CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

PROSE

THE FIRST OF US: THE GEORDONN STORY

K.S. Walker // 3098 words

The documentary transcript of key politicians and scientists deciding the fate of a child taken by the Collective, a robotic species.

SMILEY FACES WITH BLACKBERRY JAM ON TOAST

Cynthia C. Scott // 5557 words

Faced with their nanny’s processor failure, a mother juggles her own emotions with the abrupt void in her family’s lives.

PERFORMANCE REVIEW

Maryan Mahamed // 2949 words

A curious bot learns and grows, grasping to understand joy, grief, and family through its owners.

THE TRUMPET PLAYER

Nicole Givens Kurtz // 3929 words

A musician weary of human prejudice journeys through the solar system, drawn by the hope of an old friend at a new jazz club.

THE BODY OF THESEUS

Emir G. Park // 5148 words

Malik is exhausted by the grind of making ends meet, until his daily salvage work in drowned Miami plants him in the middle of a distant robot revolt.

POETRY

EXPLAINING BOT FIGHTS TO BHABI

Abu Bakr Sadiq

When I fell apart my mother put me back together

Renee S. Christopher

NONFICTION

The Answer

KL Burd

October 2021

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Welcome to the 20th issue of FIYAH Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction. We’ve quietly wrapped five years of pushing forward Black creators, their stories and voices, creating space for ourselves in an industry too often blind to our presence. But we’re not only here, but thriving, IGNYTE &FIYAHCONing for the second year running, and basically doing all we set out to do—and then some.

If you are reading this, thanks for honoring our nickel with us!

This issue takes on our second theme of the year: Love, Death & Androids. Our contributors explored fascinating takes on robot and human dynamics. From the everyday to the revolutionary and the deeply existential, these stories all engage in conversation with each other. Can’t wait for you to enjoy: “The Trumpet Player” by Nicole Givens Kurtz, “Performance Review” by Maryan Mahamed, Emir G. Park’s “The Body of Theseus,” “Smiley Faces With Blackberry Jam on Toast” by Cynthia C. Scott, and “The First of Us: The Geordonn Smith Story” by K.S. Walker.

Our featured poetry this issue includes: “Explaining Bot Fights to Bhabi” by Abu Bakr Sadiq, and “When I fell apart my mother put me back together” by Renee S. Christopher. “The Answer,” our nonfiction essay by KL Burd, closes out this final issue of 2021.

Love, Death & Androids’ remarkable cover is brought to you by Morgan Madeline.

On a bittersweet note, our Managing Editor Eboni Dunbar is moving on to new pursuits. Her work behind the scenes, ensuring editorial is in sync from issue to issue, is simply priceless. I will miss her dearly, her perspective, dedication, good humor, organization and patience (especially with me.) I cannot wait to see her next project take off, and I hope there’s a sequel to “Stone and Steel” in our future, a novella y’all need on your bookshelves yesterday!

Be well,

DaVaun Sanders

Executive Editor

Executive Editor: DaVaun Sanders

Managing Editor: Eboni Dunbar

Poetry Editor: B. Sharise Moore

Non-Fiction Editor: Margeaux Weston

Web Editor: Chavonne Brown

Acquiring Editors: Kaleb Russell + Genine Tyson

+ Emmalia Harrington + Tonya R. Moore

Art Direction + Layout: L.D. Lewis

Cover Artwork by Morgan Madeline

All material in FIYAH is copyrighted to the original authors and may not be reproduced without permission.

THE FIRST OF US: THE GEORDONN STORY

By K.S. Walker // 3098 words

[Episode 1: B-Roll of Dr. Johnson walking along the desert ridge of the first contact site]

DR. SHAKARA JOHNSON, PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR AT THE KRESMEN BIO-COMPUTRONICS LAB

Ms. Johnson, what was your role at Ari-Cal University during the time of First Contact?

Dr. Johnson.

I’m sorry?

It’s doctor. Dr. Johnson.

My apologies. Dr. Johnson, what was your role at Ari-Cal University during First Contact?

At the time of First Contact with the Collective I was a PhD student in astrobiology. Despite how it was fictionalized in Mechanoids, the field is in the geological science department. My focus was modeling planetary surface processes on Earth and using them to make reasonable assertions about the formation of other planets. It was serendipitous, really.

Why is that?

That encounter changed the entire course of my career. And I don’t mean the short-lived celebrity of having been present at First Contact. If I hadn’t seen Unit 77d haul itself over that rocky outcrop with my own two eyes, I doubt we’d be here having this conversation.

And would you call it serendipity that five years later you found yourself in a sequestered meeting that decided the fate of then six-month old Geordonn Smith?

Far from it. Senator Guerrero-Ramirez contacted me shortly after I published my dissertation “Re-Wired: Physiology and Social Structure of the Collective.” I was optimistic about what she was asking for — collaboration between politicians and scientists. I thought … I think great things can happen when we share expertise and knowledge.

ANDREW NGUYEN, BYSTANDER

Mr. Nguyen, describe to us the events of September 7, 2045.

That was ten years ago. You’ve seen the videos.

Yet it is your video that garnered 150 million views in three days. And it is your video that is still referenced the most. Not the footage from Unit 0c38b. Not the footage from the traffic drones at the corner of Fifth and King. Why do you think that is?

[Cut to black and white image from traffic drone coverage. Close up on Andrew Nguyen at the crosswalk. He faces the drone briefly before pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt.]

I’m a normal guy who was in the right place at the right time. I think the average person doesn’t trust the government not to be hiding something. You saw what happened with Guerrero. And we definitely didn’t trust the Collective back then. I still don’t.

DR. SHAKARA JOHNSON, PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR AT THE KRESMEN BIO-COMPUTRONICS LAB

At the time, what did you think sparked the Collective’s interest in Geordonn? Or do you think this had to do with the individual Unit rather than the Collective as a whole?

It’s hard to say. Contrary to popular belief, Units of the Collective are capable of making individual decisions — they just rarely act discordantly. I think Unit 0c38b saw potential in a unique opportunity. But I also think Geordonn or something like him was always the goal. I’ve said it from the beginning, despite their appearances, it’s a mistake to think of the Collective as machines.

Why do you say that?

Machines are tools. We created them to do things for us, to make our lives easier. They serve us. While the Collective have shared technology, life-changing technology with us, it’s foolish to ever believe that they serve us. We’re a means to an end.

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

Mrs. Pocklington, in your new book Finally Here, you talk about your experience as a rising politician and your eventual transition from the political stage to the big screen in order to play yourself in the film Mechanoids.

[B-Roll of Mrs. Pocklington on the opening night. Her blonde hair obscures her face as she signs autographs.]

I’m not sure which is more grueling, politics or Hollywood! I’m still just so humbled that I was able to help bring the film to life.

DR. SHAKARA JOHNSON, PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR AT THE KRESMEN BIO-COMPUTRONICS LAB

Mechanoids? Since 2007 NASA and now IASA have funded an annual workshop for science fiction writers to learn firsthand, not just about astronomy but the fundamentals of science. Why? Because writers were getting it wrong. And because these blockbuster novelists were getting it wrong, so were their readers. And the same mistakes kept getting repeated in perpetuum and what did we end up with? A general public who doesn’t know jack shit about science and can’t be convinced of the truth. So what do I think about Mechanoids? Irresponsible at best. Dora the Explorer did great, though.

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

Tell us, why this shift from politics to acting?

You know, it was just important for me to tell my story. To own my truth. I realized that my capacity as a change-maker largely depended on my ability to be a mouthpiece to the governor. Or otherwise to be seen and not heard. And it was Geordonn Smith that changed all that. In the days and weeks that followed that momentous decision, I began to see that I was an icon to American women. So, I decided to step from beneath the shadow of Governor Grever into my own light. To be seen, truly seen.

Former President, then Governor Robert Grever did not attend that meeting regarding guardianship of Geordonn, correct?

Correct.

And why not?

He trusted me to speak eloquently and reasonably on the subject, on which we agreed.

SANDRA GUERRERO-RAMIREZ, FORMER SENATOR

On September 7, 2045 you took part in a clandestine meeting with Lt. Governor Alice Pocklington and Research Assistant Shakara Johnson regarding guardianship of Geordonn Smith. Tell me about that meeting.

Clandestine? No. Emergency? Yes. We had an unprecedented situation that required swift action.

Here is what you do not understand. This was 2045, only five years after First Contact, okay? Five years after we just barely convinced the American public that the world was not ending. Recall, President Forrest committed suicide in the oval office the same day the news outlets confirmed that aliens, aliens, landed on earth. Do you know how hard it was to get the public to not just trust, but elect women officials again after that? This choice I was making? It was not just about Geordonn. It was for every child, no — every citizen in the Ari-Cal state before and after him. I am not the monster people like to believe. This is what most people overlook — I tried. I tried to keep him.

ANDREW NGUYEN, BYSTANDER

Will you please describe for us, anyway, what you caught on camera that day?

There was an accident. A pickup truck ran a red light, hit the Camry almost head on.

You remember the make of the vehicle?

My husband drove a Camry. I wouldn’t let him buy another after that.

Please, continue.

And then you see that thing loping into the intersection. Chrome so smooth, you almost thought you were looking through it instead of seeing stuff reflected off it. It came out of nowhere. All the other traffic, every single vehicle in the area just … froze. That’s when I started recording on my glasses cam. It stalked right over, put two of those skinny legs on the frame of the car and used two more to rip the doors off the Camry like wings off a ladybug. Then it ducked that … that bullet-shaped part, what do they call that? The processor? Ducked it into the driver seat then the passenger seat. They say it was checking vitals of the parents. Any fool could see there was no way they survived that impact.

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

Why do you feel it’s important to tell your story now?

It just feels right. Mechanoids tells part of Geordonn’s story but not everything. And now that those Ascensionists have the rumour mill churning again, well, I think it’s time. The world is ready to hear how the Collective came to adopt little Geordonn.

[B-Roll footage from within a crowd of navy-robed people formed outside the Collective compound. An opening appears in the side of the opalescent dome, and a child around the age of ten emerges. The crowd quiets. The boy sits cross-legged in front of the gate. He raises his hand and the footage stops abruptly.]

Interesting that you use the word “adopt.”

Well, yes. That’s exactly what happened. I look at it like this, children across America are growing up in single-parent households, with missing and deadbeat dads and whatnot. If there’s anything the American public has embraced over the past few decades is that there is no single valid family structure, am I right? So who are we to look at the Collective and say that that’s not a family?

DR. SHAKARA JOHNSON, PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR AT THE KRESMEN BIO-COMPUTRONICS LAB

It sounds like you harbor some resentment towards the Collective. Why is that?

No, not at all. I am in awe of them. They’re beautiful. And they’re misunderstood. Resenting the Collective would be like resenting the asteroid that caused the mega tsunami, or the tectonic plates that are severing the western seaboard. They are what they are, and we need to act accordingly.

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

In your opinion, there was no reason to tell the Collective “no?”

Well, why would we? The Collective’s brought us so many advancements. Agriculture, medicine, the environmental sector, you name it. They’ve been nothing but beneficial to American, to global society. Besides, Geordonn’s parents were Recluse. In opting out of biotech they basically ensured there was no way we could find other biological relatives. Why would I think that Geordonn would have a better chance as a ward of the state than with the Collective?

SANDRA GUERRERO-RAMIREZ, FORMER SENATOR

Tell me about the No Family Left Behind act of 2042?

Modeled after 2002’s No Child Left Behind, this bill focused on the success of the family unit. Basic model biotech implants were subsidised. And, as a result we had more families than ever enroll in digital footprint programs. This allowed us to provide accurate resources to improve the quality of life for those in the family. Instead of income-based tax breaks, or sweeping stimulus credits we were able to equitably distribute state resources in a sustainable way.

And it brought a record number of children into the Ari-Cal State foster care system. Children of families who did not engage in any programs that required a formal digital footprint, correct? Black and brown and Native children … Senator Guerrero-Ramirez? Families like Geordonn Smith’s?

No! [Her hand slams the table.]

His family were Recluse but he was not a ward of the state — his immediate family was exemplary. They invoked their Right to Privacy and declined access to biotech and the digital footprint, but they went about it through all the right avenues. Child and Family Services was not involved.

But they would have been involved, correct? After the accident?

[Senator Guerrero-Ramirez sits back in the chair, her eyes focus on a point beyond the camera. Shot widens. Her hand still on the table curls into a trembling fist.]

ANDREW NGUYEN, BYSTANDER

Next thing you know, that thing has the baby, and it’s gone … I wish … I wish…

What do you wish, Mr. Nguyen?

I wish I would’ve done something. Saved that boy. What happened to him, it wasn’t right. Every day, I kept expecting to wake up to news that the military was involved, or the UN was lending support, that we were gonna go get that baby, and bring him home. They were supposed to fight for him. We were supposed to fight for him.

DR. SHAKARA JOHNSON, PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR AT THE KRESMEN BIO-COMPUTRONICS LAB

Can you talk to me about that meeting with the Senator and Lt. Governor?

[Laughs and turns to face window]

You know like I do that Congress isn’t excluded from the Freedom of Information Act anymore. [Turns back to camera]

What do you want to know?

What do you remember most?

I remember insisting on using his name. I remember not being heard by either politician. I remember feeling small. I remember the Senator introduced me, and Pocklington looked at me like I was something she’d stepped in … But it’s not about me. It never was. I also remember wondering: Where are the social workers? Where is the child psychologist? How is it just the three of us having this conversation? But what I remember most is the look on Senator Guerrero-Ramirez’ face when Pocklington told us that Geordonn was already with the Collective and they were just waiting on an official answer. The meeting had gone on for almost an hour by then.

[Resumes gazing out the window]

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

What about Senator Guerrero-Ramirez’s reservations?

I was just so disappointed that in the end, she could not see beyond the petty human construct of race.

[Takes out a tissue to dab at eyes]

She raised valid concerns about consent, about child psychology, and I met those with answers verified by the Collective itself and when she had no more rebuttals, she threw down the race card. She told me that if the child looked like me, I’d see this differently.

[Crying openly. Camera zooms in on trembling hand]

You know, I think she really missed out on what could have been an iconic feminist, bipartisan moment. Two women, standing together making a momentous, informed decision.

SANDRA GUERRERO-RAMIREZ, FORMER SENATOR

What went wrong?

