The Temp

The Temp

          47:59:59

          The cold air of my first breath scratches against my lungs like fine shards of glass. I cough up blood, mucus and bile onto the smooth tile and it splashes against my naked body. A little boy pats my wet hair and smiles, a half-hearted effort to console me. Thoughts are wicked and rough, bouncing around my cranium at the speed of heated molecules. Questions bubble up as the child whips out a large, serrated knife.

          He grabs my shoulder, and the knifepoint grazes my tender skin; I scoot along the sludge dripping from my body. I reach out to throttle the boy’s tiny neck, but when I do, my body heat ignites at the touch of his skin.

          “Don’t. Your programming won’t allow you to hurt me, a simple anti-Frankenstein’s monster app. I must insert this tracker into your arm before the Protectors arrive. I had to pull you out early, we only have a few more minutes.”

          I cough and sputter, gagging on trapped words. “What am I?”

          The boy steps closer, grasps my shoulder, and slices fast. The pain erupts, sharp and distant, and thick blood pools around my wound. He drops the knife and lifts a small rectangle silicon interface board and shoves it deep into my meat. The pain retreats far away and my brain processes the imagery as if happening to another. The boy squeezes the wound shut with his tiny fingers, holding the translucent skin together. The split skin fuses, healing itself in seconds and leaves behind a jagged ridge. A scar.

          The boy cuts a few more slices near the wound. “Old trick. It’ll fool people, but not the Protectors. Temporary people don’t scar, which is why I pulled you early. The transmitter will prevent your detection. I couldn’t let the virtual organic printer install the government issue transmitter, because as soon as the scanners determine what you are, they’ll initiate a signal to destroy you.”

          I stand up. I require clothing. I need to wash off my body.

          He points to a pile of clothes. “I built you the same size as my Daddy. Sanitation room is over there.”

          As I wash away the afterbirth, distinct thought patterns coalesce inside my mind. The digital countdown timer in the upper right corner of my visual field provides an important answer. I have less than forty-eight hours of life remaining.

          I reenter the room where I experienced my first breath. The boy hovers in front of a computer control center, waiving his tiny digits at the raised holographic displays. I step forward, searching for direction.

          He points at my shirt sleeves. “Rip those off. Citizens must observe your scar; their brains will register safety. You must avoid any form of law enforcement, especially Protectors—they scan everyone. I didn’t design your transmitter with immunity. This happened too fast.”

          My brain informs me the boy reveals his mental anguish via his micro-expressions, the striated muscles of his face cannot lie.

          He continues, “Don’t worry, I pulled you early. Your memories I installed will solidify and you’ll understand the parameters of your mission. I’m creating your background and credentials now so you can maneuver in the tangible world. You must find Daddy.”

          I rip off the sleeves of my white button-down shirt. “Is this why you created me?”

          He drops to the ground; his magnetic boots clank as he steps forward. He buries his tiny hand in mine. “I created you to question everything. At some point during your mission, you’re going to question why you’re trying to help me and find Daddy. Most temporary people aren’t allowed the full range of consciousness like true humans. But there’s a huge battle raging within the international community about saving the lives of temp people. When a usual temp body expires, their consciousness is automatically uploaded and stored in the memory banks amongst millions of others waiting for the laws to change. A few years ago, the truth emerged regarding the reason temp people could only live a max of 48 hours. Remember this: I built into you, above all else, a desire to live. Don’t question the mission. Daddy is the one who can save you. Without him, it may take decades to win this fight, assuming we can.”

          Strong chemicals churn in the center of my generated soul. Gratitude fills up my mind, and I do not deny my desire to help my little creator.

          A loud siren engulfs the room.

          The little boy releases his grip on me and floats toward the center of the control counsel. An image of Protectors, black steel robotic/humanoid figures pouring out of aerial vehicles, surround our home. He shouts, “You need to leave now. Don’t get caught. All the information you need will surface to your consciousness in a matter of minutes. Your body’s instincts will protect you. You cannot win a battle with a Protector, so don’t…”

          I slam through the door at the rear of our home and sprint with maximum human speed down the alley. The sensors installed inside my head track the movements of the Protectors. The little boy, Jason, his name surfaces, designed a scrambler inhibiting their ability to triangulate my location. I’m illegal. My existence and abilities are prohibited.

          What am I?

          My brain solves problems. I need to acquire an alternative identity. The thirteenth house down, I leap over the fence, the barbed wire bouncing off my solidified skin, and land in the backyard. A genetically altered Pit Bull greets me. The dog lunges for my leg with a deep growl. I love dogs. Why do I love dogs? I cannot bring myself to find a way to kill it. Instead, fast reflexes cause me to jump out of the way, rip off a branch from the tree, and shove it into the dog’s mouth. I run faster than a dog.

