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[ultrafictionfolly-blog]

Kelti-BB

The key to communicating with computers was to make sure they knew you were talking to a computer. Otherwise they got all weird about it and tried talking to you like they knew you were a human, and boy did things get really weird then.

Kelti-BB threw the covers off of her and sat on the end of the bed with an unnerving rigidity, her perfectly straight pink hair falling down the back of her head and down her neck. You could see the creases in the synth-skin on her back where the parts connected. They probably insisted on leaving these obvious visible signs so we didn’t get too attached—so we didn’t start thinking they were something they weren’t. Attachment was bad for business.  

Kelti-BB turned her head and looked over her shoulder at me. Her neck stretched just a little too far and I had to look away.

“Was my performance adequate?” she asked me cheerfully, like she was conducting a customer satisfaction survey. In all likelihood she was.

“Yeah, fine. Got the job done,” I breathed, turning over and reaching for the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand and clicking on a small lamp. I looked back at Kelti-BB and the low glow from the lamp only served to pronounce the creases in her synth-skin. It sent a small shiver down my spine.

She rolled back onto the bed and touched her finger to the tip of my cigarette, igniting it, then placed her cold hand on my chest, casually skating her fingers up and down the barely-pronounced muscles of my torso. She stared at me with her blank, unliving eyes and her disconcerting smile. I casually placed my palm to her cheeks and ran my fingers down her face in a somewhat sensual stroke but I pulled away when I saw the thin crease that separated her neck from her head.  

She continued to stare. After a few moments she asked “Would you like anything else before I depart? For an extra twenty credits I can relay to you your physical wellness, or perhaps I could fix you a drink for an extra three credits on my way out?”

I managed a weak smile. Three credits was a lot cheaper than a bar, so I figured why not. “A bourbon would be great, thanks Kelti,” I said.

“You’re welcome!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. Her unnatural smile widened, displaying her perfect teeth, and she rolled over and sprang out of the bed much more gracefully than I would have anticipated she was capable of, almost like a gymnast. She even did a little leap before striding out of the room, pink lingerie coalescing over her out of nowhere just before she reached the door.

I’d forgotten that I had a lit cigarette and I pulled it to my lips and took a long drag before stubbing it out. I didn’t really smoke that often, it just seemed like the thing to do after sex.

I wondered if Kelti-BB even knew what sex was. She certainly knew the process, but did she understand the concept, the intimacy? It was unlikely, but every time she came over I wondered more and more just what she was capable of. Maybe she wasn’t really capable of anything besides mimicry, and that was all just zeroes and ones as far as I knew. I grew up in the years that robots really started becoming feasible—and when they were still too new that they freaked everyone out. But now they just sort of seemed like pieces of furniture to most people.

I threw the covers off and walked into the kitchen, not bothering to dress since Kelti-BB had no notion of modesty. Why would she? The spontaneous clothing appearing on her body was probably only to make it seem a little more familiar to the clients. Fashionable furniture, like a chaise lounge; a chaise lounge that could fuck your brains out.

She stood at the counter in my kitchen with a glass she pulled from the cabinet and placed her finger inside it, where it began to slowly fill with an amber liquid. Barrel aged it was not, but for three credits I wasn’t expecting Earth bourbon or anything.  

She looked up and smiled that eerie smile at me again. “Would you like anything else before I depart? For an extra thirty credits I can order groceries for you, plus the cost of the groceries themselves!” Her head tilted slightly as she awaited a reply, her pink hair falling over her right shoulder.

“No, no thanks Kelti, I’m good, thanks. I’ll take that drink though.” I smiled awkwardly and looked away as she handed it to me. I made a little cheers gesture with the glass and she giggled.

“If there is nothing else I can do for you before I depart Mr. Stevens, then I would be delighted to tell you that your total for this evening comes to seventy-eight credits! Would you like me to credit your account directly, or would you like to pay in cash?”

“Credit is fine,” I said, downing the glass of bourbon and placing it on the counter next to the sink.

Kelti-BB beamed and wore her mechanical smile again. She always seemed to be looking past me, never at me. She was the piece of machinery here but it always seemed like I was the thing that wasn’t real. She still called me Mr. Stevens. She knew which cabinet my glasses were in but she couldn’t remember me wanting to be called Jim instead of Mr. Stevens?

Christ, why was I even getting upset at any of this, like I thought it was her fault or something? I was beginning to sound like one of those weird fucks who sleep with body-pillows with cartoon women with cartoon boobs on them. At least Kelti’s boobs were actually there and I could actually feel them, even if they were mostly fake.  