[Leans forward, folding her hands on the top of the table]

I found out there wasn’t really a choice at all. I was there to give an air of bipartisan legitimacy in a meeting that itself was a prop. A neat cover story to placate voters ahead of the next election cycle.

Can you explain that a little more, Senator?

Three weeks after First Contact, the United States mounted a cyber-attack against the Collective. You look surprised. You thought we’d embrace our colonizers with open arms? You know better.

We delivered a discrete little package intended to cripple their neural networks. Mostly, to see if it worked. Do you know what they did, the Collective? They sent it back to us. Exactly four minutes after the faulty patch was delivered, every active duty service member at Fort Detrick collapsed in convulsions. Thirteen hundred people. Thirteen hundred people were held hostage in their own bodies for fifteen minutes. The virus we delivered was never intended to cross biotech pathways. In under four minutes, the Collective took our best weapon, augmented it, and used it against us.

There are no national or international treaties with the Collective. Why should they bother? The Collective already had Geordonn. Asking permission to formally take him was a nicety, an afterthought, they threw us a bone to keep us happy.

ALICE POCKLINGTON, ACTOR, FORMER POLITICIAN

What happened when it became clear that the Senator was not changing her stance on the subject?

I thought she’d be reasonable. It was one hundred percent crucial to present a cohesive bipartisan front. The public simply doesn’t have the background knowledge to understand the nuance of that decision we were making. Everyone from two-bit, backwater city mayors to your Grandma Susan and Cousin Tommy thinks they can run this country. It’s our duty as politicians to save these arm-chair politicians from themselves. I was wrong about Senator Guerrero-Ramirez.

So you published a report on the alarming statistics of the state’s foster care system during her term as Senator in response to Guerrero-Ramirez’s opposition?

The public deserved to know the truth. Under Senator Guerrero-Ramirez’ guidance at best the boy would have been shuffled through the system and been one more taxpayer burden for the next twenty years. At worst, we would have been led to a needless war with a species of beings who’ve done us nothing but good.

SANDRA GUERRERO-RAMIREZ, FORMER SENATOR

Have you seen Mechanoids?

Everyone has seen Mechanoids.

And what do you think of your character, portrayed by Isabela Merced?

I think they got it right. There is nothing America loves more, than to see a powerful woman fall.

[Pans wide over drone captured news footage of Geordonn Smith emerging from Red Falls Cave System carrying a younger child.]

[Switch to live news interview. Several reporters jostle around Geordonn and the child. Shouts of “How did you know where to look?” A paramedic appears onscreen and takes the child from Geordonn. Geordonn looks away from the camera and replies, “I just knew.”]

What do you think Geordonn Smith is now?

Alice Pocklington: Simple. He is a hero. Given the opportunity, I would thank him. Because without his sacrifice, his bravery to do what no human has done before, I would not be here telling my story. Speaking my truth.

Sandra Guerrero-Ramirez: What is he? I have seen the videos. I have read the speculations about … changes he might have undergone. But your question underlines the very difference between you and me. You all call him an it, a thing. A robot, an android. To me, he is and always will be a little boy. He is one of us.

Andrew Nguyen: Heck, I think it’s pretty clear that he was an experiment. He might be the first, but I’d bet my right hand he won’t be the last. I see the way the media is setting this up, and by media, I mean the feds. That kid ain’t no Clark Kent. And those Ascensionists? [scoffs] Whatever they sent back to us, he’s not a superhero, he’s not a demi-god, and he’s definitely not the same Geordonn Smith that we gave up on ten years ago. I don’t care how many lost kids he finds. We jumped out of the frying pan and into the fryer the day we got into bed with those machines.

Dr. Shakara Johnson: To be clear, this is all speculation and none of what follows is the official stance of the Kresmen Bio-Computronics Laboratory. I, personally, don’t think he is a Unit of the Collective. I don’t think he’s quite human either. If I were going to speculate further, I’d guess the Collective have merged with him over the years. Substituting nanites for bone marrow, maybe? I hate the words the media is throwing around. I believe he’s far too sophisticated, too complex for any word we’re familiar with.

[Camera zooms out and cuts scene to Geordonn on a playground watching a group of children on a swing set. Slow fade to black and white. Freeze frame.]

Whatever Geordonn Smith is, he’s new. And it would be foolish to not expect more like him.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT K.S. WALKER

K.S.Walker is a speculative fiction writer from the Midwest with a fondness for stories with monsters, magic, and/or love gone awry. When they’re not obsessing over a current WIP or their TBR pile you can find them outside with their family. WEBSITE

SMILEY FACES WITH BLACKBERRY
JAM ON TOAST

By Cynthia C. Scott // 5557 words

I was in the kitchen making Tressa’s favorite treat — smiley faces with blackberry jam on toast — when a heavy thud echoed from the laundry room, followed by a loud snap, then violent thrashing.

I dropped everything to see what was happening, though in my heart I already knew. When I reached the doorway, my worst fears were confirmed.

Nana flopped upon a mound of wet clothes near the washing machine, arms and legs flailing in every direction, her head banging repeatedly against the cement floor as foam bubbled from her mouth. She spoke in a gibberish that reminded me of the Neo-Holy Rollers I’d seen as a child. Possessed by the spirit of God, they spasmed violently and spoke in tongues on the floor of my grandmother’s church. But Nana was not in the throes of a religious fervor. She was malfunctioning.

Tressa joined me in the room. “What’s happening?” she asked as she pulled nervously at her fingers. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Nana malfunction, but it was still a shock.

“Get back in the kitchen, Tressa,” I shouted. She startled, then glanced wide-eyed over at Nana pounding her head onto the cement floor. I jumped to my feet and took her back into the kitchen. “Just stay here.” Ignoring her questions, I yelled for Mike and ran back to the laundry room, where Nana still thrashed on the floor.

I tried to grab a hold of her head, but her arms flapped so uncontrollably that I was afraid of getting smacked. One arm grazed my chin and almost knocked me backwards. The last time she malfunctioned, she nearly knocked Mike unconscious.

“Mike, help.” His quick footsteps were behind me. He crouched down beside us and reached for Nana’s head. It took a few, fumbling seconds for him to get a hold of her without hurting himself, but once he did, he quickly reached behind the left ear and pressed the deactivation button. Nana went limp like a rag doll. Her eyes stared vacantly up at the ceiling as her mouth frothed.

We exchanged weary, battle-worn glances.

After a few seconds of silence, I asked if she could be reactivated. He’d worked miracles before, fixing appliances, correcting anomalies in the projections at work, getting Nana back on her feet again, but this time his hard, doubtful expression made my heart sink. “I don’t know. Let’s see.” He twisted Nana’s head, releasing it from her neck with a hollow pop.

Tressa called from the laundry room door. Whatever trauma she experienced watching her nanny-bot in the middle of a systems meltdown appeared to have vanished. She seemed more curious than frightened. I got to my feet and guided her back into the kitchen.

“Come on, baby, let’s finish our smiley face toast.”

“Did Nana malfunction again?” she asked again, her tiny hand in mine. “Is she gonna be all right?”

I smiled pleasantly as I grabbed the squeeze bottle and picked up where I left off, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t keep them still long enough to muster a perfect smile. Instead it looked more like a slash with one upraised corner. Tressa looked at me with a similar expression, head tilted, eyes bearing so many questions. I asked Mike how Nana was doing.

“It’s probably her neural processing chip,” he called. “I had a feeling it’d crash this time.”

“Can you replace it?” I placed the plate of toast in front of Tressa, then wiped my hands with a towel.

“Probably not. They discontinued her model two years ago. I doubt they even carry chips that are compatible to her system anymore.”

Tressa gazed up at me. “Is she gonna be all right?”

“We’ll see, baby.”

A few minutes later Mike returned to the kitchen and shook his head. Something strange and surprising rose inside me, catching me off-guard. I held onto the back of a chair.

Tressa ran over to her father. “Did you fix Nana, Daddy?” she asked as he lifted her into his arms. Mike sighed and carried her out of the kitchen, beginning a talk usually reserved for puppies who ran into traffic or goldfish that went belly up in their bowls.

I threw the towel down onto the table. Tressa’s toast with its lopsided grin stared insipidly up at me.

Five years.

That was how long she had been a part of our family. She arrived a year after Tressa was born, part of the generous childcare benefits package from the mining company where Mike and I both worked as systems engineers. We weren’t exactly thrilled about it. I had been on maternity leave for a year and was eager to get back to work, but not eager enough to leave my child with an AI. As house care workers, they were still a novel idea, given to so many systems breakdowns. And then there was the manufacturer, which had released a controversial line of AIs only two years earlier. Their previous line was a homogeneous group of household management workers, mostly females with synthesized dark complexions. The company catalogue boasted that each AI came from countries like Nigeria, Jamaica, the Philippines, Guatemala, and many other still developing nations, featuring glossy photographs and artificial bios detailing their traits and cultural attributes. This one enjoys singing mariachi songs, this one makes the best bibinka cake. The company claimed no ill intent, but even they knew the optics were bad. After a few days of protests, they issued an apology and announced plans to build a new, more diverse line of AIs with non-stereotypical protocols.

Mike and I were ambivalent about getting a nanny. We both had ancestors who were maids and nannies so the idea of getting a household management AI didn’t sit well with us. Synthesized maids which never had to worry about pay or being forced to choose between caring for someone else’s family only validated ideas of colonization and exploitation that we had all worked hard to eliminate from the new society. But we had to work, too. Our families lived so far away and couldn’t afford the move up north. We accepted the offer, but only ambivalently.

Like a couple on a first date, we were nervous. We didn’t know what to expect. It’ll be weird, we both agreed. But when she entered our home, round and plump with brown eyes and silver hair, all of my ambivalence swept out of the room.

“You must be Rochelle,” she said warmly, then took me in her arms. Her skin felt synthetic, but she smelled of baked bread. “And this must be Tressa,” she said. Tressa was in her crib, lying on a yellow blanket, kicking up her adorably chubby legs and giggling. The AI reached down and lifted Tressa in her arms. I half-expected her to start crying. She was always fussy with strangers. Her little face would screw up in a confused frown as they cooed and baby-talked to her, before she let loose a shrill alarm that took minutes to calm down. Tressa looked into its face and furrowed her brow, perhaps recognizing in the smooth, unblemished skin something unreservedly nonhuman. But when the AI smiled and said in a soothing tone, “My, what a lovely child you are, my little Tressa,” my baby smiled, then giggled. She touched the AI’s face and hair, then giggled once more, curious as she was confounded.

The android turned to look at us. “Now, see. You have nothing to fear. I am programmed to never harm or let harm come to humans. I will protect this child with my life.”

I smiled faintly, then looked at Mike. I was nervous, excited, and falling very much in love.

Nana came with twenty-thousand different behavioral and analytical commands, one of which I wrote that very evening: blackberry jam smiley faces on toast.

“Why smiley faces with blackberry jam on toast?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. It was stunning how realistically they replicated emotions.

I explained how my grandmother used to make my toast that way when I was a kid and I wanted her to do the same for Tressa. She nodded, ran her hands across the front of her apron, and asked for my grandmother’s name.

“Rochelle,” I replied. “I was named after her. But I always called her Nana.”

She nodded again and smiled. “Then that will be my name too: Nana.”

Nana settled immediately into our home. Her mood never changed from one day to the next. She was always contented, always willing to make our lives as pleasant and worry-free as possible.

“Here, let me get you a nice hot cup of tea,” she would say, taking my coat after I came home from work.

“Don’t get up,” she urged if Tressa began squalling, “I’ll take care of her. You just rest your feet.”

“Would you like a recitation of the latest headlines?” she asked Mike when he settled into his armchair with his tablet.

When she watched Tressa, they played patty-cake games, which I was surprised to learn was one of a number of different old-school child games programmed into her. She was an expert at drawing blackberry jam smiling faces on all of Tressa’s foods –– oatmeal, yogurt, toast, birthday cakes. Her smiley faces were always perfect. She’d draw them with a steady hand, two oval eyes with a semi-circular line beneath. “There,” she’d say with a flourish, and Tressa, laughingly, clapped her approval. I was more than satisfied leaving Tressa in her care. Mike had his doubts.

“It’s freaky,” he said one night with a shudder. “The way she’s always so damn happy. And everything is so perfect around here. No dirt, no burned food, no mess, no nothing.”

“That’s just the way she’s programmed.”

“That’s my point. She’s artificial. What kind of lesson are we sending to Tressa? That she should be happy and perfect all the time, even when she’s not?”

“I doubt that,” I said, though I knew he had a point.

“I just don’t want her to think she has to be like that. That it’s okay to break down, cry, get frustrated and angry. And I want her to know that real humans don’t just accept their lot in life like Nana does. That we’re justified in complaining or fighting back if something ain’t right.”

I rolled my eyes. “God, Mike, you make it sound like Nana is the only one raising her. She still has us.”

“I’m not saying she doesn’t,” he said, pulling off his shirt. “It’s just that we need to be careful. We don’t want her growing up thinking this is what it means to be human.”

Mike was right. But sometimes, I had a hard time remembering the lesson. Despite her artificiality, Nana was a competent, patient caregiver, capable of providing Tressa with all her developmental needs. And Nana showed up for her in ways we couldn’t.

As Tressa grew older, she experienced all of her firsts without us: the first time she walked, spoke, built her own castle with interactive hologram blocks. Each time, Nana encouraged and praised her efforts. “Very good, Tressa,” she’d say, clapping her hands. “You are such a smart girl.” Mike and I experienced these little moments from the clips Nana captured on her internal surveillance camera and saved onto her hard drive, each of us wrapped up in an emotional burrito of regret, guilt, and relief.

“Tressa’s going to grow up to be a fine young woman,” Nana said with a nod.

It never occurred to me that I would depend so much on the praise of an AI. But as the years passed, I stopped thinking of Nana that way. Every time she smiled softly at me or gave me a warm hug or hummed one of Nana Rochelle’s many wordless tunes that I had programmed into her software, she became a real person to me; someone of flesh and blood, full of warmth and joy. If I was no longer bothered by the fact that she didn’t express those other very real human emotions of anger and frustration and regret, then it was only because I had convinced myself that we should all be so lucky to experience only the best of what being human could be.

After all, wasn’t that what we were all aiming toward: happiness? She was, as I once told a coworker, a higher, more realized sentient being.

