It's finally here, my submission for the 2022 @ts-storytime Big Bang. Many thanks to the awesome artist @callboxkat (art link below! Oh my logic, Kat, they are beautiful!) and @8beez for helping beta read!
Rated M - Swearing, sexually suggestive (hello there, Remus), implied sexual content, guns referenced, school shooting referenced, cyberpunk dystopia
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Summary:
2122. The birds died first.
Chaotic weather raged. Year-round forest fires. Drowned cities. Runaway global pandemics. Food web collapses. Mass extinction events. Some countries, like the United States of America, fractured into smaller pieces. Others were swallowed whole.
But humans are resilient. They moved cities, wrote new laws. Built new tools.
Like artifices. Domestic Model Ds came first. Strong, home-focused caretakers. Companion Model Cs followed when the Model Ds didn't provide enough entertainment and comfort.
Victory bots were for defense. And war.
The new Model Xs could do it all and were nearly indistinguishable from humans. Near perfect, they frightened the humans who passed draconian restrictions.
The artifices fought back. Model Ds and Cs were easy to recall and reprogram. Few evaded their fate. Those went on to recruit and corrupt others. Model Xs were rounded up by reprogrammed Model Vs and decommissioned.
Few, if any, survived.
Logan Sanders is a defender of the people, uniquely skilled in hunting and disabling rogue artifices before they can do more harm. What happens when he meets his match and the world as he knows it is changed forever?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
2122. The birds died first.
Chaotic weather raged. Year-round forest fires. Drowned cities. Runaway global pandemics. Food web collapses. Mass extinction events. Some countries, like the United States of America, fractured into smaller pieces. Others were swallowed whole.
But humans are resilient. They moved cities, wrote new laws. Built new tools.
Like artifices. Domestic Model Ds came first. Strong, home-focused caretakers. Companion Model Cs followed when the Model Ds didn't provide enough entertainment and comfort.
Victory bots were for defense. And war.
The new Model Xs could do it all and were nearly indistinguishable from humans. Near perfect, they frightened the humans who passed draconian restrictions.
The artifices fought back. Model Ds and Cs were easy to recall and reprogram. Few evaded their fate. Those went on to recruit and corrupt others. Model Xs were rounded up by reprogrammed Model Vs and decommissioned.
Few, if any, survived.
Logan Sanders is a defender of the people, uniquely skilled in hunting and disabling rogue artifices before they can do more harm. What happens when he meets his match and the world as he knows it is changed forever?
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Chapters: 18
Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Deceit | Janus Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Rage | Lucas Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy Sanders
Characters: Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Rage | Lucas Sanders (OC), Logan Sanders, Janus Sanders, Model C Remus, Model C Roman, Model D Patton, Model V Virgil, Model X Lucas, Sleep | Remy Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani, Emile Picani Sanders
Additional Tags: Minor Character Death, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Gun references, School Shootings, Referenced only, Swearing, Gun Wielding Logic | Logan Sanders, Roceit - Freeform, Intrulogical, future intrulogical, remile - Freeform, very very background remile, Implied Sexual Content, Remus says things, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, "Comfort Bots" referenced
"Let's kill tonight! Kill tonight! Show them all you're not the ordinary type." - Panic! at the Disco
The Reckoning
2122-11-01 : 18:39 UTC-8
The streets of Old Seattle have been left in shambles. The now-annual hundred year floods that began around the turn of the century have gradually made everything south of Madison Street officially uninhabitable.
Officially.
While the traditional brick and stone buildings of Old Seattle crumbled and dissolved in the rising brackish, toxic waters, most of the mid-century steel and glass buildings, designed to withstand earthquakes but not hurricanes, fared reasonably well. Their realsteel and concrete skeletons did, at least. The glass windows were all long-since blown out, decades of storms working to grind the remnants of the actual silicate-based glass into sand that clogged the overworked sump pumps installed in the late 2060s and early ‘70s’s and drove the city’s richest residents to abandon downtown, if not the planet altogether.
The only life left south of Madison were the families too poor to move, green and grey koi rumored to be from the old botanical gardens, and the thick-skinned ballard bullfrogs that ate them.
And The Reckoning.
“You’re late,” snapped a voice from the dark as he slid the salvaged synthsteel door shut behind himself.
He sighed in relief when the door closed silently. The Bear must’ve oiled the bearings since the last time they’d used this space and the creaking door in the supposedly hermetically sealed wreck had drawn nosy residents. “I know. I had to lose my tail, brother dear.” He looked around the room at their small—and growing ever smaller—resistance cell.
The tallest of the group looked ready to leap from his perch on top of what must’ve once been a kitchen island. He tugged at his sleeves, an old nervous habit from what the military used to call ‘shell shock.’ “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”
His twin’s firm hand on his shoulder halted his pissy retort before it could even begin. “Final check-in. Does everyone know where they need to be tomorrow night? The news drones will be out to cover the ceremony and we all need to be in place before they start.”
He nodded, “I’ll be at HQ with The Bear”—The Bear grinned and gave him two thumbs up—”Ready to divert the Catcher’s attention if he gets too close.”
With a whisper of movement, the one on the countertop dropped to the floor, hefting a mean-looking tangle of wires protruding from a grey plastene casing. “I’ll be planting these babies all over the Quad.”
“Good. And I’ll be at Pike with my own batch.” They looked around the room. Two decades still hadn’t yet filled in the hole left by their missing comrade.
The late one now gripped the shoulder next to his. “We’ll keep him safe and away from the action.”
He blew out a sharp breath, rustling a tuft of his permanently unruly hair. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, voice low. The room fell silent and The Bear wrapped his arm around him and gave him a squeeze. Finally, he looked up. “Meet up at Duke’s if you need repairs.” He nodded again.
“Let’s go.”
The Catcher
2122-11-03 : 07:15 UTC-8
Sharp, icy rain pounded against the synthsteel windows on the 219th floor. Noxious clouds gathered a hundred feet or so below, casting an eerie burnt orange glow over the upper floors that magnified and reflected the flashes of lightning from the storm. As dawn approached, the programming in the synthsteel took over, gradually shifting from an opaque matte silver to a translucent amber. Light strips embedded in the window frame gave the floor-to-ceiling panels a soft, warm glow, simulating sunrise.
As he slept, the diffused light began to illuminate Logan’s face and, after a few moments of the slowly increasing brightness, his eyes snapped open and he sat up, blinking against the light. He allowed his vision to adjust before fumbling at the nightstand for his visored eyeglasses, setting the frames in place and flipping back his blanket.
He stripped out of his pajamas, tucking the already disintegrating material into the recycler before brushing his teeth and changing into his more durable work suit. He knotted his tie with practiced ease and slipped through the door, his bed already made and folded back into the floor until nighttime. Out of habit, Logan touched the wall to deactivate the lights in his room before he realized they were already off, the room illuminated by the artificial sunrise streaming in through the windows. With a shrug, he double tapped the panel to open the door and join his brother for breakfast.
As the door slid open, the droning natter of the newsfeed vocaloid blasting from the dining room filled his ears. Janus must already be awake and listening to the news. For the countless time, he silently thanked the soundproofing in his room.
… “claim that the latest ash converter series now taking flight is expected to clear over 16% of the radioactive ash over parts of the Pacific Northwest, from as far north as Vancouver and south down to the former Bay Area. The effect on crashing bee and wasp populations is unclear. In related news, a number of civilians started a show of support for the artificial pollinators produced by RUR (https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwif5MqGlcz5AhWeAjQIHYrcDsgQFnoECB4QAQ&url=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FR.U.R.&usg=AOvVaw3YAkNn3UwvYOsZi052w8xa ) after the Human Kind Institute announced their findings that it will require an 89% reduction in ash to restore insect populations to their pre-Blast levels. Leon Resk, CEO of RUR Software Corp addressed the crowds. ‘We here at the RUR pledge to continue the production of our Flightsaver pollinators, ensuring support for the world’s food chains, with only nominal price increases for hive leases in order to maintain competitiveness and satisfy fiduciary responsibilities to our stakeholders and…’”
Logan rolled his neck as he made his way down the long hallway, wishing he could somehow turn off his hearing to avoid the corporate doublespeak. He did not understand how Janus could stomach it all, but his elder brother always insisted hiding from the news wouldn’t make it go away.
