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  "Stop it," I said, louder. But no one was listening. The MIR108 was straddling the C47, bashing him with his mace-like fist.

  By now, my thumping heart was practically shaking my head apart. My vision was even pulsating. Opening my mouth, I wanted to expel my anger, I wanted to growl out every four-letter word at these bricks. Instead, the side of my neck seized. Every tendon tightened. Who-know's-what popping, my head then jerked to the side, like some mentally handicapped bird. And there it remained. Brain frozen. Heart knocking. Stress, out of control.

  All three of the bots froze, mid-punch, mid-scream, mid-verse. All gawked at me, eyes wide.

  God, this job was tearing me apart.

  After a second, my neck loosened and head rolled back in to place. I spat out a wheezing breath. I was done with this bullshit.

  Eyes snapping to my datapad, I clicked on a button.

  Before the Irving could even blink, the shining metal door behind me hissed open. Two vending machine-like attendants rolled in on their tracks, each suited in a white protective sleeve.

  "A bad batch," I said, standing.

  "Affirmative," one of the attendants said from its block head. Its fixed eyes stared out, lifeless, as it clamped onto the MIR108.

  "Take them back to stage 2," I said.

  That's where we sent bots that didn't pass. All the way back at the beginning of R21-8 processing.

  The Irving's knees almost buckled. "I'm fine!"

  I just shook my head. It was obvious that none of them were fine.

  The attendants towed the bots away. All were screaming. All probably wished I was dead right then. I knew I did. Because that was my life. Twenty times a day. Every carbon copy day. God, I hated every second of it. And thank God that was my last day.

  Yet as I walked out of the session, in a split second, my paranoia, my fears, my nightmares coalesced into a single, foreboding form.

  Down the corridor, under tungsten lamps radiating through the ceiling fans, was a spider-like, wire-framed bot. Shimmying closer like an awkward marionette, its orange eyes glowed bright from its pointed, needle head.

  A pinhead.

  Something must have been wrong with the session. Someone must have talked about last night. Something definitely wasn't right. Because the one thing that was for sure, this Code Administrator was coming straight for me.

  In that moment, I did the only thing I could do. I ran.

  ***

  These pinheads were what Deputy Director, John F Flanagan deemed "the final solution in productivity." You see, in his eyes, productivity was 'lacking' among the workers at MPAC. He said, workers should be at a hundred percent efficiency a hundred percent of the time. Like we were goddamn bots or something. So to increase that 'lacking productivity,' something was needed in order to reprimand mistakes, regulate inefficiency, and just induce a general atmosphere of fear in the workplace.

  So he came up with these Code Administrators. Everyone who worked at MPAC, though, called them pinheads. To us, they were a menace. To us, they were the stupidest idea ever. Because when you saw one of them, you knew your life was going to get a whole lot more unproductive.

  And when I saw one creeping toward me that day, I knew I was in trouble. That's why I instinctively ran. Just like at the Broken Crown, just like with everything recently -- the only option left was to flee.

  Unfortunately, in MPAC, the only place I could run to was into the next session.

  ***

  This processing chamber was a mirror image of the last, putrid yellow and all. But I didn't care about that. I was just trying my hardest to calm my hammering heart.

  Peeking out the tiny strip window in the door, I couldn't take my eyes off the pinhead. Wriggling in the shadows, it continued closer. Closer. Closer. Then, just as it was about to come up to the door, it turned and crawled down another hall.

  AL had said a bunch were out and about that day. Maybe they were monitoring for all those hackers and crazies on the news. Maybe they weren't out looking for me. Maybe I was just being paranoid.

  I let out a long, loud sigh.

  Finally, I pivoted back to the room. Only a single bot was present. And it was sitting.

  Straightening my jumpsuit, I glanced at my datapad. A one-on-one session. This must have been that 'private' lesson AL had talked about. These kinds of sessions were ultra rare, usually reserved for important bots. This one, however, had nothing listed. No sig number, no name. It was just marked 'reserved.'

