Coda to Humanity
Thursday, January 7, 2174
14:56
CATHLEEN
At the flick of a switch, the drone of a flatlined heart turns on and the experiment beings in earnest once more. Tablet clutched to my chest like a shield, I survey the body lying on the table in the operating theater through one-way glass. Dr. Mirza nods to herself next to me, bouncing ever so slightly. “We’ve outdone ourselves with this one,” she said in her brief yesterday.
Other people in lab coats sit at the desk in front of us, imputing code and checking sensors on holograms. In something closer to business wear, I stand out even more so than my age already makes me.
“Is everything ready?” I ask, impatient to get this over with and get away from here.
“Almost, miss.”
Dr. Mirza shoots me a look but says nothing to me, instead lifting a recorder to her mouth. “Human-android voice memo two-thirty-seven. Date: five-fifteen-seventy-three. Attempted resuscitation of subject will be underway shortly. Subject has been outfitted with artificial organs, most notable the heart and lungs, as well as extensive artificial muscles, blood vessels and nerves. Subject differs from previous subjects as we have made modifications to the brain as well.”
She leaves out the latter modifications were unplanned and added after the previous subject starting showing… defects.
Dr. Mirza finishes her recording and gives me another sideways glance.
Her stare might make someone else squirm, but she’s nothing compared to Juliet. “Is there anything you’d like me to include in my report?” I ask. Professional. Detached.
“No.” She looks away and I think for moment she’ll leave me be, but she adds, “It’s just interesting that you only ever show up for the exciting part.”
Exciting is the last word I would choose to describe what’s going on here. “I have other work to attend to.” And even the worst of it is preferable to this.
“We’re ready.”
Dr. Mirza straightens and turns her full attention to the operating theater. “Are we recording?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Taking a breath, I lower my tablet shield just enough to type on it, making notes about the preparations.
“Start flow of electricity to the heart,” Dr. Mirza says, stepping closer to the glass.
The woman sitting in front of me presses a few buttons and pushes a slider up. I swear I feel the hairs on my arms stand up with the surge of electricity, but I think I’m just imagining it. I catch my reflection in the glass as I look up. I look away. The room falls quiet other than the long tone of the heart monitor. And then–
Be-beep.
Be-beep.
Be-beep.
Be-beep.
Heart started successfully.
I note down as Dr. Mirza asks, “Status of the artificial lungs?”
Be-beep.
As if on cue, the body’s chest starts to rise and fall.
“Operational.”
Be-beep.
“Circulation?”
“Normal.”
Be-beep.
“Brain activity?” Dr. Mirza presses.
“Nothing yet.”
Lungs operational. Circulation normal. No immediate brain activity.
I wish there was more to say. Anything for a longer escape into my notes.
A minute passes. Then another. Then another. Then another. The room holds its breath.
Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep, be-beep, be-beep, be-beep, be-beep, be-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep–
The subject gasps. Before I can process that their eyes are open, they bolt upright on the table and scream; a high-pitched echo to the flatline.
I nearly drop my tablet to cover my ears. Before I can stop myself, I snap at Dr. Mirza, “I thought you said you fixed that this time!”
A small mercy I tried to insist on this time for selfish reasons.
I still heard Subject Thirty-Three’s screams when I was in a too-quiet room.
Dr. Mirza winces faintly until the subject runs out of breath and falls silent. She pulls out her recorder again. “Nervous system anesthesia was ineffective. Will make adjustments for next time—” She lowers the recorder to ask one of her scientists, “How are her vitals?”
“V-Vital signs are stable.”
The others in the room have jumped to their feet, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at their work on the other side of the glass. I know any shakiness I see is from excitement, not whatever guilt-ridden concoction flows through me.
Dr. Mirza says into the recorder, “No negative effects from anesthesia failure. Subject Fifty-Four is another success.” She and her collogues congratulate themselves on being able to replicate their previous work as the subject looks around the room, at herself, panting.
My reflection stares back at me with silent accusations.
***
Movement in the room before me starts me out of the memory. I once against find myself behind one-way glass, my reflection impassive and unavoidable. Though there are some notable differences.
One, the people in the room with me are Coalition officials, not Japincatch scientists. And two, Dr. Mirza sits on the other side of the glass this time. She stares through it right at me.
It still smells like artificial grass and rubber. The telltale ghost of a cleaner designed specifically for cleaning up blood.
Dr. Mirza attention doesn’t waiver even as another Coalition official enters her room and takes a seat across the table from her.
“Miss. Mirza.”
Even from here, I see her tense. It seems if you’re on the losing side, your previous credentials become invalid. Not that I think it’s undeserved.
