I stood at the counter looking out the window at the late
afternoon traffic. I was alone, relatively speaking.
The whispering nudged at me, insistent, as I scratched. And
kept scratching until I broke through, closer to the source.
The blood was disconcerting, so I paused to press a kitchen towel
into the gouge on my arm to slow it down.
It quieted a bit, but the whispering wasn't finished. I knew
what it wanted.
I'd given in before, held up my end of the arrangement for years,
thinking that it would end. That they would leave me in
peace, once they had the information. A foolish choice, made
by a desperate woman, and here I am, still under their thrall.
It's time, now. This will end. Maybe they had the
resources to force me into this deal, but damned if I can't choose
when I'm out. And I'm out. You hear me, you
soulless bastards?
I clenched my hands together to keep from digging deeper into my
flesh. Hard, when I could feel it in there, relentless with their
polite requests. I'd tried making it angry or withholding
the sensory input altogether, but I couldn't stay awake and hungry
all the time, and the devices didn't experience emotions
themselves. When I ate, it was satiated. When I slept,
it took over. A constant feed back to the main computer,
which analyzed the trillions of sensory bits I experience every
single moment. Someday they'll crack the code.
I woke up once, blood in my mouth, staining my teeth, because
they'd wanted to try broken glass. Years of scars on my
face, my hands, my body. Fresh scabs a daily wakeup call.
I'm the meat. They're the brain.
I wrapped my arm with the towel, tucking the corner to secure it.
Made my way to the garage, where the tools are.
They're brilliant compared to us. They've created a
six-billion body farm designed to communicate to them our lives,
our secrets, someday maybe our souls. They'll know
everything, eventually. They'll be gods. We'll be obsolete.
The whispering was back. It was hungry.
We would like motor oil tonight.
Jesus. They're getting worse, the requests. It hardly
wants food anymore. Looking for something different,
something to evoke a novel response. My reflection in the
steel cabinet grinned, teeth bared.
Sure. 10-30 weight all right with you?
I worked my way over to the workbench, ignoring the growing volume
of the requests.
We are certain this is not the correct area. Please
reposition to the automotive supply shelves immediately.
I clamped my forearm into the vise mounted on the table.
Tightened until the bleeding started again, until my flesh bulged
and flushed purple. I grabbed some heavy scissors and cut
through the towel, folding the edges back over the sides of the
vise. I picked up a pair of pliers, clumsily angling into
the wound. I experimented with a few tugs before I braced
and held my breath.
Excuse me. We are seeking the motor oil. Please
desist current activi—
***
I've come to. Arm still in the clamps, but
without sensation. I've flopped alongside the workbench,
almost resting on the concrete, but hanging by what's left of my
arm. The way it's twisted and discolored, I'm thinking I
don't want to regain feeling. They'll be coming soon, but I
feel confident I have enough time to finish. They may
benefit from this sensory upload. I don't have the strength
to take the arm completely off, and they can rebuild whatever bits
of the device are left.
But I'm ending it. Finally. My choice, and I'm done.
My way. I raised the nail gun, eyed the tip as I positioned
it millimeters from my eye socket. Now.
***
The salvage unit forced the door open,
methodically scanned the room for reusable components.
Subject 844260 location: 2.4 meters. Subject 844260
condition: inert. 72% blood loss. Brain function negligible
The body was packed and cryogenically sealed, returned to the
central facility for renewal. Seventy-two hours passed.
Subject 844260 status: Viable.
***
Bright light. Not move. Move hurts. Light
hurts.
Me no good. No good. Need stop. Hurts.
Make stop. Please make stop.
