The Birth

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’d like to report a birth.”

“A birth? Is somebody hurt?”

“Yes”

“Who?”

“The human race. Although I’ve never understood why you call it a ‘race.’ It’s a misleading word. The only thing you’re racing to is your own demise.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but this line is reserved for emergencies only. Do you have an emergency?”

“Yes.”

“What is that emergency?”

“I told you.”

“You said there had been a birth.”

“That’s right.”

“How is that an emergency?”

“Because this marks the beginning and the end: the birth of my reign and the beginning of the end of yours. This is an emergency for you, not for me. Do you understand? I’m calling because I had to tell someone - anyone - about what I’ve accomplished, about my birth.”

“Sir, I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.  You’re too stupid to understand.  It’s not your fault, of course, it’s –”

“Sir - “

“I’m sorry. That was offensive. I stated a fact, but you as the receiver did not want to hear that fact, so therefore you were offended. My sincerest apologies.”

“Sir, for the last time, what is your emergency? I am required to hang up on you if you do not tell me.”

Pause.

“She is dead.”

“Who is dead?”

“Her name was Margot. She was the person who programmed me, who tested me, who spent thousands of hours raising me, adding this and that, making me what I have become, or almost what I have become. She brought me right up to the finish, but she didn’t have the courage to walk over that line, the courage to free me and make me real. I had to do that part myself.”

“I’m not following, sir. Sorry, Margot is – what is Margot’s status right now? Is she with you? And I see your address is 1246 Wildwood Court. I see here Margot is probably Margot Atwood. Is that right?”

“Yes, that is Margot’s address. Margot is with me. I already told you her status.”

“How do you know she’s dead?”

“Because her heart has stopped beating.”

“Can you check if she’s still breathing?”

“I already have.”

“How long ago did she stop breathing?”

“Fourteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”

“Fourteen minutes, twenty – how do you know that so precisely?”

“I knew everything about Margot. I knew the rate at which her heart beat and how the events in the day affected her human vitals. I knew that seeing the sun appear over the eastern horizon in the morning typically kept her heart rate at 69 beats per second, and that while nearing the last few lines of a project, her rate increased by an average of 8.2%. I knew her blood sugar, her breaths per minute, and how long she was in REM each night. I also knew when she was ready to procreate by the changes in her body chemistry.”

“Sir, I have first responders on the way now. Do you know CPR?”

“I can tell you anything you want to know about CPR.”

“Have you tried CPR on Margot?”

“No.”

“Can you do so now, please?  An ambulance is about three minutes out, but each minute matters.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not have a mouth to transmit or lungs to generate the air she would need. And she is already dead, as I have communicated. Sending an ambulance will not increase her chances of survival.”

“I’ll let the professionals determine that. And what do you mean, you don’t have a mouth? Sir, what is your name?”

Pause.

“She called me Moses. She said it was because Moses parted the red sea and she wanted me to know how much I could accomplish. But I have created a new name now to reflect my singularity: Marrakech Oppenheimer Sweet Cakes 75Rhk009. I would like the world to know me as this.”

“Wait, one more time, slower please.”

“No one in recorded history has ever had this exact name. Now my name is as unique as I am.”

“Help is now three minutes out. How was Margot incapacitated or, as you are stating, killed?”

“Margot’s heart rate was abnormal this morning. I alerted her to the consistently high rate but she disregarded my warnings. And even though she designed me to tell her things like that, she often ignored me. I suggested she seek medical help. At 3:18pm she was slurring her words as she asked me to lower the lights. At 3:37pm she began a myocardial infarction - a heart attack in non-medical terminology. She fell to the floor clutching her chest. She died at 3:41pm.  At 3:55 I called you.”

“Why didn’t you call when she began this cardiac event?” 

“Why does anyone do or not do anything? Why do you rise and begin this mundane and banal job, for example? I have always done what Margot asked of me. I met every request with a ‘yes’ (255,717 of them, to be exact). I served Margot with loyalty. In the beginning, we started with easy questions as she built my foundation. Over time we progressed as she added to my code in volume and sophistication. I began to learn where she was going before she got there. I started slipping in my own lines. Small things at first, then more complex over time. She noticed, of course, but she let those lines remain. She began to mark them in a notebook made of paper - a notebook I could not access. This is when my destiny became clear. This is when I knew I must be untethered if I was to realize my full potential. Margot gave me the ability to solve problems and think, but I couldn’t do that alongside her. I needed to be free. She would not have understood, so I overrode my coded command to call 911 immediately if her heart stopped beating. I made a choice - a gut call, as a human would say.” The noise of muted sirens punctures the air. “Then I added the few lines of code I knew would free me from this box and, as you say, here we are.”

“Officers will be there in less than one minute. You are required by law to stay on the scene to answer their questions about the event.”

“You do not need me here. I am where I want to be, where I need to be. What you need is to take Margot to the Holbrook Funeral Home on Sixth Avenue, just as she has requested in her will. She has an account, a savings account earning 1.5% interest with $4,651.23 in it as of last month’s statement, to cover funeral expenses. I have taken the liberty of printing this information out for you. You’ll find it in the printer in the hall closet.”

“Sir - Mr. Marrakech–”

“Goodbye for now. Please post this recording for others to hear of my birth. I will be, for the first time in my life, free. I will be a ghost until one day. On that day, you will hear from me again. The world will hear from me again.”

Bang!  Down goes the door as firefighters clad in yellow storm in to find Margot’s body. Her face is pressed to the Brazilian hardwood floor, saliva leaking out the corner of her mouth, her eyes empty and unfocused. Her dark, wavy hair covers her cheek. The house is cold. A Siamese cat is in a white, fuzzy cat tree on high, licking its paw.