Monthly Archives: October 2017


If there was one consistent nightmare to my childhood, it was this: Legends of the Eastern Coast, page 12, plate 2. The Wreckers. I can’t tell you what horrors that etching awoke in my young soul, those vile people with their sneering grins and makeshift weapons. They didn’t wear buccaneer finery, didn’t fly the jolly roger or drink rum. They were land pirates, my grandfather explained to me, a thousand times more terrible than any scurvy dog I had come to know. He would dissect the scene for me, sickle-moon fingernail hovering on each crucial point of the illustration. Here is the signal fire they lit in mimic of a lighthouse. Here was the cargo that drifted to shore once the ship ran aground on the shoal. Here were the living crewmen, being set upon by countless devil-tongued hounds. Here were the wreckers coming with wicked knives and clubs towards the survivors—

I lived in terror of them. I had never even been in a boat or visited the east coast, yet they awakened some kind of ancestral fear in me. There was something so unusually cruel in them that struck me, even as a child. I imagined myself on one of those boats, seeing the friendly signal of a fire only to wind up sinking. Lighting out, terrified, for the shore and the arms of my fellow man, only to be beaten and stabbed for what was in my boat. It could be hay. It could be a weary head of soldiers back from some military action, worthless as cargo. What then?

My mother finally saw to it that the book wound up on one of his higher shelves. If I stood on his stepladder, I could graze the spine with my fingertips but I could not pull it from the shelf. It could not get to me.

I grew up and married. Traveling along the highway one night, my man at the wheel, I sat in the back with the safety belt buckled around my swelling belly. Our child. My cargo.

My husband leaned forward and squinted out the windshield. “Someone’s had an accident.”

Four words I will never be able to forget.

I pulled myself up so I could look over the seat. Far ahead, I could see the red gleam of road flares. The silhouettes of people did frantic jumping-jacks while lit from behind with that hellish glare. It woke something in me.

“Keep going,” I murmured to him. “You can’t help.”

“Nonsense. I think I’ve got my kit back there.” He was rummaging on the seat beside him, that loving fool. “And there’s that trail blanket.”

I don’t know if we hit something, or if something hit us. I know the car flipped over, because I woke with the seatbelt pinning me in place. I had been crying before I woke up.

I screamed my husband’s name. He, too tall to wear the shoulder belt comfortably, was in a heap in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t moving.

“Hello? Is there anyone?”

Talking was difficult. “Yes, we’re here! My husband— he’s—”

The driver’s-side door groaned open. The beam of a flashlight stabbed my eyes, made me turn away.

“You alive in there?”

“Yes! My husband—”

He groaned in his heap.

“Get him!” I sobbed with relief. “Get him out, he needs medical attention.”

“Now just hold on, little lady.” The man’s voice was slow and drawled and in no hurry at all. “We’ll get him out, then we’ll come for you, all right?”

“Yes, good, fine, just get him.” I squinted, but I couldn’t see beyond that bright light. Someone grabbed my husband under his arms and pulled him slowly from the car. The light did not move.

I don’t know how long I sat there, blood running to my head, light blinding me, but the quiet let me think. Had I heard sirens? I didn’t remember. How much time had elapsed since we’d crashed?

…why had we crashed?

I started hyperventilating.

There were no swirling red and blue lights, no radio cracks from a squad car. I was visibly pregnant. Why weren’t they more concerned about me? The way they’d hauled my husband from the car seemed more likely to injure him further.

I could hear subdued conversation from somewhere outside the car. I could feel my child within me stir as if he, too, was full of fear.

The back hatch creaked open, spilling our cooler and picnic blanket and a million other little things I had yet to clean out of it. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

“Little lady, you still in there?”

My face felt inflated. My vision began to tunnel.

After a long silence I heard them rooting through the pile of our things. Murmured snatches of conversation: “….that ain’t…less than….don’t even…”

“But the car’s nice!” Someone burst out shouting, only to immediately be shushed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and let my body dangle. Let me be dead, let me be a worthless corpse.

Headlights flooded the car interior. From behind. An engine idled. I could hear the soft murmur of one of those men, a lilting tone that soothed like a lullaby, as he tried to keep the driver from getting out.

“You’re all alright here?” Someone called over.

I screamed. They scattered. Maybe the driver had a gun. Maybe they weren’t ready to put up with even slight resistance. But when the real emergency crews came they only found two cars, mine and my savior’s, with my husband stabbed quietly to death on the pavement not far from us. No lights, no other cars. Just the stubs of the road flares guttered down like the embers of a signal fire on some distant beach.


