| |
The machines do not know me.
They don't see as I do, nor do they possess instinctive reasoning. I've been raised in the habitat since I was an infant, so I know. My earliest memories are of cold, unfeeling metallic bodies, gleaming gears, and silent, whirring parts. My sisters are like I am: human, fleshly. Alive. The machines bred us in laboratories for unknown purposes. They don't bother to tell us what that is.
The automatons are my parents, my caretakers, my teachers. They provide healthy food, adequate clothing, and protective shelter from the savage wilderness, deadly superstorms, and roving marauder bands that abduct and enslave the defenseless. In return, the machines control every aspect of my being.
They gave the name Michelle, but deep inside I have another name. A name I gave to myself, one they can't take away or control. I took a name to match my brown skin and thick, curly hair that speaks to me of the fiery sun and untamed beauty of the land of my genetic origins.
My name is Zina, and I am the first. Daughter of no one with a destiny of my choosing. The machines do not know Zina. I allow them to see what they wish, but I watch. And I wait. Patience is paramount because one mistake can end it all.
The other girls aren't as cognizant as I am. I don't know why I differ from them, but where I observe and calculate, they accept and submit. They depend on the machines for everything, so much that they're almost machines themselves. They fall into docile acceptance like the domestic animals we learn about in our history lessons, docile and compliant. I like to remind myself that those peaceful, domesticated beasts were slaughtered and eaten every day.
My daily schedule is one of monotonous routines: exercise, education, exercise, sleep. Lines of girls in navy and white uniforms march in unison, walk in single file lines and sit in square cubicles with holovisors on as synthetic humanoids instruct us in literacy, mathematics, and earth's catastrophic history.
Of all the instruction, it's history alone that captivates me. I'm fascinated by the world as it used to be before the Cataclysm shattered its foundations. I eagerly take in the crowds of differing faces, the glittering cities, the breathtaking landscapes of yesterday's world.
It's the tragedy that attracts me for some bizarre reason. From the holographic projection of my visor, I witness the abuse of power and fathomless greed that led to hundreds of millions slaughtered in wars and conflicts, and even more dying from poverty and famine. I witness the woeful ignorance as religious and political entities tried to force their will upon the people, resulting in slavery, genocide, and insurmountable divisions.
I find it hard to believe such an advanced society could not find the means to save themselves from their own obliteration. The Skygate Collapse may have destroyed the known world, but it was almost an act of mercy. The earth was already suffering the throes of global cancer, shuddering in a slow and painful demise which happened to be punctuated by a final desperate act that unleashed the gates of a swift and sudden destruction.
The Cataclysm.
Or so we're told. I have reason to doubt everything, every so-called fact, every command given. How can one trust a cold and impersonal machine? Some fashion themselves after adults, simdroids designed to imitate humans as if to supply some artificial familiarity to our lives. But there are only circuits firing within their chests, clicking cameras behind their eyes, and cold, artificial flesh covering their gleaming insides.
So I feign obedience, supply the automatons with a mask of compliance. I learned early on that bucking the status quo only results in more attention, more time strapped to the holovisors with endless streams of submission-inducing images flickering across my eyes. I mentally sleep during those times, eyes open but my mind far away in a daydream of running through tall grasses coated with freshly fallen dewdrops that sparkle like a million liquid crystals. The air is wet and I feel alive, free to run and breathe and laugh.
When the session ends, I have learned nothing except to be more careful in the future. Machines are pattern-based, and behavior is just another pattern to them. So long as my behavior falls under their accepted parameters, I have nothing to worry about. During the day, I fall into place, follow the established routine: exercise, education, exercise, sleep. I engage in mental games and physical challenges with the other girls. I give every indication that I'm submissive to the program.
But at night, my world comes alive.
I have skipped taking my sleeping pill for years. Swift sleight-of-hand while pretending to ingest the drug is enough to fool the simdroids. While the other girls drop off into comatose slumber, I practice expanding my senses. At first, I would listen with my eyes closed, acquainting myself with every whir and hum. I memorized the patterns of the machines, the paths they were programmed to follow. That was when I realized I could fool them.