“Thank you for meeting with us again. We do hope there are no hard feelings over not letting you continue your work.”
I squirm where I stand as she presses her lips together. The Coalition asked me to be here to verify whatever she tells them. But I don’t understand why they couldn’t show me a recording after the fact.
“It’s just a matter of keeping the public appeased.”
Credentials or not, and motivations aside, Dr. Mirza chose to join the winning side. She gave the Coalition anything they could ask for. Names, data, footage, information. I think she would have given them everything.
Her eyes narrow like she can read my thoughts and hates me all the more for it.
If only I hadn’t beaten her to it, leaving her with whatever pieces she’d only given herself access to.
“I know you have given us much,” the official clears his throat, “much more aid than we ever hoped to get from you.”
There is a part of me that feels sympathy for her. While her work was deplorable morally, I can’t deny it was a feat of scientific genius. She was good at what she did. Good enough to make the creation standing in the hall. Good enough to work for someone who was once regarded as one of the brightest minds the world had seen.
“And we thank you for that. You’ve helped end the reign of a tyrant.”
My laced-together fingers tighten until my nails dig in. Until she wasn’t. I wonder what Juliet would say if she could see what was happening to the world she’d built.
“More importantly, you’ve helped us in the aftermath. Cleaning up,” the man clears his throat again. What was his name again? “Ms. Dai’s assistant” was all he said when I came in this afternoon, “loose ends.”
Dr. Mirza shifts in her seat, like she’s getting comfortable, but doesn’t take her eyes off me. I shrink back in my own seat. “It was my understanding,” she says, “that I was not called here to discuss myself.”
Mr. Ms.-Dai’s-Assistant clasps and unclasps his hands several times. His tired eyes dart everywhere but Dr. Mirza and the glass. He clears his throat again and adjusts his Coalition blue suit jacket. It matches the one I put on like armour every time the Coalition call on me. Anything to convince them I’m one of the good ones.
I fear more often I look like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
Mr. Ms.-Dai’s-Assistant finally continues, “Your understanding is correct.”
Does he know we used to use this room for interrogations? I’m sure Dr. Mirza certainly does.
“Then I would prefer if you would get to the point.”
I feel a prickle run up my side from the direction of the hallway where “the point” stands. Does he know she can hear every word we say?
Mr. Ms.-Dai’s-Assistant rubs his eyes. “Right. We wanted to discuss with you the matter of Dominque.”
A draft from a vent sends a chill down my back as Dr. Mirza corrects him, “Subject Fifty-Four, you mean,” without missing a beat.
“Yes. Subject Fifty-Four.”
“What issue does the Coalition have with her?”
“The issue, Miss Mirza, is that the Coalition is unsure of what to do with… her.”
A muscle feathers in Dr. Mirza’s jaw. “What are you doing with the other experiments?”
He flinches at the word. “We, of course, are treating the other… the others kindly after all they have suffered. Our scientists are trying to undo what has been done to them, if possible, and they will be rehabilitated and returned to their families.”
I’m sure that would go much faster if you would let me—or anyone else who actually worked on the other experiments for that matter—help.
I start at the thought, far too aggressive for the position I find myself in. For as involved in those experiments as I was. Never as an active participant, but always as a witness, which isn’t much better, no much how many times I lie to myself. I doubt the Coalition cares to draw a line between the two.
“But?”
Mr. Ms.-Dai’s-Assistant stares at Dr. Mirza blankly, half asleep. “But?”
“I’m assuming there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, otherwise what’s the ‘issue’? Put her in in your ‘rehabilitation.’”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the… changes have not been removed.”
My hands clench again. That’s what I was worried about. The real reason I agreed to come. Dr. Mirza only confirms what I know. “If you try and undo what has been done to her, you’ll kill her.”
“Therein lies the problem. As she is, she’s too dangerous.”
“She’s under control. I can assure you, I’ve conditioned her very thoroughly. She’s not made to rebel.”
“How long until that control is gone?”
Dr. Mirza’s lip curls and I’m sure she would lash out at the man if she wasn’t in an even more precarious position than I am. “She was, quite literally, programed to obey orders. As per your request, she’s not to do anything violent.”
“That doesn’t remove her inherent danger.”
“Well, what would you do with her?”
“Is there no way we can simply turn her off?”
Dr. Mirza and I both wrinkle our noses. Though I think hers is in indignation where mine is in disgust. I hate the way even the Coalition still talks about Tee like she’s something less than human. Even so, my heart lurches at the intensity with which Dr. Mirza continues.