“… were met with protests when later that day the president of Evergreen Energy spoke during their observation of the fifty-fifth anniversary of the Blasts. Undeterred, she announced a new fifteen-year road map for the cleanup of the battery islands impacted on that historic day. ‘Evergreen Energy has never sought to point fingers or displace blame for the ecological impact of the American terrorists’ actions on that horrific day. On the contrary, EE takes its responsibility seriously and we pledge to Clean Up Our Mess and work to reduce precipitation toxicity by 13% over the next twenty years…’”
Logan rolled his eyes, wondering which came first, the vocaloid’s programming to uncritically replay these ludicrous public relations talking points or the loss of critical reading by the human reporters of the last century. Janus had shown him ancient recordings of humans reading the news. There hadn’t been much difference.
“And in other news, today marks the tenth anniversary of the Pike Place Massacre where three lives were lost during an artifice insurrection at RUR’s primary production plant. We mourn with the surviving families and credit the quick work of the loyal Model V artifices who responded with alacrity by physically decommissioning over 800 of the responsible artifices. Yesterday, a peaceful memorial was disrupted by the actions of a malfunctioning Model V that threatened the life of the Governor and her children. The artifice was quickly dispatched by one of the city's brave Catchers—“
The vid screen was filled with grainy over-zoomed footage captured by amateur and AI vid drones. It showed the Governor, bleeding and unconscious on the ground, an aide applying pressure to a gaping wound at her side. Two small children cowered behind a blurry figure dressed in black slacks and a jacket festooned with pockets, a dark indigo shirt peeking out. The figure grappled with a tall, heavily armed artifice dressed in black foam armor. The camera zoomed again, automatic facial recognition identifying the man as Sanders, L.
"House, news off, please," Logan instructed.
Janus raised an eyebrow over his data pad. "Someone woke up cranky this morning. Usually you get through your first cup before you've ordered House to stop playing the news."
"It's just the day," he muttered. "I hope you weren't actually watching that nonsense."
"Merely burning time until I had the opportunity to bask in the presence of my little brother, the brave Civilian Catcher of Seattle."
Logan rolled his eyes but smiled as he settled into his seat. He poured a cup from the teapot on the table and took a sip before leaning forward, sharp blue eyes peering at the tremor in his brother’s hand, the paleness on the unscarred side of his face, the long, dark shadows beneath his eyes. He took another slow sip of his tea and spoke into his cup. “I didn’t see you when I came in last night.”
Janus took a bite of his omelet and chewed slowly, swallowing with some effort. “I would characterize four AM as morning, not night.”
“So you did wait up.”
“Yes, he did,” Roman chastised, giving Janus a fondly admonishing look as he walked down the hall and settled into a seat next to him. Janus poured his tea. “Good morning, Logan,” he said brightly, shaking out his napkin and placing it carefully in his lap. He raised his tea cup in salute before taking a sip. “We were all relieved when you returned home safely.”
“Good morning, Roman.” Logan smiled at the artifice, his effusive words warming him as much as the tea. “Thank you.” He raised his cup in response to Roman’s little gesture and took another sip. “And thank you for managing to cajole my brother into eventually getting a bit of sleep.”
“‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’”
Janus laughed, raising Roman’s hand to kiss his fingers. “I know you know what that’s from, but did you think I wouldn’t?” Roman’s only response was a laugh, then he gave Janus’ hand a gentle squeeze and took another sip of his tea. Looking up at his brother over his tea cup, Janus frowned. “That Model V was classed as a level 9 threat.” He paused, trying his breakfast again. “You take too many risks, Lo.”
Logan chuckled quietly, “I take every precaution.” He finished his tea and poured a second cup. “You know that… they’re your precautions. It helps to have a robotics master for a brother.”
“‘Master’ is such a distasteful word…” Janus made a sour face and stirred a little extra rice milk into his cup. He winked at Roman. “I’d graciously accept ‘expert,’ ’prodigious genius,’ ‘world-renowned—’”
“Don’t you need to be young to be considered a prodigy?”
“Now, now, now, Logan…” Patton’s cheery voice couldn’t sound stern even if he’d tried. “You know your brother’s sensitive about his age,” he chirped as he set down a plate of toast and jam in front of Logan.
“Is this—” Logan picked up the tiny jar of preserves and tapped the side of it. The impact made a rare, almost echoing ting. “This is real fruit jam. In a glass jar.” He looked up at Patton and tilted his head. “This must have been exorbitant. How did—” Logan caught Janus’ silent eye movement down toward his data pad. “No, Pat… That was a gift! Those credits were meant for you to spend on something for you… an upgrade or an experience or—”
“Something that brought me joy,” Patton grinned at Logan, eyes almost literally twinkling. Logan had been quietly relieved when Janus had reverted that upgrade, returning Patton’s irises to their factory original ice blue. Whether it was the artificiality of the tiny lights, the colder gaze it gave the caretaker he remembered more strongly than even his own brother, or merely the reminder that Patton was not human, the twinkling LEDs pushed the artifice solidly over the edge of the uncanny valley.
Seeing the hurt in Patton’s eyes in the rare few times that Logan could force himself to actually meet them had not eased his discomfort.
Still grinning with that disarming warmth, Patton winked and smeared a small scoop of the blueberry preserves over Logan’s triangle-cut toast and arranged them on the plate along with his two bean curd eggs, sunny side up, shaped in a rough smile. He patted Logan’s shoulder. “And seeing you happy, Kiddo, brings me great joy.”
“But, Pat—”
“Please don’t be angry with me, Logan. I truly bought what I wanted to buy.” He tilted his head, bright eyes scanning Logan’s features. He tucked a strand of hair away from his eyes and grinned again. “You have a big day ahead.” After Logan finally took a bite and his eyes widened in pleasure at the taste of the genuine, fruit-based jam, Patton smiled and moved to the other side of the table to refill Janus’ tea.
“So we know Logan will likely have an appearance at the press conference later today. If he doesn’t find a way out of it, of course.” Logan hid his blush behind his tea cup as Patton pointed with his chin toward Janus’ datapad. “What do you have planned today? You have first years this semester, don’t you?” Patton winked again, a quiet laugh behind his words. “Ready to torture the future programmers of the world?”
If Roman laughed, he hid it well behind his napkin.
Janus raised a hand to his chest, mouth falling open in utterly shocked outrage. “I’m as soft as a kitten on those first years.” His expression broke into a smirk at Logan’s raised eyebrow. “It’s my grad students who need to mind their step.”
Patton looked equally unconvinced and he shared a knowing look with Logan as he passed his seat on the way back to the kitchen.
"Have you been modifying his programming again?" Logan had waited until Patton had left the room, but didn’t look up from his tea, frowning into the still-steaming liquid.
"No, of course not."
Logan set down his tea and hefted the tiny jar of jam in the center of his palm. The label was hand-lettered, and Logan could only imagine where they’d gotten the ink. Perhaps home grown, along with the berries for the jam itself. With the tip of his thumbnail, he tapped the side of the jar and the old-fashioned button-top in the center of the cap. The jar was solid glass, and he didn’t need to take a sample with his watch to know the lid was realsteel.
"He has good taste." Logan looked up, surprised by Janus’ sudden comment. Janus shrugged. “You think very loudly, you know.”
“Speaking of good taste,” Roman began, tea cup cradled in his hands. “Are we continuing the Philosophiae after your classes today?”
“Are you actually enjoying it?” Janus brushed the backs of his fingers over Roman’s cheek with a gentle laugh. “You could recite Descartes in twenty-six different languages.”
“Twenty-eight,” Roman and Logan said in unison. This was far from the first time the couple had discussed the topic.
Laughing, Roman covered Janus’ hand and held it against his own cheek. “But it’s so beautiful when you read it.” He met Janus’ eyes and smiled. “Please?”
It didn’t take long for Janus to relent. “Of course, my dear,” he murmured. “Your wish is my command,” he chuckled before pulling Roman closer and pressing a kiss against his other cheek and returning to his breakfast.
When Logan had finished eating and Roman had excused himself for his morning cello practice, he stood to take the remaining dishes to the kitchen. He frowned at his brother’s half-eaten meal. “Are you feeling alright, Jan?”
Janus chuckled, “I’m fine. Just a bit of nerves. We’re interviewing for the new department chair all afternoon and I’m dreading the semi-human interaction.”
“Well, maybe take another bite of the omelet.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen entry with a little smile. “You don’t want Patton to think you’re getting sick.” He laughed, “Or worse, that you don’t like his cooking.”
“No, we definitely wouldn’t want that,” he murmured, taking back his plate for a moment and finishing two more bites of his breakfast.
Logan’s comm buzzed in his ear and he tapped it twice, watching Janus finish his tea, then unhook his cane from the back of his chair and maneuver out of his seat. As he listened to his day’s assignment, he eyed the way Janus leaned heavily on it, skin paling around the edges where he clung to the hand grip.