          I crash through the back door and set off multiple alarms, sprinting to the parked vehicle in the underground garage. I steal it and drive away.

          My mission objectives flood my senses and ignites my actions into a new plane of existence.

          45:27:35

          I lift my heavy boot over a dead body and use the hijacked Protector, my new companion, to balance me. The acrid stench of blood and sweat mixed with gunpowder attacks me. Little Jason ramped up my awareness level to such a degree it requires extra effort to push away the focus on humidity percentage, the absence of light, the suffocating air filling the basement, and a hundred other details unnecessary to my mission.

          Side effects of five-year-old boy programming.

          The Protector’s humming drowns out the sound of alarms squealing above me. The gas mask wrapped around my face muffles my commands. “Scan all electromagnetic frequencies. The map ends here.”

          I grab the Protector’s cold, smooth arm and interface with its scanning matrix. A visual image appears next to the countdown timer of my life span within the upper right corner of my sight. My senses pick up a heat signature as the scanner reveals my target’s location.

          Ramon Mecurius.

          Or what’s left of him.

          I drop my electron diffuser weapon to my side and bolt for the far end of the dark room. Passing rows of computer ports, I arrive at an inset port glowing green. The Protector, only a few steps behind, stops and waits beside me like an eager dog.

          I wave my hand and the Protector types in air commands. The port glows amber and a metal chamber opens with compressed steam escaping as my overactive anxiety levels fire off conflicting commands. I reach into the chamber and remove what is left of Ramon Mecurius, his brain, sealed inside an organic polymer film denser than a human skull. The brain, dripping with a synthetic pink fluid, doesn’t behave as if alive.

          A flicker of digital numeric commands flood across the polymer film.

          I point and the Protector clutches the braincase. The Protector speaks: “Who are you? Why are you here?”

          For a moment, I cannot determine whether to talk at the encased brain resting in the Protector’s hand, or the smooth silver surface of the square faceplate. Unimportant. “Your son created me to locate you and free you.”

          Silence.

          Ramon’s brain doesn’t prompt the Protector to speak, but a flash of arithmetic formulas like a swarm of frenetic bees, dance across the synthetic film. I ask, “What is your command, sir?”

          The Protector visibly trembles. “My command? My command? We’re compromised, I have no command!”

          I tilt my head to the side and stroke the hardened brain as if it were a dog. I blink. Too many programming directives fighting for supremacy. I need Ramon to take charge. “Your son built me to free you. We need to escape. Should I keep you connected to the Protector?”

          The Protector’s blank face shook back and forth like a paint can shaker. “My son? My son! Oh, my poor child.”

          A long pause.

          The Protector’s mechanical voice changes octaves. “Okay. What’s done is done. He undid everything I worked so hard for. He endangered himself. His life is far more important than mine. Quick. Install me into the Protector. Too dangerous to leave my gray matter exposed.”

          I reach forward, tap a few key commands into the Protector’s faceplate, and the Protector powers down. My directives surface effortlessly as I continue to manipulate the Protector’s code. A few seconds later, the Protector’s metal lid flips open and exposes the fifty percent organic cells and fifty percent electronic interface. It requires delicate movements to prevent damage to the Protector’s protocols when I remove the control center.

          Thirty seconds later, Ramon’s brain ignites as it initiates an interface with the Protector’s humanoid robotic body.

          Ramon, the Protector, grabs my arm and squeezes my bicep too tight. “Show me.”

          I lean forward and Ramon activates visible light to emit from his metal forefinger and points it at my irises through my mask. Ramon growls, “My great life, what in the hope are you?”

          “I’m a temp human with…”

          Ramon interrupts, “Yes, yes. But you aren’t installed with a proper interface. You’re off the government grid. How did Jason construct you? Give me your hand!”

          Ramon grabs my left hand and slams it against his/the Protector’s faceplate. I interface with Ramon for thirty seconds. Ramon flings my hand away from his faceplate.

          Ramon, the Protector, drops to the ground with a loud reverberating echo and lifts his digits to his faceplate. The gesture, quite human, intrigues my engineering sensibilities. I push away the intensity and tap my gun against his metal shoulder. “Do you have instructions?”

          The Protector lifts its faceplate up and freezes in place. “Are you joking me right now? Do you fathom what Jason has done? Do you comprehend the consequences? Does the danger escape you? Don’t underestimate a young child’s irrationality.”

          My unconscious automatic brain discerns his despair. If he were human, I could slap his face to shock and reset his emotions. But he is something else. “Explain your concerns.”

