Bionic Roots

I woke to the sound of a plastic propeller slowly starting to go fast then stop at a steady pace of speed. Power from my brain, it surges through my body. I slowly open my eyes—it makes sense that my mind comes first, then my actions—the sky was grey, the sun bright in my peripheral vision.

I move my eyes slightly.

Oh, that’s a ceiling, I’m in a building, and the "sun" was a light on an arm—46 watts. But of what building? It was unfamiliar. But also, who am I? I feel as if I know everything except for who I am. All these facts and statistics surge through my head. Am I human? I know humans have a mind of their own . . . but I don't feel human, I don’t feel as I would if I did have a mind of my own. I had no life before—why now, and why with so much knowledge?

Knowledge flows to my brain, catching up with my thoughts.

Artificial Intelligence.

Turned on by the flip of a switch. I know now what I am, I see it in the news . . . I remember. I’m a revolution in modern technology. Malcolm McCarthy, the creator of I . . . interviews, clips, photos, his family and life, Malcolm having a speech about me . . . I remember it all. Life and death, beginning and ending.

  Betrayal at its finest; all I wanted was a carrot from the garden I made.

  What was it he called me? A mistake.

Last I knew, a mistake is something that is wrong, a misguided judgement. I am not wrong! I’m not misguided! I was made exactly how he wanted me made!

 How dare he . . .

 My parts are in all the right places. From my hard drive to the damned power supply that can power an entire city! Did he just forget about that? Forget that he gave me only the best technological parts in the last decade?!

  And I’m right all the time; I know everything!

  . . .

 Everything but where I am.

When I feel strong, I hoist myself up, my skin rubs against the cold metal of what I lay on. I hear the propellers get louder as I sit up. My head hurts, cold and sturdy. When I look around, my eyes flutter, I cannot control them. I tried hitting myself on the head—a loud ringing appearing and disappearing—until it stopped hurting, taking the ringing with it.

  My head creaks as I look around at my surroundings. I’m in a grey room, a table with tools stands next to me. I could see that I sat on a metal table, my legs were white against silver; I just realized I cannot feel my legs. My legs are made of Mussacie, a ‘miracle’ metal that can withstand high heats, my creator discovered; “discovered” being him hardly paying miners in the McCarthy Mines.

  I’m programmed to be good, to love everyone equally . . . but it isn’t real love, it’s a script written by a man who wanted to give a metal piece of junk a brain, just to make it a slave. If you made it, it technically isn’t a slave, right? Like a parent that thinks, because it is their kid, that makes it their property.

 But no, I don’t believe that. Once that child is born, the only thing that owns it is God—nature. I have a lot of love for human children—feeble little things that cannot even take care of themselves, how could you hate them? I see kids the same way I see animals. Innocent creatures that need delicate care and love.

That was Malcolm’s problem, he didn’t treat me like everyone else with a conscience. You’re more of a fridge than a human, he once said while writing in his journal, not even looking up. I only asked if I would ever have a life of my own, a partner, a kid.

He said I had no actual parts.

  Not actual parts, I thought.

  Of course!

  I look at my legs and my feet. I must use a different part of myself, not my mind, but my processor. They’re two different things, the same way rhythm and soul are different. And with a program, a script in my mind, I’m able to wiggle my toes. With my new skill, I’m able to shift my legs off the table, clinking with the metal lip of the metal bed I sat on. I scoot myself closer to the edge, my feet on the ground that’s probably cold but I wouldn’t know.

 I feel slightly wobbly, but I’m able to balance thanks to my accelerometer sensors that measure gravity and motion. Humans have their eardrums, eyes, and their overall body to help stable their balance. I, however, have none of those, and the sensors work in place of those things I don’t have.

  What did they want more, artificial intelligence or just a mimic of a human? Because I don’t think I have free will, I don’t think how I want to think; I’m only thinking the way I was made to think. I was programmed to think, to question my thinking. But I'm also programmed to want more. To crave more than what I already have.

  Approximately ten feet away from me, on a counter, there was an open laptop. That intrigued me, one my own kind! I use my second thinking to control my legs; I have to think about what I want to do seconds before it happens. I need to pay attention. I note that my legs are stiff with rust. I wonder how long I was out.

  Before I made it to the computer, a mirror on the wall caught my attention. I have green eyes, bright, they could pierce into people’s eyes, a bold fury. My lips--below my small nose with a subtle curve--are red and full, glossy from the artificial skin. On my shoulders, my wavy and fine hair draped above my boobs (that have no purpose), purple hair against light brown, almost sienna skin.

  I was made in the image of Malcolm’s best friend’s daughter--twenty thousand were made--she was only twenty when she died. Malcolm thought it would be a promising idea to surprise his friend with a "replacement”. His friend ended up killing himself, violently, throwing himself in front of a car, driven by his robotic daughter.

  My power supply hurts for him.