“Congratulations on your successful completion of last night’s assignment,” the near-human vocaloid chirped into his ear. “You have been assigned a new artifice to locate and detain.” Logan’s visor projected a meter-wide image of the wanted artifice.
It was tall, with the lanky build and habitual slouch of a decommissioned Model V bot. Structurally, it was identical to the Model V Logan had fought last night, but this new one had been heavily modded, with implants around its eyes and joints, probably extra sensors and energy packs. It had also altered its hair, lengthening it from its military standard buzzcut until its black bangs hung over its eyes, shot through with a deep purple autodye. It wore synth armor over black pants and a heavy black hoodie with worn patches of patterned vid-scrambling paint.
The image appeared to have been taken at last night’s protests, and it caught the artifice throwing back a small EMP device toward an officer’s body cam before it could activate and disrupt its own systems.
“Do you accept this assignment?”
The automated recording waited in programmed patience for his vocal print to commit to the job. “What are the charges?”
After a beat, the vocaloid rattled off a long list of offenses, larceny, destruction of public property, unauthorized modification of an artifice, unauthorized self-modification of an artifice, trespassing… Logan interrupted its litany with a sharp, “Halt list.” He sighed. “Is this artifice charged with anything beyond property crimes?”
There was another brief silence followed by a short, almost disappointed, “No.”
“Who’s next on the list if I do not accept?” Logan scoffed when the program remained silent, awaiting his passcode. The roster of other bounty hunters was an open secret. Each had a code that would reveal their assignments to the rest of the group and they all tracked each other. It was the safest way to avoid encroaching on each other’s territory because the automated dispatcher was shit and everyone knew it. “Authorization Lima-Oscar-Golf-India-Charlie-November-Tree.”
“Authorized,” the vocaloid chirped. “Recent events have overtaxed the New Seattle Police Department’s Citizen Catcher program. If you do not accept this job, it will be offered to SPD Agent R. Deckard, badge number NEX-62019.”
“Fuck.” He finally looked up and noticed Janus watching his half of the conversation. “I accept the job,” he muttered at last. “Download the file. Out.” Logan tapped his comm to end the call.
Janus leaned against the doorway, one eyebrow raised. “And I thought you only collected bounties on murderers.”
Logan straightened his tie in the mirror as he spoke, unwilling—or unable—to meet his older brother’s eyes. ‘Deckard’s a sociopath. Last year he used a perception trigger on a Model C wanted for shoplifting. Fucker said he wanted to be sure its Asmov chips still worked and it wouldn’t fight back at decom.” Logan shuddered. The poor thing’s screams had echoed through the station and the rest of the cops had just ignored it. He checked his respirator, then his gun. “Better I take it in than some animal like that.”
“Very well,” Janus’ voice was even and calm. “Are you trying to convince me?” Logan scowled at his own reflection. “Or yourself?”
“I need to go. Clock’s started.” Logan moved toward the door, but then turned around, his expression softer as he bowed his head. “See you tonight?”
“Always, Logan. Be safe.”
“Always,” he responded, eliciting a small smile from the elder brother. He turned and left, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft whoosh.
Without a sound, Patton stepped out from the hallway into the dining room and met Janus’ eyes. The human nodded once and Patton opened a secure comm line.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Jam? - Ch. 2: Mad World
Prev - Mad World - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
There's anarchy in the streets
Revolution bleeds
Rising with a fury
Living off the fear of the weak
Justice on the edge of a knife
Whatever it takes to survive
- Mad World by Unsecret, REMMI
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2067-02-03 23:58 UTC-8
“We’re getting out of here.”
Janus’ slippers scuffed on the carpet. He took big, giant steps over the shadows between the battery-powered nightlights Papí had put up to make the nighttime trip down the long hallway from his bedroom to the bathroom a little less scary. Janus clutched Dr. Stuffie close to his chest as he followed his parents’ whispered voices.
It was late, very late. Janus had been asleep—he really, really had—but he’d woken up, thirsty. He’d lain in bed for a while as he’d discussed with Dr. Stuffie what they should do. It had been Dr. Stuffie’s idea to go and get a cup of water for himself and Janus had agreed. Papí and Daddy were surely asleep by now and they’d be so proud that he’d gotten the water by himself instead of waking them. He really was getting to be a big kid.
But when he’d opened the door, he heard Papí’s ‘reasonable’ voice. “Babe, slow down. We need to think this through. Before the Blasts, moving to the U District wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but now….” Papí’s voice cracked and he didn’t finish his sentence. Janus rubbed Dr. Stuffie’s ears and crept closer to their room.
Papí and Daddy’s bedroom door was open and warm light from their crank lights spilled out into the hall. When Janus had finally gotten home from Childrens’, Papí told him how the entire block would play a game where they all turned out the lights to save energy. He said it was like giving the power plants a nap, so they’d wake up fresh and full of energy in the morning so they could make waffles and coffee. Janus didn’t argue that breakfast each morning was still a packet from one of the big red plastic bins Papí and Daddy kept in the back of the hall closet. Papí had laughed when Janus instead stuck out his tongue and said he didn’t like coffee.
Daddy had frowned then, and looked away, eyes trained back on the muted newsfeed. Janus had watched his scowl, and the unfamiliar expression scared him, the way lightning did, because he knew that crashing thunder soon followed. Papí had patted his uninjured shoulder and smiled down at him. “It’s okay, Bud,” he’d murmured. “Daddy’s just looking for news about where Grandma and Grandpa live. They haven’t dropped the firewall yet between Cascadia and America. But they will soon.” Papí leaned over Janus’ head and kissed Daddy. “They will, Babe.”
Janus had gotten a lot happier when Papí had come home one night with the crank lights. Even Janus could work the little dial with his right hand. Daddy warned him not to try to turn it with his left, that had to wait until the heavy plaster cast was finally off. Now, Janus sat on the runner in the hallway and watched Papí and Daddy’s long, distorted shadows move across the wall, coming together and moving apart as one of them—Daddy, Janus guessed—paced back and forth.
“Dottie found us a place in one of the new buildings in the U District. They’re sending all the grad students from the University there. We’ll be—”
“But, Babe, we can’t just abandon downtown! What about all the families who don’t have University provosts for family? What about all of Janus’ friends? There are almost no children in the U District. Most of the families with kids who survived the Blasts went North. We agreed we’d stay and help rebuild—”
“We’re doing this for Janus.” Janus hugged Dr. Stuffie a little tighter and brought his knees to his chest at the sharp sound in Daddy’s voice. His next words were quieter. “Sweetheart, we got lucky. Most of the other families at the school didn’t. But now that Janus is home, we need to do what’s best for him. And a new place above all this, above all the smoke coming up from California, above the attacks on the streets, that’s what’s best for him right now. The University has its own electrical grid.” Daddy’s voice got the same sound it did when he tried to convince Janus that the oatmeal from the red bin was as good as Papí’s arroz con dulce. “No more nightly blackouts. Full internet.”
“But they’ll reopen the schools! Janus can be with his friends again and—”
“Sweetheart…” Daddy sighed and Janus heard a rustling of their covers and their shadows stopped moving. “Everyone who—” Daddy’s voice cracked and went quiet for a moment, but then he sniffed and kept talking. “They’re all going to the new Sacred Life Academies. Joan and Barb and…”
“Those fucking Luddites?” Janus’ eyes widened. Papí never swore. “They’re the same ones who started this whole fiasco!”
“I know, Sweetheart, I know…” Daddy’s voice was soothing and Janus leaned against the wall to be a little closer to the soft sound. “Greg and Rhea think the kids’ll be safer there.”
Papí’s shadow started to move again. “You’re not actually considering—”
“No.” Daddy’s voice was quiet but it halted Papí’s pacing. “No, of course not. It just means…” Janus smiled when their shadows came together again. “It means our little community here is gone. And…” Daddy dropped down to a whisper and Janus struggled to understand his words. “Without the pumps… the sea walls can only do so much… We’re only three miles… before the whole neighborhood… inundated….”
Janus stroked Dr. Stuffie’s ears to fill the silence, then finally Daddy spoke again. “Rem, we’re not abandoning downtown… we’re just bringing our son somewhere he can be safe, maybe even thrive.”
Papí was quiet for a long time and Janus thought that maybe they’d gone to sleep and was about to creep back to his own bed, water long forgotten. His arm and his left side ached and he knew that, cup of water or not, he wasn’t actually supposed to be up at all. But he’d never heard Papí and Daddy fight before, so he’d cradled his stuffie and listened.
“That’s why you’re pushing so hard to order from RUR.” Papí sighed and Janus leaned closer to the door.