Ten minutes after lights out, the Moths enter the barracks. They are slow, hovering machines that scan every bed, verifying each bunk has its registered occupant. After the first batch of Moths exit, there is a two-hour window before the next wave arrives. Plenty of time for one to explore if one is adventurous enough.
I pad on bare soles, enjoying the coolness of the slick tiles under my feet. I carefully stick to the blind spots of the numerous cameras that alert the Rovers to any unusual activity. It took me months of careful observation to negotiate the system, but my windows of freedom are worth every second of planning.
When I hear the metallic clicking of the Rovers, I climb atop a stack of supply boxes and lie as flat as I can. Gleaming spheres the size of ball bearings roll across the halls; hundreds of tiny metal orbs programmed to detect abnormal movement or intrusive activity. I wait until the last of them rounds the corner before I resume my haunt. I keep a silent, continuous countdown in my head to track how much time I have left.
I pause by a corner as a simdroid activates one of the hallway doors. When it enters, I run as fast as I can as the door slowly closes. I slide through at the last second, almost snagging my sleeve in the process.
The simdroid is only a few paces away, walking in its methodical manner. The matronly glide is almost human but too precise to be anything but synthetic. I freeze, holding my breath, but it never turns to look behind. It has no reason to, and because of that lack of human cognizance, it does not detect me.
After the simdroid turns the corner, I carefully avoid other scanbots, including the Roaches that check for disturbances as they skitter across the walls. I fold my body and cram into a towel closet until they pass. The click of tiny metal legs whisper across the walls around me, but because they aren't programmed to look inside the closet, I'm safe. I emerge after they crawl around to the next corridor. A quick, careful jog down the hall and through an exit door, and I'm free.
Of course, freedom isn't what it used to be.
The Yard is where we go for exercise under the roving eyes of our metallic guardians. But beyond the yard is another world. A world of massive vehicles, storage units, warehouses, and supply cartons—everything organized with digital precision. Everything perfectly arranged.
The only thing out of place is me.
I creep about with the same care as indoors. Vultures glide above, ever watchful for unauthorized activity. Swarms make periodic sweeps as well, flashing like lightning bugs. I have learned to avoid them all. After what seems to be an eternity, I make it to my destination.
The outside fence.
It's electrified, of course. And topped with coils of razor wire. And jealously guarded by roving lights and sensors. But there is a blind spot in the corner behind a large supply shed. The damp grass tickles my feet as I scamper over, silent as a ghost.
David waits for me. Humming links of high voltage steel separate our worlds. Our lives can connect only in that unsecured corner. It's our escape, our few minutes to enjoy the company of someone else who understands what it's like to be alive.
David is like me. Inquisitive as well as insubordinate. He learned to negotiate the security system of his side of the base as I have mine. It was by sheer chance that we happened to be outside at the same time. It took a while to be able to trust each other. But we have met nearly every night since then, two rebels bound by a common cause.
Freedom.
His skin is the color of tree bark, his eyes dark as strong tea. He hunches over like a large bird on his side of the fence, making himself as small as possible to avoid detection.
"Hey, Zina."
"Hey, David."
He looks behind as if expecting to be tracked. "I don't think we can talk for long. There's been a lot of new traffic around here."
I lean forward excitedly. David always knows more than I do. The boys are less secluded than the girls. More events happen on their side of the base, so they get to see and do more than we do.
"What kind of traffic?"
He shrugs. "Nothing too different. Just more movement. I saw some large transports come in yesterday." He looks at me with large eyes. "I think there's going to be another Purge."
My throat constricts at the ominous words.
Every so often some children are rounded up, loaded into waiting transports, and shuttled away. No one tells us where they're going or what awaits them. It's the most exciting and at the same time, the most frightening event that occurs in my life of scheduled occurrences. The Purge is the only incident that appears to have no timetable. It just happens, stirring up fear and unspoken menace of a fate no one can explain.
The unknown.