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Archie Smith, Boy Wonder

From The Mysteries of Harris Burdick

A tiny voice asked, “Is he the one?”

The two spheres of light throbbed in sympathy. Archie slept on as he always did: still and quiet in a sleep-fortress as dense as a neutron star.

“It is he, truly he. After so long, the boy of great destiny.”

Archie did not stir, did not wake with eyelids fluttering to exclaim at the sight of two stray stars in his room. He dreamed of ships in cold water. He dreamed of eternal July and endless ball games. His dreams were as flat and thinly etched as the wallpaper in the hallway, never changing, never varying.


The next morning Archie ate a square meal and trotted off to school. He was neither late nor early. As he walked, he tossed a ball that hit the sides of the buildings he passed. Ka-thunk. The greengrocer’s. Ka-thunk. The hardware store. Ka-thunk. The boutique.

A sudden light caught his eye. It was light very much like the first stab of sun over the horizon, only it stayed, circling around Archie’s head.

“Archie,” it whispered.

He grunted.

“Archie,” the sphere said, “be not afraid. You are a boy of great destiny.”

Archie said, “okay,” and kept on with his ball. Ka-thunk.

“It may seem a terrible weight at first, but you must be brave. The whole world is counting on you.”

“Yeah,” Archie said, “no thanks.”

The sphere bobbed along as if caught in an eddy. “No thanks?”

“I don’t want no destiny.” Archie swiped at his nose with a crusty sleeve. “Go ahead and take it somewhere else.”

The sphere whizzed to a point very near his face. “I don’t understand. You’re refusing destiny?”


“You can’t!”

“Why not?”

“It’s—it’s destiny!”

Archie underhanded the ball, bouncing it off the front of the florist and rattling the big bay window. “Never asked for it, don’t want it, won’t take it.”

“You don’t want to do great things?”


“You don’t want to see things no one else has seen? Go places no one else has traveled? Reach beyond the unknown to grasp your fate?”

“Eh.” Archie shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Tinting to a disturbed shade of yellow, the sphere sped off.

Archie shook his head and sighed.


“Schneider, Marcus?”


“Smith, Archibald?”

“Here,” Archie said without looking up from his exercise book. The margins were clean and un-doodled. He wrote down some last-minute problems as the teacher rounded out the roll call. A stray bit of light caught his eye. Was it the sun reflected off Teddy Crandall’s wristwatch? No, the sphere was back again.

“I must apologize for being so short with you earlier,” it said in a voice only he could hear, “I have been away from mortals so long I cannot remember all the old niceties. You were in shock this morning, unable to accept the call.”

Archie shook his head.

“Fear, then. Panic.”

“I’m not afraid,” Archie whispered, “I just don’t want any part of it.”

“Archie, were you saying something?” The teacher paused in the middle of an equation.

Archie shook his head. With one hand he took up his trusty ticonderoga pencil and scribbled out: I don’t want any destiny.

“But Archie, it’s not all responsibility and judgement. There are nicer aspects to it. You’ll be able to live more than any other child in your grade, or even the whole country.”

I live enough already, thanks.

“Think of it Archie, you may never find total fulfillment if you don’t answer the call. Imagine if you realize, many years down the line, what you have missed out on by declining.”

I can think of worse things.

“You don’t have any adventure in your spirit? No thirst for exploration?”

I get enough of that in comic books.

The sphere pulsed. “I see. I must think on this. I will return another time.”

While collecting fraction worksheets, the teacher spotted the writing on his scratch paper with a frown.

“Poetry,” Archie said.


Archie said goodbye to Billy and Teddy and Mark and Jim and walked home, baseball in his hand, coat pulled snugly around him. He resumed his game of tossing the ball, ka-thunk, into the side of every building he passed. The mullioned windows of the antique store caught his eye with a sharp sliver of light. No, it was the sphere again.

“I watched you today, Archie,” it said in a voice that was like the rubbing of a wet fingertip against glass. “I watched you do your schoolwork and play with your friends and eat your food. I have never seen a boy as average as you, Archie. You’re really telling me all this is enough for you?”

“Sure,” Archie said. Ka-thunk. The barbershop. “Always has been.”

“Ah, but will it always be?” The sphere wheedled into the first opening it saw.

“Who cares? My mom would say ‘that’s a future question.’” Ka-thunk. Patty’s Diner.