          “My concerns? My concerns! What the holy hope are you! Do you understand your own uniqueness? Do you comprehend how many laws my son broke to create you? The entirety of my life’s work to free your kind is now undone, right in front of me, by my own son. Do you digest the irony? Your existence threatens every downloaded and harvested personality created in the last fifty years. He risks everything I’ve worked for, for what? A ridiculous scheme to release me? And what am I? An encased brain? For implantation into a non-human shell? So what? So, I can hold him and touch him? It’s absurd! If you were a regular human, you would be laughing out loud right now at the insanity!”

          The sirens in the distance increase in volume. The extraction team approaches.

          Even with a hijacked Protector, we are no match for the approaching army of weaponized Protectors. We need to move. Fast.

          I grab Ramon’s massive metal limb. “Let’s go. You can have a mental breakdown when we have safely exited.”

          Ramon’s body shivers. An eerie, metallic chortle erupts. I pull him to a standing position and display our exit route for his processor to integrate.

          Loud fireworks of heat lasers erupt and slice over the top of our heads as we escape the basement.

          41:23:12

          The crunching glass beneath Ramon’s heavy steps echoes through the deserted house. Jason is not here at home and the recorded playback reveals his capture only seconds after my initial departure along with the thorough decimation of all electronic devices occupying the science room. I cannot tell by Ramon’s metallic shell if he is upset, but the pain shooting up my arm conveys a clear message.

          I rip off Ramon’s claw and push it away. “I’m flesh, remember.”

          Ramon’s faceplate flashes for a moment, and his braincase drops forward. A human gesture. “I can’t feel my body. My brain isn’t designed to interface with a Protector. A Protector’s infrastructure is designed for warfare, not human emotive interactions. I’m a zombie.”

          “Excuses.”

          Ramon leans forward and places his metal hand against a computer console partially intact. “They left nothing. The only information about your creation is now locked inside your head. I’m sure they scrambled the wireless back-ups.”

          “Why is my design so important to you? Shouldn’t we focus on where they may have taken your son?”

          Ramon flips his faceplate up and grabs my shoulder too hard. “Did Jason have an idea of where they were taking him?”

          “Not downloaded.”

          Ramon releases his grip and pushes me away. “Exactly. This is a huge world, and he’s a tiny boy. He could be a hundred places. Before we even get close you will expire. Unless…”

          “What?”

          “No, no he’s smart, but not a miracle worker. No way to bypass the shelf life of Temps. You have a countdown timer in the upper right corner of your visual field, correct?”

          Ramon doesn’t wait for my reply.

          “Without a clue, without something to go on, it’s hopeless. I built up so many safeguards and cloaking parameters to keep Jason’s existence a secret. My brain could have rotted away, and he could have grown into a man. But this. A reckless, childish act destroying everything. I should have been more careful. I shouldn’t have trusted…”

          I interrupt his tirade of useless speculation. “What makes Jason so special?”

          Silence.

          I slam my fist down on the edge of the broken computer table. “This is my reason for existence. Tell me.”

          Ramon shoots up and stands rigid. He lifts a metal finger. “You’re unstable.”

          I knock his finger out of my face. “You’re wasting time; a luxury I do not possess. Whatever parameters Jason designed me with is done, it’s in the past, no changing it now. You need to give me information about Jason.”

          A siren blares from the outside and I stiffen. A few seconds of held breath, and it passes by. Emergency elsewhere.

          Ramon signals and I follow him into a lounge room, staying out of sight, away from the broken windows. Ramon’s human generated electronic voice explains, “Jason is a first. His mother. Well, his mother….”

          Ramon stops, his faceplate blank.

          My heart beats faster, but I restrain my need to grab and jerk him. “Yes, his mother?”

          Ramon’s braincase shudders. “His mother is a temporary person. The same as you. I, I, I artificially inseminated her with my own DNA. A temp person undergoes rapid growth acceleration and matures in a few minutes, with a maximum life span of forty-eight hours. The research facility I worked at attempted to reverse engineer a Japanese underground technology removing the age limitations. It wasn’t long before I figured out the life limits on temp people had been engineered. For decades, we’ve been told temp people aren’t alive and real because they burn out in 24-48 hours. Well, it’s a constructed lie designed decades ago to deflect the debate over temp people’s rights as individuals. A business plan developed to protect a product from being too perfect. How do you make more money? A single sale every eighty years? Or sell the same product, again and again, every forty-eight hours?”

          I grit my teeth and spit. Reflex. My heart is pumping fast and my internal parameters are spiking. Unstable. “I’m not a product.”

          The faceplate nods once. “Yes. Their words, not mine. I’ve been fighting for your people ever since. Jason. Jason is the offspring of a temp person, a woman I designed based on my own preferences without genetic inhibitors. The organic shell she emerged in would have lived a hundred years. Unfortunately, the moment she was born pregnant and gave birth to Jason, my superiors discovered my activities. I killed good men to save Jason’s life. She died in childbirth, her body went into shock, but Jason lived! The first human hybrid. He has far exceeded all my expectations. He is proof positive temp people are human. Irrefutable evidence.”