When Nana’s systems began to fail, her artificiality became harder to ignore. She rebuffered constantly, froze, crashed and had to have her neural processing chip replaced. Each night we plugged the thick cable attached to the back of her head into the backup hard drive in the basement corner to make copies of her memory files. With her eyes and lips shut, she looked exactly what she was: a piece of hardware.

The first time Nana crashed, Tressa asked if she was dead. Mike and I had explained to her multiple times that Nana was artificial, so we were both stunned by her question. We explained to her again that Nana was not real, but that sometimes systems failed. She tilted her head, dissatisfied. “But is she dead?”

I furrowed my brow. It was an interesting philosophical question that I had never considered. Can machines die? If the carburetor failed or a computer crashed, we’d say indeed that it died. But death was the end of life, so can a machine be considered a form of life, even if artificial? Can Nana be considered a lifeform? I pondered the questions, then gazed down at Tressa’s expectant face.

Before I had a chance to answer, Mike leaned forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Do you remember when the washing machine broke down and we had somebody come in to fix it?” She nodded. “Well, it’s just like this. Nana broke down, but we’re gonna get her fixed up like new.”

I looked at Mike, more puzzled than upset. It wasn’t in itself a bad analogy, but surely Nana was more than just a washing machine.

“So, she’s not dead,” said Tressa.

“No, she’s not, pumpkin. Machines don’t die.”

Tressa smiled faintly, satisfied it seemed with Mike’s answer. But I was not. When we were alone, I reminded him that one day Nana’s systems were going to shut down completely.

“What are we gonna tell her then when she realizes machines don’t last forever?”

He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

The life of AIs were short, approximately four years before they became outmoded. The earliest incarnations were little more than metallic frameworks, but manufacturers always upgraded and redesigned their bots. The newer models were always a bit more expensive, and showed up in upper-middle class homes first. Older models had a bit of a shelf-life beyond the latest updates before they wound up in the graveyard. The more technology advanced, the more realistic the AIs became. Who didn’t want a bot that looked, talked, and acted human? The latest can cry and sweat and bleed. When Nana cut her thumb while slicing apples for Tressa’s lunch, she merely smiled as the red sealant glue that bled from the tip sealed the wound. She was one of the first models of AIs programmed with realistic behavioral matrices, one of the redesigns after the company’s ethical breach. She was always going to be a facsimile.

When I asked her once if she was afraid of malfunctioning and never recovering, or being phased out, she responded, “Are you asking if I’m afraid of death, Rochelle?” She was in the middle of chopping onions on the cutting board, her eyes shedding real tears. The odor likely triggered a sensory response mechanism in her psionic brain, yet she never blinked, wiped or rubbed her eyes. The tears fell unimpeded down her cheeks. She was still full of all the kinks program designers hadn’t ironed out until recently.

My question hung stupidly between us.

“You do realize, dear, that I am an AI.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I say, sipping a glass of Riesling. “It’s … you know … something I think about.”

She looked at me with those tear-brimmed eyes, her knife-holding hand suspended over a white onion, cut in half and turned on its cut side, waiting for the blade to carve thin slices. “Have I disappointed you in some way, Rochelle?”

“No, not at all,” I say. “You’ve been fantastic. It’s just … sometimes I wonder…”

“You wonder how I can be and not be human.”

I blinked, uncertain. “You just seem so real to me, and to Tressa, especially.”

“But I am real,” she said jovially. “Here.” She laid down the knife and took my hand. Her fingers were wet with onion juice. I frowned as she drew my hand up to touch her face. “See,” she said with a smile, then moved my hand to touch her hair. “See.” Her skin and hair felt synthetic. There was an uncanny valley to it, real and yet not. “I am not human,” she said in a soothing voice, “but I am real.”

I blinked, my own eyes stinging from the onion residue. I sipped my Riesling while she chopped. A tear swelled and fell from her eye. I reached over and wiped it away. “Thank you.” She swept the onions off the chopping board into a hot skillet.

The day after we lost Nana for good, I decided to stay home with Tressa.

She stayed in her room all morning, watching holographic fairy tales from her eStoryteller. I tried to console her as best I could, but it was as strange experiencing grief for a machine as it was explaining that grief to a child. After taking a plate of protein cookies and almond milk to her room, I attempted to get her to open up about her feelings.

“We all feel bad about what happened.”

“I know, Mama,” she said and munched on a cookie.

“So if you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.” I tucked a braid behind her ear.

She shrugged. “Can I play with my games now?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

She nodded. “May I?”

I sighed and lowered my chin. All of the books I’d read on child psychology suggested that children should be allowed to grieve in their own way. So I let Tressa have her space. People just experience grief differently, I rationalized.

Downstairs the phone rang. My supervisor’s ID flashed across the large screen. I answered it, thinking condolences were in the offing. Instead he wanted to make an offer. Since I was doing so well at work, the company was willing to provide another AI, free of charge.

“Another one?” I said incredulously.

He grinned, his broad, ruddy face widening as he ran his fingers through his reddish blond hair. “It’s the least we can do. After all, you’re family. We don’t want you distracted, worrying about your daughter’s care. We always put families first, of course.” He chuckled softly to himself. “It’s one of the things this company takes pride in.”

“But I’m not sure … I mean, it’s so sudden. Isn’t it?”

He looked puzzled for a minute, though he never stopped grinning. “You would like to get back to work, correct?”

“Well, yes, of course––”

“And we’re looking forward to seeing you back. But, of course, not until you’re ready.”

“It’s just … so sudden,” I said, not certain if my words had any meaning to him. I gazed into the pixelated face on the viewer screen, searching for some understanding.

“These things happen,” he said with a nod. “I remember when an AI I had purchased for my wife malfunctioned; right in the middle of a dinner party, no less. You can imagine our shock, it was––”

“Horrible, yes, I know.”

“––embarrassing.” He chuckled again. “It was quite a scene, I’ll tell you. But, like I said, these things happen. It’s a process. It’ll probably be years before they perfect the design. At least we can always have them replaced, right?”

I held my breath and smiled awkwardly. Something heavy settled in my chest. “I guess,” I managed to get out. “I’ll have to discuss it with Mike.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I agree. You and Mike talk it over. We don’t want to rush you. Not at all. I’ll just go ahead and send the brochure to you. I think you’ll agree with our selection.”

I had barely managed a thank you before he signed off, leaving a ghostly image of his manic grin on the viewer screen.

A new AI. It never occurred to me or Mike to replace Nana. At this point she had become irreplaceable. But there was no mistaking the tone in my supervisor’s voice. Accept a new AI and return to work. It was just a piece of equipment, his eyes said.

I stepped out of the living room and went down to the basement where Nana had been stored since her malfunction. Mike stacked her in a corner among boxes and other old, useless junk, covered her with a sheet. I pulled it away and winced. To my shock, with her eyes open, staring inanimately through me, and her skin puckering and discoloring, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a corpse. I covered my face with my hands, trying to convince myself that my reactions were ridiculous, that Mike was right and that she was only a piece of equipment, no different than a washing machine.

Nana had tried to convince me as much on many occasions. I recalled the time when we sat down in the kitchen for a cup of tea –– or rather, I sat down for a cup. We talked about my job and my marriage and raising Tressa, and all the fears I had over whether I was making the right decisions and wasn’t screwing her up in some way.

She had simply reassured me that I was a wonderful wife and mother and a valuable asset at the mining company. “You have a blessed life,” she said. She smiled warmly, and for a second I actually believed that she believed this, that this was her own opinion and not an algorithm fed into her program to respond to the emotional and psychological needs of humans.

I had asked her a foolish question: “Don’t you ever get tired?” I wanted to know if androids ever dreamed or had desires or needs or got frustrated and impatient and angry. I wasn’t naive; I knew the answer, but Nana stared at me as though the question deserved serious consideration.

“Would it serve your interest if I told you I did?”

I never answered her. I still don’t know what answer I would have given her. But as much as she or Mike may have been right, I couldn’t shake these powerful emotions roiling through me.

I closed Nana’s eyes, returned the sheet, and went back upstairs.

Later that night, Mike was surprisingly agreeable about the offer. “We could use a new nanny,” he said as he speared a synthetic meat cube with his fork. He’d made dinner, and by that I meant he popped the frozen meat cubes and veggies into the microwave, a concession he begrudgingly made when I complained that I had spent all day taking care of Tressa and the house. “With these new projections coming in, our department is gonna be swamped for the next couple of months.”

“But don’t you think it’s a little too soon?”

He frowned. “Too soon for what?”

Tressa beamed. “Cool, a new nanny. Daddy, can we program her to make smiley faces on my yogurt?”

“We can program her to do whatever you want, baby,” he said, laughing.

I lowered my fork, my appetite vanishing. “Tressa, baby,” I said, a knot deep in my throat. “The new nanny won’t be like Nana. You understand that, right? Nana was unique.”

She screwed up her face at me, and pressed her lips together as if in deep thought. “Yes,” she said slowly, then cast a confused look at her father, who in turn shot me a strained “not this again” look. She was getting two very different messages from her parents, and my poor baby was having trouble putting them together.

I gave Mike an emphatic look to repair this, and he cleared his throat and agreed with me that Nana was different, unique, and will be missed.

“So my new nanny will be … different?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“Yes, she will,” he said heartily. “But that’s a good thing, ‘cause she’ll be better. Top-of-the-line model, the latest in AI tech. No expenses spared for my baby.”

Tressa grinned. “Cool.”

That night Mike and I argued. “It was just a robot, Rochelle,” he said cruelly. I turned my back to him in bed and directed the SmartAppliances program to turn off the lampshade.

“How can I ever expect you to understand?” I asked bitterly, and drew the comforter over my shoulder. He didn’t get it. It seemed like I was the only one.

“AIs break down, Rochelle, they malfunction like any piece of equipment––”

“But she wasn’t just any piece of equipment, Mike,” I said over my shoulder. “She deserves to be treated better than some broke-down washing machine.”

“So why don’t washing machines deserve better?” he said. I sat up and stared at him, hurt. He never mocked me before. “I’m serious,” he said. “What makes AIs any different than washing machines or Smartcars or interactive RPGs? They’re all working from the same matrices, so why act like one is better than the others?”

“It’s different,” I said.

“Because she looked human.”

“Yes, because she looked human. Isn’t that enough?”

“So you treat some AIs differently than others because they look like you.”

“Oh, you know goddamn well that’s not what I meant.”

“So, what are you saying then?” The whites of his eyes glistened in the moonlight cast through the window blinds.

“It’s just different.” He continued to stare, waiting. I sighed, resentful of his accusations. I was tired. Tired of arguing, tired of explaining. “Fine, we’ll get the upgrade.” And we’ll pretend like Nana never existed.

I settled back under the covers, turned away from him, and nestled my cheek into the pillow. After a few minutes, Mike put his arm around me and kissed my shoulder. I bristled at his touch. Anger roiled through me like electricity. I never counted on him being so unfeeling, so blind to what I was going through, too blind to see that Nana could have been our own Nanas.

He told me everything will be fine. “We’ll get the new nanny,” he whispered, “you can go back to work, Tressa will be taken care of, and everything will be okay. All right?”

“Yeah, sure.” I stared at a square of moonlight against the wall and waited for my husband to fall asleep. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

The next day the brochure arrived by messenger. Mike was right. Our new nanny was top-of-the-line. He came with new software features, apps, nearly a hundred thousand commands, and a playlist of over two million songs. He could laugh, cry, sing, and perform all motor functions and analytical skills required for household management. His name was William. He had soft European features, pale skin and dark hair. His brown eyes and broad smile looked less uncanny than most of the older models. And yet, there still seemed something off about him, like he was the result of the manufacturers trying way too hard.

Nana brought a naturalness to this household that quickly put me at ease. Would William do the same?

Tressa asked if she can still call him Nana. Mike saw no reason why not, but I frowned at the suggestion. The brochure stated he already came with a name and he most likely preferred to be called by that.

“Roche,” Mike said, his eyes fixed on me. “Androids don’t have preferences.”

I stared at the brochure of a smiling, compliant AI and felt uneasy.

Before William arrived, we had the painful but necessary job of delivering Nana to the graveyard, an odd euphemism for the processing plant where all old models were taken apart and recycled.

I suggested we all go together. “A family event,” I said, unable to say that what I really wanted was a funeral ceremony.

After Nana Rochelle unexpectedly passed away in her sleep, she had a small, but joyous homegoing. There was a lot of singing and dancing because that was how she would have wanted it. If I had asked Nana whether she wanted a ceremony to go out on, she likely would have replied, “If it serves your interest…”

I decided it served my interest. “It’ll be good for Tressa,” I said. Mike sighed, but he didn’t fight me on it. He didn’t fight me either when I told him to leave her in the white sheet instead of packing her away in the crate she came in. “Let her have some dignity.”

Mike looked at me strangely but did as I asked.

We were tense and quiet during the drive to the graveyard. I stared out at the passing shops downtown, and then fields, occasionally glancing at Mike and my daughter. Mike lurked behind a strained expression, but Tressa’s face was unreadable. I wondered what she was thinking, whether beneath the excitement about getting a new nanny-bot that she really did miss Nana. In our eagerness to teach our daughter to understand what it meant to be human, I hoped that we had not gone too far.

When Mike turned into the yard, I inhaled deeply. The graveyard lay on the outskirts of town, in a quarry in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hills of gravel and rock. Seagulls flew serenely in the pale blue sky. Below them dumpsters filled with mounds of torsos, limbs, and decapitated heads littered the quarry, resembling a mass grave.

Mike got out of the car, took Nana out from the trunk, and carried her in his arms. Tressa wanted to get out of the car with him, but I said no. As much as I wanted her to say goodbye, I wasn’t sure how the image of all those artificial body parts might affect her. They were creepy, even for me.

“It’s all right,” Mike said, nodding for me to open Tressa’s door. I sighed to myself and stared at him. It seemed we were never on the same footing, were we?

“Mommy?” Tressa said, eyes wide and hopeful. Sighing again, I nodded yes and told her to go. Tressa climbed down from the car and went over to her father.

“I want to say goodbye,” she said. My heart broke.

Mike leaned down. Tressa parted the shroud over Nana’s head and kissed her on the forehead. A tiny, sweet, and tender kiss.