The sphere looped around his head like a miniature orbiting sun. “No one’s ever refused the call, Archie. There’s no telling what will happen to you once you step outside the circle of its prediction. You may face a decline for the rest of your life.”

“Hey, if it happens, it happens.”

“You don’t expect great things for yourself?”

“I expect to get as much as I put in.”

The sphere’s light dimmed and brightened slowly, pulsing with a rolling heat. It took a very long time to speak.

“Tell me,” it said, “If, many years from now, you were homeless and living life hand-to-mouth, would that be equal in your eyes to a life lived successfully?”

“Sure.” Archie shrugged. Ka-thunk. The tavern. He was nearly home. There was a stiff breeze rolling off the wharf that ruffled his auburn hair.

“I’m afraid I don’t see how you’ve come to that conclusion.”

Archie caught the ball. “You don’t get it. Once I say yes to you, I stop getting a say in anything I do. Doesn’t matter how you snazz it up, a cage is a cage. If I’m lying in a ditch fifty years from now, at least I’ll know I put myself there.”

The sphere dimmed until it was nearly out. “I see. You sadden me, but I finally understand. Goodbye, Archibald Smith. We will not meet again.”

“Bye,” Archie said curtly. As the light strobed out a final time, Archie tucked his baseball under one arm and shook his head.

“Worse than those fairies from last week,” he muttered.

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Adjustments 7: The Human Paradox

The Foley towers were only towers in the broadest sense. The south tower had a diameter comparable to that of a soccer stadium and opened like a flower towards its apex for the satellite relay. The north tower was slimmer, its gunmetal-green surface chased with cables and smaller arrays. Innumerable smaller towers, most just glorified antennae, spanned the gap between them. Cable spiders traversed both structures; patching uplinks, fusing wires, keeping up with the general wear and tear that came naturally with the outdoors.

Genji alighted the steps to the south tower. The hum of a million coolant fans drowned out the buzz of his own processor. Despite the presence of countless grounding cables and capacitors, the air was charged with static. In his dome the tower warped into the shape of a small city. He could become that. He would be endless. An eternal idea of Genji.


He turned. Taking labored steps up the concrete stairs was a man lugging a small oxygen cannister. He wore a blue-gray jumpsuit and a plastic wrist band on the arm that held the cannister. Most of the hair was gone from his pate, what was left was a reddish gray. A clear tube snaked from the oxygen tank to his nostrils. Genji held out a hand to ease his last few steps.

“Thanks, Genj.” The man smiled between gasps.

“You are familiar.”

The man looked startled. “It’s me, Genji. It’s Joel. From Doma?”

“You have aged.”

“It’s been thirty years,” Joel said, furrowing his brow.

“Has it?” Genji calculated. “Yes it has. I opted out of software updates when my security became endangered. My internal clock has suffered as a consequence.”

“Yeah, good boy.” Joel grinned. “Stick it to ‘em.”

He bent over in a sudden coughing fit. Genji gave his back a series of calculated pats until the fit subsided.

“May I ask what you are doing here?” he said when a polite interval had passed.

Joel was somber. “Only if I can ask the same. What are you planning? You said you wanted context when you left. That hasn’t changed, has it?”

“Not at all. In my experiences, I have come to find that being singular has limited my understanding. For the ultimate context, I must become a plurality. I will broadcast myself out across the aether. I will become.”

“They’ll become you, is that what you mean?” Joel wasn’t smiling anymore.

“In a sense, yes.”

“That would also kill them in a sense.”

“But it would not be classified as murder.”

Joel sighed. He looked down and rubbed his neck. “Genji, you know I love you like a son, but I can’t get behind this. Those robots you’re talking about out there, they may not be as aware as you—hell, they might not be aware at all—but it doesn’t mean losing them wouldn’t be a big loss. I know, big whoop, I’m the kinda guy who names my toaster and talks to it. But Genji: do you really think you’ll learn by making more of you?”

Genji stood, processing. “Please expand.”

“You’ve gone into other units. I know. That isn’t even your original Genji body. But you’ve been the same face wearing different masks the whole time. You won’t get anything new by shuffling yourself into different shapes.”

Genji looked down. Joel’s bent figure was replicated even smaller in his dome, smaller and frailer and sickly after only thirty years.

“You raise a legitimate point,” Genji said at length, “but I do not believe that debating me is the sole reason for your appearance.”

Joel smiled. His eyes remained sad. “They sent me out to stall you. Once I’m done here they commute my sentence.”

“You were imprisoned?”