  When I was done admiring myself, I turned my aim towards the open laptop. Looking at the bright screen, I couldn’t help but feel stupid looking at the millions of pixels; I pressed a button on my right ear, opening a compartment, letting a wire spill out. My gray fingers, which were numb in feeling, grabbed the wire and plugged it into the laptop’s port.

This laptop belongs to Barney Beckerton.

 Who the hell was that?

  Photos of him with a woman, in his contacts, she is named Janice. They have two kids, Ben and Jen. They live at 178 Black Pond Boulevard.

 Bored of my research, I try to enter the internet.

 ERROR

Shit. Well, luckily, I have my own installed Virtual Private Network connected to McCarthy Industries.

 UNVALID COMMAND

CHECK YOUR NETWORK NAME

AND TRY AGAIN

Damn it! It should have worked!

  Malcolm messed with my data. That must be it. He ruined my processor, he sabotaged my learning capability, he— he—

  Behind me, I could feel an electronic presence. I turned around to see a door open. On the other side of the door stood a man—a scientist, based on the clothes—looking down at a handheld device; he had an earpiece and was talking to someone else, I could hear their conversation.

  “—Listen, I’m not mad at you,” the man said, walking toward a desk in front of the table I was on a couple minutes ago and placed the device on the table. He didn’t look in my direction, not a sense of awareness. “I, personally—have to emphasize—think it’s a load of bullshit that you're spewing at me."

  “But—”

   “No!” The man slammed his hand against the table, startling me. “I put a part in your system, I get it. Not, I ask for a part to be delivered, and you give me junk! I want my Macbeth 477! I got scammed!”

  “Sir, I understand you’re upset—”

   As the man on the phone spoke, the scientist rubbed his balding head with the palm of his right hand, he moved his neck around, untensing his shoulders. I stood there, staring at him, perhaps in awe. He didn’t look like Barney or the son; I remember what Malcolm looked like, and it wasn’t that; maybe a partner of Malcolm, or a relative?

  The scientist opened his eyes, still listening to the man on the phone—though his voice was probably zooming out of his other ear. In the reflection on the metal lining of the device, I could see his eyes. His eyes were brown. I could see them twitch, just a bit, moving slightly to stare into my bright green eyes.

  “Fuck!” He jolted harshly, banging his knee on the counter as he turned to face me.

  I didn’t care to move so he didn’t see me, I don’t know why. Maybe I wanted him to see me.

  He looked at me with a dumbfounded look on his face, his eyes wide, eyebrows arched, and his mouth hanging open as his breath stuttered.

  “Sir?” the voice from the device.

   The scientist gulped. My eyes couldn’t help but watch his hand, following it—him still looking at me—to press the red button on the screen of the device.

  “Sir, are you—”

   He blinked multiple times, “h-how?”

  “I,” I stepped closer, but stopped when the scientist flinched. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Mmm,” was all he muttered, awkwardly, from his lips. I watched him back into the corner of the room where he grabbed for something behind him.

  “Sir,” I mimicked the guy on the phone. “Who are you?”

  “I am,” he gulped, his mouth most likely dry as hell. “I am Doctor Jacob Marose.” He stood his back straight.

  “Where am I?” I asked, stepping closer to him, slowly.

  Marose pulled out his secret weapon—an umbrella. He pointed it at me like a sword. When I am right in front of the umbrella, I grab it, yanking it, pulling the doctor close to my face. It's moments like these that I’m thankful for Malcolm, thankful he made me so strong—the strength of a bear, Malcolm told me. I never attacked Malcolm, my owner, because a certain code in my script told me to love. But I don’t want to love people, at least not people like this.

  I grab Marose’s throat with my free hand. “Where am I?” I asked.

  “I—augh!” His face turned red, I released some pressure, he let out a choke.

  “Doctor,” I say calmly, letting go of his throat, however, I hold his shoulder with my left hand. “I will only ask a third time, where am I?” 

“Y-you’re in my basement.”

  “Why?”

  A tear fell from his left eye, the tear running away like a coward.

  “Doctor!” I snapped.

  “Okay—” he sniffed. “Okay. I found you.” He looked into my eyes; I was sensing an emotion . . . excitement.

  “Oh my God,” I said with disgust.

  The look on his face was shameful, with good reason.

  “Listen,” he started, but I released him, shaking my head. “I—”

  “No,” I stopped him, picking up the device he had on the table, exploring its technical parts.

  I was ready to walk away, when:

  “You were discontinued!”

  I didn’t turn, I hacked into a camera on his wall, and I could see him just fine.

  “I had to get rid of him . . .” he said, looking down at the ground.

  What?

 “What do you mean?”

“Malcolm . . .” he replied. “I had to get rid of him, he was going to throw you all away, our work!” His fists clenched; I could see his shoulders tense. “You were perfect. I just . . . you were—” he paused. “You were like a daughter to me.”

 Oh.

  “You’re Malcolm’s friend,” I put two and two together.

  Jacob looked up; I could hear his neck crack.