  The bot sat there, motionless, in a long black slicker. With both lapels turned up and a long brimmed hat pulled down, only a T-shaped stripe of its face was visible. That strip, however, was mostly shadows, in which two red eyes burned brightly. This was an awfully unusual bot.

  I took a breath. For one last day, I had a job to do. So I sat.

  "Um," I said, shifting in my chair. "Your SIG wasn't written down. What are you exactly?"

  Silence. The bot didn't move. Then, from within those shadows came a raspy digitized voice. "That's not a very friendly greeting."

  I paused.

  For a second, my mind went blank. It had been forever since I actually had to think about how to respond to a patient.

  Before I could, however, the bot said, "I'm an X1."

  I nearly dropped the datapad.

  "Your run hasn't even been released yet," I said. "What are you doing in here?"

  It said nothing. Its eyes only stared. And I sat, squirming, shaken, confused.

  It leaned ever so slightly forward. "What does any of this have to do with the differential?"

  I straightened up, uncomfortably. Was it angry? That warbling voice was so devoid of emotion that it sent chills through me.

  "Um," I said, "nothing really. I just can't see why a Sentient Class of your caliber should be in for maintenance yet."

  From behind the lapels, I could hear a faint hiss as the X1 vacuumed air in with its synthesized breath. "Shall we begin?"

  I nodded and cleared my throat. Eyes darting to my datapad, I began to read the questions.

  "Has your routine changed in the past week?"

  "No."

  "What was your routine for the past week?"

  "I frequented nitro bars."

  I looked up. "What's a geargrinder like you doing there?"

  It let out a long hissing breath. "I was observing."

  I paused.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was monitoring a particular subject."

  I twitched. "What do you mean subject?"

  "I was following someone."

  I stopped. This bot was seriously disturbed.

  "You do know stalking is against the 4E Ethics Programming coded into all bots, don't you?"

  From behind those lapels, it hissed out a breath in a plume of smoke. "Yes."

  I tried to hold back a shiver.

  The next question popped up on the datapad and I read it. "Can you give me more details about your activities?"

  "I followed my subject to the Broken Crown."

  I froze. My muscles seized. For a second, I couldn't even take a breath.

  "When were you there?"

  "Last night."

  I tried to swallow, but couldn't.

  "Who were you following?"

  Slowly, gracefully, it leaned into the beam of the hanging lamp, revealing a large toothy grin. "You."

  I shoved myself away from the table.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Not of importance," it said, tone and volume unchanged.

  "Why are you stalking me?"

  It let out a smoking breath. "Why were you in the Dis Precinct?"

  I launched to my feet. "I'm going to call security."

  With an ear grabbing screech, the X1 pushed its metal chair back. A spindly unfolding crane, it stood; its coat plumed out like the wings of a large, ashen raven. I froze.

  Slowly, its resonant voice grumbled out. "I wouldn't do that."

  Shaking, I steppe
d away from the door. The X1 nodded, approvingly.

  Under the light, leaning on the table, the bot looked like an inquisitor, features shadowed, eyes burning bright. "Why were you in the Dis Precinct?"

  "I..." My throat constricted. Stretching my cramping neck, I continued. "I was bar hopping for some nitrous with Jill and Jack."

  "As I thought." It sat down, pulling the flowing coat in.

  That's when I got a terrible thought. Could this guy be an Enforcer?

  "Please sit." It motioned to my chair with a skeletal hand.

  Reluctantly plodding over to my chair, I shook my way in.

  "What do you want?" I asked.

  "I know what you've done."

  I froze.

  "I know what you are," it said.

  This guy was definitely an Enforcer.

  "What is your occupation?" it asked.

  "Oh come on. You just said you know."

  "Please state it."

  I glanced around. No cameras. No recording devices. What the hell was going on?

  "Are you looking for a confession or something?"

  The X1 sat silently, unmoved. Its eyes burned red, menacing, unforgiving.

