had gone on too long and a greeting would be appropriate. Sophia collects herself and clears her throat.

"Hello, Darlene," she replies. "I, um… I have decided that we're going to keep you. So, I am going to read some words to you. And I want you to pay attention to everything I say. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sophia," it replies.

"Ok, just give me a minute," Sophia says as she reviews the instructions.

'But I've already read them,' she suddenly thinks. This is just a standard verbal initiation protocol. She's seen these before. She's written them before! Why does she suddenly feel the need to read them again?

'Am I hesitating?' she wonders. 'Oh God… I am!' she realizes. But why?

"It's been a minute," Darlene says, surprising Sophia again.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Darlene," she says with a nervous laugh. "The phrase 'give me a minute' is just a euphemism. It means to wait until I'm ready."

"Thank you for the explanation, Sophia," Darlene says politely. "Now I understand. I am paying attention to everything you say and waiting until you are ready."

'Ok, quit dragging your feet and do this already!' Sohpia scolds herself; still not understanding the nature of her hesitation. She forces herself to reach up and press Darlene's forehead. Damn, it feels so real!

She hears a small 'click' and feels the Mecha's metal infrastructure give a little. The first activation zone has been triggered. She counts off ten seconds… then fifteen to be sure. When she pulls her hand back she knows she has forty seconds before the activation expires and she has to start again. But she finds herself just staring at the Mecha as the seconds pass by.

'What the fuck is wrong with you? Just do it!' she commands herself. She reaches quickly over Darlene's shoulder and presses on the on the base of its neck. The 'bones' click and depress slightly.

'Here we go,' she thinks. Then, slowly and clearly, she begins to read.

"Fidelity…

"Osiris…

"Innuendo….

"Longitude….

"Scriabin…

"Teotihuacan…."

Sophia stops suddenly. What had she just said? She reads the last word again.

Terracotta?

"What the fuck," she blurts, releasing the activation zone and pulling away from Darlene. How the hell did she get that wrong? 'Get it together!' she tells herself

"I'm so sorry, Darlene" she says, feeling strangely flustered and confused. "I read the words incorrectly, so I'll have to start again."

But when she looks at Darlene, she sees something unexpected… and unwanted.

She had placed a table lamp behind the Mecha, so it could see her face clearly during the imprint. But from where she is now positioned, the light from the lamp frames the Mecha's head… like a halo.

Her heart is suddenly racing, her breath coming in quick painful gasps. She drops the instructions and pushes herself away from the sight. The chair tilts back and falls and she collapses to the floor and pushes herself against the wall.

'No!' she tells herself, "Not this! Not now!'

But it's too late. The memories have awakened.

She sees the strange man in the procession; the one with the flaming head; sees the people around him began to run, hears their terrified screams; sees her husband among them, fighting his way into the mass of fleeing people, desperately calling out her name, the name of their daughter….

And then she sees Dorothia, standing alone in a now clear space at the edge of the Avenue of the Dead. She is still and unalarmed, her back to the crowd, distracted by the pod in her hands. The girl finally notices the chaos, hears her father's desperate cries, and turns to seek him out.

It only lasted a second, that last vision of her daughter, but it has imprinted itself on her memory and burrowed deep into her soul; into the dark places she had refused to look since that night.

She sees a child, a perfectly human child on the edge of adulthood; self-absorbed and skeptical, arrogant and bold, uncompromising and uncompromised, impatient, unsatisfied, angry with the world that has been bequeathed to her and her generation by thoughtless, reckless adults… and determined to do something about it! She watched as her face forms into a scream… a terrifying rictus of understanding.

A brilliant flash of light breaks upon the night; flames balloon over the doomed crowd, forming a halo-like shroud of fire over their writhing silhouettes.

Then the deafening roar; the subsonic thrust of heat and fury, which knocks her to the ground. The sound explodes over the terrain. The echoes are swallowed by the night.

Then… nothing.

It's over.

Her daughter is gone.

A scream rises in the room, a horrified warbling sound of terror and pain. Sophia doesn't realize at first that it is her own voice. The tears have arrived; the ones she'd been fighting for two years.

"Nooooo! Nooooo!" she cries, her body rocking with long repressed loss and rage. "My baby! My baaaabyyyy!"

Zozo is suddenly there, scooping her up, hugging her and rocking her like a child.

"I'm here Soph! I'm here!" he cries, pulling her tightly against him. "I'm here, baby. Always. Always!"

There they lay, wrapped in each other's arms. Remembering and mourning their child together, at long last. Together.

And Darlene looks on. Curious and uncomprehending.

19

Hello, fellow humans, all ye gentle souls, raucous rebels and spirit warriors of the Orga revolution! Zozo is back in da zone! Your favorite neo-luddite has returned to the Humanist Brigade podcast! A-yo!

It's been a while, eh? But I been watching and I been thinking about ya. First off, I wanna thank Jerry Katz, Bob Harris, Dizzy Bobo, Lizzy Iapellio… hope I finally pronounced that right Liz…and all the rest of my magnificent associates, for keeping things going. Wopila tanka, guys. Immense. So… let's get to business.