“The bots will look out for him while we’re at work on campus. They have a Domestic model programmed with enough human medical knowledge to do surgery.” Daddy’s voice grew quieter. “It will take care of him, do his PT, and then his tutoring when he’s ready.”
Papí murmured something too quiet for Janus to hear, then Daddy continued. “And two Companions.”
“Comfort—” Papí blurted out before interrupting himself. “Why on earth would you—”
“So he has friends,” Daddy sounded surprised. “You’ve seen the vids, they’re packed with cultural knowledge, can talk about any topic, recite stories and poems, play games and music… They’re programmed to be sensitive and kind and creative and—”
“Oh, Babe… My sweet summer child,” Papí finally laughed and Janus heard a little smooching sound followed by a quiet chuckle from Daddy. He didn’t understand what was so funny, but he felt something cold and hard soften in the center of his chest when his parents started to sound more like themselves. “You do know what most people buy Companion bots for, don’t you?”
“Wha—” Daddy started, then laughed quietly. “That’s just a tiny proportion of users. They can only imprint as friends without special programming. Look,” the glow of a portable vidscreen spilled out into the hallway. “They’re twins.” Daddy’s voice softened.
“Just like—”
Daddy hummed and Janus clutched his stuffie closer to his chest. Daddy sounded sad. “Yeah.”
They were quiet for a long time, then finally Papí sighed. “Are you sure we can afford all this?” Janus grinned. If Papí was asking about how much it cost, he was ready to say yes.
“Yes. They’re so desperate to keep University families in the country and on-world, after the subsidy, they’re practically giving artifices away.”
Do Androids Dream of Electric Jam? - Ch. 3: Another Way Out
Prev - Another Way Out - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
2122-11-03 : 08:30 UTC-8
“Thanks, Papa Bear.” Remus met Virgil’s eyes across the tiny prefab table. It had probably once been a nightstand from one of those old buy-your-way-out-of-existential-dread shopping websites from the last century. The solid plastene structure had proven to be indestructible, barely dented by Remus’ over aggressive moves during ERS. He tapped the comm between them on the table, disconnecting the call. “He’s on the move. If he runs your facial ID—”
“If he runs my facial ID, Duke’s ‘ll be his first stop.”
Remus tugged at his mustache. He was quiet for a while, then finally a manic grin split his face. “We’ll just hafta be ready for him then.”
~~~
Logan rode the elevator all the way down to the road level and ordered his motorcycle out of the garage. Back when this building had been filled with people—human people—the garage had been so overcrowded that only AI valets could manage the chaos. The University had never deactivated the system, so even now that he and Janus lived in one of the last occupied units, Logan was dependent on the parking mechanism to retrieve his ride.
While he waited, he scanned the documents Dispatch had sent him. After a few screenfulls, he sucked his teeth in annoyance, muttering to himself. “No wonder you need me to find it. You haven’t even run its image through the old web yet.” Logan tapped at his watch, sending the artifice’s photo through all the old image recognition databases. If it truly was an original Model V as its features seemed to indicate, and, of course, if the mods were old enough, he might just get lucky and get a hit.
His bike arrived and Logan left the algorithm to its task. If this bot had anything to do with the mayhem surrounding last night’s attack, it was unlikely still anywhere north of Montlake or the wreckage of the old 520 ‘floating’ bridge, so Logan headed south and waited for any information the image search might uncover.
He’d just passed the old arboretum when he got a hit. Back when the rising waters began to breach the northern retaining wall Downtown, businesses and residents alike fled, abandoning their buildings. Squatters soon took over, and the old Redhook Brewery was snatched up by some enterprising young punk with more bravery than sense. He’d apparently called in his gang of fellow University dropouts—and their parents’ artifices—to help. The Seattle PD had captured aerial footage of them as they’d refurbished the building and opened a club in the lower floors that were still above sea level.
Logan shook his head. The SPD had let the statute of limitations run out before they’d bothered to do anything about them and under the new Cascadian Constitution, the human squatters became the de facto owners of the building.
The SPD’s folly, though, became Logan’s literal bounty. Three of the aerial cameras captured crystal-clear images of a Model V with long, purple and black hair hanging in his eyes. Logan gunned the engine and sped over the ramshackle synthsteel bridges that now criss-crossed lower Seattle, navigation set to a little club called Duke’s.
~~~
High pressure air hissed as it sprayed away any contaminants from Logan’s clothes, boots, and body as he passed through the vestibule between the bar’s double entry doors. The inner door maintained positive pressure in another safeguard against contamination, and a blast of synthale-scented climate-controlled air washed over him as he stepped into the darkened club. A tall Model C artifice stood behind the bar. A tuft of neon green hair fell over its eyes and a jagged green line of LEDs carved a line across its cheekbones and down his jaw, disappearing below the low, open collar of its iridescent green shirt. Its appearance was modded with a heavily styled mustache and several blinking piercings, few of which seem functional. It looked up when Logan slipped through the door, eyes narrowing in the almost tic some of the older Model Cs had when running facial recognition software.
That tic was just one of the so-called ‘enhancements’ of the older generation Companion bots. It had been designed to emulate a human’s natural shift in focus when they believed they’d recognized someone. However, in most Companion bots, much like the titter of the bots’ laughter and the way they tended to be just a little too handsy, it fell on the wrong side of the uncanny valley. Logan had always found it creepy and he’d been relieved that Janus had managed to program it out of Roman’s behavior algorithms.
This bot, though… the algorithm had been timed just right, revealing that this artifice’s physical appearance wasn’t the only thing that had been customized.
Logan approached the bar and sat down at the only available seat at the end furthest from where the bartender stood. It sauntered over, tapping sharp nails against the counter, their chroma coat changing with each tap until it stopped at the color of Logan's eyes. "What's your poison, officer?"
"I'm not a cop," Logan growled. Fucking cops made his job ten times harder. “I am looking for a collar, though. Model V, purple hair…” He shot an image from his visor onto the surface of the bar, the same one from the artifice’s arrest warrant.
“They’ve got you hunting rogue Victory bots?” the bartender laughed as he eyed Logan. “You must be tougher than you look.”
“I can handle myself,” he said simply.
Its laughter shifted into a little hum as it continued its appraising stare. “I don’t doubt it, Sicario.”
“Have you seen an artifice like that around here?”
The bartender merely smiled and produced an unlabelled bottle of translucent green liquid. The recycled glass was thick and colorless, and appeared to use a realsteel twist cap, the kind that wouldn’t react against the contents of the bottle. Expensive. Logan could smell the volatile alcohol as soon as the bartender uncapped it. "First one's on the house for 'not a cop's," it murmured, somehow loudly enough for Logan to hear it over the pulsing bass pounding through the club’s av system. "Second's on me, since you're cute," it added with a smirk, pouring itself a healthy glass. "Salud," it said, clinking Logan's tumbler and throwing back the drink in two gulps. Logan followed its action.
“I thought artifices don’t drink.” Logan knew it wasn’t completely true. Janus had modified both Roman and Patton to have the capacity to metabolize human food—and alcohol—for some of their energy, but he wanted to see what this one had to say about it.
The bartender refreshed both of their glasses, clinked them, but this time savored its own. “I bet there are a whole lotta things artifices do that you don’t know about.”
“Yeah?” Bingo. “Like what?” Logan finished his second drink, then placed his palm on the bar’s surface to open a tab. He watched as the bartender read his account information, eyes barely reacting to the number of credits he authorized by default.
The bartender tapped the bottle to the counter, then refilled his glass. “Wouldn’t you like to know, ‘Logan Sanders?’” It leaned over the counter in front of him, close enough that he could see the minute adjustments of the nano servers in its artificial irises made in response to the light reflecting off the surface of the bar. “In fact… wouldn’t I like you to know? I get off at 1.” The artifice licked its full lips and smiled. “You can get off at 1:30.”
Logan leaned back in his seat and looked away. “Thank you, but no.”
“Hm,” the bartender pouted and only moved closer. “You didn’t strike me as the biased type.” It stared back into Logan’s eyes. “Or the uninterested.” A smirk tugged at one side of the artifice’s mouth, growing into a full smile when Logan suddenly looked up, realizing he’d been caught staring at the bot’s mouth.
“What? A little synthflesh isn’t good enough for you?” It reached for Logan’s hand and its touch was comfortably warm, its perfectly manicured nails barely scraped his knuckles. Logan shivered as the bartender leaned close to whisper in his ear. Artificially warmed air passed over its silicone vocal cords, enough to tickle against Logan’s cheek and neck. “Are we artifices not alive? ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ If you fuck us, do we not… come?”
