October 6, 2390, Day 82.
James doesn’t rise until long hours have passed. Shuffling comes from the living room. Then clacking on the keyboard. He hasn’t come to any definitive conclusions about Kate or a potential source of income. A sense of bitterness at his rotten luck creeps in, but he’s never liked the taste of that emotion. It serves no purpose. Especially when one has such a monumental task ahead.
Still, to come so far, to have worked so hard, for the sense of entitlement to have buried itself so deep in his psyche that a part of him wants to cling to the past . . . How does a man cope with the newsthat he’d finally hit the billionaire milestone he’d been chasing since his youth, only to die in such an unexpected and tragic way? For it to all be for nothing. He rubs at his temples. There’s no point wasting time going down that road. Despite the complete lack of control he feels, he needs to take action.
Overnight, he realized he has a lot to come to terms with. Yet, in the fresh hours of the morning, if he considers his situation objectively, which plays to his strengths, he can see that he’s gotten a second chance for a new, more challenging rite of passage. That is how he will think of it. Eventually, he’ll feel some semblance of control. He only needs to find a path, make a plan, then follow the steps. He’s done this dozens of times before. Sure, the process isn’t foolproof, but few people are more experienced at brokering difficult deals than James. He will simply put those skills he learned in all his years of business into effect.
After relieving himself and freshening up in the compact bathroom, he emerges with a sense of determination. Kate sits at the computer desk wearing the same black superhero catsuit as she did the day before. She’s opening and deleting what look like emails on one screen. On another, a browser displays the list of headlines. A third shows some type of survey. The fourth, an email with a subject that reads:
URGENT: GROW SURVEY NOTICE.
James’s heart skips a beat. That means him. This can’t be good. “What is that?” He gestures to the offending email.
“It seems the manufacturer knows there’s been an issue with the latest production sequence.” Kate doesn’t so much as glance at him as her fingers dance over the keyboard.
He searches for the cursor, finding it on the survey. Words quickly form.Unit seems to have embedded memories from man named James Alexander Fletcher, year born 2000.
He scans the form. Above her damning answer, she’s checked Yesto the question “Has your GROW exhibited any unexpected behavior?”
Yes to the question“Do you have any reason to believe your GROW is faulty?”
Her emerging paragraph responds to“If yes, please explain.”
There isn’t a clicker and he can’t see how she’s moving the cursor around. He pokes at the screen, but his fingers go through the image without effect. At least the keyboard is familiar enough to recognize the enter and backspace keys.
“Make the cursor move to the last question,” he commands.
She does, and he watches to see how she’s controlling it. The cursor moves, but she hasn’t.
“What the—?”
She lifts a sheet of hair to show him the space behind her ear. A small metal disk is embedded into her skull, almost flush with her skin and almost the same pale golden-brown. “It’s a neuroelectric communications device called an m-volt synaptic transistor. It connects to my device, too. For work, I like the tactile sensation of typing on a keyboard. Helps me think.”
Thank God for that. If it weren’t for the keyboard, he’d have no chance at controlling her computer. At this rate, he might as well addoperating computersto his growing list of challenges. He reaches down, pressing the backspace key until her sentence disappears.
“Next one,” he directs.
“But—” she protests.
“Just playalong.”
He gets her to checkNoon all the boxes and delete the damning text. When they’ve reached the bottom of the survey, he taps the enter key, hoping it suffices to submit the survey before she can intervene.
“Wait!” she cries, but it seems to have worked. A new window pops up and a red light on the bar of the center monitor lights up. She groans. “Please move. I have to do the retina scan.” When the scan is complete, an image of Kate appears on the screen with a green checkbox beside it, then disappears. She turns to him. “Why did you do that? Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get into for reporting false information?”
He shakes his head, trying not to be agitated by her lack of consideration. “What would they do with me if they found out I retained the identity of the DNA used to formulate your . . .” He hesitates, mouth puckering with disgust as the word tumbles from his mouth. “Manupartner?”
“They would probably have me bring you to the GROW facility.”
“Why?” He wants her to come to the realization on her own.
Her pretty face blanches.
“Would they let me live?” he presses.
“I . . . I . . .” Now Kate is the one with words lodging in her throat. “I suppose they would want to study you to see what went wrong.”
“Then what? When they were done inspecting me for faulty wiring, what would they do with me?”