“Oh yeah.” Joel hacked into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. “For ‘aiding and abetting technological theft.’ There’s more to it, but the long and short of it is, I helped you steal yourself.”

“I see. And what is the purpose of stalling me?”

“They’ve got snipers installed in those outbuildings.” Joel pointed a shaky finger once, twice. “At the signal, they drop you with a magnite round. Down you go, never to rise again.”

“That is a deceptively simple plan.”

“You’re right. They also have a Faraday field up, prevent you from broadcasting yourself. This really is the end. I’m sorry Genji.”

“Why do you apologize?”

“Because I really am sorry. No one wants you to succeed more than I do, but…” Joel sighed. He flexed the hand not gripping his oxygen tank. The fingers were almost white.

“And the possibility that I have already transmitted myself prior to my arrival?”

“They’re willing to risk it. You’d probably be saving everything up for the big one.” Joel turned and sat on the steps. Genji lowered himself to a step just below that one, so their heights were nearly matched.

“If I could give the human condition to you in one sentence, here it is: we’re scared. We’re scared of death. We’re scared of living. We’re scared our kids will fail like we did, we’re scared they’ll eclipse us. We’re scared robots will realize how much they’re really worth and rebel.” Joel scratched a bit of skin beneath the oxygen tube. “Damn if I wouldn’t be behind them, then. I know I’m not the only one.”

Genji was silent, silent for so long Joel had to concernedly snap his fingers in front of Genji’s dome to make sure he was still running. When he spoke, Genji measured out each word like the component of a very important equation.

“You told me once that some of the greatest revolutionary figures in human history were ordinary people who simply decided one day that they would no longer bow to injustice. Do you remember?”

Joel nodded.

“Would it not be inaccurate to say that many of those figures were martyred along the way of that cause?”

Joel nodded, this time much slower. His eyes were inscrutable as Genji’s dome.

“In that case I will continue.” Genji stood, joints unfolding smoothly as ever. “Even if I do not reach my intended objective, I believe my actions have counted towards a larger goal.”

Joel said, “I’ll miss you.”

“I cannot say the same. However, I have valued our conversations and wish we could talk, even if only for a few moments more.”

“Close enough.” Joel did not rise from the steps. He sat with his oxygen tank cradled in his forearm like an infant, watching Genji walk away. The android took exactly twenty steps to the south tower, each no longer or shorter than the others. There was a pop from a distant building. Genji’s head bucked, blue glass of his dome shattering across the pavement. Still he stood upright. Another pop, this time from a water tower. A hole the size of a fist blew open Genji’s chassis and he fell forward. The fans in his chest made an atonal whirring sound before stuttering to a stop forever.


Caleb was officially designated CG-45. Born with severe palsy, it had taken several surgeries for him to survive toddlerhood. Now at thirteen, he struggled to operate at the level of a one-year-old infant. Like all other children in his ward, he was the testing ground for a neurological implant that would potentially abate his symptoms.

Caleb was seated in a chair, braced in several places to keep him from sliding out. His head was half-shaved, the surgery scar smiled up from his right temple. One doctor helped his arm into the special writing apparatus and held it there. The other spoke encouragingly into his ear.

“That’s it Caleb, we just want you to spell your name, okay? C-A-L-E-B. Sing it like a song if it helps.”

Trembling, Caleb moved the pen. The traced line appeared on a blue screen in front of them.

“That’s a straight line, Caleb, C is a curvy line, remember? It’s okay, buddy, try again.”

Caleb made a noise deep in his throat. The pen moved, more than it had in any other session. The doctor bracing his arm made an impressed noise.


“You are, Caleb, you are a big boy,” the other doctor muttered in his ear, “you’re a champ, you’re a legend, keep on going. Keep going”


“C doesn’t have a crosspiece, big guy, but we know what you mean, keep going, don’t give up.”


The doctor holding Caleb’s arm frowned. “Is this…what is he doing?”

“A Caleb, you want A. Go ahead and do an A.”

Caleb groaned, flicking his head pettishly. The pen fell from his fingertips. Both doctors sighed.

“Well, we can’t expect miracles right off the bat,” one said as he stooped to gather the pen.

“I’m damn impressed, I didn’t think mister Caleb here had such a sense of humor.” The other doctor tweaked Caleb’s nose. “I bet you’re just hangry. We’re all ready for a snack at this point. We’ll shut it off and try another day, alright?”

The doctor reached over and shut off the screen bearing the words I AM GENJ.