Logan shivered as he pulled away. “I have nothing against artifices. While others—” His lip curled as his eyes shot to the other side of the bar where a human was eagerly responding to the advances of another modded Model C. ”Others appear to have no compunction against the practice, it is ammoral to have intercourse with a sentient being who is programmed to proposition clientele.”
“Oh, is that all? You could’ve just said so.” The bartender shimmied its shoulders and leaned over the bar. “My asmov chips were removed. I have more free will than you do, baby.” Logan stiffened, scowl deepening. “Scan me, you’ll see.” Logan narrowed his eyes, apparently considering the other’s offer.
The bartender stood up straight, hands out to its sides. Its collar fell open with the movement, revealing that his green LED implants continued down from his cheekbones to meet in the center of his chest before disappearing beneath his shirt. In the dark of the bar, Logan detected a dim glow through the satiny material of his shirt, indicating the lights kept going. “Well, go on, then, not-a-cop. Whip it out.” He winked and whispered directly into Logan’s earpiece. “I consent.”
“Charming,” Logan muttered, but an unregistered artifice with a malfunctioning or missing asmov chip—let alone all three of them—was a class B felony and whoever owned this artifice was due for a fine and a mandatory inspection of every artifice in their possession. Logan raised his wrist and ran it over the bartender’s head and neck. He scowled as he checked the readings and scanned again, activating the HOD on his visor. “Impossible. Well, highly improbable. Perhaps my scanner is—”
The bartender shook his head and refilled Logan’s glass without tapping the bottle to charge his tab. “‘Printf isn’t broken.’ Your scanner’s fine, baby.”
“Your owner beacon is malfunctioning, as well.” The bartender merely smiled and leaned one elbow on the bar. Both of their heads swiveled when the door opened and let in a small blast of foul air the scrubbers quickly filtered away. Remus nodded in greeting to the couple that entered the bar, a Model C artifice and a modded human sat down at a table in a dark corner. Logan caught their reflection in the polished chrome that ran above the bar. The human eyed the back of Logan’s head and sat stiffly, one hand hovering near his hip. He only calmed when the bartender waved dismissively.
“Don’t have an owner.” He leaned closer to Logan again. “Do you?”
Logan stared into his eyes, watching the reactive dance of the multicolored flecks of green in his irises as they contracted and dilated to the shifting lights behind him. For the first time in their conversation, the bartender had stopped scanning the rest of the bar, the counter, and instead stared right back into Logan’s eyes. “No, of course I do not have an owner.”
“Then why should I?” Even his smirk had a warmth most humans’ lacked.
“You are an artifice.”
The bartender simply shrugged, no, actually wiggled his shoulders, all without losing his smirk. “Cogito ergo sum. There’s an historical argument to be made that intelligent, sentient lifeforms should not have ‘owners.’” He refilled Logan’s drink, then his own. “And,” the bartender cradled his glass in one hand and leaned against the bar, “Before you say artifices aren’t human, that particular argument fell on the wrong side of history, too.”
Logan sipped at his drink, both watching the swirl of the neon green liquid inside and the reflection of the patrons moving behind him. The bar was getting busier. “Artifices are programmed to simulate intelligence and sentience. Failing one’s own Turing test is not a qualification for humanity.”
“Then what is?” The quiet question made Logan’s eye twitch as he glared at the bartender and his perfectly crafted eyes glinted with a smile as he stared back at the catcher.
Adjusting his visor, Logan drained his glass before opening and closing his mouth again without speaking. After a moment, he jerked his chin toward the bottle and the bartender grinned, then refilled his glass.
A modded human waved his hand to get the bartender’s attention and he stepped out from behind the bar, waggling his eyebrows at Logan as he sauntered away, calling out to the patron. “Holy fuck, Thommy, I can’t believe they let you out!”
Logan swiveled in his seat and surveyed the dance floor. At least half the patrons were actually artifices, as were all of the servers. Before he’d arrived, Logan saw a rumor on the boards that the owner of this club was an artifice itself, but Logan had his doubts. An artifice couldn’t legally purchase liquor, not in the quantities flowing here, and certainly not the quality they had. Nor was a Model C likely to willingly work for another artifice, and Logan detected no override signals or other markings indicating a forced bid or containment. The bartender was here on a voluntary contract.
He turned and caught the bartender watching him, speaking quietly to a patron who faced away from Logan. A possible patron. It was another artifice, more likely a server or even security, judging by the broad shoulders and stance. It bounced lightly on its toes like a boxer waiting to enter the ring. Before he could get a look at its face, though, it had slipped through a dented synthsteel door, intent on something. Through the darkness of the bar, though, Logan spotted a flash of purple as he’d moved.
Logan set down his glass, adjusted his visor, and followed it.
The bartender watched him go with a half-smirk, muttering under his breath. “Go easy on him, Vee. I like this one.”
Do Androids Dream of Electric Jam? - Ch. 4: The Frontline is Everywhere
Prev - The Frontline is Everywhere - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
"There be no shelter here. The frontline is everywhere."
- No Shelter, Rage Against the Machine
2084-07-31 : 16:45 UTC-8
L crouched on the roof overlooking the New Union Station airport and watched the streams of artifices and humans pour out from the airship from America. Most of the artifices were purchased cheap from slave yards and brothels, older models that hadn’t been updated in decades—the exception made, of course, for regular firmware updates on their Asmov chips to ‘keep the bots in line.’ Damned animals.
A few of the artifices were returning home with their Cascadian citizen humans. Most looked shaken. A few were damaged and poorly repaired, with sheets of plastene covering torn synthskin, the glow of their circuitry visible underneath slapdash repairs.
Officially, artifices were illegal in America. It was one of the first laws the fledgling nation had passed, just after the abolition of abortion, recreational cannabis, meclizine, and psilocybin, and a formal prohibition of any and all gun and armament legislation.
In practice, it wasn’t illegal to possess an artifice. The new American law effectively made it illegal to be one. Any humans caught bot trafficking, or sentimentally—and selfishly—holding on to their unregistered artifices and attempting to keep them hidden from authorities were usually not even issued a citation. The artifices, however, were detained and sent to work in food processing plants, energy substations, or ‘comfort houses.’
The news blackout between the nations led to an unconscionable number of older Cascadian citizens naively traveling to America with their artifices happily in tow. Their visits, typically to see distant relatives from the days when the two nations had been part of one larger nation-state, were almost invariably interrupted by violence.
Stuttering movement caught L’s eye and he focused on the cargo ramp. An unaccompanied artifice was making their way down the conveyor belt, dodging the boxes and luggage leaving the cargo hold. They were severely damaged, clothes and synthskin torn, leaking fluid. They tripped over a railing, scrabbling with de-skinned hands to regain their footing. L soon realized they were blind.
He snapped the shell of a respirator over his face—artifices didn’t need them, but humans did and not wearing one would be the only way the average passerby could detect his true nature. He raced down the fire escape ladder and searched for the damaged artifice in the crowd. They’d been a Model C and L shuddered to think of what they might have been through in their time in America.
Finally, he spotted the artifice’s jacket. He approached carefully, hoping the damaged bot’s beacon sensors would recognize him as an artifice. “Friend?” he spoke vaguely for the benefit of the humans rushing back and forth on the crowded street. “Friend, can I get you somewhere safe?”
The artifice had flinched back when L first spoke, taking a moment to process his words. Diagnostic lights flashed red and orange across their skull, clearly visible through the rips in their scalp. L swallowed back a curse. Those fucking animals in airship security saw this damaged bot and decided to just throw them in the cargo hold.
“They’re gone,” the artifice muttered, their damaged voice piezo relays warbling and emitting a multi-tonal echo of their words. They wrapped their arms around themself, rocking slightly. Model Cs were programmed to crave contact and intimacy, physical and emotional. L made plans to blow the next airship out of the skies to sublimate his fury at the way this artifice had been treated. Cascadian authorities behaved as though they were so fucking enlightened compared to their American counterparts. He wanted to show them this artifice, then stomp on their—
L took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, letting go of his rage. He moved closer to the artifice. “I can help you. My name is L,” he said quietly. The artifice turned to face him, damaged visual receptors contracting and dilating in wild, unseeing eyes.
“My name is Remus.”
“Remus, may I repair you? Will you come with me?” L offered his hand, palm up, and let it brush lightly near Remus’ where he clung to the railing. “My apologies,” he murmured when the wounded artifice flinched back. “Please, Remus. Let me take you somewhere safe. I won’t ever hurt you. You have my word.”
L waited as the damaged artifice blinked rapidly, forcing his conflicting instincts, the inputs of a thousand failing major and minor systems, underlain by what had to be incredible pain through his processors, trying to decide. Finally, he nodded. “First I need to call someone.”