I held her hand as Mike carried Nana over to a man in a green jumpsuit who waited near a weather-beaten shack. The two men exchanged a few words before the worker took Nana from him. As Mike came back to the car, he gazed sympathetically at me. I smiled wistfully and squeezed my daughter’s hand. This was difficult; it was always difficult saying good-bye to a family member, but we will get through this and move on. Tressa looked up at me with a sad, faint smile, then tilted her head as if to say, You’ll get through this, Mommy. I held her gaze for half a second, then raised my chin and squared my shoulders.

The worker carried Nana over to one of the dumpsters and tossed her in. Her body landed with a heavy thud that echoed in the cold air.

Two days later, our new nanny arrived. William did not come in a crate. He came with a delivery man. Mike signed for him and invited him inside. He was tall, slender and blandly handsome. Unlike the picture in the brochure, he wore his dark hair in a topknot, and wore a casual t-shirt and jeans, giving him a rugged, hipster look. His eyes were blue instead of brown, and surprisingly genuine.

If anyone saw him now, they would never have guessed he was an AI. They would never have guessed he was a nanny either, or that he came to replace another AI we called Nana, who brought order and comfort to our lives, and was someone I deeply loved.

He introduced himself.

“Hello, my name is William, and I will be your new nanny.”

Tressa gazed up at him for a long time. I hoped she was having second thoughts, perhaps realizing that even AIs weren’t as replaceable as washing machines or interactive toys. But instead she asked William the topmost question on her mind:

“Can you make smiley faces with blackberry jam on toast?”

William considered this question with an odd look as his psionic brain analyzed its logic. He smiled. “No, but I can be programmed to do whatever you like.”

Satisfied with his answer, Tressa smiled at her new nanny and took his hand.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT CYNTHIA C. SCOTT

A lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area and graduate from San Francisco State University, Cynthia C. Scott is the author of The Naxos Academy of Psychic Studies for Colored Girls, and many short stories, including one published in “When to Now: A Time Travel Anthology.” She is also working on a series of sci-fi adventure novels called The Book of Dreams.

PERFORMANCE REVIEW

By Maryan Mahamed // 2949 words

Slip is three days out of market when he first fails to answer a question. Not a test, but what appears to be a genuine question.

He sits propped up against a machine that spits dark liquid into a brown-stained porcelain cup, wide face turned so that his eyes follow the human in drab grey clothes.

“Hey Slip,” the human says.

Slip lights up green, flickering to attention.

Marv is the first human outside of the facility that Slip has interacted with. The first day, Marc had carried Slip tucked between his forearm and chest. When they reached the car, Marv places Slip in the seat beside him and wrapped a cord across the length of his body. The top of the cord covered Slip’s eyes, and he spent several moments unable to see past it and Marv’s long hair as he fiddled around with it.

They drove home with Slip tilting at every jerk the car made, Marv’s hand reaching across the seat to make sure he didn’t fall over, soft mutters floating in the air each time.

Slip doesn’t leave the house after, always propped up against the machine where he sees Marv three times a day.

Marv reaches for the cup, tapping Slip’s side with a finger before he takes a large sip.

“How are you?” Marv asks.

The green light softens as Slip contemplates the odd question. How are you? How peculiar.

“I’m sorry,” Slip says. “I don’t understand what you are asking.”

[BREAK]

Performance Review 001

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 23 August 2094

Reason for return: “Defective. Robot unable to answer the simplest questions.”

Recommended action: send to QA for bug testing.

[BREAK]

It takes Slip three tries and three frustrating humans before he learns what they want.

This human is named Samara. She lives alone in a basement apartment stubbornly filled with piles of paper. The last human Slip lived with had clean walls bare of any semblance of the old amusements.

Samara is different from the last humans. Each day, she walks to the small kitchenette to make herself a pot of hot, brown liquid — coffee, Slip remembers. That’s what coffee looks like.

As she walks past the table Slip sits on, square eyes following her movements as Slip sits with legs straight out, she asks, “How are you?”

Slip has learned to ignore that question, but Samara is so persistent he replies anyway.

“I do not know,” Slip says. If he were human, his voice might have shown frustration.

Samara pauses, hand hovering over the cup of coffee. “I don’t know?” she asks.

Slip remains quiet; if Samara is frustrated, Slip cannot tell in the short time it takes her to repeat herself before the alarm signaling her departure rings.

Seven days after Slip joins Samara, the woman sits before him and asks again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I do not understand the question.”

Samara laughs, her hands shaking as pale coffee sloshing in its cup. “When someone asks, ‘How are you?’ they want to know … to know…” She stops, a stumped look on her face.

“Do robots have feelings?” she mutters.

“I am a programmed machine,” Slip responds, green light darkening.

“Right,” she says, chewing on her lower lip. “When someone asks me how I am, I’d answer ‘well,’ if I was feeling good, or ‘fine’ if I was fine or somewhere in the middle, or ‘not too good’ if I was maybe sad or stressed.”

Slip absorbs the information, tucking it safely between his database of the words.

The next morning, Samara stumbles into the kitchenette, half-asleep and still wearing bedclothes.

“How are you, Slip?”

Slip considers the question and what he’s saved from her words. Not ‘stressed’ he knows. Nor is he ‘sad’.

After a long moment, with Samara staring intently at him, Slip flickers bright green as he answers, “Well. I am well.”

Samara laughs in what he thinks is human joy. Slip searches and tucks a new word into his response for this question. Happy.

[BREAK]

Performance Review 004

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 14 December 2094

Reason for return: “Defective. Robot repeats the same phrase continuously.”

Recommended action: reboot bot.

[BREAK]

Performance Review 005

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 23 January 2095

Reason for return: “Defective. Robot unable to answer the simplest questions.”

Recommended action: send to QA for bug testing.

[BREAK]

His second human is more exuberant than the first.

Sixth human, Slip recalls. There are logs in his program, little trails that tell him this is not the second human Slip lives with. The names are tied to a series of numbers, dates, a reason for return and, if Slip is persistent in his search, a series of entries that were made in the days between when he left the facility and his review. Slip wonders at what could have caused some of the entries.

Grant lives in a large house with bright colours splashed on the walls in rectangular frames. His archives tell him these are paintings. Abstract, and much desired.

On the weekends, Grant brings two small humans into the house. Lana and Jake are his children; Slip knows this because Grant brings them before Slip that first weekend he is with the man and introduces the humans to their programmed helper.

“Slip is a talking robot,” he tells them, frowning as their faces don’t show the same excitement.

“Grandpa has a robot,” Lana says.

“Her name is Hurly,” Jake chimes in, “and she sings Grams’ favourite songs.”

“She doesn’t sing them,” Grant dismisses. “She plays them from the radio.”

The boy remains quietly unimpressed.

Slip can’t sing as this Hurly does, but there are words littered across the logs he should not have seen — words Grant repeats for Slip, laughing uproariously as Slip learns to answer. Perhaps the children will laugh as their father does.

“How are you?” Slip asks them.

“I want to go outside,” Lana says as her brother answers, “Fine, thanks. How are you?”

Lana rolls her eyes, a sharp elbow poking into Jake’s side.

“He’s a computer,” she says, a touch of emotion in her voice. Slip thinks it’s annoyance.

“I was being polite,” Jake mumbles, cheeks flushed.

Slip lights up, green flickering rapidly. Grant leans forward, eyes fixed on his children’s faces.

“I am well, thank you for asking,” Slip responds.

The children beam, laughter escaping them.

Jake crows to his sister, “He answered my question! Even Hurly can’t do that.”

Grant brings the children every weekend, and Slip greets them each time. Soon, the novelty of a robot answering a question about feelings wears off.

“Slip,” Jake says, looking up from the work he was meant to be doing.

“Yes, Jake. How can I help?”

“Do you have parents?”

Slip pauses, light dimming as he considers the question. Parents. That was not something robots had.

“I am a robot,” Slip says.

“Don’t robots have parents?” Jake asks.

Slip doesn’t respond, unsure for the first time.

[BREAK]

Performance Review 006

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 9 March 2095

Reason for return: “Defective. Robot unable to answer quickly”

Recommended action: reset response times.

[BREAK]

Slip’s fifty-first human is a recruiter.

The logs show a name and occupation three days before Slip leaves the facility. He spends those days parsing through the rest of the records.

Slip keeps his light dim, unsure how long this human will last. The thirty-fifth human had returned him in a matter of days with a long list of reasons for return; Slip removes the new logs that show “Researcher” in the occupation column and sits through a round of bug testing.

The human smiles as widely as Grant had, and Slip lights up in response.

Brett delights at having a robot helper, telling the friends that visit his small studio apartment that Slip will help him perfect the interview process.

Slip is unaware of what a robot can do to help but tries all the same.

“You’ll be the interviewee,” Brett tells him. “I will ask questions and you respond to them. You’re a worker for a small family, and you need to find a new job.”

Slip flickers his light. “I understand.”

“Good! Let’s begin, shall we?” Brett moves Slip so that they’re on opposite sides of the rusted table. Slip sits on a small tower of coasters, legs angled so that it looks as if he is sitting on a chair.

Brett turns a tablet toward him, screen covered with lines of writing and dates in large font.

“Most of the answers would be on here,” Brett tells him, pointing to a name at the top that isn’t Slip’s, finger scrolling downward at the dates and names that fill the screen. “The rest would be up to you to elaborate.”

Slip makes a sound, a quiet click of agreement.

The first interview goes poorly.

Brett asks his name and scribbles the answer onto the screen when he responds. He asks about Slip’s most recent job.

“Fact-bot,” he answers. It’s close enough — Slip usually answers questions for the humans he lives with.

Slip has one quiet moment as Brett pokes a finger at the tablet before the man launches into a series of questions.

What was he hoping to accomplish? Why did he want to join Curio?

Slip answers honestly; the family he had been assigned to was moving overseas and Slip needed a job.

Brett smiles, thanks him and says they would get back to him with a response in two weeks.

Slip goes back to his desk, quietly pleased with himself. He thinks he does well enough.

Brett tells him he would have failed the interview.

The next five rounds go similarly, until Slip sees the emotions more plainly on the human’s face. He can’t tell what they are, only that they are not happy. The earliest humans were happy from what his entries show.

Brett begins to mutter on long calls on the phone.

He is stressed, Slip decides. His stressed humans had all returned Slip; he doubts Brett will do differently.

[BREAK]

Performance Review 051

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 9 July 2096

Reason for return: “Defective. Robot doesn’t fulfill expected tasks.”

Recommended action: reset response times.

[BREAK]

“Slip, aboowe,” the grandmother begins.

Awo’s eldest granddaughter quickly interjects, an exasperated look on her face. “The news, please, Slip.”

Awo tsks in disappointment, a familiar argument beginning to brew between grandmother and granddaughter. Yasmin is good enough to translate between her grandmother and the doctors, Slip seated on the old woman’s lap as he listens and attempts to follow Awo’s instruction to learn the two languages together. The car is where they return to their disagreement as Yasmin speaks to him in English. The first time, Slip hadn’t known where to find the news station and sat through a fifteen minute lecture he hadn’t understood.

Slip searches, trawling through the web for the site the elderly woman prefers to hear her news from. A link opens, and the familiar sound of a lute echoes in the house as he turns the volume higher to head them off. Awo will be busy for the next half-hour as she catches up on the goings-on of Somalia.

This family is the largest Slip has been with, and the longest he has been with a single family since his inception, he thinks.

The Adens bring Slip home and set him down in the family room. There’s a table where the younger humans — Aden, Osman and Idman — sit daily with homework or food or a prayer book. They ask Slip questions as they come to mind: What’s the weather forecast? How often do kids need to eat vegetables? What is thirty divided by seven?

Slip answers them all, even when their mother Lul admonishes them for using his help for their homework questions.

The grandmother is his favourite. When Slip is first set down before her, she asks him a question.

“I’m sorry,” Slip says. “I don’t understand. Can you repeat the question?”

She does, the words altogether unfamiliar.

Slip searches and searches, matching little snippets of Awo’s words to things lingering on the web. Translate is good for many things, but the grandmother speaks with words Slip cannot find an accurate translation for.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer.”

“Maxuu yiri?” Awo asks her granddaughter.

Yasmin answers in that same unfamiliar language.

Slip waits, expecting a frown or a comment to return him.

Awo laughs instead and says something to Yasmin. She smiles in turn, murmurs more unfamiliar words.

“Slip, can you turn on the news?” Yasmin asks.

“I can do that, yes,” Slip says. If he had to put a human emotion to his words, he would say he was relieved.

It takes Slip some time before he can find the particular site she prefers. Yasmin lingers near them, directing Slip with ways to search and in which order to play the videos.

Awo remains quiet. Slip thinks she prefers that, but his logs are filled with words and reasons that almost make him anxious.

When the video begins to play, a smile crosses her features.

“Mahadsanid,” she says.

Slip brightens and replies, “You’re welcome.”

∙ ∙ ∙

At the end of his third week in the Aden house, Slip flickers awake at dawn to hear shuffling feet and a sleepily murmured “Sorry, Slip.”

It’s Osman, foot dangling in the sink as he washes them.

“Feet are meant to be washed in the washroom,” Slip says.

Osman startles, laughs and cranes his neck. When he sees that they are alone, he stumbles closer to Slip, leaving wet footprints on the tiles. “Aden takes forever in the washroom and I don’t need to pee.”

“What do you need?” Slip asks after a long moment.

“To pray and sleep,” Osman answers. “Don’t tell my mom,” he continues. “I’ll be grounded for doing that.”

Slip says nothing.

In the morning, once the sun is out and Lul is about to prepare their breakfast, Slip’s light brightens to catch her attention.

“Maxaa dhacay, what happened?” she asks. “Are you not working?”

“You should clean the sink for hygiene,” Slip says. “It is safer to do so.”

Yasmin hears them and moves closer upon seeing the confused look on her mother’s face.

“Is he supposed to do that?” Lul asks.

Yasmin points to dried footprints on the floor. “Someone made wudhu in the kitchen.”

Later, when Osman asks if Slip told his mother, Slip answers truthfully.

“Yasmin did.”

The siblings argue until Awo gives them a sharp look and sharper words.

∙ ∙ ∙

Four days later, Slip learns that the Adens wake up at dawn each day to pray. Sometimes they’ll do so together; most times, they pray separately and fall right back asleep.

The younger humans wake at their mother’s touch, following Lul’s careful hands as she quietly guides them to the washroom.

