Con Code Read online

  “Not saying that’s any reason.” I sidestep with my single available hand extending to catch the post at my level. “I’m not going to just jump.” My injured arm remains pressed tight to my head like I’m glued in an eternal exasperated sigh. I bend down and twist the rope around my forearm for leverage. My nervous system can feel the fibers against my skin, but I imagine I don’t feel pain like humans do. Even if things go wrong, or my single arm isn’t strong enough to hold my weight, it won’t hurt if I get a little rope burn or something.

  I am so freaking wrong.

  Several oversights occur at once. First of all, my single arm isn’t up to the task of holding all my weight. It might be the fact my sensors aren’t providing me with accurate information and I’m truly blind in this cloud forest. I lose track of the edge and step off the side of the mountain without warning, my arm jolts when my weight catches against the rope, dislocating the ball joint that connects my robot arm to my robot shoulder. The wires and cords stringing in and through the metal framework that is me, remain intact, stressing under the strain of keeping the rest of me connected to my arm, which is tangled in the rope.

  Rope does, in fact, burn, sear, and rip the outer layer of my fake skin. For a being whose sensors are kaput, whatever system registers discomfort inside me works at full capacity. I might go as far as to claim it’s overcompensating for the lack of other sensory input.

  Or maybe it’s the combination of the rope burn, dislocated shoulder, and the fact it’s nearly impossible to keep my other arm pressed to my skull to dull the brain cord pain chorus now undimmed as my free arm flails in the open air all around me. Fire needles attack from all sides. I slip just a little but get no closer to the basepoint where the rope ends. I’ll wager I’m only a fathom deep in this air abyss. What’s that— twenty nautical feet? Why do I even know that? It’s not helpful.

  My rope tangled arm holds firm to the spot, not sliding much more than a few inches, and maybe a little skin stretching in addition. The rope tightens around my bicep. I’m unable to do anything to help myself

  It’s possible I’ll be trapped like this forever. Unable to die, no surviving friends to rescue me, unable to save myself. Why didn’t I walk away? I’ll be lucky enough when my battery wears down, but I’ll still be here, my body collecting data, even when powered off. It’s the way of all computerized devices these days. So that, when or if I ever get rebooted, I’ll have stored the entire torturous experience to relive in my memories as if I’d been awake the whole time.

  I drop an inch. It’s difficult to decide if I’ve really fallen another inch with all the pain sensors going nuts. I stare up the length of rope, squinting through pain to see what’s happening with the rope. I slip again. The rope drops and me with it. Stress on my shoulder tugs and jolts with the sudden give of slack and then the catch.

  “What’s happening?” I call up, half expecting a face to appear over the ledge above. I’m ready to scream even if a leaf falls from the general platform area. Nothing makes itself known, which terrifies me in a different way.

  “Help!” I scream. “Help!” No sound from above or below. “Somebody help me!” The rope gives again, this time an entire foot. I bounce wildly on the rope and the post falls toward the ledge, sticking out at a ninety-degree angle with the rope making one of the sides and the post being the other side of the angle. I’m spinning and jostling from the movement before the post starts pointing toward me like it’s singling me out, giving me the finger—a solitary and very large condemnation of poor judgment.

  Once the post has me in its sights, the rope slides from its splintered claim. There’s nothing I can do except watch in abject horror as I lose sight of it to the mist. Cracking, snapping and crumbling follow shortly after the rope, I try to reduce my flailing as I fall, holding the rope with my barely working hand, like this will somehow make a difference. It’s falling with me, and above me the post tumbles end over end, disrupting the cloud cover in a spiral wave. The post cuts the fog. Will its spin increase its velocity or slow it? The post appears to be moving faster each time one of the ends is nearer to me and to be losing speed when the ends aren’t pointed my direction. So probably falling at the same rate. Lack of computer-like sensory analysis makes me dumb.

  There isn’t much time to feel dumb before a branch whip slaps the rope falling before me, pulling me sideways in my flail-fall. I have seconds before I’m in the branches. I aim for wide thick limbs to slow my fall. Each one a solid swing to the gut, thighs, chest, or shins. I’m beaten on all sides by the time I hit the ground.