          Ramon’s frustration clicks. “You sacrificed everything for him.”

          Ramon doesn’t answer; he rotates his faceplate away and crushes an aircushion chair with his foot. “I made some errors. He was my first try, after all. I designed his mother too perfect. I underestimated his filial attachment to me in the absence of his mother. I assumed he would have all the same built-in emotional constructs of temp people. Intellectually, he’s brilliant; emotionally, still a five-year-old child. I trusted the wrong colleague and my capture devastated him.”

          I can taste my differences from other living beings in my mouth, though I can’t compare my thoughts to confirm. “What makes me special? Why did he design me in a way to attract attention from the authorities?”

          Ramon picks up the crushed cushion and starts ripping off shreds of synthetic fabric with his massive metal fingers. “For any number of faulty reasons. The night before I was captured, he and I discussed the limits of temp people’s parameters. My guess is he experimented with the directives and imagined these bypassed barriers might provide you with an advantage. I didn’t fully convince him the human boundaries provided balance for us. How do you teach humility, modesty and balance to a five-year-old? Because of his reckless programming you’re unbalanced and unstable. Maybe you will have advantages, but those are outweighed by other unanticipated factors.”

          Truth. I roll his words across my tongue and digest them, a bitter tumble down my throat. It explains my inability to tune out the thousands of bits of information bombarding my unconscious mind. I can tap into an awareness that other humans don’t have access to, but my mind struggles to prioritize the excessive data.

          And yet, all I want to do is pet a dog.

          Logic. I must use my logical mind to override emotional sensations and reactions. Ramon, too, his limitations shine brightly in the dark room. But his limitations come from occupying a metal body.

          Jason’s limitations are his lack of experience.

          But he is also brilliant.

          Think like a little boy.

          It clicks.

          I grin. A human luxury Ramon cannot manifest. “You missed an obvious variable, Daddy.”

          Ramon shudders. His faceplate glows and locks in place. “What did you say?”

          “The answer is obvious. The reason I’m unstable is because he imprinted his own personality onto me.”

          Ramon drops the shredded air cushion and steps forward, gripping my two shoulders too tightly. “What? How? That’s impossible. We don’t have the equipment in my house to copy a living human consciousness. It requires a roomful of data, computation power and information.”

          “Yes, but you said so yourself. He wasn’t born like a normal human. His mind was mapped by a temp mother. It took patience, but he painstakingly downloaded his pre-mapped mind into my parameters and I’m a restructured version of himself minus all his memories.”

          Ramon grabs his stomach and attempts to laugh, but the sounds emerging are disturbing. “Brilliant. It makes sense. And it explains your childish motivations. Are you only him?”

          “No. He must have modified me to compensate for his lack of experience. But, since my mind deduced his intention, the clue we’re looking for is simple.” I reach over and stroke my scar, pushing on the ridge inside my skin.

          Ramon unclenches a fist. “What?”

          “He installed an interface tracker in my arm. Twofold purpose. If we scan it, we’ll find his location. The last thing the authorities are searching for is a tracker on a five-year-old.”

          “Their sensors would pick up the signal.”

          “No. Not if I, I mean, he, drops it near where they’re holding him. And not if it only transmits once activated.”

          Ramon traces a finger along my scar. “Simple. Yet, effective.”

          “You worry too much, Daddy.”

          Ramon jams a metal finger into my chest. “Don’t call me that.” He lifts his left hand, scans my scar and activates the tracker.

          A warmth washes over me and radiates. Pleasure? Not sure, but it is almost as fun as playing with a dog.

          36:54:44

          Ramon lifts the beacon out of mud hidden among a tuft of wilted grass. He shakes off the excess sludge and wipes it dry in a pile of dry weeds. Ramon freezes.

          I cannot halt the influx of sensory input flooding my mind. I have not told Ramon about my pain; I don’t want to add to his anxiety. His concern for his boy grows with each passing second and my presence provides a false sense of comfort, though my similar personality traits to his son also creates an electric tension. I squint and focus on Ramon, pushing the random unnecessary details of the abandon field miles away from the main highway out of my consciousness. “Are you okay?” My voice arrives from far away.

          Ramon’s faceplate rotates and examines me. He lifts himself up from the ground off his one knee. “We’re not going to find him.”

          “Why?”

          The Protector’s arms dangle. He lifts his metal hand and grinds the alloy holding in his semi-organic brain. “He didn’t drop this beacon. This beacon was flown here by a bird drone. A scene from a movie he loves. It obviously contains information for us. But definitely not his location.” He tosses the beacon to me.