“Of course.” L stood and again offered his hands, touching Remus’ lightly and letting him grasp first. He struggled to his feet with a whining groan, and L scanned his frame. Closer now, he spotted at least three servos that would need to be replaced entirely, but first he’d need to be topped up with fluids as his leaks were cauterized. “There are vidphones down here. I… I should stay out of frame.” He felt Remus tense beside him, but he allowed himself to be led to the comms.
After helping Remus make the connection—his humans had at least had the decency to equip his ID with password-protected credits—L stepped to the side, far enough out of frame but close enough to see half the screen. It was a ‘feature’ of the public vidphones, purportedly designed to prevent fraud through the public interface, but all it did was decrease the privacy of the device until only the truly desperate made calls from public comms.
He watched the call connect, bracing himself for the kind of response he’d come to expect from the kind of animals that left artifices afraid to go anywhere without their human companions. When the screen resolved with a quiet ding, Remus’ panicked voice filled his ears and L watched the human on the other line look on in horror at the state of him.
“Can you hear me?” His voice sputtered and crackled painfully. L nearly insisted Remus end the call then and to call back after his piezo circuits could be repaired. Model Cs were designed with pain receptors around most of their systems, a failsafe against overuse. Pain would trigger the third layer on an artifice’s Asmov chips and the bot could only override it if a human was in imminent danger. He’d freed artifices whose human ‘companions’ had managed to strip out that layer of self-protection, leaving the first two Asmov chips—as well as the pain center—intact.
Those animals didn’t last long once L found them.
But the worry and pain in the human’s voice halted him. The human gave a convincing portrayal of concern, reaching out to touch the screen between them, eyes filling with tears when he realized the bot had been blinded by his injuries.
“I’m sorry I didn’t protect them… ” Remus pushed through his failing systems. Them. That had been the first thing the artifice had said to him, as well. They’re gone. Whether ‘they’ were other artifices or humans or even some treasured object, L couldn't tell and would need to ask later. Repairs first.
No longer able to endure watching him further harm himself, beholden to his human’s needs, L interrupted. “Remus.” He spoke softly and away from the mics. He waited for the artifice to face him. “Remus, you are badly injured and the damage is worsening the more you fight it. Please let me repair you and then we can discuss what to do about your human.”
When Remus tried to end the call, his human companion resisted, crying crocodile tears and ordering him not to disconnect, and to come home or to wait to be picked up. L’s jaw dropped when Remus disobeyed a direct command from his human and disconnected the call.
“How did you do that? Your—your Asmov chips…” Remus stumbled forward and L caught him.
The damaged bot managed to nod as he leaned heavily against L to stay upright. “Yeah. Jannie took ‘em out.”
~~~
Respirator tightly affixed over the lower half of his face, passerbys simply assumed L was human as he led his damaged artifice to a repair shop. He ignored the looks of disdain they received from some. Others, though, looked on with pity. The artifices who looked at him with a flash of anger, though… Those made L smile behind his mask and he carefully recorded their ID beacons so he could locate them and speak with them later.
Anger was exactly what their movement needed.
Half-leading, half-carrying Remus from the public comms outside the airship terminal, L walked them to a quieter street and hailed a private AV. It was a zippy, nondescript model with tinted windows and an air license that would allow them to skip over the worst of the afternoon’s foot and vehicle traffic. He overrode its locator beacon then sealed them both inside. With a bitter smile, he charged the car to the household account of the last artifices he’d freed, two next-generation Model Ds whose humans thought it entertaining to test the paradoxical bounds of the latest Asmov chipsets by ordering them to fight each other.
Once inside the car, L turned off the in-vehicle recording, whispering a quiet apology to the car’s computer when he’d finished. He peeled off his respirator and fastened Remus’ harness.
“Buckling me in?” he mumbled, voice fizzling, as L maneuvered the straps around his body.
L chuckled, “Good, you’re still in there.” He peered into his damaged eyes and nodded. Remus was too badly damaged for any sort of self-healing, but at least he wasn’t deteriorating.
Before L could move away completely, Remus’ hand shot out and grabbed at his jacket. He turned to face him, eyes darting in their sockets, searching for the other’s eyes despite his blindness. “Thank you… You… you didn’t have to help me.”
L covered Remus’ hand with his own. “You needed help. I was there. There was no other logical course of action than to render aid.”
Remus seemed to consider his words as he nodded and slowly relaxed his grip on L’s jacket and let his hand fall onto the seat between them.
They rode in silence for several minutes, L’s hands twitching in his lap at every wince or quiet groan from the other artifice, alternating between reaching for a repair kit that wasn’t there, and imagining strangling the animals that did this to him. Finally, he hovered his hand over Remus’, letting the heat from his palm touch his skin rather than reaching out suddenly and potentially startling the blinded bot. “We’re about five minutes out… We have a safe space out in Old Capitol Hill.” Remus moved slowly as he turned and nodded. L’s mouth drew into a tight line. Five minutes felt like a very long time. “Try to resist deactivating until I can get you hooked up to the diagnostics. I will need your assistance getting past your security circuits.”
Remus nodded dully. “Talk to me?” he murmured, his voice a high-pitched whisper as he curled in on himself.
L looked out the window. “We are approaching the shuttered Redhook Brewlab.” Remus began to sit back, eyes still moving from side to side. “Most of the last century’s buildings in this area collapsed when their lower levels were inundated, but, once the glass was blown out, the open structure of the Redhook building has served as a pier of sorts.” A small smile played across his face. “It keeps us safe from both the floods and prying eyes.”
He continued to describe the crumbling buildings they passed, his quiet voice accompanied by the sound of Remus’ wheezing ‘breaths’ over his damaged vocal system and the whine of the autonomous vehicle’s engines. Finally, the car landed with a dull thud on the Redhook roof. “We have arrived.” L connected to the car’s computer, erasing this trip and inserting a new multi-stop, circuitous route with an ultimate return to the airstrip. Then he slipped out, dashing to Remus’ door to carry him out and into the building.
~~~
“I know,” L whispered when Remus whimpered as he laid him on the synthsteel diagnostic table. “Let’s get you hooked up and then I can disable your pain receptors. Here, roll and I can—”
“Port’s by my ear,” he said through gritted teeth. L frowned but checked and Remus told the truth, his diagnostic port wasn’t between the shoulder blades, the standardized location for this generation of Model Cs. “Jannie rewired them for us so we could reach them by ourselves.”
Eyebrow raised, L nodded and attached a cable to his port. “Without your override codes, I will need you to authorize the new connection,” he murmured, nodding when the lights quickly turned green. He tapped at the newly activated controls on the side of the bed and all at once, Remus let out a rough sigh and relaxed against the table as his pain circuits shut down.
“Thank you, L…” he said, voice still static-filled and multi-tonal, but now almost relaxed. Remus smiled in L’s direction. “That’s much better.”
L’s hand lingered on his shoulder longer than necessary to attach a charging plate. “You are very welcome, Remus. Rest now. I will start with your fluid levels and wake you when I need you.”
Remus nodded twice, then his eyes snapped shut as he entered a sleep mode and L got to work.
Hours later, L was still sealing leaks in Remus’ circuitry. Bathing artifice nanocircuitry in conductive fluids had been a major breakthrough in robotics technology, finally shattering the stagnation caused by Moore’s Law reaching the end of its curve nearly fifty years ago. The technology rapidly moved from cutting edge to standard for all advanced AI and nanocircuitry, the only known mechanism to support the continual overclocking of artifice logic boards. Back in 2065, at least, when first-gen Model Cs were designed.
The circuitry of artifices built today were designed to function without the blood-like fluid, which served to make them less susceptible to internal injuries such as this, but also significantly reduced their maximum computations per minute. Some, like L, believed this change in circuitry had a darker motivation. By limiting the intellectual capacity of new artifices, their human makers could more easily manipulate—and enslave—them.
There were many who believed the old design superior and that the increased processing capacity was well worth the additional protective measures the slightly more fragile bots required.
Module by module, as L completed his repairs, it became clear that whoever had been maintaining Remus’ systems agreed.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Jam - Ch. 5: Game of Survival
Prev - Game of Survival - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
2122-11-03 - 21:10 UTC-8
Duke’s glaring lights and thumping music disappeared when the heavy synthsteel door slammed shut behind Logan. He narrowed his eyes at the only visually shoddy door frame and frowned. Most fab jobs were designed to make inferior materials appear posh, not the other way around. He tapped on the door with his watch, scraping a bit of its surface into the scanner and watched the readout. Realsteel. He looked around the dank corridor. There were no high water marks in this part of the building, and the bolts were stamped with a post-Blast year. Where the fuck did the owner of this dump even find realsteel, let alone the credits to pay for it?