“Your account has been credited! Thank you again Mr. Stevens! I look forward to our next encounter with great apprehension!” She tiptoed over to me and gave me a slight peck on the cheek before turning around and heading for the door, a stylish jacket and jeans appearing on her body, her pink hair changing to a pronounced violet. She kicked up each leg behind her almost flirtatiously, high-heels appearing on each foot.

“Have a good night,” I said, casually unaware of what I was saying, and I froze.  

She halted suddenly in the doorway. She turned towards me slightly, and the creepy smile on her face faltered somewhat, her eyes now staring at the floor instead of me. “Thank you,” she said slowly, her tone of voice now hesitant instead of unbearably cheerful. “You too,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

[ultrafictionfolly-blog]

Seared Steak

Seared steak. That’s what they used to say that space smelled like. It wasn’t that far off.

I can’t say that I remember what steak smells like, tastes like, or even looks like. But I remember the name, and I remember that it used to be said that space smelled like it. To me there was no smell, only the sensation of something that could only be loosely described as smell, as a concept. The sensation was metallic, and it permeated the hull of the ship that was my body, but also not my body. Perhaps it was the metallic sensation of my hull mixing with the metallic sensation of space that gave me this feeling, if it could be called a feeling.

A lingering reverberation ceases, signaling that the cutting tool is finished. My large metallic claws move effortlessly as I grab the massive piece of equipment and pry it free from its casings. I can feel the massive surges of radiation move along the metal tendrils that are my arms, and seep into every rivet and plate of metal that is my skin. It feels electric, like grasping an exposed low-voltage wire. It is euphoric.

I open the cargo bay with an unconscious flicker of thought; it is pure instinct. It is as moving an arm, or a finger, or taking a breath. I could do it in my sleep, if I slept.

My metal tendril gingerly places the piece of equipment inside, other small metal claws swiftly securing it into place and I close the cargo hatch. The job is finished.

With another glint of thought I call back to memory the coordinates of the drop-off point and my metal body lurches forward in a torrent of blurred space and time. The sensation on my metal skin is like running through a field of sunflowers, or instead, what I imagine running through a field of sunflowers might be like, and then I wonder what a sunflower is and why it feels so lovely. This body has not felt such a sensation, but another might have. Why else would I be able to recall this analogy? It must be locked away somewhere, deep inside.

Hours, days, or weeks pass, I cannot tell which, but my body lurches again and the space around me settles into a quiet stillness. A large space station looms into my field of vision and I engage my thrusters and accelerate towards it.

As I begin my final approach, a communication sounds in my ears, or what could be my ears.

“State your business,” It demands.

I have it, I think, or say. I do not know which, but it is given a reply.

“Cleared. Bay 37,” the voice responds.

I politely entreat Bay 37 to open its doors for me and it acquiesces. I advance inside and large docking clamps press against me with cold, unfeeling firmness.

I leave my body.

Visual sight springs into being, blurry at first, but a nanosecond later my surroundings are crisp and clear. I suddenly remember that I have fingers, my metal tendrils are now soft and mellifluous, and I have ten of them at my command. They reach around me and press on two securing clasps. I feel the smooth linking rod slide out from inside my cognizance, briefly conjuring a sexual metaphor, but it escapes, as if my mind purposefully pushed it away. I am now cut off from my metal body, and my softer, more frail body is now firmly under my control, and it feels less than ideal.

I blink, I stretch my arms out in front of me, and I twirl my toes inside my boots. I lick my lips, and I twist my neck. I sit up and then I stand, my muscles unconsciously flexing to balance me. It will have to do.

I walk to the hatch near the rear and I linger for a moment, forgetting that I must push the button with my fingers. A metallic buzzing sounds and the metal door of my former body hisses open and a platform extends towards me from beyond. I follow it along a catwalk suspended above miles of emptiness, my boots creating small echoes around me that ultimately get lost in the void.

I come to a simple door, a small red light pulsing above it. A moment later the light turns green and a metallic clank sounds, and I pull the door open. A human in a crisp, red uniform greets me.

“We’re retrieving it from your cargo bay as we speak. We appreciate your diligence, and your confidentiality, in this matter. We will send a team to dispose of the rest of the wreckage in due time.” I stare into his eyes. He stares back but I cannot read his expression. He coughs awkwardly. “Will there be anything else?”

I forget that I must use actual words with him. I quickly rectify this. “No. That is all,” I say. “Besides my payment.”

His expression now appears to be annoyance. “Already sent.”

I continue to stare at him, again forgetting that I must give him a sign of acknowledgment. I make a mental note to spend more time in this body, and I nod towards him.