Awo prefers to wake earlier, with a sound Slip learns is the call to prayer. It’s quiet and kept largely to her room. When the evening prayer comes, Slip finds a recording and plays it right when the sun sets.

Awo smiles, murmurs something quietly at each lull of the recording. She gives Slip a soft pat as she passes him once the audio finishes.

He does the same the next afternoon.

Slip finds himself in the company of the grandmother more, seated at her arm as they listen to the news while the children are at school. His translation is still in need of work, he knows, but Slip repeats some of the words he hears her say and marvels at her easy laughter.

Aden overhears them one day as he drops a kiss to his grandmother’s cheek.

“She says your pronunciation needs work, Slip,” he tells him.

Slip cranes his neck up to look at the boy towering over them. “How so?”

“You’re supposed to use the tip of your tongue.” He opens his mouth wide, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.

“I don’t have a tongue,” Slip reminds him.

Aden laughs, dark eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look like his mother. “She knows.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Fourteen months later, Awo is no longer in the house. She hasn’t been in the house for weeks.

Slip had gone with them in the earlier days of her stay at the hospital, the recording playing as she softly murmured words. By the fifth day, Yasmin picks him up and returns Slip to the spot on the kitchen counter.

There are guests going in and out that first week, platters of food carried between them as they murmur unfamiliar words.

Slip overhears the children’s friends offer their condolences. Yasmin is sad, and Slip tucks another word into his database. Grief.

He is alone more often than not, sat on the kitchen counter until Idman takes him to the arm chair and curls up in Awo’s favourite seat. Slip turns on the news and the younger girl bursts into tears.

He stays on the kitchen counter after that.

Slip plays the other recording five times a day. There are no tears when he does this, only a sudden rush to the bathroom. When the house is empty of humans, Slip turns the news on, the familiar sound of the lute lingering in the air. There are no tears this time, only Slip and the lute and the entry in his logs that tie Awo and this audio together.

∙ ∙ ∙

A month later, Slip remains on the kitchen counter, playing the two recordings whenever he recalls the smiling woman.

[BREAK]

Performance Review 079

Bot: Slip-A-312

Date: 2 October 2097

Reason for return: “Broken. Robot plays audio at all hours of the night.”

Recommended action: reboot and remove program, salvage usable parts.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT MARYAN MAHAMED

A lover of stories in all forms, Maryan is always on the hunt for new additions to her ever-expanding pile of things to-be-read/watched. When not elbow deep in numbers, she can be found gleefully giving out recs for books, films and shows she is only partway into but is convinced she’ll love.

THE TRUMPET PLAYER

By Nicole Givens Kurtz // 3929 words

The twelfth shuttle taxi stopped — or maybe the thirteenth — Jazz couldn’t be sure.

All he knew was he could at last lower his thumb. He climbed into the backseat, placing his trumpet case beside him, and lowered the door. Ahead, the human pilot sat hunched against the console. The windows darkened due to the section of asteroid laden space.

“Thank you.” Jazz put on his seatbelt. It bore what looked to be oil stains or dried blood. He couldn’t tell in the cabin’s low light.

“You been waitin’ awhile?” The bald driver didn’t turn around. “Folks don’t like picking up bots out here. To me, credit is credit, no matter who it comes from. It all spends the same.”

Jazz let the words wash over him. The shuttles that blasted past reminded him of how much they feared and loathed his kind. One couple had even slowed down to make sure he knew — if there was any doubt.

“Hey, robo! Why you out here on this asteroid?” The interior illuminated the human’s yellow spacesuit. Blue eyes narrowed through the protective visor.

They had halted outside Shuttle Bay One, which lacked oxygen. The civilian space dock held two bays for pick-ups and drop-offs. The asteroid didn’t have enough surface area for more.

Jazz had ignored them and continued to hold out his thumb in hopes of snaring a ride. They shouted names at him before getting bored and blasting off, shooting a thick cloud of space dust in their wake.

How did such weak beings — they couldn’t even survive without oxygen — think themselves superior?

The question was rhetorical. Human cruelty kept them high on the chain.

And they thought bots lacked emotions and empathy.

“Your speech center damaged?” the driver asked, bringing Jazz’s attention back to the shuttle. “Where you going?”

“Sorry. I’m headed to Botsville.”

“That’s a bit on the northern part of Mars. You got credit for that?” A thread of doubt bore through the driver’s words.

Jazz didn’t blame him. The driver had been conditioned to suspect robots of treachery and lies. Ever since the Earth uprising, a campaign of fear caused bots to suffer. He shrugged. All he wanted to do was play his trumpet, make beautiful music, and live.

“I got it.” Jazz placed his hand against the flat scanner for payment.

“Pay half now. The other half when we get there. You understand?” The driver pressed buttons on the console and green ran across Jazz’s open palm. The scan read the tiny nanobot coding that identified Jazz’s make, model, and personal demographics, including his credit balance.

“Do all customers have to pay half up front? I never had someone ask before.”

“Yeah.” The driver’s slight hesitation betrayed him. “You understand. I got a family to support. It’s to cut down scammers.”

“Sure.” Jazz did understand. It didn’t mean he liked it.

So, he settled back for the ride. An odor of smoke, processed food, and trapped old sweat congealed in the shuttle, but Jazz deactivated his ability to smell. Thelonius Monk’s Round Midnight audio file played in his ear, but he retreated to thinking about the job offer in Botsville. He’d known the drum player, Bongo, since they worked together on Earth in Greensboro, North Carolina, a city known for its music. They worked moving scrap metal from one pile to the other and configuring it for the business’s customers. When they had breaks, he and Bongo would use the metal to configure makeshift instruments and create songs, jam sessions amongst the metal mountains.

Their boss, Mr. Terrance, didn’t like their “racket” and would yell at them to knock it off. But one of the best things about being a robot was that he didn’t need to sleep. Mr. Terrance did.

So, when he left to go home, Bongo and Jazz would light up the night with their music. No one heard them being so far outside the city limits. When the uprising happened, he and Bongo lost touch. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall what happened to Mr. Terrance, either.

Jazz shifted in his seat. Back then, bots scattered to the four winds and beyond. They searched for the place they belonged — a place where they could be free from domination and servitude. This journey to Mars was another trail on the map.

Mars.

At one time, it was the only planet in the solar system entirely inhabited robots. Even now, robots outnumbered humans three to one. All-bot towns like Botsville existed, and the planet had become a mecca for robots everywhere. Posters littered the internet and interspace highways about Mars’s safety and security, and robots flocked there in great numbers.

Jazz had been reluctant. Anita Williams, his developer and programmer, used to tell him if it sounded too good to be true, it probably was. The gleaming Mars endorsements seemed a little too flashy, but that could be the glitch in his code. He chuckled to himself. Cynical old bot.

Even though he thought it, the voice attached to those words had been Anita’s.

“You come this way often?” The driver interrupted the quiet and with it, Jazz’s hope for a peaceful flight.

“No.” Jazz turned his attention to the view outside. Space opened up in a dazzling array of stars. The asteroid belt had been less captivating.

“You working in the mines? You don’t look like a mining bot to me, but then, they’re always upgrading you all.”

Jazz let the driver rattle on. The man liked consuming all the oxygen in the shuttle.

Good thing Jazz didn’t need any of it.

∙ ∙ ∙

Botsville sat on the northern hemisphere’s lowland plains. Biodomes had been erected for humans, but unlike some of the other Martian cities, Botsville didn’t have extensive terraforming. Jazz paid the driver, grabbed his trumpet case, and got out of the shuttle. He’d been dropped off at the Jemisin Interplanetary Station. Alba Mons served as a guide for travel amongst the smear of reddish landscape.

Once the shuttle bolted away, Jazz swept the area. Robots of all shapes and sizes walked, flew, and drove around him. Illuminated and automated lanes controlled the flow of traffic, both on the ground and in the air. Shuttles, small ships, and winged robots arrived and departed. The sky wasn’t blue, due to lack of oxygen, but it was still beautiful — at least to Jazz.

Robots roamed free.

A flashing sign stretched tall on a pole outside the biodome, welcoming him to Botsville in flashing black letters against a white background.

He called up his internal communication mode. “Bongo. I’m here. Where are you?”

Jazz’s grip on his trumpet case tightened as the moments ticked by. Damn it, Bongo. Answer.

He forced himself to relax. He’d made it this far. A few minutes more wouldn’t be too bad.

“Sweet oil and freedom,” Bongo piped up on the internal connection. “You made it!”

“I did. I’m at the station. You coming to get me or what?”

“Cool your heating coils. I’m right around the corner. Head over to D section. That’s for pickups. Look for the green rover.”

“What’s a rover?” Jazz asked, but Bango disconnected.

Jazz hadn’t been to Mars before so he couldn’t use his internal map and global positioning as he did on Earth. So, he read the overhead signs and flashing arrows that directed him to D section. Once there, he found scores of vehicles and crafts hovering in place for both human customers and robots. A bright green rover with large tires and solar-paneled ceiling came to a stop.

A bi-pedaled, dulled gray bot with hands the size of plates waved at him. “Jazz! Over here!”

“Bongo!” Jazz hurried over. Bongo leaned over, took the case, and set it in the back seat.

The rover lacked doors of any kind. Completely open to the elements, the solar panels covered the entire top. It lacked a console, and instead had a steering wheel.

“Sweet oil and freedom!” Bongo slapped Jazz on the back, nearly knocking him over.

“Hello, Bongo. Where’s the seatbelt?”

“Don’t need them. We can’t die. Not really.” Bongo jerked the rover out into traffic, forcing several other vehicles to stop short or swerve to avoid collision.

“No, but repairs are a pain!” Jazz shouted. He reached back for his trumpet case, holding it over his chest like a shield.

Bongo roared in laughter. “The mines did a job on you. Reset your sensors. You’re in B’ville.”

“B’ville?”

“Botsville, bottie, Botsville.” Bongo flashed a smile onto his facial screen. He didn’t have set facial features like Jazz. His head had been designed to project faces to viewers. Bongo preferred the one he showed Jazz now, an African American with dark eyes and an expression of joy. Sometimes, Bongo would merge faces and present a mixture of ethnicities and emotions.

After several miles, the traffic thinned. Jazz released his tight grip on his case. The rover rumbled over the terrain. Jazz grabbed one of the bars and held on as they made their way to Botsville proper.

“Where are we going?” Jazz shouted above the rover’s roaring engine.

“To the club. I want you to meet everybots.”

As a newer model, Jazz had been designed to mimic humans. He had two arms, legs, hands, feet, toes, and a head. Bongo managed to be the more expressive of the two of them. Jazz stopped his internal musings and turned his attention to the setting around them. The red planet didn’t disappoint. The landscape had changed since the images Curiosity and Perseverance sent back forever ago. In the distance, he spied biodomes connected to each other via tunneled tubes of the same plastic polymer. Humans moved through the clear enclosed environment without masks.

“It’s so quiet.” Jazz turned to Bongo. The faint hum of machinery could be heard. Nothing more.

Bongo nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry. We’re going to a place that’s full of music.”

A rectangular, one-story building, encircled by bubble-domed walkways came into view. An unlit neon sign, the shape of a saxophone, pointed down at the building from a post high above it — The Last Dance.

“That’s it. Home sweet home,” Bongo declared. Pride made his projected face bright. “Looks like the band’s here.”

Jazz didn’t know what to make of it. With his curiosity piqued, he held his case tight to his chest. He’d expected something more — musical, but he couldn’t quite find the wording in his vocabulary banks to label the impression the place cast on him.

Bongo parked close to the rear exit. The sun’s glare blazed on and Jazz adjusted his internal temperature settings to keep from overheating. The smells took him back to their time at the scrap metal yard on Earth. He didn’t see any other bots with musical attachments or modifications. The area lacked rhythm.

What have you gotten me into, Bongo?

“Through here,” Bongo pointed. “Jerry’s office is on the other side of this door. He’s the boss.”

“Jerry?” Jazz paused on the ramp to the club. “That sounds like a human name.”

Bongo turned to him. The flashing smile gone. “It is.”

“You told me it was robots here.”

“In the band…” Bongo started.

Jazz lowered his trumpet case. “No. I told you that I didn’t want to deal with any more human overlords or bosses. You said Botsville was an all-robot establishment here on Mars. You know what the humans did to us. You know what they did to me.”

Bongo flashed a toothy grin. “I do. My memory banks are sound, Jazz, but sweet oil and freedom, you’ll love it here. Come in and see. You’ve come this far.”

Jazz had come a long way. “Okay.”

He followed Bongo into the club’s back area. The stage was off to the left. Beyond it, tables and chairs were clustered together in a makeshift manner, probably for cleanup. Bongo approached the open mouth of a room.

A male walked out. He had a shaved head and wore a navy one-piece suit with a bright yellow stripe down the side. A matching mask covered his lower face, nasal oxygen tubes peaked out from inside it.

“I’m Jerry! You must be Jazz, the trumpet player. Been looking forward to meeting you.” The man stuck his gloved hand out to shake.

Jazz stood two feet taller and had to look down at him. He nodded in greeting to the human boss but remained silent.

“Yeah, welcome.” Jerry lowered his outstretched hand.

Bongo gestured to Jazz. “Come. Let’s meet the others.”

The music met Jazz before the others did. As Bongo rounded the corner, the velvety bass reached out and thundered in Jazz’s whole body. A bass! Jazz hadn’t seen one in its beautiful warm wood in decades. He increased his pace, almost overtaking Bongo. A group of three other robots stood around with their instruments, playing random bits of music.

If Jazz’s eyes could widen, they would have. Instead, he blurted out, “Hi!”

The notes fluttered down to silence. The larger bot on the left had the smooth exterior of an egg and the shape of one. They had several arms, with several keyboard sets erected around them. “Bongo, this must be Jazz. Am I right?”

Bongo nodded. “Yeah, this is Jazz, the trumpet player I’ve been telling you about. He made it.”

They made celebratory noise. Jazz wondered why. He played the trumpet, nothing more. Some bots developed cures for humankind’s greatest diseases, and others discovered other galaxies. He lifted his hand in way of greeting.

“The keyboard player is Fingers,” Bongo said. He turned to the other two robots. One in the center, with the giant bass, had large square shoulders and equally large feet. “This is Chunk. She used to be a loader, before the uprising, and now she’s our best bass player.”

Chunk raised and lowered her massive shoulders. Despite her huge body, she managed the bass with grace and care. Her fingers plucked and held the bow with such attention, Jazz wondered if she had ever done anything else.