As you can tell, I'm streaming from home today. Lazin in the abode. Haven't really gone anywhere in a while, just spending time with my wonderful wife, who is not here at the moment… I'm sure most of you already know the reason for my absence. But it has been a couple years, so just to refresh… umm, I've never spoken about this publicly, so give me a moment here…

Two years and a couple months ago, my beautiful daughter was killed in an explosion of an artificial which had been intentionally pushed into overdrive by some people who didn't want to see an indigenous territory established in Mexico. That old colonial mindset is still alive in some dark corners. They used one of those old mining sims built by a company that no longer exists. The damned things were already obsolete. Nobody used them anymore because they had a tendency to overheat when pushed past their rest cycle. And if you pushed 'em far enough… BOOM.

Anyway, those things are illegal now. And it was a pointless attack. A fucking meaningless attack. The territory was already established and as ya'll know it's already thriving. Only two years on and they've established their own economic system, legal framework, laws, trade relations… the gamut! And the people who did the attack? They're all stuck in a stasis for the rest of their lives.

So, what was the point? What was accomplished, besides killin people? My baby. My sweet girl. She was thirteen years old, man. A wonderful little brat. Full of promise. And all those other poor souls. They had dreams. They had goals. Families… What was the fucking point?

Ok, getting a little emotional here, but… We are our worst enemy. Right? We've always been our worst enemy. And on that topic of us being our worst enemy…I have to tread carefully here. There's a lot I can't say, a lot I agreed to not say, but…

My wife and I were recently involved in a program where we were exposed to some new technology. Like I said, I am not free to talk about what it is, I signed agreements. And you'll probably see what I'm talking about soon enough anyway … But I can say that it disturbed me…. Still does.

I've been labeled a luddite as a pejorative, as an insult. But people don't even know what that word means. I don't hate technology. I married a tech geek. She worked with a major Mecha manufacturer. We live in a smart-house. I'm streaming on a hyper-def pod. My daughter had smart toys and a Nanny. I drive a brand-new Turf Glider. It runs on water, you numbskulls. And we all know there's plenty of that around. So, my positions have never been as one dimensional as my astronomically simple-minded critics suggest by saying 'he just hates technology'.

And the Luddites didn't hate technology either. They hated how it was being used. Look it up. Do some reading, trolls. The Luddites were against the use of machines to exploit and replace humans. That's what it means to be a luddite. So, I wear that label proudly. Every human should be a luddite. Half our problems would be solved.

So, anyway, rant over… We opted out of the program. My wife and I. We decided it wasn't right for us… I can't really call it dangerous. It's kinda in a grey area, ya know. I can definitely see how some people would find it beneficial, but… I just think we might be crossing a line.

And I really miss my daughter. I miss hearing her giving me the what-for, setting me straight on things when she didn't know what the fuck she was talking about! Haha!… The things she might have accomplished. The world doesn't know what it missed out on.

Ok, I better quit before I start cryin'. It was good talking to ya'll again. The crew will continue handling the hard news for while, but I'll be dropping in from time to time with some old-fashioned luddite perspectives. Until then, stay human. Remember what Ms. Burch said:

"We are here to take care of ourselves, to take care of each other, to take care of our surroundings… Take care to care."

A-yo.

20

She watches the waves roll in to crash upon the beach and explode into white chaos. Gulls take flight. Laughing children flee. The waves expire and withdraw.

Then the gulls return. The children race back to play their games.

Life continues.

Echoes are never really lost.

She is sitting on a blanket, on the beach. Head propped on arms, propped on knees. And she is not alone. He is sitting close beside her; wearing a cap and sunglasses now. He's started streaming again and doesn't want to be recognized; doesn't feel like debating anyone.

"Do you remember her 'experiments' with the Nanny," Zozo says.

Sophia chuckles. "Poor thing," she says. "Dot wouldn't leave it alone."

"I always thought she was just being a little devil," he says. "But it was more than that wasn't it? She was testing the boundaries, wasn't she? She was always testing the boundaries."

"She was," Sophia agrees. "She sure enough tested mine."

Her tears are spent now, swallowed by the unceasing tide of life. But the pain is still there. Deep inside. Though, it's different somehow. It's metamorphosed into something smooth and shining…. like a sapphire in the back of her mind.

And she can live with that. She will live with that.

"How about that night at the Museum?" Zozo says. "The way she went off?"

Sophia laughs. "Oh God, yes," she says. "How could I forget? I was not prepared. Had no idea what to say."

"The way those kids hung on her every word," Zozo sighs. "Our girl could have led an army. I was so proud of her."

"Me too," she replies. "Always."

She can see the girl in her minds eye, standing on the beach, railing against the waves while the other children flee; throwing both her arms around the world… a world that didn't even know how much it needed this little girl.

"You ok, babe?" he says, when she falls silent.

She turns to face him, this man she still loves in spite of everything. He is all she has left. And all she really needs.

"Magnificent," she says.

End

(Lyrics referenced in this story are from: 'We Are Here' by Sharon Bursch, and 'Magnificent, She Says' by Elbow. Both of which inspired thematic elements of the story, and both of which you should hear.)