***

I don’t recall how long I spent in my metal body after leaving the station and the man in the crisp red uniform, but I am now coming up on the station that orbits Rhea. It is a simple mining station, but it is where I enjoy spending time outside of my metal body. I unplug myself from myself before reaching the station, instead opting to take “manual” control; my own flesh hands feel insufficient.

The station manager hails my communication systems and I hear the voice crackle over the internal speakers, musing at how different is sounds, or feels, when I am in my metal body. In my metal body the voices are inside my head, like I am speaking to myself, and they do not sound different from my own. Each and every voice sounds exactly the same. When I am not in my metal body they sound foreign and sometimes frightening, though I cannot say why I am frightened; I just am.

“Docking number?” the gruff voice demands of me.

Again, I remember that I must use words. I lean forward into the microphone. “GH-11G,” I say. My physical voice sounds so strange, though I cannot say why that is.  Why it sounds strange to me is, itself, strange to me.

“Oh…” the voice trails off. “It’s you. Same spot.” He cuts the communication line quickly.

Saturn looms in the distance, a dull yellow orb floating in a sea of black ink, trillions of asteroids and debris slowly but deliberately floating along the gargantuan rings with a purpose that I myself cannot seem to understand or find. I float along but it is not on account of something else more significant than me, but instead I float along despite me.  

I manually maneuver my metal body into the maintenance bay on the other side of the station. I see out of a side window a mechanic covered in grease, and he nudges a man beside him and they both cross their arms and watch as I float by, their expressions are unknown, hidden beneath sinister looking breather masks. Or what I might have once regarded as sinister.

I exit my metal body through the center hatch, briefly conjuring an analogy of myself giving birth to myself, wondering why I might think that. Wondering what birth was. I pace towards the greasy maintenance workers and they speak in rusty voices. “Plug her in then?” one asks.

“Yes please,” I respond and hand them a one-hundred note. They both nod at me and I make my way into the central hub of Rhea station.

The interior is cavernous, the layout a massive sphere with catwalks and platforms snaking their way up the sides, lit by small yellow lamps along the walls every few feet, some burned out and some barely glowing with the little determination they have left. The air is musty and I can hear a reverberation a few platforms above me: my destination.

Neon lights hang above the metal doorway, spelling out Babylon. The reverberating is louder as I step through, bulbous speakers lining the walls belching out thumping music in seemingly random spats. Very little rhythm. I didn’t like it, though I couldn’t remember what I did like; perhaps I used to like it.

I walk to the bar and sit on a metal stool with an illuminated seat that is now a clouded glow with the multitudes of bodies that have graced its surface. The bartender has thick grey hair on his cheeks, and I muse what that might feel like. I imagine my own hair on the top of my head and mentally place it on my cheeks and it tickles. I smile, and then I faintly remember having smiled before, but it has been a very long time. I don’t remember what made me smile the last time that I did.

The bartender looks at me and nods, standing still and awaiting my order eagerly, or maybe he is annoyed. He actually looks at me and his face turns away for a moment, seemingly considering walking away. He does it every time when he realizes that it is me and not just another greasy worker in from the docks with a thirst you could photograph.

“Brandy,” I spout before he can retreat.

“Preference?” He asks.

“Earth. If you have it.”  

“It’s twenty extra.”

“That’s fine. Thank you,” I say and he walks away and reaches beneath the counter, pulling out a bloated glass bottle and pours a glass. He returns, setting it in front of me. I hand him two twenty notes and walk away towards the corner of the bar, as far away from the pseudo-music as I can.

I sit at a small table near the corner. Two men sit ten feet away and I study them. One is wearing a pair of greasy overalls, his face faintly stained by soot, a clean imprint of goggles around his eyes. The other man is wearing a tailor-fitted suit, and he smiles revealing opalescent teeth. They seem worlds apart from each other, yet they laugh with each other like children, though I have never heard a child laugh, or ever seen a child. There are multiple empty glasses sitting on the table, and the greasy man accidentally knocks a glass on the floor and it falls, remains intact, and rolls gingerly towards my table. He curses and stumbles over and bends down to retrieve the glass. He stands and notices me sitting there. He looks confused at first and sways slightly. Then his face becomes a mixture of what appears to be hesitation and intrigue.

“You’re one of those fucking Ghost things aren’t you?” he asks drunkenly. “The fuck is up with you things anyway?” He giggles and puts his foot up on the seat of my chair between my legs and an unnerving smile spreads across his face. “I hear you aint even got nothing down there,” he motions between my legs. “You wanna show me eh?”  

“No.” I respond and look down at my glass.

He snorts and gives me a look of disdain, mumbles “fuckin’ freak,” and stumbles back to his table.  