  The post lands stuck upright next to me, vibrating with the depth it sinks into the earth and remains planted. Likely to take root and grow among the forest. Everything grows here, teeming with life, except my group. I survey my close encounter with a post piercing and notice little more than large splinters of broken tree line.

  Sitting hurts. Stupid human idea to include pain receptors in artificial intelligence housing. My good arm dangles at my side, still tangled in rope. “Genius.” I force my ripped wrist arm to work at freeing my other arm. I’ve yet to gain full motion in this arm since the last upgrade. When I was caged in Geo’s facilities for months, it took days. It’s only been days since my arm was switched. How is that possible?

  “Stop shouting.” Off to my side, near to where the post stands stock upright planted half deep in earth, Mav groans.

  “Mav!” I forgo getting my arm free of rope and drag myself along the ground the where he lays on his side, branch trunks broken all around him. “Mav, you’re okay?”

  “I’m not dead.” He coughs, as though the effort to clear his lungs causes more obstructed pain elsewhere. He doesn’t roll over or make any attempt to face me.

  “Can you move?”

  “Can you?” His voice lacks all the vibrato he jumped with.

  “Sort of. My shoulder’s out.”

  “I see you brought the post.” Next to him is where the long wood beam sticks from the ground. The sound that comes from him might be a laugh, or it might be a wince. “How far did you fall?”

  “A ways. You?”

  “Just above the tree line. That’s where the rope gave out.”

  “The others?” I ask.

  “Juan’s helping us based on most vital injuries to least. I guess I drew the short straw.”

  “Juan’s okay?” I’m unable to hide my irritation that he never called back up to us, or if he did, we didn’t hear him. Is that even possible? “Did you yell up once you hit?”

  “I tried,” Mav admits. “Sort of got the wind knocked out of me.”

  “And Gordon?”

  “Juan helped him first. I think he’s okay, just helping with Belen. She’s pretty shaken up. We tried to tell you both to stay, find a different way down like Belen suggested after Juan fell.”

  “It’s her own fault. She wouldn’t listen…”

  Mav cuts in before I finish, coughing and strained like it’s more important to stop me from talking than it is to be in reduced pain. “She’s not upset about that. She’s upset because she was compelled to jump.”

  “Is that what she told you?” I use the post for leverage to get to my feet, indignant at Belen’s accusation against me. “I told her not to get on that rope.”

  “Not you. In her brain. I felt it too.” He tries to prop himself up on his elbow but lays back down. “In my head was all this feedback, like I should jump.”

  “You mean like Juan?”

  “He didn’t jump, his head just filled with signal feedback and he let go without thinking.”

  I think back to the signal overload from earlier and realize I’m not covering my head with my ripped arm. I’m not in unavoidable searing head pain either. I’m in pain, but it’s different. The other pain was like an instrument of mind death. The agony now can all be related to hurling myself off a mountainside. “Is he okay?”

  “Juan?” Mav gives me a look like he suspects I have hidden motives for asking
about Juan, embarrassing hidden motives.

  I nod without the slightest blush, not because I’m incapable, but because I’m capable of concealing such humiliation.

  “He’s a little dinged up. Don’t say too much about his hair, okay?”

  “My head doesn’t hurt. The buzzing or whatever,” I say.

  “Yeah. We’re all better. No vomiting from altitude sickness down here, other than from new injuries. And no sudden urge to hurl ourselves off tall structures.” Mav fears heights, I know this. He descended the rope to rescue Gordon, not because some voice told him to leap. Right?

  “What do you think it was?” I ask.

  “Whatever it was, it’s not good.”

  Juan steps from the thick tree line. “I suggest we continue traveling on the valley floor.” He lifts a battered hand, but my eyes travel to the side of his head, where the hair and skin have been pulled away. His warm eyes and sharp chin remain where they should be, but his right ear and the hair above and behind where his ear should be—all the way to the nape of his neck—is exposed cellulose bags, tubing, and wires over a metal structure. “Stay out of range of all cell towers.” The excess skin and hair bunch at his shoulder like a burp rag. “Hi, Jennie.”