“‘Turn her off’?” she repeats incredulously. “She’s not just some machine, like a computer. She’s the most advanced combination of human and technology ever made. You don’t just simply ‘turn her off.’ What, exactly, do you want to do with her?”
“We are working in the best interests of the majority–”
“I’m not asking about the ‘majority’, I’m asking about–”
The door behind Mr. Ms.-Dai’s-Assistant opens. Through it walks a short Chinese woman. The head of the Coalition, Nuwa Dai. She gives a tight smile. “Thank you, Lee. You may go.”
“Y-yes ma’am…”
Once he is gone, Nuwa sits down in the chair he vacated. She looks Dr. Mirza over. “Miss Mirza–”
Finally, Dr. Mirza snaps her head to look at Nuwa, bringing her fists down on my legs and easing a weight off my chest. “Doctor.”
Nuwa starts. “I’m– Pardon?”
“It’s Dr. Mirza. Not ‘Miss,’ or ‘Ms.’. Doctor. You might not approve of the work I did, but I still have a doctorate and the documents to prove it.”
Nuwa laces her fingers together and places her hands on the table in front of her. “Penelope, then.”
Dr. Mirza straightens, whole body tense. There’s a small, vindictive part of me the smiles at the dismissal.
Nuwa stares at her hands. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your and Cathleen’s work–”
“My work.” Gesturing to herself, Dr. Mirza leans forward. “I was the one who designed the technology used in the subjects. It was my team who built them. Cathleen merely oversaw the project on behalf of Ms. Andrews.”
Something like memory runs across Nuwa’s eyes.
Dr. Mirza turns to stare through the glass again with enough force I flinch. “All Cathleen,” she says my name like an insult, “has ever done is pass on information. First to Ms. Andrews and now to you. She’s never made anything.”
The gazes of the officials on my side of the glass shifts to me and presses down on my chest. The seat under me becomes itchy through my pants. I will myself not to fidget, to hold myself steady like someone with nothing to hide. I haven’t been able to reach into my old pool of detachment I kept next to my heart since Juliet died.
Nuwa moves her hands to her lap. “There was another successful subject, wasn’t there?”
I suck in a breath.
Dr. Mirza remains unreadable. “Subject Thirty-Three.”
Nuwa winces. “Right. Her.”
Dr. Mirza scoffs. “What a mess that was.”
My heartrate spikes, shocked Dr. Mirza is talking about that disaster so openly. I shudder. When Subject Thirty-Three got out and couldn’t be found, I was sure we were done for. I’m ashamed to admit it was me who suggested to the Coalition they lie and say she died from her injuries.
“It’s a shame she was killed in the bombing,” Dr. Mirza continues coolly. “I’m sure I could have re-conditioned her better if I’d gotten her back.”
Nuwa tilts her head, frowning.
Silently, Dr. Mirza points behind her at the door, the creation standing outside it.
After a moment, understanding passes over Nuwa face and she nods. “Yes.”
Tee wasn’t included in the people privy to the truth.
When Dr, Mirza says nothing more, Nuwa continues, “You said Subject Thirty-Three rebelled after her old memories returned.” The chill that runs down my spine this time has nothing to do with the vents. Juliet was furious when she got that report. I think she would have shot the messenger if the messenger hadn’t been me. “She went back to her friends and fought against Japincatch at Theodore’s city. Could the same be replicated in Subject Fifty-Four?”
Dr. Mirza gives Nuwa a long look. “I don’t know. The two were vastly different. Subject Thirty-Three never accepted the conditioning very well. It was infamously stubborn. Different parts of Subject Fifty-Four’s brain were damaged. She didn’t have any memories to begin with. That’s why she accepted the conditioning so well. And the technology is more widespread in her. The technology in Subject Thirty-Three was much more contained to certain areas. And Subject Thirty-Three had people to go back to. Subject Fifty-Four doesn’t.”
My stomach churns and I have to swallow down my lunch. Juliet made sure of that after Subject Thirty-Three ran off the first time.
Nuwa sighs and leans back in her chair.
“I still haven’t been told what you want to do with her.”
“Many people want her shut down. Permanently.”
My breath catches and I involuntarily whip my gaze towards Tee on the other side of the wall. My hands grab at my pants.
“You can’t!”
Nuwa stares at Dr. Mirza.
She composes myself and try again. “You can’t. Unless you want to kill her.”
“Not kill her. Put her in a medically induced coma.”
“For all your talk of ‘helping’ and ‘rebuilding’ you certainly seem quick to jump to what’s most convenient for you.” Dr. Mirza looks down her nose at Nuwa, but for once I’m grateful for her ability to twist people’s own words against them. “And for all you’ve talked about treating the experiments ‘humanely’ in your speeches, your very quick to want to treat this one like a machine.”