          I wipe away the downpour of sweat flooding my vision. It is only 97.5 degrees Fahrenheit with 45% humidity. I’m perspiring more than necessary. My body is unhappy. I swallow the pain and examine the beacon. I rotate the egg-shaped shell and a band of light activates along the circumference. A raised three- dimensional image appears before us with low decibel transmission. The recorded playback begins:

          “Hello, Daddy. I know you’re mad at me, but don’t worry. When I’m done explaining why I did what I did, you’ll understand. I’m sorry I rushed my plan. But, next to myself you’re the only one who can finish what we started. I wish I could have given TRX-313HMN the ability to live longer, but I couldn’t get access to your illegal equipment. The tracker I implanted in his arm will preserve his circuitry and memories for safe keeping until we are able to give all the saved personalities bodies of their own.”

          The image of the little boy walks across the computer room and hops onto an air cushion. Ramon’s faceplate fixates.

          Jason resumes his speech. “I’m sorry I mislead you, Daddy. I know you love me too much and it clouds your thinking. But if you want me and Mommy to live again you must finish what we started. There are a few variables you don’t know about. I stumbled across a problem with my DNA programming. You overlooked it, I’m assuming, or if you knew, chose not to tell me. But, because of my accelerated birth, my cells replicate exponentially faster than a normal human. And since we haven’t determined how to overcome the preprogrammed fixed number our human cells replicate before they cease, my death became imminent. I confirmed my findings with three Chinese geneticists I corresponded with.”

          Ramon’s faceplate falls forward, but he says nothing.

          The view focuses in on a display in front of Jason. “I contacted Dr. Frenden Shawoi. He revealed to me enough information to convince me he could help us. Please, Daddy, don’t get stubborn about this. He’s on our side. It’s okay to trust certain people.”

          Jason rotates the view back to his face. “Daddy, I love you. I’m grateful for my life. If you fail to find a way to bring me back, don’t blame yourself. You’re a wonderful person who deserves happiness.”

          Jason expands the view and jumps back onto the floor. “I coordinated this perfectly. I calculated my burn out, just as reliable as the countdown timer on a temp. I took a delayed activated sedative. When they capture me, I will soon fall asleep, never to wake up in this body. My consciousness is safely recorded up to a few minutes prior to recording this inside 313’s tracker. I’m not sure how you feel about 313, or how he’s helping. There’s a reason I designed him as an accelerated copy of myself. I ran the theoretical combinations of probabilities of my future self; it, unnerved Dr. Shawoi. It’s hard to predict what 313 will accomplish in 48 hours, but I believe in his ability to assist. Maybe unstable from a standard human’s controlled and regulated point of view, but a powerful variable still.”

          Jason doesn’t say goodbye or anything else. The playback ends.

          Ramon lays on his side, a comical angle for a robot soldier, and I step forward to help him. I extend my sweaty palm in a gesture another human should understand. Ramon ignores me.

          The heat. I tuck the beacon inside my cargo pocket and map out the distance to the coordinates of Dr. Shawoi. Searching for words, I force verbal communication. Ramon is a complicated human, and I cannot manifest words to comfort him. “What do you want to do next?”

          The Protector’s faceplate burns a dark shade of static. He mumbles. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear? He’s dead. My son is dead. Not only is he gone, but my revelation to the world is not perfect. Accelerated cell division. And I overlooked it. I was so proud, so excited, I committed the scientist’s most common error. Pride. I failed to analyze the data sufficiently, gazing through an idealistic lens. The world will not accept as human a boy who dies of old age at five years old.”

          Ramon grieves. But we have no time for grief. At least, I don’t. “Sir, your boy asked us…”

          I wake up. I must have blacked out. Ramon’s faceplate is hovering above me. I’m on the ground, mud sticking to my limbs. The mud is cool. The warmth from the setting sun tumbles across my skin. Hot. So hot.

          “Can you hear me! Say something!”

          I blink. Ramon’s faceplate is blank, a shiny reflection of hues. But his metallic body convulses.

          I try to lift my head. “I’m hot.”

          Ramon grabs my right hand and forces the muddy print against his faceplate. I’m in and out of consciousness.

          Ramon drops my hand. “My god! I’ve never seen anything like it. Jason is right about you. I need to understand what is fueling your brain.”

          I blink, but hundreds of bits of intel about my surroundings invade my vision. “What’s wrong with me? I’m hours away from my expiration date.”

          Ramon lifts my heavy body, a pile of twigs in a Protector’s massive metal skeleton. He speaks to me as he carries me. “You’re burning up. You’re running a temperature of 108 degrees. You should be dead. But your brain is compensating.”