  “Hi.”

  “Need help with that?” He nods to my hanging shoulder.

  “What?” I stop myself from staring at his ruined once-perfect face. “Uh, yeah.” I shake my head to stop from staring, secretly hoping I don’t look as bad as he does.

  “Does it hurt?” Juan asks. He sounds sincere like he genuinely cares about how my new and improved shell translates pain to my brain. But I remember that it isn’t just Juan I’m talking with, even if he’s the one talking now. It’s a whole slew of individuals, some of whom might have mixed feelings about me.

  It’s impossible to know how any response might be taken. If I say it hurts, a Civ might smile inwardly. An Ed might spout some oration of statistics regarding pain resonation and an AK… I don’t know how an AK would feel about my pain. Civilian, Academic, and Military source codes are the ones I’m most familiar with.

  When I don’t answer, Juan’s cadence changes, though not his vocal register. His words come out deep and smooth but as a challenge. “Pain should sharpen your skills. Don’t waste it feeling sorry for yourself.” He preps my imitation skin for the action of jarring my arm back into the shoulder socket.

  “Where are you from, Nazrete?” I avoid arguing with her about what purpose pain has. It must have some purpose, or I wouldn’t be programmed to feel it. Then a horrible thought crosses my mind.

  The Mord. Are they programmed to feel pain in this new human experience they’re having? Inside the game, they showed no response to pain, but I never stopped to question if they experienced it or not. And if they did, what was the purpose of feeling it?

  “Saudi Arabia.”

  Juan’s response arrives slow. I’ve moved on with my thoughts and practically forget what I asked her. “Sorry what?”

  “I’m from Saudi. We had to fight to retain our resources. As women and as a nation. Our war won us more than wealth. We got on the donor list.” Juan lifts my arm to a forty-five-degree angle, finding the perfect angle to slip the joint together, but there is no slip about it. He pops it with such force and pressure, I lose my balance. He lets me fall, probably aware that if he tries to right my balance he’ll end up pulling my arm back out of location. I try to catch myself before slamming sideways into the dirt, but my left hand is still crap with reflex motions. “Use the pain,” he says again.

  I wipe dirt from my mouth. My good hand useful again. “Thanks, Juan.” Unfeigned irritation in each syllable.

  “Gotta look out for each other,” Juan answers. I can’t tell if the sentiment is still Nazrete and perhaps sarcastic, or if it’s someone else and sincere. I really wish he had more physiological indicators regarding the personalities taking lead.

  “Wait, Juan,” I say before he can disappear into the trees to help the humans recover. Unlike me, they can’t be popped back in place and be done. They have to actually heal. “Do you think they feel pain?”

  He looks over his shoulder toward the thicker tree line and scoffs. “Yes.”

  I wave my hand toward the humans. No duh, dude. Not them. “The Mord…You think they can understand?”

  Juan steps closer to me. “You have to stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Showing concern for Mord.” He checks over his shoulder again, but without any indication of humor. “They don’t understand when you talk like that.”

  The humans? What do they care? I don’t say it, but Juan responds as if I had, even though I know he’s only guessing at my thoughts.

  “It scares them.”

  “Those guys?” I point to the trees.

  Juan takes three fast steps, erasing the distance he had just barely walked between us. He puts an arm on my outstretched hand and presses my entire arm to my side. “Yes.”

  “I don’t think we need to be worried about them.”

  Juan studies my eyes, the space between my brows and the edges of my mouth like he’s looking for a clue in the details of my face. “Yes,” he says. “We do.” And he returns to the thick brush where both Belen and Gordon landed.

  “Are they going to heal okay? Be able to travel?” I try to keep Juan talking, hoping he’ll give added insight into his state of mind, or whoever’s mind I’m talking with.

  “A broken rib for Belen and a busted ulna on Gordon.” Juan continues walking away.