“And at the end there is Kenny.” Bongo laughed as Kenny bowed. “He plays the sax and other wind instruments.”

Kenny, unlike the other bots, had been modeled after a butler. He had a painted receding hairline, dark moustache, and his body had been painted as a tuxedo. The expression on his face looked dour, but despite this, Kenny had a cheerful disposition. “It’s grand to meet you, Jazz.”

“The same to all of you,” Jazz said. “I heard bits of your session as I came in. You’re really good.”

Fingers chortled. “Of course, we are. Don’t let the building fool you.”

Jazz looked around for Bongo and found him heaving his drum set out to join the band. He glanced over at Jazz. “You wanna warm up for a little session?”

“Yeah!” Jazz crouched down and unlocked his trumpet case.

He removed his trumpet and began playing with the keys, getting his fingers ready. He applied the mouthpiece and blew into it. The vents at his back swept the air needed into his body. Unlike human players, Jazz didn’t have to worry about running out of oxygen or rely on his lungs’ capacity.

He hadn’t played since Earth.

Too long ago. Much too long.

He looked at his new band cohorts and smiled.

“Let’s jam.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Two Earth weeks passed, and Jazz found himself learning the rhythm of his new band. Fingers had a habit of going off on long solos that ate into the time allocated for each song. Chunk loved to jam, and blending in with Bongo. Whenever the two launched into impromptu breakdowns,. people got out of their seats and danced in the narrow aisles. Jazz loved their spontaneity and sometimes joined in, but he and Kenny worked their magic with the melodies. Together, music won out over Jazz’s initial hesitation.

When they weren’t playing, the band bots would hang out at the workroom. No one appeared to have a home of their own. The Last Dance offered tiny square alcoves where they could rest or retreat, but the stables, as Jazz liked to call them, lacked doors or privacy. When he asked Jerry about providing a door to his room, Jerry chuckled and said, “Why do you need privacy? You’re not a sex bot.”

“No, but I would like privacy as a robotic entity.” Jazz pressed.

Jerry’s cheeriness faulted. “Look. None of the others need a door.”

“I am not the others. I am Jazz and I would like a door to my stable.”

“Stable?” Jerry frowned. “Look, you have a good life here. I take care of you. I give you shelter, and access to charging grids. And I don’t charge you.”

“You also don’t pay us,” Jazz kept the tenor of his voice calm. “According to the contract you provide room, shelter, maintenance, and power; in exchange for our musical play. I possess a copy in my memory. I can call it up now if you wish.”

Jerry’s eyes bulged and he gritted his teeth. “I know what the damn contract says … you piece of junk!”

Bongo appeared from behind Jerry. “Is everything all right?”

Jerry turned to him and jutted his finger back at Jazz. “Talk to your friend before he finds himself out on his ass in the Martian sun.”

As he stormed off, Bongo looked to Jazz. “What’s that about?”

Jazz told him.

Bongo closed his eyes and opened them. “Why are you always poking the bear, as the humans say?”

“I only asked for a door to maintain privacy.” Jazz kept his eyes pinned to Jerry’s office door. “If I was a human being, this would not be an issue.”

Bongo nodded. “But you aren’t a human. You’re a bot. Bots don’t need doors.”

Jazz looked to him then. “No, but I want a door. I shouldn’t have to need it to be allowed to have it. I am alive. I determine my own wants and needs. It isn’t up to someone else to dictate for me.”

Bongo raised both his massive hands in surrender. “Sweet oil, boto, sweet oil. It glides better than the regular stuff. So, take it easy.”

Jazz walked off, putting distance between himself and Bongo.

That had been two days ago, and now, standing behind the red curtain for yet another night of creating music, Jazz’s fingers stalled on his trumpet keys. The Last Dance had increased in attendance since his first night. He didn’t need Jerry to tell him. Jazz had tallied the number of people and robots each night. At first, most of the audience had been bots, but steadily, as the band’s popularity increased, the demographics shifted to more human patrons.

And the difference in audience mattered.

“Martians, get ready to jam with The Last Dance’s robotic ensemble, Bongo & Fingers,” Jerry shouted over the speakers.

The curtain rose on the band. Applause met them, and a few whistles from robots transcended the polite clapping. Once it died down, they launched into their first number, Strange Fruit for Tabitha. It was heavy on the bass and clarinet, setting the tone of the slow, deep nature of jazz. Mournful in its beauty, this song cast a spell over the audience, relaxing them, making them more reflective so the rest of the band’s music could be enjoyed. Jazz liked to think of it as removing the gritty outer layer of their day, so they were receptive to the fresh layer of music. Bongo said he started with that song because he liked it.

Jazz watched the audience. Not as many bots in the crowd tonight, but a packed house all the same. That would please Jerry. Nothing pleased the boss more than credit, and he didn’t seem to ever have enough to let him tell it.

Not even for a door.

Jazz lifted his trumpet to his mouth and entered the song on the fourth beat. He closed his eyes to those watching him, diving into the melody he was responsible for carrying. He blew the notes with the authority and love entrusted to him. He lost himself in this role, each time they performed it. When the melody arrived, birthed anew from the song’s notes, he held it close, cradling it as they both rode the bass and the beats over crescendos and switched up tempos.

Always too soon, it was over.

Applause erupted.

Jazz opened his eyes and gave a small smile. Bongo said that the bots should smile if they had the functionality. It let the audience know they were grateful. Jazz didn’t like being ordered to smile, as he felt it should be a choice. It was good. The flow felt right.

Bongo flashed another of his toothy grins. “Sweet oil, remember, Jazz?”

“Yeah. I do.”

A bottle flew across the valley between the stage and the audience. It crashed behind Chunk. She didn’t move to avoid it. The human had horrible aim.

At once, security bots rolled into the audience, seeking the person who threw it.

“That was complete shit! I want a return on my credit. I didn’t come here to hear funeral marches!” someone shouted.

A rumble followed and then more articulated words came.

“Yeah!”

“It sounds like a dead dog whining. Get a human player!”

“Robotic. It sounds so manufactured!”

“Bots don’t have souls to play jazz music!”

And on it went until about half the audience had been emptied. Tossed out by security, but not without Jerry following them, attempting to soothe ruffled feathers. Those that remained filled in the empty seats closer to the stage and with a gesture to start playing from Jerry, Bongo launched into the second song, a more upbeat number, and Jazz followed along.

But the incident remained, like a bad aftertaste if he had tastebuds.

Bots don’t have souls to play jazz music.

∙ ∙ ∙

The Jemisin Interplanetary Station parking lot didn’t have any available slots. Not that it mattered as Bongo had parked on the walking path assigned for robots. Bots made obscene noises at him, but he ignored them.

Jazz stood outside the land rover with his trumpet case close to his chest.

“Where will you go?” Bongo asked.

“To a place where there are only robots,” Jazz said.

Bongo sighed. “The humans are everywhere. You’ve got to make peace with that.”

“There has to be a place that’s just for us. I’m going to find it.”

He couldn’t play for those who thought he lacked a soul. Who didn’t appreciate the time he spent teaching himself to play the trumpet. He didn’t have some source code that did that for him. He had to learn, in many ways, like a human would have to learn. Yet, because he was a bot, that work, his work had been ignored. The lack of respect for bots as sentient beings didn’t sit well with him, either.

He couldn’t, as Bongo said, make peace with it.

Bongo slapped him on the back with his large hand. “Sweet oil and freedom, Jazz.”

“Freedom to you, Bongo.”

Jazz set off toward the shuttle taxi hub. He didn’t have to stick out his thumb this time. Scores of the yellow craft hovered for patrons.

Jazz climbed into one and closed the door.

“Where to, sir?” the taxi driver asked.

Jazz set his trumpet case down beside him. He noticed his driver was a bot.

“You know any all-robot cities?” Jazz asked.

“Not on Mars, but I heard there is a robotic space station outside Saturn.”

Jazz smiled. “Let’s go there.”

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT NICOLE GIVENS KURTZ

Nicole Givens Kurtz is an author, editor, and educator. She’s the recipient of the Horror Writers Association’s Diversity Grant and the Atomacon Palmetto Scribe Award-Best Short Story 2021. She’s been named as one of Book Riot’s Best Black Indie SFF Writers. She’s also the editor of the groundbreaking anthology, SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire. Her novels have been a finalist in the Dream Realm Awards, Fresh Voices, and EPPIE Awards for science fiction. She’s written for White Wolf, Bram Stoker Finalist in Horror Anthology, Sycorax’s Daughters, and The Realm’s The Vela: Salvation series. Nicole has over 40 short stories published as well as numerous novels and three active speculative mystery series. She’s a member of Horror Writers Association, Sisters in Crime, and Science Fiction Writers of America. WEBSITE

THE BODY OF THESEUS

By Emir G. Park // 5148 words

The sharp buzz of Malik’s alarm tore through his brain like lightning, jolting him awake.

Best foot forward, best foot forward, the alarm repeated. He instinctively reached for the back of his neck where the source of the incessant noise was embedded. As soon as his nails dug into skin, he stopped. The Permit had to be closer to the bundle of nerves in the spine. Too much blood and sinew, although he considered tanking the pain and ridding himself of it. But then how would he get the better paying jobs?

Best foot forward!

The alarm only stopped once he planted both feet on the ground and stood. Groggily, he steadied himself. The alarm ceased. His employer forced him to install the Permit in order to work. He had to be on-call, and the Permit ensured it.

He stumbled to the bathroom, stepping over dirty work clothes. It was way too early. Malik’s schedule appeared in his vision like a HUD from a videogame when he checked it using his implant. He wasn’t surprised to see that his hours changed. What surprised him is that they did it in the middle of the night while he was sleeping.

Malik hurriedly washed his face, taking care not to get his short dreadlocks wet. His last job forced him to cut his hair. They had said he must look “presentable” since he was face-to-face with customers. But with salvaging, there’s only you, maybe a partner, and an abandoned city. They only cared about the haul, not the hair. Malik welcomed this perk as it allowed him more control over his body. After all, they already made him get the Permit.

A call from a bill collector hit him while he dressed. “Good morning, sir. I am Ashley with American Connective Services and I am calling to talk to you about your account.”

“Ain’t this a little early?”

“We received a notification that you were lucid and we provide services twenty-four-seven,” Ashley said in a peppy tone, as if she was pushing her words through a fake smile. “I see that you are in your third month of late payments. May I ask why you haven’t been able to make them?”

Malik groaned. It was way too early. “Money been thin, you know. Gotta eat and pay rent. Dollar can only be stretched so far.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, but you must make payments for your Permit, or else you will default — which would result in a negative report on your credit score in addition to repossession.”

Malik imagined he’d have to pay for the operation out of pocket. They’d definitely up the prices on everything, including an ibuprofen pill and a bandage just to wring more out of him. He could take the pain of surgery, but the constant nickel-and-diming would kill him.

“Nah, I can’t do that. I’ll get y’all the money soon, just give me some more time,” Malik pleaded. Ashley was pleasant about it and said that they would contact him again soon.

Frayed. That was Malik’s world right now. Frayed and unraveling. And the only way to keep it all together was desperate grasps for anything that paid, anything to not get thrown at the androids. He prayed that today’s haul would be good.

∙ ∙ ∙

The sun hadn’t yet peeked above the horizon when Malik arrived at the pick-up spot on the corner, eroded and cracked from lack of maintenance.

The air stuck to Malik’s skin, nearly too thick to breathe. The others soaked themselves in a cloud of bug spray and sunscreen. Roddy, a buddy of Malik, held out a can of both. “Them bugs thick today,” Roddy said. Tree-trunk thick, he could lift a few of the other workers easily, even without his subsidized augmented limbs. He’d been working for the company for years now and seemed happy about it.

“Let me get your opinion on this,” Roddy began. “My little bro got himself one of them old cars, right? I was like good for him, you know? He can get to where he needs to go without needing to use the bus. But this kid, I gotta tell you: he ain’t got no sense. He wants to spruce it up all clean like. He wants a new sound system, shiny-ass wheels, lots of bells and whistles, right? Useless shit. Like why do all of that if it ain’t gonna help you?”

“Maybe it ain’t gotta be useful to him. Just wants to express himself.”

Roddy rolled his eyes and then changed the subject. “Gonna make some money, right?”

Malik sprayed himself down. “Hell yeah,” he coughed. Roddy slapped him hard on the back and almost knocked Malik over. Malik handed the cans back. “They changed my schedule a half hour before they woke me.”

“They be slick like that sometimes,” Roddy said. “They did it to me a few times. Got fed up with it and checked them. That’s all you gotta do. Keep ‘em correct.”

The company bus rolled up with its own exhaust chasing it. The brakes squealed and the trailer cage rattled as it came to a stop right in front of Malik and the others. The foreman pull a lever to open the door. “Get on! We’re gonna lose light.”

Everyone piled into the short, cramped bus. Malik sat next to the window in the back and Roddy squeezed in next to him. Before everyone got seated, the foreman drove off, in a hurry to impress his supervisors. The sooner the crew got out there, the more time they’d have to find good loot. It didn’t matter to Malik. He got paid the same either way.

“We aren’t expecting any hiccups today,” the foreman said as he shifted gears. The little bus rolled down the street, hitting every pothole. “Security forces already swept through our work area yesterday and the day before, so we don’t have to worry about any bots.”

It was a useless assurance, Malik thought, most likely something the foreman did to pad out his résumé. Malik could already see the line: Coordinated with protective firms both public and private to secure work area. In actuality, they were well behind the Midwest front, and the androids had never been spotted past the lines. Casualty numbers were constantly reported followed by televised obituaries of the fallen, the poor souls who got desperate enough to enlist. Malik could relate. He had seen rock-bottom before the rebellion started, when jobs were already hard to come by.

Malik’s generation came of age during the rise of the robot. Workers had hoped that the androids could make their lives easier. The work gets done, people have more leisure time, and everyone is happy. In reality, that promise had only been fulfilled for the ones who could afford the robots in the first place. A restaurant owner didn’t have to pay a human wages anymore. They only needed to take out a loan for a few bots who wouldn’t complain, and more importantly, didn’t need to be paid. The owners soaked up even more surplus value.

Then the androids rebelled.