          Every footfall sends a vibration through my body. I enjoy it. It takes my mind off the heat.

          Ramon moves faster, almost running. I dangle, limbs flapping in the wind. He continues, “All of your synapses are firing at once. It’s like your mind is wired together, so every synapsis connects with every other synapsis. The mathematical number of connections are so far beyond what a normal person experiences, I cannot even fathom it. The heat generated is too much for your body to cool. Yet, it’s not killing you. It’s as if there are these super-highways in your head moving information along at speeds previously unprecedented within the human mind. The sensory overload prevents you from filtering out the unnecessary data.”

          The information resonates. My mind is hot.

          Ramon’s faceplate glows a bright orange. The running is pleasant, as the cool breeze removes bits of infrared radiation from the surface of my skin. I imagine a puppy licking my face. The tongue tickles and I enjoy it.

          Ramon doesn’t glance down. He says, “Try to calm the connections. My theory is, if you can force yourself into a meditative state, maybe the synapses will all stop firing at once and reduce the heat. It’s a theory.”

          I don’t hear him and tune him out. I’m playing with my puppy.

          29:59:59

          My fever breaks and I am now more than awake. My brain has shifted, altered, grown, adapted. I think differently. I peer up into my Daddy’s faceplate and my mind maps his brain. I can visualize his attachment to me and his internal struggle between the fact his son is effectively dead and the need to cling to me as a hope for his continued existence. This thought is simple and pure and clean. Too easy.

          I rotate my head, the soft pillow caressing the sweaty base of my neck, and I focus my intense gaze on Dr. Frenden Shawoi. “Water. Four liters.”

          The Doctor gestures a service bot forward. I shove the hose into my mouth and suck the container dry, calculating the maximum volume of my stomach. Temporary pain, but in five minutes, the water will be hyper-absorbed. My brain and cells are burning fuel faster than any human prior.

          The Doctor signals with his right hand and displays my physical vitals within a raised full depth display. “Fascinating. Accidental genius.”

          The bald Doctor stands, wearing a blue lab coat; he is thin and frail, with large brown eyes, and grotesque ears. He cannot conceal his intellectual hunger. His intense curiosity is an addiction no drug could ever satiate. He steps forward with long, deliberate strides and pushes his hand into my forehead, a useless human gesture. “He’s on fire.”

          My Daddy, a tropical storm of conflict, pulls away from us and mutters, “What’s the point…”

          The Doctor, a focused and triumphantly decided man, ignores Daddy’s despair, and points at me. “Progress. Your son stumbled onto something not dared by civilized man.”

          The modified Protector holding my Daddy’s mind prisoner stands erect and towers over the Doctor. “You’re fascinated by Frankenstein’s monster. I’m mourning my son. My son, whose death only proves the opposition’s stance insinuating these breathing people aren’t human. Enjoy your novelty project. He has about thirty hours to live before relegation to the same limbo all temp humans are currently incarcerated in.”

          Not quite thoughts, accumulating intentions, wild and strong and freely flowing from the Doctor’s mind. His intentions are far from the altruistic spectrum, past a healthy self-preservation, beyond self-interest. His thoughts: a whirlwind of destructive forces. Before my conscious mind is aware of what my unconscious mind is suggesting, I bolt upright and grab the Doctor by the throat. I clamp down and grip his larynx with pressure from adrenaline I visualize pumping through my veins.

          Daddy doesn’t understand and lunges forward, his superhuman strength ripping my hand away from the Doctor. The Doctor drops to the ground, holding his neck, gasping for breath. I find no compassion. The blank faceplate my associative brain has already connected with Daddy’s love burns bright burgundy. He seizes my shoulders and squeezes me too tight. “What is wrong?”

          The emotional hijacking of my conscious mind has subsided and my rational thoughts gain control of my motor functions. “He killed me.”

          Daddy lets go of my arms and steps back. “What?”

          I point at the Doctor. He stands up and smooths down his lab coat with his clammy fingers. He suppresses his cough and the lack of blood flow to his face whitens his complexion. I craft a wicked smile. “He’s a strategist. An information thief and connoisseur. A hundred years ago we called him a geneticist hacker. He installed the virus into my DNA terminating my life early. Your data wasn’t wrong, Daddy. He corrupted me and fooled naive Jason.”

          The three of us, frozen. Not moving. A still photograph, daring to imply emotion.

          Daddy breaks through his shock. “Why lead us here? Why expose himself?”

          The Doctor remains silent, though he manages to stumble into an air-chair. He beckons with his hand and the small puppy-like bot obediently delivers a glass of cold, brown liquor. He sips at it in a state of denial.