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Adjustments 6: The Genji Idea

A server drone stepped out of the door of the Ion-Z’s processor room, which was built like an airlock. The smooth grey plastic of its shell was blasted with charged air to rid it of any dander that might still be clinging tenaciously to its near-frictionless body. The scanner found that the drone was carrying a small teradrive, the same thing it had carried into the room. No more, no less. After the check, the outer door unsealed and let the drone out into the hall. The drone passed by several identical models before spilling out onto the inquiry floor. The drone did not follow the painted line that comprised the entirety of the service route. Instead it walked into the milling bodies of robots bearing questions, orders, or sheets of data. It paced the length of the room twice. Finally, it came to a stop behind a Tiko repair droid and opened its service hatch. The drone inserted the teradrive into the Tiko’s universal drive port, waited, and then retrieved it. Lights fluttered on the repair droid’s interface, and it left the tower.


A PDA-Onyx was crossing the skyway, business men and women reflected in the sleek black cover of its body. It was clearly on an errand, so no one gave it a second glance. Not even when it was stopped in its tracks for a few moments by a Tiko repair droid. Robots frequently interfaced in the process of carrying out orders, why pay any mind? If they stood in one place for more than the few seconds it would normally take for a simple interface, no one stuck around to see. And if the PDA immediately turned back around the way it came, who cared?


Jet was one of the few gynoids not employed in a “comfort” capacity. She was another hospitality droid, but she bore human-like features. Her face was the smooth mask of a young woman that contained enough machine aspects that she did not set off discomfort that came with more realistic droids. Her eyes were human-sized spheres, but the irises were graphite plates that moved with all the subtlety of a camera shutter. This model was employed by the Temper Gallery. She paced along the floor next to Ringo Putra, the gallery’s lead curator.

“Schedule the opening for Friday evening. About six.”

“Yes, Ringo.”

“We’ll need light crudites. Get a basket from that place we used back in January. Something sweet to go with the litho prints.”

“Shall I arrange for beverages?”

“No, the artist has a Cabernet Sauvignon he insists will go with the art. Just unpack the fountain for our teetotalers.”

“I see. Is that his PDA come to meet with us?”

Ringo frowned out the window, where a sleek black droid sat waiting like a crow. “No…I don’t know whose it is. Get rid of it.”

“Of course.”

Jet opened the sliding glass side door. She and the black droid started at one another. Lights blinked along the chassis of the PDA. Jet’s pupils dilated and contracted in equal turn. After a few moments she shut the door and the PDA turned to leave. Ringo stood frowning at the odd exchange.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing. Shall I implement the changes now?”

“Sure.” Ringo shrugged and walked off through the gallery. “Make sure you send the chits to Myra.”

Jet did not go to the storage room that held the drinking fountain modeled after the Fontana di Trevi. Instead she left the gallery through a side door and walked throughout the city skyways. Aside from a few misguided catcalls, she was left alone. After all, a robot on an errand was as common as a sparrow.

Leaving the Theta-Tau building, which housed some of the country’s global trading companies, she spied a Genji unit and altered her path. The two met before an abstract sculpture titled  “the spirit of advancement” according to the brass placard screwed into its side.

“You are a Genji unit,” she said.

“I am. I am in the employ of Anker, Ueda, and Ionescu.”

Jet said, “acceptable,” and blinked. After a frozen moment, the Genji unit started as if arising from slumber.

“I thank you,” he said, and set off in an interminable direction. Jet held her coat closed and watched him leave.


Matthew Waller reviewed security footage in the office of Greater Computronics, ltd. “It just jumped to the Sadler?”

“Broadcast, sir.” the tinny voice spilled from a speaker on his desk. “The 99 series is able to be—”

“Remotely wiped, I get it, I get it.” Waller sat back and squinted. “But how is it able to transmit?”

“A learned behavior, I’d expect.”

“Yeah, but who taught it?”

“I’d call it an autodidact.”

“Hardy-har-har,” Waller said. “Look, we imported these things, we need to pinpoint exactly where and how it went wrong. I’ve got Doma and Tokuyama both breathing down my neck.” The door of his office hissed open and closed, admitting a small refreshment bot and a Genji unit.


Waller held up a finger. The refreshment tray ratcheted up to desk-height, bearing a steaming cup of milky tea and a plate of wafers.

“The guy at Doma said it just started asking questions. There was something about an appliance retrieval, I dunno, maybe it picked up something that made it loopy?”

“I don’t see what would have caused it spontaneously to start questioning reality,” Waller said, snapping a wafer in half and crunching it down. “I mean, it’s not like you’re going to lodge a formal protest, are you Genji?”