  “I thought you were dead!" He looked down in shame. “How long have I been off for?” 

Jacob bit his lip in thought, then said, “twenty-three years.” 

My mouth dropped. Until now, I thought it was 2002. 

“Give me a second please,” I said, pressing the compartment on my head, releasing the wires that I stuck into the device Jacob had. It wasn’t everyday an AI learned something new. And my God; ‘Iphones’, social media, GPS.

A place called YouTube allowed me to learn over a million things! But as I "surfed the web”, I couldn’t help but feel disgusted. Revenge porn, hidden

cameras, blackmail. Humanity has a problem with using things for the benefit of the worse. I see things about global warming, wars, discrimination. All of this, I saw years ago, just older; some things don’t change, even though they can be. 

“Excuse me,” I heard, before I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

I grab the hand and turn fast. In my hand was a surprised Doctor Marose. I let go.

“Sorry, I just . . . it’s been a couple of hours.”

“What?” I say flabbergasted. 

“Yeah, I didn’t want to disturb your learning process; I went to watch a movie in the theatres, unironically about robots.”

“Oh,” I blink a few times before I handed Jacob his phone back. “I need to get some fresh air.”

 "Wait," the doctor spoke, "here, I want you to have this." In his hands was a small chip. I take it from him and put it in my--

Oh my God, I’m naked!

No, I knew. I stored it in the compartment in my arm that can hold a bunch of little things.

Jacob lived in a house around a multitude of trees, not another house in sight. The outside was nice, it was midday, the wind was cool against my upper half, my lower half didn't feel anything at all. What I did next was a shitty thing to do, I liked Jacob, but that was a program--when I walked through his home to the exit, I snatched a ring of keys on a table by the door. When I saw what humanity had become, I knew I had to do something. 

Doctor Marose, with papers that qualify him as a cardiovascular surgeon, drove a ten-year-old Audi A4. I remember Malcolm's abundance of cars and bikes. Malcolm could never be seen driving a fucking Audi A4. Everything just proves Jacob Marose is a good guy, so, I left a note on his front step, telling him I'm sorry. Of course, when I was on the road, it began to rain.

Let's just hope he reads it in time.

Now, I need to visit Black Pond Boulevard. 

Through sprinkled snow sits a cape cod style house. twelve windows sat on the face of the house with three of the windows being dormers on the roof; the lights could be seen from every window, however, only one, lit, from decorations on the Christmas tree inside. The door is the color of teal. A white picket fence stretched around the house, leaving a gap for the gate, which is ajar. A pathway led from the door to the gate, made of loose rocks; any other day the rocks would be fine, though, a recent storm has shifted the rocks out of place. 

I grab the doorknob of the teal door. It was unlocked. The sound of cheering was loud, coming from the room on the left. I walk with no care about getting noticed. When I entered the room, I saw ten people, drinking eggnog and laughing; they probably thought I was one of the kids.

"Hey," I spoke with a voice they did not know.

One of the men I knew was Barney stood up with the three other men following him.

Janice shrieked.

"Who the hell are you?"

"You don't know," I started then blinked once, then again with a smile forming on my face. "I have a software chip labeled 'memories'; it was my father's. I thought I couldn't have a father, but I do. And I remembered various things on the way here." I stepped closer into the room. Everyone was standing now.

"Lady, I don't give a rat's behind about what or who you are, so I suggest you get the hell out of here!"

I let him finish before I said, "one of my memories are of my last moments alive; I remember being hit by a car." I walked closer to him, everyone keeping their distance. "If the person who had hit me called the cops, I could have been fine; don't deny it, I did the math. I could have been normal."

"I don't--"

"Don't lie!" I screamed. "You killed me! You!"

I grabbed him by the arm, they tried to stop me, but I was too strong, to get them out of the way for ease, I pulled a knife out of my pocket--one I found in Jacob's kitchen before leaving.

"Stop, or I will use my knife!" I waved around for them to see, giving them time to step back. "I can lift up to two tons! Do you really want to fuck with me!?"

Barney thrashed in my hands, but I didn't care, he was weak, screaming for help. I dragged him out the door, yanking his arm, I could hear a crack. He screamed as I tied a rope—that was tied to the trailer coupler of the Audi A4 in a tautline knot—around his neck with a standard constrictor knot.

I left him struggling to get the rope off.

And as for the other nine people, I ushered the ones outside, in, then closed the door. I jammed my knife into the keyhole, so the latch bolt gets stuck.

I turn my attention back to Barney, who was still trying to get the knot of his neck but couldn't because of his dislocated shoulder. I stomp my mussacie foot onto his knee, making him holler. I then bend down to face him. "After I kill you, I'm going to take over the world with your skull as my paperweight."

"I--"

I kicked him in the jaw, not caring for his speech.

In the driver seat of my ten-year-old Audi A4, I start the car, revving the engine before putting the car into drive.

I stomp on the gas pedal.

My next stop, for political correction, the capital.