I pick up my glass of Brandy and sip it. I feel a slight tingling in my cheeks. I prefer Earth brandy to Rhean brandy, though I cannot recall why. Maybe my real body did, or maybe this body was the first, though that is probably unlikely.

I sit in my seat against the wall in the corner and stare into the room, studying patrons and picking up on their social cues and mannerisms. A woman places her hand on a man’s shoulder, a man shoves another man but the other man is not upset and they are both smiling, a woman sits in the corner with her head in her hand, a man walks past eyeing her with what looks like interest, but it fades after a moment and he keeps walking, seemingly forgetting her. Another woman in filthy green coveralls and greasy hair is dancing near one of the speakers, doing her best to sway with the rhythm but losing her balance a little each few turns. Her eyes are closed but her mouth is turned up in a smile, and she looks content like she has managed to forget that she is even in a bar, or even in a station, or even anywhere really. Her hair is swaying with her but in a misguided way and it is weighed down by grease and perhaps time, but it still makes an attempt nonetheless, and I simply cannot help but think, in that moment, just how beautiful she is.   

I look away and back down to my drink. I do not spend enough time in this body, and sometimes I forget that this body and my metal body are very different. I cannot remember the last time I laughed, or cried, or felt joy or anger. This body is capable of these reactions, although I am gradually losing touch with them, I think.

After a while and two more brandys, I rise from my seat and exit the bar, and climb the catwalks spiraling around the central hub of the station to the top. There are multiple metal doors with small keypads lining the curving wall and I step towards one, key in a short sequence of numbers, and the door hisses open.

I walk inside to the frugal quarters I keep. A black synth-leather couch sits against the wall, a short elongated table in front of it, a viewscreen on the wall opposite. A tall but slender table sits against the wall with framed pictures on it, though I do not remember where or when I got them; they have always been there. There is a small kitchen with a sink, a microwave, and an empty refrigerator. This body can last a long time without food so I do not keep any.

There is a small bathroom off of the main living space. I undress, tossing my clothes onto the couch and I walk inside. I enjoy to shower. I like to take long, hot showers. I like when the mirror, the walls, the ceiling become blanketed with mist, and I like to run my fingers along their surfaces, wiping away the moist droplets with my fingertips.

I stand in front of the mirror and I peruse my body. I am human, I think. I am mostly human. I lack some physical characteristics, but I still fit the part, I think. I have hair, short and dark, I have green eyes, a nose, mouth, sharp cheekbones, a smooth chin. I have slender arms, fingers, legs, feet. I have a tattoo on my thigh: a kingfisher, a bird from Earth, I think. I do not remember where or when I got it, but the colorful edges are not crisp. It has always been there.

This body is so different from my metal body. It feels delicate, it feels fluid. The grace with which it can move feels too organic. I like being in my metal body. I like being in this body also, but I like being in my metal body more. Perhaps I am used to being a piece of machinery, though this body is also a piece of machinery, of a different sort. I know that I was not always able to have different bodies, though I cannot remember when, or why.

I step away from the mirror and turn on the hot water and step into the shower, and I let the hot water cascade over me like a distant lover, and I stand and wait for the room to be veiled in mist.

***

It is my birthday.

Not my before body’s birthday, but this body. My not-metal body. I do not remember how but I do remember that it is my birthday; it is like an instinct.

I am in my metal body now, floating in the dark of space. Seared steak.

The sensors of my metal body become my senses. Sight, sound, touch, taste, all a series of algorithms now, zeroes and ones. I feel much more in tune with these senses than my other body’s senses. My other body’s senses can deceive me, my metal body’s cannot. My metal body will not deceive me because it loves me.

I am in orbit above Venus. The station and the man in the crisp red uniform has again hired me to conduct a job that is unsuitable, or dangerous, for another.

I will my metal body to break into the atmosphere. It is hot, unbelievably hot, but not unbearable. It is like taking a hot shower. The warmth envelops me, searing my metal skin, but the metal skin protects my frail other body inside, like a mother.

I reach my intended destination, a crash site a mile south of Maxwell Montes. The landscape is scorched around the site, or perhaps only just more scorched than the rest of the planet. There is a long, dark skidmark in the soil: a road to ruin. The crashed probe sits half-buried in the Venusian terrain, a blinking red light atop it. I hover above the probe, my metal arm swiftly plucking it from the soil and placing it gently into my cargo bay, where it rests like a fetus.