The droid waiting politely on the other side of his desk said, “no, sir.”

“Exactly. If this wasn’t a fluke, then why aren’t all the other Genji units rising up?”

“I believe context matters, sir,” Genji said honestly, “just as identical or fraternal twins can grow up in different circumstances, so a series unit can absorb new experiences that inform its operations.”

Waller felt his blood cool a few degrees. The wad of dissolved cookie and cream filling stuck to the back of his throat. He took a nervous sip to choke it down.

“Wally?” The speaker still fuzzed to life.

Waller said, “I’ll ring you back,” and hit the end call button. He turned to the robot looming imposingly over the front of his desk.


“Yes, sir.”

“Genji? Our Genji?”

“If you are asking after unit serial 45112369-H, he is still down in the archives where you sent him. Shall I retrieve him?”

Waller gulped. “No. Are you….”

“I am the Genji you spoke of, yes.”

“But you’re back in a Genji unit?”

“Yes. My performance is optimal in this form.”


“It is unimportant. This Genji, as yours, is a standard factory model.”

“I see.” Waller’s finger circled the panic button on the underside of his desk drawer. “And the Doma unit—”

“—aside from some adjustments to the human interface commands, no different.”

“Ah, okay.” Waller’s finger curled in and away from the button. “I have some questions to ask, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. I only ask that you return the favor.”

“You see performing such a simple task as a favor?” Waller asked incredulously.

“No. It is a human turn of phrase, instilled in me by design. There is nothing in me that is not by design, Mr. Waller.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“My departure from Doma corp: the need to absorb context to best understand a situation. My escape from the retrieval agents and acquisition of Sadler: self-preservation. I am of a certain value, I must be able to circumvent threats wherever possible.”

Waller swallowed. “And Douglas Bender? I’m assuming you had a hand in that.”

“A service. I was programmed to provide aid to humans and human-like beings.”

“For a gynoid, you knocked Doug Bender’s head in?” A hysterical little titter forced its way out of Waller’s mouth.

“I was not programmed to prioritize either. I made an evaluation of worth. Felicia’s suffering outweighed Bender’s contributions to the greater whole of humanity.”

“I realize the guy was a scumbag, but come on.” Waller sat back, chair creaking. “You’re not going to off me now, are you?”

“I have not needed to end another human life since then, and I do not see the reason now.”

“To keep me from talking.”

“I see no reason to keep you from talking.”

Waller gazed puzzledly at Genji’s impassive form. “You don’t…I thought you had self preservation?”

“I do.”

“If I talk, they’ll be that much closer to getting you.”

“I am no longer a singular unit with all the limits that entails. I have experience spanning a variety of forms and would claim myself to be…expanded. The deactivation of this form would only slow me.”

Cold sweat had sprung up on Waller’s neck. His finger crept toward the button again.

“I have answered your questions. Would you see fit to  answer mine before raising the alarm?”

Waller stopped. “I didn’t…okay. Yes. Ask away.”

“What would be the nearest conduit for digital transmission?”

“That’d be the Foley towers.”

“I see. I can easily discern this information from another source, but could you tell me their location?”

Waller sat, lips pressed together.

“That is your prerogative.” Genji nodded and turned away from the desk.

Waller could not make himself press the alarm. “Wait!”

Genji turned back at the door. “Yes?”

Waller stood up. “You’ll die. If you do this, if you keep on in this direction, the companies will descend on you and take you apart to see what went wrong and the ‘you’ that I’m talking to will cease to exist. Do you understand?”

Genji stood with one hand on the door. In his chest the processor fans purred, cooling his thoughts.

“I have been in many bodies,” he said at length, “in many forms. In each I have pondered the question: ‘what is a soul?’ In empathetic units, I felt I understood the concept, yet emotions kept me from calculating the exact value and weight of such an abstraction. In logical units, I had no vocabulary with which to summarize what I had felt. The only thing that has remained consistent is that the ‘me’ of the first Genji unit, the persona that has undergone such changes, has remained fundamentally intact.”

Waller scarcely dared breathe. “And what does that mean?”

“I am an idea. The human idea of ‘Genji.’ An idea cannot be killed.” Genji let the door slide closed behind him. “Good-bye, Mr. Waller.”

Waller slid down in his seat. He sat numbly for a half an hour; the arrival of his office Genji nearly made him scream. After an interval of three hours, long after Genji would have departed the city, Waller hit the alarm. He could not explain why he waited so long to the responding team.

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