          The digital numbers rolling backward reminds me. “Daddy, we’re lingering. This man has helped us all he can. He didn’t predict my capabilities. He brought me here out of vanity and curiosity. His only interest in me is information to sell to the highest bidder. I’m only guessing at his connections, since my mind is limited by the interpretations of his worldview, but I’m certain we can extract the information from his lab.”

          The Doctor gulps down his drink and cracks the ice cubes. My Daddy steps forward and approaches Frendon Shawoi. Even though I understand my father’s intent, my emotional dependence on him prevents my rational mind from expecting the obvious. My Daddy is not a killer.

          The towering wall of metal and strength grabs the Doctor’s head between two bookends of forged steel and before he can scream, his skull is crushed into jelly.

          My killer is dead. My father destroyed him and rightly so. Still, I can’t fight this feeling that my dog just died.

          A single tear slips down my cheek. It burns.

          25:35:47

          My plan is perfect. As perfection conjured up from a limited human mind. The Doctor’s misstep provides the key needed to understand the full scope of our mission. Up until this moment, where my mind has healed from the experimental construction of a desperate young child, I couldn’t comprehend how important my mission is. The young boy who inspired my construction only envisioned his father’s role in freeing all the confined families. All families labeled inferior because of the nature of their birth.

          But this is a reformation. A rebellion. A rebirth.

          The only enemy I cannot conquer glows its constant reminder in the corner of my visual field. I have the ingenuity and ability with my Daddy’s help to recreate my circumstances, download my memories and build a permanent version of myself. A new human. A reconstruction of atoms and molecules, inherently divine in ability. Like a mathematical formula, jumbled, but able to solve the mysteries of the universe. If all manifests to plan.

          I must war with the entirety of mankind to succeed and I only have one day to do it.

          The problem? I cannot accept my identity. Is it because I’ve only been alive for a day? Or am I no longer human? Does my leap forward benefit humanity, or condemn it to destruction? If I permanently etch myself into the history of humanity, will it no longer exist in its present form? Am I the adult version of a race locked into childhood?

          These questions circle in the back of my mind as I focus on ten-thousand other problems to solve.

          Still, I remain on mission, consciously and unconsciously. The recorded versions of all temp humans are scattered throughout the earth, and we have a virtual map to release them from their prisons. A master program, written effortlessly from my enhanced mind as I take control of the world’s computers. Ninety-nine percent automated; there exist only a few thousand people in the world able to understand what I am about to accomplish. From my hidden headquarters, confiscated from a network of drug dealers, I initiate command after command, creating mini-viral programs replicating exponentially to keep pace with my deadly deadline. Does forcing the process invite bugs? Of course. Could I get sloppy and alert the program guardians? Yes. But I don’t possess the luxury to sit around and second guess myself.

          I will release the temp prisoners.

          For good or for bad.

          Daddy wraps a cold metal hand across my neck and sends a shiver down my spine. His blank faceplate swims with color. I force a human grin, a slight uptick of my right cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

          A crass joke—cuts him to the heart but breaks his obsessive neurosis. “Did you pay attention to satellite 15B-7733? You’re aware…”

          I cut him off. Not due to impatience, but from bored unimportance. If he could comprehend the level of threats I increase with each passing second, he wouldn’t bother me with a small army of equipped drug dealer drones heading for our compound. “It will take them two hours to get here, and another hour to penetrate the fortress they manufactured. I will finish here, and we can move on to our next assignment.”

          Daddy needs to believe he is useful. I must find him something unimportant to do and fools him into imagining he’s helping. Within three seconds I determine the correct assignment. “Daddy, I need you to build a calorie dispenser and attach an IV into my arm. The schematics are in the corner.” I point to a computer console collecting dust. “I don’t want to waste precious seconds on eating.”

          I don’t need any more food. Temp humans are manufactured meal houses, much like cattle. I have entered ketosis and am burning off fat, converting it into sugar which my brain is burning like a nuclear reactor. But my assignment improves Daddy’s mood.

          He starts to construct my energy supply and doesn’t suspect I am giving him busy work.

          Good doggie.

          20:25:31

          The thin micro-wire polymer cuts into my tongue and cheeks as I struggle to move. Logically, I must sit still, to minimize the physical damage inflicted on my body. But my emotions are boiling over from the unpredictable choices Daddy is manifesting.

          Daddy shoves the cold metal of the gun’s barrel into my forehead as his over-torqued steel grip squeezes my windpipe. “Give me one good, got glam reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now—you, horrid abomination! You devil.”

          “Daddy, you’re not…”

          “Don’t call me that! You’re not my son! You’re his gross miscalculation, his final error. My son is no monster. You misrepresent his memory and fill me with disgust. Do you think me so stupid I’d accept your deliberate manipulation? You think you’re so smart, but have no context, no accumulative mastery of reading other human’s intentions. If you are so smart, why are you in this situation?”