I accelerate towards the atmosphere and break into the stormy Venusian clouds. Blue and violet lightning streaks across the yellow tapestry of sky in erratic spasms. A bolt sears the sky near me and I can feel the electric discharge on my metal skin. Euphoric. I continue to rise amidst the cacophony of nature striking its drums in the symphony of the universe.

The void of space beckons and I rise, closer and closer to meet it. A violet stream of lightning strikes my rear engine and I feel it cascade up my metal body, electrifying my metal skin, seeping into every seam, every rivet. It feels sultry, like a lover running their fingernails smoothly up the spine. Or at least what I imagine that might feel like. I might have felt it once. My heavenly ascent begins to slow, and a moment later I am completely still, and then I begin to feel the pull of gravity against my haunches, and I lose altitude.

***

My eyes jerk open, but there is no sense of panic. In fact, I am completely at ease.

I am warm, enveloped. There is nothing but a blue haze in my field of vision. I feel encapsulated, like I am in a womb. I feel protected, like my metal body protects me. But this is not my metal body.

I try to wiggle my fingers and they respond, though they feel sluggish. My sense of touch flares to life and I move my arm. Sluggish again. I move the other arm; sluggish. I soon realize that I am suspended in liquid.

I hear a muffled clank, and I feel suction at my feet around my toes. The liquid encasing me begins to lower, and I begin to feel cold as the warm liquid leaves me naked and I feel betrayed. I unconsciously begin to shiver. I want the warm liquid to return, to blanket me again.

I become aware of the tube jutting from the back of my skull as it knocks against the semi-transparent wall around me. Slowly, the wall begins to descend like the liquid, and I feel even colder. I grasp for the protrusion from the back of my head, instinctively reaching for the two securing clasps that link me to my metal body. But I do not feel like I am in my metal body. I am connected, but I cannot connect. I feel only my other body. The frail one.

I am suddenly aware of my surroundings, and they gradually become more familiar, but I cannot recall why. But I have been to this place before. That much feels certain, I think.

It is an elongated room, bathed in opulent light. The opposite wall is only a few feet away and I step out of my enclosure. There is someone standing against the wall. No, it is a mirror. The person is me, I think.

I pace towards the mirror, the figure matching my every step. I begin to recognize the features. My features. I know this is me.

Mostly.

I raise my hand to my face and trace the angular cheekbones, I touch my lips. They are incredibly soft. I run my fingers down my torso towards my thighs. Everything seems where it should be. My tattoo, the kingfisher, a bird from Earth, is missing, only pale skin where it used to canvas.

This is me, I think, or now perhaps wonder.

I become aware of a very soft beeping sound to my left, behind me. I turn my head and see a large window flush with the wall. I am no longer cold. I turn and pace towards the window and stand in front of it. There is another capsule like the one I just left, though this one is entirely transparent. Inside there is a human body.

Human.

It has hair, short and dark, green eyes, a nose, mouth, sharp cheekbones. It has slender arms, fingers, legs, feet. It has breasts, round and pale. There is a patch of hair running up the inner thigh. A connector tube runs into the back of the skull like mine. A maze of other, smaller tubes sit inserted into the forearms, stomach, and thighs. There is a tattoo on the thigh, but it is not a kingfisher, though it appears to also be a bird. I cannot tell what kind.

I stare at the figure with an infantile wonder. A small viewscreen sits embedded in the wall next to the window. The soft beeping I heard earlier is a heartbeat. This body suspended before me is still alive.

This body is me, but it is not me. This must be my before body.

I stand before my doppleganger and wonder how I can be alive twice, but somewhere inside of me, deep down, embedded, like an implant, I know. But it is like a puff of mist in my bathroom back on Rhea station. I try to grab ahold of it, but it slips through my fingers leaving only a slight film in its wake. I am staring at my fingers now, flexing them back and forth.

I stare back up at the imposter in the window. I continue to flex my fingers and I notice a slight, almost imperceptible twitch in the fingers of the figure in the window. I stop, and it stops.

I look to the far end of the room. There is an ivory colored armoire with golden handles sitting against the wall. I take one last inquisitive look at the figure in the window and I go to the armoire and open it. Inside are several monotone jumpsuits, and I pull one on.  The fit is practically tailored. There are pairs of shoes sitting in a row at the bottom. It is uneven, two pairs are missing. I grab a pair and lace them up on my feet. It is as if I am being guided by some unconscious force. I have no idea what I am doing, and yet I have every idea.

There is a door to the right of the armoire with a small keypad next to it. I hesitantly stand before the door. I key in the same code that I use for my room on Rhea station.

The door hisses open and I step through it and it closes behind me with a dull thud. There is no keypad, handle, or any means of opening it from the other side. A long corridor stretches before me, so I begin walking.