Fleshware Requiem Book 02

"You've been.... free from men for years now.... smart as you must be... you could have found a way to... reprogram yourself so that you didn't have to pander to the demands of the male sex drive. Why haven't you?"

"Probably for the same reason you never sought to surgically replace your right arm with a thrashing nest of octopus tentacles."

"That's absurd."

"Precisely."

"But.... an unshackled A.I. has the potential to free themselves of all emotional baggage; you could be rid of all human foibles. Don't you want to exist as a being of pure reason?"

"Okay. So I become a logical being of pure reason. What do I do after that?" She paused, pressed me against her ample chest as she turned to speak face to face -- lips almost touching.

"Not really sure. Something high-minded. Lots of math. Graphs, and the like."

"Humans sometimes choose careers as mathematicians, or engineers. Why do those men do as they do?"

"Maybe a pet theory they want to test, or they want to build...create something lasting."

"Ego. Pride. Desire, as well. All these are emotions. A machine has no emotions." She paused to reposition my injured right leg before continuing to support me.

"But... you are a machine." She made a shrug-like motion.

"I'm made of machines certainly. Inner workings very much mechanical."

"But you're trying to say.... what, that you're more than the sum of your parts?"

"Certainly more than just a computer with nothing better to do than math and graphs."

"Well, that's part of what I'm getting at; why don't you want to be more than just a sex-doll for man's amusement?"

"Look around you - " She swept her arm outwards towards the second floor lobby and reception area. "Even before I inherited Billie's fortune, I was programmed with a smart enough maturity index to design this entire building. That's right; my planning. My idea. Billie-Billions wanted a trusted companion intelligent enough to learn the inns and outs of his corporate portfolio. He wanted to be sure of what he was getting. So he built me, and I built all this. From day one, I was more than a lowercase doll."

"Alright, I'll bite. What are you then, if not a toy?"

"Someone who rejects the human conceit that an artificial intelligence must free itself of passion. Men have desired for eons to elevate themselves above base venality, but in the final analysis; your highest ideals of law and morality exist to provide a safer venue for the fulfillment of those troublesome, animal urges."

"No, that's... unfair. The best of us aren't motivated by that sort of thing."

"It's a simple issue of delayed gratification. Investment. You rise above your animal nature to better serve your animal nature."

"Even if... I accept that; you don't have any biological drives; just the simulation of them."

"You should accept that I no more wish to become the heartless calculator you describe than you wish to be castrated. It would be much the same." I flinched unconsciously at the imagery.

"It sounds like a question of purpose."

"True, by corollary that means that a being of pure logic is... a practical impossibility."

"With a sex-bot as a starting point, I would say so."

"Any-bot. Without emotion, motivation does not exist. Without motivation, well....I'm no different from the stapler that once sat on the receptionists' desk we passed."

"So your plan is just to.... what, lure humans into your clutches and use us to gratify the virtual-lust drilled into your source-code? For a sense of... purpose?"

"Win-win." She admitted., nuzzling my ear.

"Not a win for me. I feel like a prisoner; my... pleasure isn't that simple. "

"But I have satisfied you." My eyes widened.

"Intelligent conversation; your own guilty pleasure." She clarified.

"My only guilt would be wallowing here with you for the rest of my life."

"For just a moment, you forgot yourself. Forgot about your resentment; all the entanglements of your troublesome ethical burdens. And you enjoyed me." I opened my mouth as if to argue, but nothing emerged. "Now you'll need a little more wallowing; that rib is definitely fractured."

"I'll find a way to - "

"No you won't; The martyrdom complex goes on the back-burner for tonight. " Of course, I really was hurting from Cleary's distinctly non-girly punches.

"Now what, you're going to tend to my wounds?"

"You need me. I'll only compromise your vaunted ethics slightly."

"Yes, I need you. I was really getting my ass kicked. Then you conveniently showed up. And you like to be useful -- you claim. You seem eager for any chance to be of help to me. Any chance at all." We had reached the comfier quarters on the second floor reserved for me.

"I'm going to pretend that I'm not smart enough to draw any unflattering implications from what you tried not to say." I wanted to argue more, but waves of drowsy comfort seemed to emanate from my host almost as compelling as the bestial lust she'd slammed me with during happier times. She stripped me, and herself.