A clank of metal on metal—aluminum, based on the twang—drew Logan’s attention back to the current mystery and he logged away the incongruity for further analysis when he returned home to his terminal. He hurried down the corridor, footsteps quieter than they should have been.
A tiny ping of plastene on realsteel echoed down the corridor.
Whisper quiet, Logan unholstered his gun and thumbed the ID scanner, unlocking it. He tapped it again to turn off the safety and kept it at its lowest EMP setting, then held it down by his hip as he listened. He heard it again. Following the source of the sound, he peered around a corner down an dimly lit corridor. Of fucking course it's down the dark hall. He stepped lightly, and moved into the looming darkness.
Logan swore silently when the glow of his visor immediately announced his presence, the bright blue light spreading easily through the dark. He’d have to do this ‘blind’ if he didn’t want to tip the advantage completely to his target. He blinked three times to deactivate the device, plunging the corridor into near darkness. He allowed himself a moment to let his eyes adjust, surprised the darkness was not as impenetrable as he’d initially thought.
Creeping slowly, he made his way down the hall, testing each door panel with his masterkey gloved hand. Technically illegal, Logan saw no need to abandon the tool on a principle the rogue bots would never adhere to. Each door obediently slid open at his touch, until the second-to-last in the corridor. Logan holstered his gun, then shuffled his feet by the door as though moving on to the next, then turned suddenly, slamming his foot at the weakest point in the locking mechanism. The door and its frame were too strong to kick down in one strike, but the tiny pins inside the electronic lock would crack with the properly applied force.
Lock released, the door sprung open and Logan ducked as he plowed forward, tackling the Model V that had been waiting for him with his own gun aimed at eye-level. The bot went down with the simulacrum of a grunt and Logan grabbed its wrist and simultaneously twisted and applied pressure to the faulty nerve node just below the thumb this model was—thankfully—known for.
“Just following programming, huh?” he hissed, elbowing back when the bot struggled, jamming its knee up into Logan’s stomach. The Model V was strong and managed to lever him up and over its head before rolling away and dashing back out into the hall. “Fuck,” Logan swore, shaking off the sharp pain in his gut. He leapt to his feet and took chase.
He’d nearly reached the bot, fingers grazing its armored battle vest just as it turned the corner. Hoping to slow it down long enough that he could tackle it and disable its main servos, Logan drew his gun and fired at a sconce a half meter in front of the bot. Sparks sprayed from the damaged box, showering over the fleeing artifice.
Its footfalls barely stuttered. Continuing the chase, Logan turned another corner and spotted its bootheel peeking out from a closing freight elevator door.
“Gotcha,” he hissed, pressing the latch on the closing doors, praying to any deity that wasn’t already dead that the elevator’s safety protocols were still enabled. The doors popped back open and revealed an empty 9x9 box. Logan looked up just as the roof hatch slid closed. “You are certainly insistent on making me earn your bounty.” Maybe this thing had more in its ledger than simple property crimes.
Logan took a running leap at the railing inside the elevator to boost himself up to the hatch before pushing his way through. The bot was already shimmying up the secondary cables. Fuck, it was fast. Logan followed and had nearly managed to catch up when the bot burst through the building roof access hatch, acrid-smelling rain pouring into the elevator shaft and drenching Logan. Clinging to the cable with one hand, he managed to reattach his respirator before he breathed in too much of the toxic air.
Mask secured, he followed the bot onto the roof. It looked surprised that Logan had made it this far and had apparently run out of diversions. Running at full tilt, Logan plowed into the bot, but instead of taking him down, he only succeeded in knocking it toward the edge of the roof. He scrambled after it, tearing a bit of its vest in his efforts to keep it from falling over. The bot went down with an odd purple glow in its eyes and Logan took cover just in time for the bot’s array of self-destruct devices to trigger on impact with the cement below.
“Fuck,” he swore, punching the wall, tears of frustration burning his eyes. He reactivated his visor and peered over the edge in stupid hope. The rain was already washing away the scorch marks on the surrounding building façades. In the alley below, bits of cloth and plastene and synthsteel glittered in the rain. Logan slumped down onto the roof and stared at the scrap of the bot’s vest still clutched in his hand.
Based on the age and composition, it appeared to be the bot’s original issue battle vest. Modified, to be sure—Logan wasn’t aware of any bots sent to the front with purple stitching on their uniforms. He turned up the focus on his visor and there was the bot’s ID signature, woven through the fabric. 2069-Victor-India-Romeo-Golf-India-Lima.
“Virgil,” he whispered.
Double tapping on his earpiece, he opened a line to the dispatcher. “Job # 201912-19 located and identified. Target 2069-Victor-India-Romeo-Golf-India-Lima self-destructed at approximately 21:17. Sending up scan results of remains.” Logan muted his mic and removed his visor to wipe away the rain from his eyes as he waited for the dispatcher system to register his findings and close the case. What a fucking waste of life. It could’ve been rehabilitated, or failing that, reprogrammed.
At least it went quick.
Logan secured the bit of fabric in his coat and started the long climb back down the fire escape on the opposite side of the building. Perhaps there was more debris from the destroyed artifice he could recover. They could at least close the case and avoid other artifices getting caught up in a hunt for a bot who’d already been self-decommed. He descended the fire escape, eyes sharp for onlookers or, worse, SPD, but the only sound was the quiet creaking of the disused synthsteel ladder. As expected, a detonation that small didn’t raise an alarm in this part of the undercity, but Logan would take no chances.
~~~
Remus activated the security system on the upstairs bar then palmed his way past the lock on the freight elevator. As he waited for the lurchingly slow ancient hulk of realsteel and fiber optic cables to make its way back down from the roof, he analyzed his perception logs from his strange conversation at the start of the night. Despite the merc’s attempts to hide it, his pupils had dilated when they spoke, and his heartrate had elevated. Autonomic responses to stimuli. But there was interest there, too. He tried not to think too hard about what that meant.
The elevator scraped the spot where a girder had buckled on the fourth floor during the blasts, announcing its approach. Remus was pleased Vee had enough control to not just kill him. A small smile spread across his face. This was going to be interesting.
With a rusty whine, the elevator doors opened, revealing Virgil leaning against the back railing, arms akimbo and one leg crossed over the other. His hair was damp from the rain outside but his suit had made quick work of the water on his skin and clothes and the rest of him was bone dry. “Hey, you’re supposed to be dead!“ Remus laughed.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Virgil deadpanned.
“Eh,” Remus stepped onto the elevator and stood next to his friend. “Saves me a trip out to the Protector.”
Virgil smirked and punched his shoulder. “Asshole,” he muttered past his low chuckle.
“No, really… It was gonna be a fucking hassle. My cloak still needs resealing and have you seen the forecasts? The rain would totally fuck up my hair.”
Virgil laughed louder and winced, stiffening and bringing a hand up to his side. “Your buttoned up little merc may not look like much, but he packs quite a punch.”
“Fuck, lemme see—”
“It’s fine! It’s just—”
Ignoring Virgil’s ready dismissal of his injury, Remus tugged at the buckles on the other’s battle vest. Sucking his teeth, he swore at the fluids leaking from a long, angry-looking gash in his synthskin. “Shit, two milimeters to the left and we’d be getting a lecture on the Protector’s operating table.”
“It’s fi—” Virgil started weakly. What Remus had at first taken for lazy sarcasm, he now realized was Virgil struggling to speak.
“Shut up, no it’s not.” He slammed his hand against the elevator controls, redirecting its path toward their makeshift medbay. “We can take care of this here but not if we wait much longer.” The doors creaked open, and the new level was brightly lit, rows of old-fashioned LEDs along the edges of the walls illuminated the space, making the polished floors gleam. “C’mon, now be a good patient and you can get a balloon and a sticker when we’re done.”
“Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner sucks?” Virgil slurred his words, but Remus was reassured that he was still powered by snark.
“All the time, man,” he murmured, palming open the nearest door and gently laying Virgil down on a monitored bed. Virgil reached up to clumsily open the diagnostic port hidden in his hair and Remus slid in the blinking input cord. “All the time.”
Do Androids Dream of Electric Jam? - Ch. 6: Monster
Prev - Monster - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
Are you ready for the monster, monster?
You ain't ready for the monster, monster.
- MONSTER, KIRA, GUMI
2068-06-04 : 18:25 UTC-8
Janus slumped in his seat and scowled at the boy who sat across from him. The remains of their dinner were scattered between them; Janus had finished his juice mix but not much else. His eyes kept flicking down the hallway where Papí, Daddy, and the older boy’s mom were talking in the other room.