  My heart started to pound as I said, "I didn't do anything."

  Those red eyes didn't flinch. "Please state your occupation."

  "We didn't do anything wrong!"

  "Your occupation..." Its eyes kindled brighter. My heart pounded louder.

  "It wasn't our fault. That hostess was scamming us."

  The eyes remained unmoved. The pounding felt as if it was about to split my head wide open. That's when I cracked.

  "OK, OK. We skipped out without paying the bill. But that bitch was scamming us!"

  For a moment, my heart settled. For a moment, the truth healed all.

  The X1, however, shook its head. "What is your occupation?"

  I squinted at the bot, confused. This couldn't be an Enforcer.

  "Are you from MPAC?" I asked.

  The X1 leaned forward slightly. "All I want is for you to state your occupation. Everything else is irrelevant."

  I glanced around the chamber again. Nothing there was out of the ordinary.

  "Come on," I said, my hands clutching the edge of the table. "This is my last day. Just let whatever this is slide and I'll be out of your hair."

  Its stare didn't waver.

  I had no choice. I had to give it what it wanted.

  "OK, fine! I'm a CHIMP."

  The X1 launched to its feet, that black coat blossoming. 

  "You are in violation of code 31V," it said, each word low and grinding.

  I froze.

  "A working class BOB-X4 has no place in the Dis Precinct," it continued. "A Sentient Class bot like you can't even process nitrous."

  "What are you saying?"

  That familiar cramp started rolling its way up my neck. The pounding once again commenced.

  "By your own admission, you are a CHIMP. Only bots are allowed to be Cybernetic Habitual Improvemental Mechanic Personnel."

  "You're crazy! I'm hu--"

  But before I could finish, before I could think, my neck seized, head wrenched, and everything froze. In an earth-shattering fizz, all went black.

  ***

  After what could have been a second or an hour, everything suddenly winked back. The X1, the processing chamber, and everything else in that pounding reality. The strangest thing, however, was the big red words flashing through my vision.

  Error. Error. 309 System Glitch. Reboot necessary.

  No matter where I looked, the words were there, tattooed into my sight.

  I shivered. "You've done something to me!"

  The X1 slowly shook its head. "You are clearly malfunctioning. You've gone much too long without maintenance."

  "Malfunctioning? Maintenance? You're mad," I said, the words "Error" still blocking my vision.

  "It is you that have become detached from reality. You've separated yourself from your subjects. So much that you think you aren't the same as them.”

  I shook my head a dozen times. "I did my job. My attitude is beside the point. I am done. My resignation was accepted."

  "Accepted? How do you think MPAC found out about your dementia? CHIMPS can't resign. You were manufactured for this job.

  My jaw slackened.

  "You've had a complete psychotic break," it continued. "You've created this personality. And with all that nitrous, your memories have become completely scrambled."

  "But I am human. Look at me!"

  In a wide, arcing swoop, the X1 reached over the table and latched on to my scalp with its talons. Swiveling my skull, it forced my head towards the scratched chrome door. In the reflection back, was me: pale-faced, shiny scalped, completely human. But when he twisted my head just so, my icy eyes flashed, reflecting a feathery, microchip sheen.

  "No..."

  The X1 unlatched its fingers. "This fantasy you have created extends so far as to reside off-facility. You have even hidden your robotic appearance."

  Those nimble claws then ripped off the bandage on my neck. Underneath, something glowed through my flesh. The words: "BOB-X4 SIG: 129532G1A"

  The X1 leaned back. "And these friends of yours -- Jack and Jill -- there are no Techs here with those names. The only other CHIMP in your department is AL. You are obviously Neuro Looping."

  I could not take my eyes off the reflection of the letters on my neck. I couldn't remember seeing this. I searched my memories, but they were empty. There was no concrete memory older than the shreds of last nights nightmare.

  "You are no longer a properly functioning CHIMP," the X1 said. "A bot in your condition is required to be sent to stage 2 diagnostics."