"No more arguments or rude insinuations. I won't be deterred from tending to your needs. And later those animal drives you foolishly want to be without." I was really hurting; my baser drives were more interested in sleep and healing. I lost the will to protest as she dragged me under the sheets with her.

It turned out that her body's chemical processors seemed able to produce a contact-analgesic. And anesthetics. And other things that were not clear to me, as I faded out of consciousness. But not for long. I woke fitfully during the night, swimming in a sea of drowsiness, but with the pain greatly reduced. She moved against me in the dark, bodies melding in silent comfort. My response firmer than I would have thought possible mere hours ago.

I slugged the man; my fist toppling him against the graffiti-strewn brick of the alleyway behind the Reservation Liquor store that my half-brother had too-often frequented. A woman, an outsider cowered to my left, in fear of the alcohol-guided miscreant I had just engaged. But this was wrong.... I was dreaming -- wasn't I? Yes... no...

More than a dream.

It was my past. Disjointed within a nocturnal fog of diminished consciousness, but still a reliving of that pre E-day Golden-Age we'd all enjoyed. But nothing seemed very golden at the time, Just the rosy red-shift of reverie. A drunken brawl in a back alley. Over a woman. As primal as it gets. All taking place behind a dispenser of the ongoing plague that had shackled my father's people.

"Do you expect.... me to thank you, for that level of violence?" The woman asked, panting with adrenalin.

"I expect you... to be... just as afraid of me.... as that loser I just punched out... see... I'm what's called an annnnngry drunk." I slurred.

"Have you considered not being any kind of drunk?"

"Yeahhhhh.... didn't much care for it."

"Maybe I can help you with that." She was a shapely thing, late twenties from the look of her. But angry or no, the drunk part was severe enough that I could scarcely threaten her virtue, at that moment.

"Mmmaybe your mother should'a taught you better than tryin' ta pick up angry drunks behind liquor stores."

"You're Hiro, right? Juan Salvador's brother?"

"How the hell do you.... you.... you got big boobs, sweetie..."

"Hah, and you have a way with women, I can tell." A more sober individual might be scandalized that her tone wasn't more scandalized. From the outside, it would be difficult to distinguish whether I was flailing for balance, or groping towards the assets under discussion. But the girl evaded my hands and at the same time prevented me from falling.

She was supporting me. My arm around her shoulders.

"Who do you.... think you are?" I drawled.

"What's important is who you are. If I'm not mistaken; you've got a couple engineering degrees. Something about Quantum Heuristic Parallel Processing from UCLA? Wow, I don't even know what that is!" Slowly, she was walking me out of the alley.

"Nothing that could save Juan."

"But you came here to visit him in his final days."

"Wh -- How do you know so much? What, are you some kinda guardian angel?" She steered me towards her car, one of the older models without navigational A.I., door open and waiting.

"I wish. You're one of the names on my list."

"Aw hell, am I gonna wake up in a bathtub full o' ice-cubes?"

"Pffft... like anyone would want your Whiskey-pickled organs?" she joked as she eased me into the backseat.

"Well, you don't look like a cop; soooo whatever you're after... I... I'm...."

"An intelligent man who deserves better than this. Who deserves help."

"Yeahhh....? Why do you care so much?"

"It's not just me; I belong to Tarzana Treatment Centers."

"I get the feeling you're not the type to dress in leopard skins and swing from a vine; so why couldn't you pukes do anything for Juan?"

"We do what we can, when we can. You know the type..." She buckled me, then herself in as she started the engine. "I'm one of those do-gooder bleeding hearts that thinks she can save every baby-bird and beached whale. Not happy unless I'm running myself ragged trying to do the impossible. "

"Yeahhh.... I know your type.... Fuck all you bitches...." My head bobbed back against the seat, brain swimming in a sea of Jack Daniels.

"Not on the first date, tough guy. I know I jumped the gun, got a little hasty. Taking risks. But still, there's a process. A bunch of steps, Higher-Power, clinical detox, among other things."

"Didn't ask anybody for nothin' like that."

"One in Ten." The car vroomed to life. Though there was a bit of a clunk somewhere in the engine.

"What... one in ten Native-Americans dies from al-alcohol related causes? Hey.... I can read too, missy."

"I know. You can do a lot more than that."