  “Will they be able to travel?” I ask aware human healing is slow.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”

  “He’s intense,” Mav says from his place in the dirt once Juan disappears into the leaf cover. It’s as though Juan didn’t count Mav as an audience, but was highly concerned with the humans out of earshot.

  “You think so too?” I ask.

  “Maybe it’s the same thing that affected us above?” Mav suggests.

  “I don’t feel anything,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Mav rolls over and sits up, groaning but capable. Apparently, not in as much pain as he’s been letting on since I crash landed. “Me, either.”

  “Is it true?” I ask. Mav blinks, I can tell he’s trying to follow back what ‘it’ links to. What’s true. What am I asking in my ambiguous and vague manner? He can’t read thoughts as well as Juan. “Do the Mord scare you?”

  “Don’t they scare you?” he asks.

  It confuses me. The posturing between Mav and Juan, as if they’re both testing each other. Or are they both testing me and happen to be in each other’s crosshairs? Either way, Juan never offers to help Mav. He simply walks away. And Mav doesn’t ask for help, but he pretends to be less capable than he actually is. Humans hide things this way. It makes me nervous. I hide things too. I hope I’m better at it than Mav.

  “They did once. Now, something else scares me more,” I say in response.

  There’s no shortage of splints on the valley floor. Broken limbs, splintered trunks, branches and tons of soft leaf padding. Gordon sports a jungle cast fashioned from wood and leaves from elbow to pinkie. Since the break in his ulna lies closer to the pinkie than the elbow, Juan’s careful to incapacitate the entire hand in order to aid healing.

  Belen has a tire worth of leaves and fabric wrapped around her chest, cushioning the cracked rib that has to heal on its own. I can’t imagine the pain she’s in. Every step must ring through her torso with fresh bone jarring heat. She moves slowly as we walk, not twisting toward forest sounds. One arm is bound against her side, trapped in the bands around her torso. I have no idea if that’s the correct method to heal a broken rib since my stupid database has been useless since all the upgrades. Belen casts death glares at each swooping bird and chittering insects, then turns her murderous sights on me.

  “What do you think’s wrong with the cell towers?” I ask Juan in a vain attempt to deflect Belen’s glare. I quicken m
y pace to catch up to him, ahead of the others. They can’t walk fast in their condition. Humans heal slowly. Despite visible damage and working nervous systems that alert us to discomfort and pain, healing for us is based on repair skills. If we’re put together correctly, we work. No broken bones. If something’s broken, it’s broken until we replace it.

  “Nothing’s wrong with the towers,” Juan says.

  I pause to process. “But you said we should stay out of range…like they’re connected to all the problems we’re having.”

  “I stand by that.”

  Juan is the worst. I slap leaves at my side for growing within strike range. “Then something must be wrong with the towers. Maybe something we can fix.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the towers, Jennie. They’re doing what they’re supposed to do.”

  I run a step to get in front of Juan. Does he even have a clue how frustrating it is to talk to him with not knowing which personality I’m facing and now adding double talk to the mix of worst possible robot traits? “And what is that? What are they supposed to do?”

  Juan doesn’t pause until he’s standing over me. He could walk right through me if he wanted. I can feel the threat of that very thing steaming off his exposed metal framing. “Immobilize us.”

  I don’t say anything. Juan’s shoulder drops. He doesn’t slam me with it to get me to move, but I pivot out of the way, clearing his path to move forward. I stay where I’m standing. The humans are attacking us. We’ve been targeted by cellular signals, something that scrambles us. A program intended to immobilize us. “How long would it take to develop something like that?” I ask. “Like a day? A few hours to write that code?”

  “Almost a year,” Juan says over his shoulder. The rest of the group catches up to where I’m standing.

  “What’s up with you?” Gordon asks, holding his wrapped arm out, so I won’t accidentally bump into it.

  I ignore Gordon and jog to get back to where Juan blazes a trail through thick jungle brush. Large insects, snakes, and mountain animals don’t concern the two of us. Belen and Mav and Gordon, on the other hand, keep their eyes on every inch of surrounding greenery, most likely searching for some form of biological threat.