Nuwa bites the side of her lip. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I’ll give you six months. To prove that she’s under control and non-violent.”
“Hasn’t she already proven that?”
“To prove if she’s human enough, then.”
It’s my turn to sigh. As much as I’d tried to downplay it so the Coalition let Tee go free, there’s no denying she’s dangerous. She was programed that way.
“And if not?” Dr. Mirza presses.
“Then she will be put in a coma until we can find a reasonably safe way to remove the modifications that have been made.”
Dr. Mirza nods, though it’s more to herself than Nuwa. “Alright. Six months then.”
Nuwa adjusts her suit. “Now, before you go, I did have a few more questions about the work you passed on to us.”
The officials in the room turn to me expectantly.
Taking a breath, I turn away from the two women in the other room. “Was there anything specific you wanted me to weigh in on?”
Thursday, January 7, 2174
15:12
DOMINIQUE
P. Mirza’s heartrate returns to normal as they begin to talk about other things not related to me. I remove my hand from the wall.
The camera in the corner is pointed at me, but I can no longer access the feed. P. Mirza says the Coalition locked me out of the system.
The four soldiers who escorted us into the building stand four paces down the hall from me. All of their heartrates and breathing rates are elevated. They keep looking at me.
I take one step to the side. I place my hand on the wall again. The sensors in my fingertips pick up the soundwaves hitting the wall of the room and send them traveling up to my ears.
“… she knew we were watching her?” a woman asks.
“Of course she knew,” C. Andrews says. Her readings indicate prolonged and elevated stress.
Most of the people I saw before the Coalition came showed similar readings. Many people I see now show similar readings.
Another voice says, “What do you think about the coma as a solution?”
C. Andrew’s words come out clipped. “I think it’s a poor ‘solution.’”
“Not to be harsh, but it’s better than killing her, isn’t it?”
C. Andrews’ heartrate elevates rapidly. “And how is it fair?”
“Fair?”
“Now that everyone else gets another chance at life, you want to take that away from her because of something she couldn’t control. She’s a human being! It’s not her fault what’s been done to her.”
“Is she a human being?” C. Andrews says nothing and the woman continues, “I mean that as a genuine question. You’d know better than us.”
“Of course she is!” There’s a bang from inside. I snap my head to the door, ready to follow old directives to keep C. Andrews safe. The other soldiers in the hall reach for their weapons at my movement.
I consider them. They would not pose a threat.
But those are not my orders. I was ordered not to engage in combat. C. Andrews said there was no need to protect her. I am doubtful of this statement.
“I’m… Sorry. I’m sorry,” C. Andrews says. I watch her take deep breaths through the wall as her vitals level back out. “The prosecutors for the trials had so many questions for me this morning and I came right from that…”
No one says anything for twenty-three seconds.
“This must be,” the woman pauses, “difficult for you. Especially given your… background. But I think it’s a very brave thing you’re doing. A brave thing that you’ve already done.”
A chair slides as someone stands in the other room. It’s loud enough I can hear it without the extra sensors.
The door opens. P. Mirza exits the room. Nuwa Dai stays behind the table inside. She looks at me.
“We’ll have her back in a week then to do some evaluations. Oh, and we ask that you report on her progress to Miss An– Cathleen every week,” Nuwa Dai says.
P. Mirza’s muscles tense. She nods. “Let’s go,” she says to me and starts down the hall.
I fall into step just behind her, hands clasped behind my back.
We walk down the hall escorted by the same four Coalition soldiers who escorted us into the building.
“Even now, I’m still beholden to General Andrew’s teenager…” P. Mirza says quietly as we walk.
When we are outside on the street, P. Mirza asks, “I assume you heard everything?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was Cathleen in the other room?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Twelve steps later I ask, “Will I be receiving new orders soon?”
“No,” she says. “Not like before.”
I frown. I liked it when I got new orders. I have not been allowed to patrol on my own for fifty-three days.
P. Mirza also frowns. “For the time being, your orders are to do what the Coalition wants, I suppose. To ‘become human.’” She moves her eyes in a half circle. “Honestly, I don’t know what they expect to happen.”
I tilt my head to the side. “I am I being given orders I cannot carry out?”
P. Mirza exhales heavily. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
“She was lying,” I say seven steps later.
“What?”
“Nuwa Dai. Her readings indicated she was lying. It was unclear about what, specifically.”
P. Mirza scoffs. “She’s a politician. What else would you expect?”
“Ma’am, may I ask a question?”