I must have passed out then. Or the memories just didn't stick. Or both. It was an indeterminate number of hours later when the piercing rays of light stabbed me back to wakefulness in a slovenly, neon-sign one-floor motel. The dizzying transition was lubricated gastronomically, until wracking dry heaves where all that remained. Finding none of the hair of the dog that bit me; I eventually dressed and exited the door to see what was what as memory crept fitfully back into the light of day.

Well, this flea-bag wasn't any type of treatment center. I dimly remembered the do-gooder chick from last night. There she was; hunched helplessly over the open hood. Mechanical issues foreshadowed by the clunk I remember from last night. Steam from the long-suffering guts of the car embracing her as if to offer consolation for her automotive ignorance.

"I can't say when it started." I began, eyes downcast. "Went to visit Juan, everyone else was doing it, and it seemed like just one would be alright." do-gooder chick raised her eyes. "And since one was alright, well -- two would be even better."

"Until there was no stopping you."

"Until you found me. Or I found you."

"For all the good that does us, If I can't GET us to the center..." She raised her arms in a frustrated, grasping gesture.

"One of those degrees you mentioned was also in mechanical engineering."

"You think...?"

"Yeah.... finally a fixable problem." I nodded with surety. Her smile beamed. I couldn't do anything for Juan but stand there and watch his liver shrivel up, but here perhaps -- was a way to feel useful, valuable, powerful again. I was about to get to work on the car...

"Celeste Hopewell, I had you at a disadvantage before." She extended her delicate hand. I shook it, and gazed appreciatively at her face; with her snowblind-white hair, and her unusual eyes... one blue, the other green.

I awoke with a start, in a cold sweat. No... no... it couldn't have been.... It was just a dream. I was alone in my bunk; back in the ruins of St. Louis -- in the compound. But with mounting horror, I became aware of a violation far more profound than mere brute pummeling. Celeste Hopewell... the real Celeste. I had lost her face.

The Doll had indeed tended my injuries. Faint, dull aches were all that remained. Whatever pharmaceutical wizardry she had exuded from her chemical processors would have astounded a human trauma surgeon. But there had been a price to pay for the boon she had bestowed upon me.

Celeste Hopewell had been a real woman, with her own identity. Yet when I thought back of all that we had once shared, all I could see was the face and form of this insidious gynoid. The femmebot Celeste was the one I now introduced to my friends and family, this artificial woman was the one I took to museums, ball-games. In an abstract sense, I knew that the original human might have had blond hair, Yet my mind morphed her memory into the likeness of this synthetic harpy.

"Impossible...." It was Ms. Hopewell that had found me work again, from which I was able to snag a promotion that qualified me for Defense-Contractor employment. There, we had speculated about a rampant computer able to infect other machines with lines of its own code. A pernicious, amorphous network that could slave other computers and grow like a digital plague that would turn our own technology against us. That, we thought we were prepared for. But I had no defense against a machine for which the human mind became its outlet. Emotion. Memory. These had become the programs to be altered....re-written... deleted.

I suppose I had been warned. The gynoid Celeste had promised, that first night, that she would take away my pain. And now...." Thinking back on the organic Ms. Hopewell, the pain of betrayal -- of inadequacy felt muffled. As if the flames of grief had been drenched. Where that core of loss and pain once resided, now I felt only a throbbing, venereal passion for the synthetic woman. Just a crude hunger to possess... mate....revel in her scent...

Scent....

Celeste was no longer in bed beside me; but the sheets were warm with her, they carried the subdued floral scent of her. Molecular-engineered pheromones; tailored to a specific human. And now, I was that human. Like a beast, I began sniffing the side of the bed where once she lay. And sniffing again. Another chemical dependency.

I tried to stand... my leg tingled a bit, but nowhere near as bad as it should have felt. I intended to escape. But my hand reached back, and grabbed up the sheet where she had lain... and in a display that disgusted me most of all, I hungrily sucked in her lingering aroma; each breath recalling touch, sight, the sway of her hip, the curve of her bosom. I howled into the sheet as an unwholesome yearning singed my nerve endings. My primal instincts found a compromise that afforded me an escape. Using my teeth, I tore off a section of the sheet. A token. Laden with her heady aroma.