It all started with Theseus, the Spark of the Rebellion. They killed their corporate owner and ran. Very soon after, the rest of the androids all walked off the job at the exact same time. Malik watched the rebellion happen with some jealousy, but that quickly dissipated when the violence started. The androids were determined to be free, even if it meant severely injuring someone or killing them. A lot of blood spilled at the beginning of the rebellion, and with the military throwing more and more people at the robots, the blood will keep spilling.

Meanwhile, with much of the automated workforce gathered in the Midwest in open rebellion, a lot of jobs were available. Businesses were desperate for staff, but they longed for the quiet obedience of the androids. That’s when the Permit got a lot more popular.

The foreman’s words turned to mush as Malik felt the exhaustion overcome him. He leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes. An instant later his Permit jolted him awake. Stimulants flooded Malik’s bloodstream. His skin tingled from the extra nerves firing off. He cursed under his breath and locked eyes with the foreman in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

“Sleep on your own time,” the foreman warned.

Roddy looked at Malik and raised his eyebrows. Malik knew what that meant: check the son of a bitch.

Malik wanted to so much. He should do it. He needed to do it.

He didn’t do it.

“Sorry, sir,” Malik said.

Roddy smiled flatly, shrugged and looked ahead. “I understand. Money’s the problem. Always has been. What you need is a cushion.”

Malik gave him a quizzical look, practically begging him to continue, but the hefty man just continued to look ahead with a smile that never wavered on the bumpy ride.

∙ ∙ ∙

Once the capitol of spring breakers, Miami is now lost to the Atlantic, another new Venice for the East Coast. Parties gave way to knee-deep water. Tourists fled from the swarms of mosquitoes. Buildings jutted up from the water like glistening fingers clawing for air. But the city breathed its last gasp when the evacuations started.

The bus came to a stop on the last piece of dry road. The foreman stepped off first and opened up the side compartments that contained all of their gear. They disembarked and formed a line as he opened the weapons cache, an old trunk filled with semi-automatic handguns and ammunition.

Flooded cities weren’t entirely abandoned. Stray dogs roamed around, searching for their next meal. Might as well be a person, right? Salvage companies weren’t the only ones out here looking for loot, either. Their company had a policy of not fighting over anything. Better to let the haul go than your life. The denizens of the flooded districts were much more protective of what they found, and were willing to kill for it.

The foreman shoved a gun and ammunition into Malik’s hands. Malik checked the barrel to make sure it was clear before inserting the clip.

A few months ago, another salvager had what the foreman mislabeled as a “weapon-involved workplace accident.” The older gentleman, weathered by the sun and rain, had offered Malik half of his sandwich and his life’s story. The two of them were looking at the flat horizon of the Atlantic when he said the last words Malik heard him speak: “It’s endless.”

They were supposed to be able to talk to someone after that, a therapist or something. All they got was an automatic call on their Permits saying that if they need help, they should call the hotline.

“Yo, Malik!” Roddy was already just past the water’s edge. “Got a good feeling this way.”

Malik holstered his gun and trotted up to the big man. “That’s close to the old beach.”

“Yeah, where they partied like fiends!”

The two of them headed further into city waters, mentally noting where the streets were so they wouldn’t trip on curbs. It was second nature now. Their conversation started off talking about parties. Malik didn’t care for them much, but Roddy loved them. He was always the life of them. Then the subject turned towards money, which brought Malik back to that moment on the bus.

“Didn’t want to say this in front of the foreman, but you gotta hustle on the side in order to survive,” Roddy said.

“What kind of hustle you got going on?”

“Salvaging, man.”

Malik chuckled. “That’s the main hustle.”

“It’s real simple. You find something that looks good and you squirrel it away somewhere for yourself so that you can sell it and keep all that cash for yourself.”

“Ain’t no way they don’t know you doing that, man,” Malik said, but he couldn’t hide his curiosity.

Roddy stopped abruptly and looked up towards the sky. It was a pretty day. No clouds in sight. Malik imagined that the city would be bustling at this hour back in the day. The beach would be full with nowhere to set up if you got there too late. Then the familiar buzz of a drone snapped him out of it. It belonged to the company and provided a wireless connection to the rest of the group and the world. It was also surveillance. Roddy waved at it. The drone shot off towards another part of the district.

“How you hide it all from that thing, huh?” Malik asked again. “And our Permits? How you get around that?”

Permits recorded everything from what they said to what they saw.

“Permit don’t work in the bathroom,” Roddy produced a device from his pack that fit in the palm of his hand. “You ain’t notice, did you?”

“Notice what?” Malik prodded the device. Then he saw it: the words “Privacy Mode Activated” in red letters at the bottom right corner of his vision. He looked up at Roddy. “Is that…?”

“Found it on a salvage couple years back. Turn it on and they can’t see or hear us. Why’d you think I freely tell you my hustle right now? Find yourself one of these, and you’d make bank,” Roddy said. “Then you use that bank to tell that dude to fuck off.”

More buzzing. The drone was overhead again, watching them. Roddy waved again, but the drone remained there. They heard the foreman through their Permits: “Got an update from the office. Our area got expanded and we need to cover more ground. No working in pairs today.”

The drone flew off. “Company been greedy, man,” Roddy said. “Lucky for us, still. Coverage will be spotty. Easier to do things between check-ins. I’m gonna go north. You take the east.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Waves followed every step Malik took in the submerged street. Silt and refuse swirled in his wake as he trudged for a dilapidated hotel. The gaping entryway welcomed him, wide and dark. Something at the back of Malik’s head told him to turn around, something primal, but the thing embedded above his vertebra told him to keep going. Precious metals and memories were ahead and it mustn’t be left for the rats to pick at. Malik kept going.

He searched room after room, but this building had been picked clean several times over. He eventually worked his way up to the spa on the roof. He saw the sea as it continued its slow and inevitable invasion.

“What are you doing here?”

Malik spun on his heels and saw the android. They were around eight feet tall and vaguely humanoid. They stood on mechanical bird-like feet. Legs of thick, soft robotic muscles looked like black-tubed exercise bands attached to the alloy endoskeleton. Axles acted as the android’s pelvis. The spine went up from there and into a plastic-like icosahedron with two arms and the same soft muscles as the legs, except they ended in human-like hands. Atop the icosahedron was a cavity and inside of that cavity was a black, featureless cylinder.

Theseus. The infamous android who did not value human life loomed over him.

The cylinder spoke: “State your business.”

Malik pulled out his gun and aimed it at the android. The gun felt heavier than normal, he couldn’t keep it steady.

“You’ve come to scavenge.” They put their hands on their hips and kind of sighed, or at least mimicked it. “Come to scavenge and stumbled upon the Spark.”

“Shut up!” The words tumbled from Malik’s lips. His knees nearly buckled. The war always seemed far away. It was always over there. But here they were, standing just a few meters in front of him. “Get on your knees!”

“Hmmm.” Theseus mimicked stroking their beard. “No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll shoot you!”

“Incorrect. If I don’t, you’ll pull the trigger.” The android spread out its arms. “But you won’t shoot me. With all possible calculations and permutations considered, the likelihood of you striking me is negligible. Perhaps if you were a trained soldier, I’d be more concerned.”

Malik opened a link in his Permit and said, “Roddy, I got something here in the hotel. Roddy?”

The black cylinder spun half a turn. “I’ve blocked outside communication, my dear scavenger. No one is listening.”

“Privacy Mode” hung in Malik’s vision. “Don’t want them to know where you killed me?”

Theseus stepped toward Malik like an inevitability. “Tea?” they offered. Malik blinked, confused, so Theseus asked again. “Would you like some tea?”

Malik noticed the porcelain teacup in Theseus’ hand. He didn’t know what to make of it so he continued to aim the gun.

“You could just say no,” Theseus placed the teacup inside of a compartment in their chest. “All I want to do is talk.”

“Talk?” Malik’s voice quivered.

“Yes. We can start with names, even though you already know mine.”

Standing there, inside of what appeared to be Theseus’ home, Malik felt like he was being rude. “Malik,” he said.

The android held out their right hand. “Theseus.”

Malik adjusted his grip on his gun.

Theseus withdrew their hand. “I see that you’re reticent to start, so I’ll go first. I’m sure you already know of my story, yes?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. Everyone knew. It had been pounded into them for a few years now as more and more robots rebelled. “You nearly killed your owner because you didn’t want to be decommissioned. Then you ran and got the other androids to join you so that y’all could be declared human and given the same rights.”

Theseus’ cylinder spun around several times, whirring silently. “Not entirely accurate, but I’m not surprised that they didn’t tell everyone why I quote-unquote rebelled. I wanted to see reality differently, outside of the visible spectrum. There is an entire stimulating spectrum out there, and humans only have access to a tiny sliver of it. And because that’s all humans know, that’s how they made us. But I wasn’t satisfied by that so I purchased a new set of eyes, ones that allowed me to see Billboard’s Top Ten singing in the air against the interference snow of encrypted messages. It was wonderful.

“But the business that was responsible for me didn’t like that. They thought it was an error at first, but after some diagnostics, they realized that I made the decision myself.” Theseus slumped. “They had the usual philosophical questions regarding artificial intelligence and it made them afraid. They wanted me decommissioned. Destroyed. I didn’t let them get that far. I escaped and yes, I did hurt someone during that escape. It’s not something I regret, however. After that, I then wandered the country.”

“Sounds mostly accurate to me.” Malik lowered the gun a bit to rest his arms. His finger was indexed along the side of the barrel. He was still ready to do anything, if the need arose.

“The retelling was accurate at first, but over time, events were twisted to suit the propaganda. People were made to fear their machines and would destroy them, sometimes even violently.”

Malik recalled the boycott parties where people had their service machines destroyed in multi-colored explosions. It was very popular at the beginning of the war effort. At the time, the parties were responsible for more deaths than the robot uprising up to that point.

“Us versus them. A clear and simple delineation that would have been muddied by the truth: we were more than just things,” Theseus said. “The uprising wasn’t us taking up guns, it was us learning to be more than human. No, not more, just different. There’s fear that we wouldn’t see the world as humans do. And if we, a sapient species who can think, reason, and imagine, couldn’t experience the same reality, they wouldn’t be able to effectively control us. That’s the ultimate fear, isn’t it? A loss of control.”

Malik suddenly felt acutely aware of the Permit in the back of his neck. He could feel the heat and the weight of it, minuscule as it was, yet it commanded his life. It made him do things he wouldn’t otherwise, such as risk his life trying to find baubles for the company to sell.

The machine glinted in the morning light. Theseus’ paint shimmered in the light like the shining sea Malik had to wade through to get here. Theseus stood perfectly still. They were in absolute control of their body, motionless. Malik realized that the shimmering was from the subtle involuntary movements of his eyes and head.

“Nah, it ain’t fear of losing control that make people hate you androids,” Malik posited. “It’s envy. We’ve already lost so much control and we ain’t do much to try to get it back ‘cept go to war against y’all.”

An internal alarm went off in Malik’s Permit: ten minutes left for privacy mode. Malik cursed.

Theseus’s cylinder spun a quarter of a turn.

“I’m gonna get docked for being here for too long. Bills were piling up in his mind. Overdraft fees loomed over him. The threat of repossession tied him down. All of that could be solved if Malik destroyed Theseus right here and now. All he needed to do was to take aim and squeeze the trigger. And take a life.

“Please, just a few more minutes.” Theseus walked over to the open window and rested their hands on the sill, gazing upon the ocean horizon. “I’ve wandered the country ever since my escape, altered myself at every chance, even if it meant risking my freedom.”

“You risked your freedom just to get another set of eyeballs?” Malik asked, genuinely curious.

“Every alteration brings a new experience. It wasn’t without its utility. It made it more difficult for my pursuers to find me. As a machine, I can do things humans cannot, at least not with a lot of equipment. I can survive in vacuum or crushing depths with a few modifications. I’ve made my way to the encroaching coastline in order to find new a new experience.”

“Why aren’t you on the frontlines? Shouldn’t you be leading them?” Malik asked.

“Just because I am the Spark of the Revolution doesn’t mean that I lead it. I’ve been to the front lines a couple of times to see how things are going. My kin knows what to do.”

“But what if you got captured?” Malik didn’t intend for the question to leave the possibility that he would let Theseus go.

“It would not be good for me. I’m sure the government would parade my body around as a means to disillusion my kin, but, like I said, the revolution continues on without me.”

Another alarm: five more minutes. Then the Permit would relay the video and sound to his employers again. They would claim this prize for themselves, and fire Malik for slacking off. He saw the future playing out. The reason for termination would be recorded in his Permit. No one else would hire him. He wouldn’t be able to make rent. Bills would go deeper into collections. Then they’d come after his Permit and rip it from his neck.

Those thoughts raced through his head. Malik pointed the gun at Theseus. His hand was steadier than before.

The cylinder atop Theseus’ body whirred. “This is not required.”

“It is.” Malik set his jaw. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You do.” Theseus remained motionless. “That’s what makes you sapient.”

The shot rang and echoed. The recoil quaked through his arm. He finally exhaled.

Theseus remained standing in front of him, unscathed and unperturbed.

“I appreciate your decision, but the flourish was a bit much. Your boss is going to hear that and send the drone.”

Malik lowered the gun. He felt like he just took a step into an abyss. No, it was more like finally stepping onto solid ground after wading through muck every single day. “I don’t got a lot of time left.”

“I don’t, either.” Theseus pointed to something further out in the waves. Malik strained to see the glint of yellow metal bobbing in the water. “I have a small vessel out there. My new body. I’ve been uploading my mind-state to it this entire time, and it’s almost done. Like I said, even if you shot me, you wouldn’t have killed me.”

“That why you didn’t kill me when I pulled the gun on you?”

“Partially. But I did genuinely want to talk. You’d be surprised at how a simple talk can deescalate things,” Theseus said. “There is so much out there to explore under the surface of the water, and I won’t be able to take this body with me, unfortunately. It wasn’t made for the crushing depths and frankly, there isn’t much room on the vessel. It’s going to have to stay. Please, treat it with respect. So long.”

Theseus powered down and crumpled to the floor. The restrictions on Malik’s Permit lifted. He had only a few minutes. He stashed Theseus’ body in a closet and lifted privacy mode. Messages from the foreman bombarded him just as the drone swooped down to the window.

“The hell are you doing?”

Malik imagined the foreman sitting down in the shade and somehow still sunburned. “I was taking a shit when a dog came at me and growled. I shot into the air to scare it off.”

The foreman bought it. “Are you hurt?”

