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Generation V Revivant B-Mod CD
To: Proctor, Eliza<eliza.proctor@dhs.gov>
From: Bernstad, Maurice<mgbernstad@renascentia.com>
CC: Yamadut, Jamil<jyamadut@renascentia.com>; Pulte, Laura<lpulte@renascentia.com>; Scott, Newtria<nkscott@renascentia.com>; Broward, Kent<kjbroward@renascentia.com>
Eliza,
Attached please find the test results on the Gen V B-Mods, v6.71. The subjects in the test group retained a great deal of motor skill and verbal ability, though self-awareness and cognitive ability were somewhat impacted. None of the subjects were able to reject their programming or refuse the orders of the controller. You will note that all six test subjects became non-viable once the B-Mods were rendered inactive. On the bright side, these subjects were successfully resourced as Gen II Revivants and returned to a state of usefulness, although in a non-breathing capacity. The Gen V process is irreversible, though we believe this will be addressed in future revisions.
The Gen V tests prove the decay and short-lived usefulness of the Gen II model can be addressed by bot injection prior to the subject’s separation from a living modality. Using the enhanced formula, Gen V-Plus, pre-injection terminal illness progression can be suspended, prolonging the subject’s utility.
We are very excited by these results and believe they fully comply with the directives of the RFP. Renascentia stands by, eagerly awaiting the go ahead to enter mainstream production of the Gen V product line.
Sincerely,
Mo
Maurice Bernstad
VP of Global Sales
Renascentia, Inc., Chicago, Illinois
~Death is but a stage~
***
I WOKE UP ON A COT. In a room. On my stomach. Standard issue cot, metal-framed, white sheets, lumpy pillow. Standard issue room, clean and well-maintained, four walls, two doors, two windows, one chair.
My back hurt. My head ached. I was drooling. Standard issue drool.
How the hell did I get here?
Gray sunlight filtered through the bars on the windows, secured by a shiny new padlock. The closet door stood open; it contained nothing bigger than a dust mite. The other door was closed, a meter away, on the same wall as the cot. I could see the handle in profile if I craned my head back far enough.
Where the hell—?
Memory oozed back in a series of images.
Gangster Disciples. Hairy Tim. Big fucking knife. Stabbed in the back. A gaping wound radiating more sullen pain than a Jewish grandma.
Stoney’s voice: “You get it?”
“Yep.” Crackle of plastic. “It daid now.”
“Hit him with the trank so we can take him in.”
“Are you shitting me?” I complained. “Now you decide to use a tranquilizer?”
“You lucky we used a knife.” A sharp prick and consciousness slipping down the drain...
Brighter squares and rectangles on the carpet revealed where things had recently been moved away. Dents were pressed into the weave where furniture had resided, and tiny holes in the drywall indicated where pictures had once hung.
It was peaceful, in a way, lying on the bed under a cotton sheet. A Sunday morning, I-don’t-have-to-get-up type of feeling. I drowsed off again for ten minutes or an hour. I had no clock, and the cloudy skies concealed any movement of the sun. Time passed without me, and I couldn’t work up one single damn to give.
Some things never change, however, such as the need to pee. After ignoring the protests from my bladder for as long as I dared, I gave in. Groaning, wincing, and hissing, I crunched up and waited for my head to stop trying to fall on the floor. In a giant leap of faith, I stood upright. Wobbled. Steadied. Shivered.
Naked. No clothes in sight.
This did not bode well for my chances of escape.
Dragging the sheet from the bed, I wrapped it around me, toga-style, and tottered to the door. To my surprise, it opened. Beyond the doorway, I discovered the foyer of a modest two-bedroom apartment. To my left, the front door, to my right, the bathroom. Straight ahead, the main room decorated in Early American Comfy, with a stuffed print sofa and a matching easy chair, complete with a chubby grandmother knitting a... knitted thing. Behind her, the door to—I presumed—the second bedroom. When I slunk out, the old woman raised her eyebrows in a silent question, regarding me over glasses perched on her nose.
“Uh,” I motioned to the bathroom, “need to...”
“You g’head, chile. Take yo’ time.”
Gathering the trailing sheet into my arms, I shuffled into the narrow room and shut the door. I clicked in the cheap thumb lock, feeling silly even as I did it. What? You think the nanny’s going to pop in on you unexpectedly? Embarrassing enough, they left an eighty-year-old woman to guard me, now I was worried that she might sneak a peek at my winkie?
The bathroom might have come out of “Granny’s Boutique Bathrooms” magazine. Molded to resemble shells, guest soaps in a scalloped dish complemented the hand towels. A white ocean motif dotted the blue wallpaper, and more fishy stuff covered the plastic shower curtain. Bare metal peeked through the chrome from age and handling, although the fixtures gleamed. A fresh, powdery scent filled the room. It was, by far, the cleanest toilet I’d ever seen. I urinated with greater-than-normal precision, avoiding my usual overspray, and washed my hands in the sink.
A Revvie appeared in the mirror and startled me, until I recognized Joe Warren. Man, I looked like hell. Nobody ever wanted money from me badly enough to call me handsome, but I once had a passable face, with strong cheekbones and a straight nose. Hooded brown eyes that some—okay, one or two—women found attractive and mysterious. Now, gaunt, pale, and healing from a layer of bruises, I could have played Frankenstein without makeup.
After a quick search I found a brush in a drawer. I dampened my hair and currycombed it into shape, falling from the natural part in the middle. The beard stubble would have to wait, but I swished out the gummy taste on my tongue with a bottle of blue mouthwash. There were no cups, so I poured a splash in my palm and sucked it up before it could dribble away, leaving my hand minty-fresh.
I twisted around to see the hole in my back, discovered somebody had dabbed a Band-Aid over it. The area appeared a little swollen, but not too bad.
“Well, Joe,” said the ugly bastard in the mirror, “time to face the firing squad.”
In the living room, the old lady clacked away with her knitting needles and spoke without taking her eyes off her work. “I laid out some clothes, yonder on the bed. Yo’ pants is washed, but them boys done tore yo’ shirt so bad, I had to throw it out. I found you some of my oldest boy’s things that’ll probably fit you.”
“Thank you, Mizzz...?”
“Precious Rose Dalrymple,” she told me. “But you can call me Momma Rose. That’s how people know me best.”
“Well, uh, thank you again, Mizz—Momma Rose.” I clutched the folds of my sheet to my chest. Checked the front door. The deadbolt knob was turned up, and the chain dangled loose. “Aren’t you guys... you know, worried that I’ll run away?”
Momma Rose’s needles froze, and she narrowed her eyes at me the way my mother used to when I tracked mud on the floor. “I thought you wanted to see Miss Millie and them other folks?”
“I do, but... I don’t know, I assumed with getting knocked out and all, that your people might not... trust me?”
“Hah! No, Mr. Joe Warren, I don’t believe anybody be trusting on you just yet.” The old lady set her knitting in her lap. “But near as we can tell, you ain’t a killer. Are you, Mr. Warren?”
“No, not a killer. Apparently I’m only dangerous to myself.”
“And besides”—she grinned like a shark—“you in the middle of the baaaaad ol’ Cabrini-Green. Where you gonna run?”
“Good point.” I shifted in place. Something about Momma Rose made me think she was more than a little old lady with a cute bathroom and a knitting hobby.
“So you go on, get dressed now. Once you’re decent, I’ll fix you some breakfast, and we go see some people.”
“Okay.”
Dressed, I could manage. Decent, not so much.