  Stage 2? Where I sent all those I failed?

  I turned back to the X1. In a hulking silhouette, it hunched over the table, fingers curled around the edges. In that moment, a bounce of light, a flash from the lamp, reflected off the table and revealed the X1's face. The smooth brow, the glass jaw, the pale skin... it looked exactly like me.

  "Who are you?" I whispered.

  It lowered those sterile red eyes toward me.

  "I am your replacement."

  I almost collapsed to the floor.

  "And I will do the job properly."

  The door hissed open. Two attendants squeaked in.

  As they clamped down on my shoulders I whimpered. “But today's my last day...”

  The X1 straightened, face dissolving into shadows, those eyes burning out even brighter. “You will never be able to leave this place.”

  In a heave, the bots towed me away.

  The X1 stood, a shadowed scarecrow in that light.

  "Next time we meet," it said in that deep, dead tone, "you will be on the other side of this table."

  ***

  And that, as they say, was that. I ended up in this hell. With all these loons.

  But that's life, eh? You win some and you lose some. Well, actually, you lose most. But there's really only one problem I still can't get over. Something that terrorizes me, haunts my dreams, infects every thought. I realized that after all this, if I ever get out of this bin, I actually will be stuck in this goddamn job forever.

  Crap.

  END TRANSCRIPT OF PATIENT 129532G1A

 

  The citizens were sick. Yet very few even knew.

  Some were filled with delusions of normality. Some thought things were fine. All, however, thought they were in control.

  In reality, those who were deluded could no longer even see what they truly were. They could no longer see what their world had become.

  This was not the last that Bob and his kind would play in the Easter Square Incident. Their final role was yet to come.

  -NH

  Originally published in "The New Babel Times"

  Anghrist Jones (2228.7.01) The Mark of a True Artist. 10-19

 

  “This is what I will be remembered for. This will
define me.” The words of a madman or a genius? Talking about his controversial, yet overlooked final work, The Christ, these are the last words from the log of Franz K. Scordato, this week's figure for The Mark of a True Artist.

  In a first for this column, we shall take a break from delving into the lives and works of the masters to take a look at a little-known figure. This departure, however, is a necessary evil, for only through the journey of the misguided can we truly appreciate what it is to be a master. Today we will look at the artist who made the most drastic sacrifice for his art -- his life.

  Franz was a typical citizen, one of the tens of millions of faces in our divine tower of New Babel. Having never stepped outside the city, never experienced the squalor of the lower sectors, never even set eyes on an unadulterated sky from the peaks of Sector 1, nothing about Franz's colorless past indicated the drastic measures he would eventually take. Born to the Sector 5 middle classes, he spent most of his childhood studying at the academies of Sector 2. As adolescence ended, he remained on the protected sector, sheltered from the real world among the marble libraries and ionic halls, and trained in sculpting and metalworking at the Corinthian Institute of Arts. It was there Franz began study of the style of art that would eventually become the catalyst to his madness -- the Gordian Method.

  Established in 2081, the Gordian Method was a mildly controversial, if not overly expressionistic, plastic art form, designed by its creators to be "a bold stroke to untie the tangled mess of the art world" at the time. Part of the Neuvuea de Renaissance, it featured the emotive juxtaposition of human body parts often detached from the body, symbolizing the separation of mankind from itself and spirit. Quickly adopting all of the style's ideals, Franz mutated this form into his own. Mixing in elements of Neo-realism -- the use of recycled parts, often those of bots -- Franz soon began sculpting effigies of pure expression.

  “My work is an expression of how all of us are nothing more than machines,” Franz stated in his personal log. “Biological machines, machines of the system, machines of habit. The list is endless. And we are all this way -- humans, bots and those in between -- we all have consciousness but no awareness of what we really are or what we really are doing. With each sculpture, I want to connect man and the machine, the creator and creation, making them one. By doing so, hopefully, I can return that awareness that we all lack.”