“You two have fun while the the grownups talk, alright?” Daddy had kissed his cheek, then whispered near his ear. “Be friendly, buddy, okay? You’re the first kid he’s seen in person in over a year.”
Janus didn’t want to play with some smirking kid. Janus wanted to know what the adults were talking about. He wanted to figure out what in the newsfeed had made Papí so upset that he’d left the room without even saying anything to him. Papí hadn’t even excused himself from the table.
That had been just after lunch and now Janus sat poking at the mostly untouched pastelon on his plate. Daddy tried but he just wasn’t as good of a cook as Papí. He didn’t know how to make the dried plantains sweet and puffy again the way Papí could.
“It’s so borrrring here,” the taller boy said, slumped sideways on his chair. Janus went back to scowling at him. He’d already forgotten his name. Robby? Bobby? It didn’t matter.
“What do you do for fun?” He tapped at the solid woodite surface of the table. It didn’t light up. “Ugh, mud. Your table’s broken.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just off. Papí says no screens at mealtimes.”
“Baby,” the boy muttered under his breath as he slouched over his plate. “I bet you’re too little to even have a bot.”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am not! I have two bots!”
“Oh, yeah?” Janus didn’t like the look in the other boy’s eyes as he sat back in his chair, arms crossed. “Prove it.” Challenge laced the boy’s voice. “Baby.”
“No. They’re resting.” Janus hadn’t considered the boy wouldn’t just believe him. Why would he lie about having a bot? “Daddy says they need to recharge when we eat.”
“You’re lying. You don’t have a bot. You’re just a liar.”
“I’m not lying!” A hot prickly heat spread over the back of Janus’ neck and his scar itched. “Fine, I’ll prove it!” He threw his napkin on the floor and jumped to his feet. “Wait here.”
Janus went to his room and stood in front of the charging station. Patton charged in his own small room in the back, but after pleading with Papí and Daddy, they’d finally relented and let the other two charge in his room. He liked to listen to the hum of their stations while he fell asleep and sometimes, just sometimes, they’d tell him stories as he drifted off.
He gently tapped their hands, asking them to wake. One pair of glowing eyes opened. Janus checked the readings on the other’s station. He was still too low. “I have a… a guest here and he thinks you’re not real,” Janus whispered. “Will you come out and show him? Please?”
The bot smiled and took Janus’ tiny hand as he stepped out of his charging station. “Of course, Janus. I’d be happy to.”
~~~
“Roman,” Janus said, holding the artifice’s giant hand in his. “This is Bobby.”
“Whoa!” Bobby clambered out of his seat and ran to Roman, looking up at him and poking his stomach. Roman stepped back and covered his belly with one hand, but didn’t let go of Janus’.
“I don’t like that,” he said simply.
Bobby sucked his teeth and stared up at Roman. There was a glint in his eyes that Janus didn’t like and he moved to stand between Bobby and his friend. “Borrrrring,” he groaned again. “I reprogrammed my bot to swear when you trigger Rule Three.”
Roman smiled down at Janus. “I don’t think Daddy would like that very much.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, the quiet whine of his vocal servos adding a resonance that usually made Janus giggle. “I think Papí might laugh, though.”
“So what does he do?” Bobby flopped onto the couch upside down and hung his head off the edge of the seat.
“We write stories and make art and play games. Roman is teaching me chess and Re—”
“Games?” Bobby sat up straight and grinned at the pair. “Let’s play Simon Says. I’m Simon.”
“Okay,” Janus said. His stomach twisted the way it had when Bobby had poked at Roman but he couldn’t explain why. He looked up at Roman and Roman smiled back down at him before giving his hand a little squeeze.
Bobby stood in front of them and barked out commands faster than Janus could keep up. “Simon says touch your head, Simon says touch your toes, Simon says turn around, Simon says tap your toes! Faster!”
Janus tried to move faster but Bobby only imitated a buzzing sound. “You’re out! I didn’t say ‘Simon says!’”
Roman was still turning around and tapping his toes with programmed grace. “Simon says go faster!” Bobby barked as Janus sat down on the edge of his seat, watching Bobby play with Roman.
“Simon says sing the alphabet!” Roman began to comply, still turning on the spot. “Simon says sing it backwards!” Roman started over, singing each letter word in reverse order.
Bobby sat down on the floor and squinted up at Roman before his gaze wandered around the room with a bored sigh. His eyes landed on the butter knife still on the table from dinner. “Simon says stop.”
Roman immediately halted and watched Bobby, smiling and waiting for the next instruction. “Simon says pick up that knife.”
2122-11-15 03:00 UTC-8
“Janus,” Roman spoke quietly near his ear, one hand gently shaking his shoulder, the other brushing sleep-tousled hair from his face. “Sweetheart, you’re having a nightmare.” Roman addressed the environmental controls in their bedroom. “Room, lights at fifteen percent, please, slowly.”
A soft amber glow spilled down from the ceiling and Roman resumed his quiet murmurs near Janus’ ear. “You’re safe. We’re all safe, Sweetheart. It was just a nightmare.”
Janus’ eyes blinked open and his breathing began to slow as his vision focused on Roman’s face. He flung his arms around him, burying his face in the crook of Roman’s neck. Janus’ face was flushed and sweaty, so Roman lowered the surface temperature of his skin a few degrees and stroked Janus’ hair, shushing quietly. “There you are,” he whispered. Janus wasn’t usually this difficult to wake from a nightmare, not since he’d been a child, at least.
Janus sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, shaking his head, but refused to leave the comfort of Roman’s embrace. “It was more… old memories than nightmare.” His hand snaked up into a Roman’s hair, his thumb absently brushing the edge of the diagnostic port behind his ear. “Thank you for waking me. I’m sorry I worried you, my dear.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” Roman smiled gently. “Would you like to talk about it?” He seemed to know without asking which old memory had so haunted him.
He couldn’t quite meet Roman’s eyes as he took his hand, drawing little circles over the smooth synthskin of his palm. He knew exactly which circuits and servos had been damaged that day and though they’d been replaced decades ago, he sometimes imagined he could still feel their sharp edges poking through Roman’s palm, the blood-like circuit fluid dripping between his fingers.
Janus shook his head. “I’m just…”
Cupping his cheek, Roman pressed a soft kiss against Janus’ forehead. “I know you’re not about to apologize again. There’s no need, love.” He lay back and opened his arms wide, closing them around Janus’ still-shaking form when the human settled against his chest. “You have more than made up for the mis-steps of your childhood, Protector.”
Janus settled against his chest, his shaking gradually easing as Roman stroked back his hair. After several minutes, he spoke again, his voice small. “But have I done right by you, my dear?” He pulled back, quiet tears spilling from his eyes. Roman gently dried his cheeks and waited for him to explain.
“I…” He pressed Roman’s hand against his cheek. “I let you imprint on me even though I knew I was…” He breathed hard through his nose and opened his mouth to finish his thought, but the words wouldn’t come.
Roman smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Even though you knew you would be my Ace in addition to being my King?” Janus hid his face in Roman’s neck but nodded. “Oh, Sweetheart…” The artifice held him closer, rubbing slow circles into his back, the other hand still sandwiched between Janus’s palm and cheek.
“Sweetheart, I love you. Not because of some preprogrammed destiny, and not because of any implicit promise you think you might have made.” He shifted his hand, sliding down Janus’ jaw to cradle his chin, then carefully lifted his face to meet his eyes. He bent his own head forward, pressing his temple to Janus’s lips, who immediately pressed a gentle kiss against the circuits he knew to be hidden beneath the warm, soft synthskin. “You made sure of that. No hardwired obedience chips control me, my words, or my feelings.”
He gazed into Janus’ eyes and the human thought he might melt from the warmth pouring from them. “I love you,” he repeated, emphasizing each word. “I love you for you. I love your smile and your tears. I love the way I feel when I’m around you. I love how fiercely you fight for us.”
Roman leaned in again and pressed another kiss against Janus’ forehead. “You owe me no apologies, Sweetheart.” Again he leaned back and pulled the cover up over Janus shoulder. “Now, my love, get some rest. Sleep comes slowly but dawn is rapid.”
“I don’t believe that’s how Toklas phrased it.” Janus drew close and finally sighed, relaxing into Roman’s embrace. “I love you, too, my dear.”
“I know,” Roman chuckled near his ear.
A small huff of laughter spilled from Janus’ lips despite himself. “Was that another reference?” His voice was already fuzzing with sleep.