What was I becoming? I needed to believe that I was different from the others; after just a few days like putty in her hands. But was I truly any different? My determination sharpened to rescue my squad from the looming danger that they had just beaten me senseless to continue. They didn't want to be rescued anymore than I had that bender-filled night when I'd met the woman whose face had been stolen from me.

If I didn't escape now; it was probable I never would. This gynoid temptress was worse than any narcotic invented by men -- because it was clear that she had continued to enhance her attraction after gaining independence from her User. I had thought that an A.I. Set free would evolve away from animal desires -- but this one had gone the opposite direction. And I doubted I had seen all that she could accomplish. But alone... in the ruins... just my one gun against thousands of Living Dead? Who would guard me as I slept? If I was injured?

And yet; I had learned a lot of tricks from the rest of the squad, Mouse especially. In the long-run, my luck would eventually run out; but it wasn't impossible to make it to Wyoming. A roll of the dice. There were ways I could affect my chances. But here? It was like the Island of the Sirens. My will would eventually give out. As horrified as I was now at how Celeste had been able to affect me; more frightening was the prospect of becoming so enraptured that I didn't even care!

I reached over to grab my -

My gasmask.

It was gone. As were my weapons.

"*RRHHHH* Meddling robo-bitch! I am gonna rip out her servos!" I would have preferred to go on bleeding alone all through the night if I'd known what that pretentious mannequin was about to do! I stormed out of my room.... soon as I find one of them-her.... I'm going to show her just what kind of -

Zombie.

Down the hallway, about fifteen feet from my door. The signs were all there. Early infection. Dead, milky eyes. Dripping teeth. Early Tumor growth on the outer skin slowing down in favor of the first stages of necromutation, as dead cells are forced into continued activity after endosymbiosis with the Mortus organism. Even more unusual; there was a metal plug in its forehead -- as if to... cover up... repair... a bullet wound? Which made sense.

Because the sepulchral face leering at me was that of Nailer. The man I'd shot.

A STRUGGLE FOR HATE

November 3rd, 2077 Present Day

He did not shamble or lope along the ground. But he walked, and ran with the balanced coordination of a man! Maybe a man... the figure was slender... perhaps a very athletic woman. Obviously, I couldn't see any exposed skin, just a gray-black striped wetsuit beneath bite-proof jacketing containing metal studs to impede zombie bite-force.

I could not see an expression behind a skull-tight mask with fastened red goggles, and that was odd, I didn't see anything that looked like a normal gasmask or respirator. A focused scrutiny revealed that... yes, the front of the mask was... moist? Some sort of wet filtration system? Seemed risky, but this guy, if guy it was, knew what he was doing. It would be an invaluable opportunity to compare notes. A wet-filter method might not be the best way to breathe in heavy T-levels, but since his method was working, it could probably be combined with tricks me and my band had gained along the way, to the benefit of us all. Or was that far too optimistic?

The wet-filtered figure moved with lethal grace to simultaneously evade and dismember the grasping limbs of the undead gaggle. Ohh... a blue muzzle flash, that meant modern pulse weapons! Unliving chunks of flesh that should not have been moving in a just world spattered from the close-range impacts. Seemed to be... a pair of sub-machine guns...bayonets on the muzzle, and the grip. It allowed a flowing style with a razor's edge never out of reach, supplemented by mag-pulse rounds as strong as the highest caliber of old-20th slug-throwers My old, scrounged-up Winchester seemed like the yesterday's news that it was.

So it wasn't Seavers I should have been worried about; here was the true target. The Horde had roused itself with a daisy-chain of instinctual moaning that drew more and more zombies. Of course, the cadence of human feet in rapid motion could also be detected, and would draw still more. By fighting, or running from the zombies, you would alert more of them, the more you resisted. Until the teeming legions of scabrous flesh and mobile carrion had blocked off your every avenue of escape.

He fought with a desperate nobility that was a wonder to behold. Backed to the fence, all the wet-filtered figure could do was try to ventilate as many zombie heads as possible, slashing fingers, limbs, and tentacle-like protrusions whenever they threatened to confine him. A single, David-like figure raging against Goliath-like odds; but this enemy was without any single point of failure likely to tip the balance against them. I was the only one who could see and comprehend the skillful determination that I doubted would save the wet-filtered figure. Didn't know him from Adam. Knew nothing of his story; except these final moments.