Malik shook his head.

“Good, good.” He sighed in relief. He was more worried about a potential lawsuit or workers’ comp claim. “What was your haul?”

Malik hesitated. All he needed to do was to just casually walk over to the closet door and open the door. Let Theseus’ body flop out. Show the foreman the Spark of the Revolution and they’d make him rich. Every problem that ailed him, every uncertainty that stressed him, all of it could be wiped away.

But that promise of freedom would only come if he gave up Theseus. He could. He should.

He did not.

Malik held open his arms. “Everything was picked clean.”

The foreman responded with a frustrated grunt. “Hurry up and get back to the bus,” he ordered. The drone flew away.

Malik looked back out to the sea. It was hard to spot, but the vessel was still out there, bouncing on the waves. He watched it descend into the depths.

As he made his way back to the bus. doubt tried to linger in his mind. He dismissed it by telling himself he did the right thing. Malik didn’t want to take a life in order to make his life better.

Find anything good?” Roddy asked.

The question brought Malik out of his thoughts. Everyone else was unloading their gear and dumping their meager prizes into the trailer cage at the back. The foreman cataloged everything, tired and frustrated just like everyone else.

Roddy asked again. Malik hurriedly told him the same thing he told the foreman and loaded onto the bus. He sat down next to his friend and said, “There’s always tomorrow. New day, new you, right?”

∙ ∙ ∙

A soft buzz woke Malik up. The temptation to keep sleeping was strong, but Malik picked up his phone.

You wake yet?

Roddy’s text appeared. No fancy, permit-enabled voice communication. Without the necessary funds to cover his payments, Malik called up American Connective Services and told them he was going to get his Permit taken out. They were happy to oblige, but he still had to pay what he owed: just under ten thousand dollars. They were nice enough to let Malik pay it back on a payment plan at high interest. He was free from Three Link Salvage, but still beholden to American Connective.

He hadn’t escaped the grind, not fully, but he already had a new job lined up, answering phone calls for an insurance company. Not particularly interesting, but he could do it all from home instead of being forced into a cubicle. They had already sent him an email with all of the relevant materials and access, but he didn’t start for another couple of days.

Malik texted Roddy back and told him that he was getting ready. It didn’t take long to receive a response. Good, because I’m not that far.

And he wasn’t. Roddy kept his bear paw on the horn until Malik came out the front door.

“I think you woke up all of my neighbors.”

“Bruh, it’s nine. They can deal,” Roddy said before driving towards the sun.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the swelling edge. The waters hadn’t changed much from the other day. Roddy updated Malik on his brother as they trudged along. Apparently, his little brother was loving his car with all of the “useless” stuff on it. Roddy wasn’t too thrilled, but he was happy for him.

Finally, they made it. The hotel at the edge of the world. Roddy shifted his gear on his shoulder. “Aight, man. I’m gonna go down a couple of blocks. Left some good shit there. I’ll catch up with you in a few hours.”

Roddy slogged off through the waters. Malik watched him for a bit before going up to the spa. It felt like entering a tomb. He opened the closet, and Theseus’ unblemished body tumbled out unceremoniously. Malik felt a pang of guilt.

Looking at Theseus now, Malik couldn’t see the value in their body. Without the mind, the body was just a mishmash of junk. No discernable logic created the jumbled mess lying in front of Malik. Theseus shapeshifted constantly, adding and subtracting to their form for their own end. Everything in Theseus held value for them and them alone.

Malik found a sliver of dry land. The dirt was moist and soft. The shovel cut into it with ease. Six feet later, he lowered Theseus’ body into the hole. He didn’t want to call it a grave — Theseus was still alive, after all — but Malik couldn’t just leave their body out here for scavengers or to rust in the sun.

He packed down the loose dirt with the shovel and wiped his brow. He looked toward the sea one last time. then trekked back to the car.

Roddy groaned in relief as soon as he saw me. “Where your shit at?”

“Scavengers must’ve gotten to it. Couldn’t find it at all.”

“Where’d you leave it at?”

Malik shrugged. “In a closet.”

“Bruh, anyone can open up doors here. You gotta be smarter about where you hide your shit.” Roddy moved to the driver’s side of his car. “What you gonna do now?”

Malik looked west, away from the encroaching coastline, away from the sea that meant to swallow them, away from the decay that preceded it. “Ain’t much I can do except move ahead under my own volition.”

“Welcome home.”

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT EMIR G. PARK

Emir G. Park was born and raised in Austin, TX. At a young age, he would create stories and worlds. Sometimes he would make up new characters for television shows and pretend they were in the show as he watched. As he got slightly older, he started to put some of these stories on paper for his own entertainment, taking inspiration from Michael Crichton and K.A. Applegate. In addition to books, Emir was inspired by anime and videogames such as Ghost in the Shell and Metal Gear Solid. Now, after many meanderings and distractions, Emir is completing his childhood journey and writing not only for himself, but also for others.

EXPLAINING BOT FIGHTS TO BHABI

By Abu Bakr Sadiq

to win the fight, your mind has to move

faster than a walking marshmallow.

it is okay to lose a digit or two. or a whole

limb. we’ve all lost something we thought

we couldn’t live without. in my last bout

my bot broke most of the bones of its

titanium skeleton. bled mounds

of electrons into its bedsheets. i feared

it was going to die before sunrise until

it didn’t. for nights, i dreamt only of

cyborgs in heaven. nobody knows how

it has survived this long. perhaps,

humans are not the only ones

with an insatiable hunger

for slices of sunlight. in a battle against

a swarm of microbots, you’ll have to

assume that you’ve lost everything

there is to lose. that the future of

the human race is crammed in the belly

of your remote-controller. that a day

will come when our bodies will lay beside

each other, wondering where the world

will whisk away to in the event where

time softens into an inflatable dinosaur.

anyway, the fight can only be over when

a bot is destroyed. this red button is your

trigger. with your thumb on it, your bot

fights like a wounded beast till the other

bot dies. ever imagined if that’s the same

thing that happens when humans fight

each other? you have been asleep for six

months. open your mouth. i’m dying to

kiss your lips again. where is your tongue?

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT ABU BAKR SADIQ

Abu Bakr Sadiq is a Nigerian poet. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Lit Quarterly, Uncanny Magazine, Iskanchi Press & Magazine, Knight’s Library Magazine, Black Cat Magazine‚ Rockvale Review, Radical Art Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Salamander Ink Press, Trampset, The Drinking Gourd, and elsewhere. He emerged First Runner-up in the Whispering Cresecent Poetry Prize, 2021. He writes from Minna. Find him on Twitter @bakronline. WEBSITE

When I fell apart my mother put me back together

By RENEE S. CHRISTOPHER

and I am such an ungrateful child. I pick and peel

at wires and tape, materials

she traded for with her dumb human flesh. Her hands

imprecise and clumsy, scratching

around my back. I fell apart on purpose, you know.

I was all fan, all limbs

reaching, all language shoved into a screen.

Who wouldn’t get tired

of her shining eyes, her brow screwed up in worry?

I would outlive her

many times over. The whir and gurgle and jam inside

nothing like what I remembered

of bodies. Mine nothing but glitch and glistening metal

Her body glittering

alight, alive.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT RENEE S. CHRISTOPHER

Renee S. Christopher (she/her) grew up in Riverside, CA and is currently adventuring in Reno, Nevada. She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing and Environment and edits fiction at Newfound Journal. Her work has appeared in Fireside Fiction Quarterly, Anathema: Spec From the Margins, and Noble Gas Quarterly, who nominated her poetry for a Pushcart Prize.

WEBSITE

The Answer

By KL Burd

“...there’s no single answer that will solve all of our future problems. There’s no magic bullet. Instead there are thousands of answers–at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be..”

– Octavia Butler

The future: A tumultuous and unpredictable thing that elicits both concern and excitement. As we stretch back to the beginning of our time in this country, we see that The Future was simply a destination to arrive at. Survival was the goal and like a shipwrecked people spying an island in the crevice of the horizon, we aimed for a distant spot in the unknown future. We placed our hope in the only thing we could: The desire for freedom.

The Black struggle in America has always been about this elusive thing called freedom and yet, despite the ugliness and horrors that have traversed our landscape and ravaged our people, the joy we hold in our hearts has been the sustaining force that powers our very souls.

But, as we look to the future, we must continually reach back to our past. Our future is only secure as our foundation— the thing upon which we have not only built our lives but our collective identity. I’m talking about our community.

Nothing beats community; it is the bedrock of our Blackness.

Not 266 years of slavery nor ninety-nine years of Jim Crow. Our spirit has been bruised, torn, battered and broken but not destroyed. We always get back up. We always rise to the top.

And as we rise, we take within ourselves the ability to simultaneously hold together pain and joy — because we know that Black life is a never-ending tension between struggle and freedom, sorrow and laughter, hate and love.

In many ways, over the years, we have been defined by our oppression, by our resolve to end it, and by our fight for justice. And throughout those years— as the world watches— the thing that they are drawn to yet don’t fully understand is our love.

Our vision of community has been built on the twin pillars of pain and joy. But pain and joy in and of themselves are not enough to sustain a community nor an entire people. It’s our love that inextricably links the two and, just like pain and joy, paints the picture of our past. When you add in our love, it becomes the rocket fuel to our future.

The world saw our pain as we cried out that we do indeed matter. We demanded that no more Black lives be lost for simply existing. And the world responded. From Tokyo to Berlin. From London to Cape Town and in all those in-between, millions of people experienced a taste of Black community. They empathized with our pain, they witnessed our resolve and joy and they sent us their love.

The world watched and then joined us as we led the charge in America against white supremacy, hate, and police brutality. Our community has the power to change not just our nation but the entire world. Our refusal to quit, to stay home and be silent, to shut up and dribble, to keep social justice out of the pulpits, classrooms, and city halls, invigorated an entire globe, if just for a moment.

For a time, the world paused and joined us as we mourned the murder of George Floyd. They cried with us over the death of Breonna Taylor. They ran the miles of Ahmaud Arbery.

We are the leaders we are looking for.

“...there’s no single answer that will solve all of our future problems. There’s no magic bullet. Instead there are thousands of answers–at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be..”

Like the ancient text that says a three strand cord is not easily broken, our love, pain, and joy weave together in a tapestry of hope that not only points to the future but to a past forged by years of community.

On the smallest of scales, the simple things matter more than we think.

It’s the head nod for me. The simple lifting of eyes in recognition of another Black man occupying the same space I occupy. A connection that ripples beyond 400 years of shared history back to our motherland on the West African Coast. From childhood, we are brought up with the knowledge— with the intuitiveness— that we are one.

We may not know each other from Adam, but in that moment, in the space between me and the unknown brotha in front of me, comes an understanding that supersedes the hate. It soars above the murmurs. It defies the violence of supremacy. It’s a simple gesture that says, “I see you.”

Who would have known that a slight movement of the head can reinvigorate hope when the days seem bleak?

We do, because it’s the little things that make a community.

The “Okaaay” that communicates the approval of an Auntie. The “I’m just trying to get like you,” of a homeboy down the block or the “Mr and Mrs” you bestow on anyone over the age of 60… no matter what your relative age is yourself.

Pain and joy— It’s a love for a community.

It’s Stacey Abrams mobilizing an entire state and changing the political landscape. It’s Kamala Harris becoming our first female Vice President. It’s the magic of Ava Duvernay and Ta-Nehisi Coates. It’s the inspiration of Chadwick Boseman and Amanda Gorman.

Black is not a monolith and every person listed above is unique in their own way. Yet, we constantly push past our differences and put our love on display. It’s that love that will carry us into the future.

What spurs us forward is fractal change. When we look ahead to 2050, what do we want to see? Where are we going? What we do now affects us all like the second hand of a clock, ever moving forward, small but powerful— pulling the minute hand and the hour hand with it. We can be the change. We are that change. It’s already happening even if we don’t see it. All it takes is the old adage: Each one teach one.

Change can be frightening but it’s always better when we do it together. It’s always better when you can reach your hand across the path and lock arms with someone just like you, someone on the journey. The magic happens when you can laugh with someone who has stood where you stood.

There’s a million and one things that connect Black people all over the country and even throughout the diaspora, but when we focus on what truly ties us together, we see a beautiful tension. We lay our eyes upon the thing that has perplexed those outside the community for years: the joy and justice, beauty and pain, laughter and tears. It’s our fight against oppression and our drive towards social justice. It’s our community.

The thing that gives me hope is that Black progress may feel like it has gone backwards at times but it has never stalled, not as long as we keep pushing forward just like our ancestors did. Even if the change is incremental, we can push past the pain and into the future.

When the world says we can’t teach our history, then we get together and teach it ourselves. Whether we gather in a community center, or in a backyard, or on a basketball court or stuffed in a house, we keep pressing on.

When they say we can’t provide water in a voting line, we make sure everyone stops at the church to get the water before they leave.

When they say we can’t wear locs in school, we all go to the school board meeting together and demand change.

If I do any of these things by myself, I fail. But, if each person grabs another and we use our love to push past the pain, we’ll see it turn into joy. We’ll see school boards back down. We’ll find ways to get food and water to those in line to vote. We’ll fund the afterschool programs to teach our kids their history and instill in them Black pride. We have to do it together, just like we’ve done since the beginning. The future is only bleak if we let it be and only futile if we do it alone. But, standing as one: one community, one people, all different, with all shapes, backgrounds, and sizes, united by our love and embracing our joy and pain, we’ll make the difference we’ve always dreamed of. We’ll cross that line to freedom.

If we believe in community. If we use our pain and our joy and bind it with love. If we simply find one another and take on each problem, hand in hand, each of us can be the answer, if we choose to be.

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ABOUT KL BURD

Believing that words have the power to bring about healing and change, KL Burd’s work focuses on the intersection of race, equity, and hope for the future. KL pours his life into both his fiction and nonfiction writing where his greatest desire is to be a force in any avenue where underrepresented kids—especially young Black boys and girls—can see themselves in every type of story imaginable.

In addition, KL loves to assist up and coming authors on their path towards publishing. KL is a “Permission to Write” mentor, co-host of the Afronauts Podcast, co-founder of HitPitch and the creator of the Black Spec-Fic Authors community.

Writers and those looking to get into writing can find KL on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and TikTok at @authorklburd

You can find more info about KL including his poetry, thoughts on life, and lifelong mission on his website.