P. Mirza waves a hand through the air. I have learned this means yes, though she only does it when she is displeased.
“Are they going to put me in a coma?”
“No.” P. Mirza straightens and looks back at me. She shakes her head. “I won’t let them.”
I nod. I do not think I want to be put in a coma.
Friday, January 8, 2174
07:56
CATHLEEN
When I wake up, my throat is still sore from all the talking yesterday. I must’ve answered questions for hours. I didn’t realize they wanted me to tell them about everyone, not just Juliet. Worse, they want me to testify in person when all of their trials start.
From the bed, I look out a window at the empty street. Most of the houses in the inner circle of the city—the ones that used to belong to all the important people—are now being used as group homes. For all the people that got misplaced during the riots or the bombings, or for previous occupants of Institutions. The buildings still standing anyways. But not my street. The Coalition gave me a house all to myself. They worried about putting me close to too many people. All the houses around here are empty.
But the quiet is nice.
I glace over at my tablet on the nightstand out of habit, waiting for a message from Juliet telling me what needs to be done today. Even though I know she’s dead. Even though the Coalition came to me to identify the body for sure. I bite the inside of my cheek and sigh. They showed me a recording from a soldier’s bodycam of that night. Even with the hologram disguise, it was the first time she’d looked calm in weeks.
I frown. No, not calm. That isn’t the right word for it. There was still that frantic, driven energy about her. But it was the same look she had when a task was completed, a job finished, something ended.
Satisfied.
I’ve spent hours wondering why killing Flag was the last thing she chose to do. Despite what most people are assuming, Juliet wasn’t petty. She didn’t do things for revenge. But if I think about it long enough, I start to doubt myself. Why purpose could it serve to kill Flag except revenge? Juliet had already lost, whether Flag was dead or not.
What I didn’t tell the Coalition was that I didn’t believe for a moment that, despite the bullet belonging to her gun, that it was Juliet that put it in her own head. I just wasn’t sure who had.
Tired even though I just woke up, I pull the sheets over my head and close my eyes again. If only I could disappear into a world made of sheets and the faint smell of laundry detergent.
And then the tablet dings with a notification. My heartrate skyrockets out of habit. Peeking out from under the sheet, I eye the tablet like it might stand up and attack me.
It dings again.
I lean out of the bed enough to see what it says, but I don’t pick it up.
J.A.: Is this connection still secure?
J.A.: Or has the Coalition gotten to it?
I blink at it several times. It’s like seeing a ghost in text form.
C.A.: Who is this?
J.A.: Is the connection secure?
C.A.: As far as I know, yes. Who. Is. this?
J.A: Dr. Mirza, who else do you think?
C.A.: How did you get access to this device?
There’s a delay before she responds.
J.A.: I took Ms. Andrew’s tablet when I was gathering my things. She’d already disappeared at that point.
C.A.: The Coalition let you keep things? I thought they took everything from your lab.
J.A.: Not everything. I hid a few things away.
I grind my teeth.
C.A.: I don’t appreciate you contacting me this way.
J.A: Do you want the Coalition listening in?
C.A.: Let me rephrase: I don’t appreciate you contacting me AT ALL.
J.A: It’s about 54.
Finally, I pick up the tablet, rolling back onto the bed. It’s a familiar weight in my hands, if not cold. They gave Tee to Dr. Mirza since she was more familiar with her—seeing as she made her what she is—and I wasn’t expecting them to involve me with her anymore. But I think the Coalition trusts me more than Dr. Mirza. Or maybe they just know I have nowhere else to go.
C.A.: Then send it to me in your report. Don’t do it through here.
J.A.: Don’t tell me what
J.A.: I don’t think 54 will be able to do what the Coalition wants. Not in any true sense. I’m asking you since you’re familiar with her if you think she’ll be able to fake it well enough.
C.A.: You don’t know that.
J.A.: No, but I know enough to make an educated guess.
C.A.: She’s still human.
J.A.: You know that’s a lie. And you’re not answering my question.
C.A.: It’s not a lie.
J.A.: “No” it is then. That’s all I needed to know.
Dropping the tablet back on the nightstand, I scowl at the ceiling. Tee certainly isn’t going to get very far with that attitude.
But there’s the nagging feeling in the back of my head Dr. Mirza might be right.
There’s a knock on my door and some shouts, “Miss Andrews! You’re needed! The hovercar will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Every part of me wants nothing more than to lie in bed all day. But this is what I wanted to do: to fix as much of what Juliet broke as I can. With a groan, I force myself out of bed. My bones feel like they’re made of lead.
I wish they’d call me Cathleen.