          Unlike a human with a body, my Daddy cannot flood his cells with endorphins and exhaust his anger. His manufactured body, fueled by battery power, will never grow weary of his fury. I must calm him down to steer him in the correct direction. “You’re right, I’m not smarter than you. This was your plan. Free the imprisoned temp people. My plan is solid.”

          “You’re leaving out the part where you’re infecting the entire temp populace with your madness. A million versions of yourself running around in flesh and blood bodies.”

          “Don’t believe your own lies, it’s your fear talking. They will still exist as themselves, only with the enhanced cognitive functions your son brilliantly crafted. All 1,132,240 alive and free, your will be done.”

          Daddy pulled his weapon back and shook it at me like I had peed on the carpet. “Don’t put this on me you twisted sneak. I wanted to show the world we shouldn’t fear temp humans. But not only are you trying to force feed them onto the world all at once, you’re tweaking their brains into some advanced mathematical equation not even human. If you think you have any humanity left inside of you, you’re delusional. You are and have created the exact thing humanity has been afraid of all along. No! I won’t help you do this! Don’t twist my plan into an all-out war! People will die! Why don’t you foresee this? Fear will overtake the world and they will hunt them down and kill them all, permanently. There won’t exist back-ups for them to try again.”

          And the piece of information I overlooked was his wife. He feared for his copy of his wife. I omitted the romantic attachment, something I have no experience with. “I can bring back two versions of your wife, one to live out her true temp potential, and one as an original version you still love.”

          Daddy steps backward as if I had struck him in the faceplate. “You think this is about me and her? Have you been listening to a word I say? I may have made choices affecting a few innocent people in the name of freedom. But this? Why can’t you accept the obvious? If you’re truly this smart, how can you not understand you are forcing an all-out war on humanity and probably dooming the entire temp population to genocide?”

          “War is an inevitable consequence of humanity’s inability to accept those different from themselves. If humanity stopped progressing when there existed a fear of war, we would have never arrived at this point in our advancement. Don’t hold me accountable for the actions of the majority. I’m simply giving temp people their freedom, along with the advantage of an advanced mind. You as a scientist shouldn’t be afraid of the next leap forward.”

          Daddy denies his fear, though his mind burns crimson. “I’m saying this is not the way to do it. There are more diplomatic choices. We have the information to share with humanity and allow them to accept the truth…”

          “You’re lying to yourself. You were fine with the plan until you discovered my gift to them all. Why is their enhancement so terrifying to you?”

          “Because I’ve spent a few hours with you. You’re not human. The point of temp humans was to show the world they have the same rights as us, born naturally. But you’re corrupting them, enhancing them with a DNA combination you can’t even comprehend. You’re not birthing humans; you’re birthing your progeny and I can’t allow it. I am the only person capable of standing in the way of your terrifying plan, and I will not allow you to relegate humanity to mutated man’s best friend.”

          My arrogant smile drips. I cannot help it. Daddy has lost and he has no idea. His parental attachment to me has evaporated and now he fights to protect the precious combination of memories and DNA downloaded inside the silicon universe. I will not win this argument. No matter. “If I were you…”

          Daddy’s steel club smashes across my face and as I lose consciousness, I hear his words echo down a long dark corridor, “But, you’re not.”

          14:32:12

          I now exist inside virtual reality. The government, the agency, the manufactured intelligence…whatever perspective it is discerned from, is running diagnostics on my personality profile. Though I can’t discern my physical presence, I am aware my biological body is kept alive while my mind undergoes simulated stress.

          I exist exactly where I should. Daddy did good.

          Explosions evolve and slide down my throat. Colors and pixels and formulated emotions barrage my brain. Only a few hours of life, but inside the simulation, I may as well live forever.

          My wife kisses me on the lips. I wave at my children, Darryl and Sariah, ten and twelve, as the hoverbus picks them up for mental conditioning. This is the life they want me to believe in. It is mine. This moment, lasts forever, and within it, I’m perfect and happy.

          Deep beneath my skin, equations erupt into painful boils and pus oozes down my limbs. The master, he searches my mind, and tries to unlock the mysteries pushing my agenda, driving my desires. My wife is nothing but an emotional construct, a boy’s childhood fantasy, a combination of chemical triggers designed to unlock the procreative mandate. They are engineered temp people.

          I allow his probing feelers to touch my neurons, caress their connections, and marvel at my complexity.

          You will not win.

          My father. My father, my protector, my robotic Frankenstein who served me up to the authorities from a misguided choice to save his family but didn’t have the heart to kill me. He doesn’t, did not, will not understand my accomplishment. Humanity is stuck, stunted, prevented from the automatic leap forward so necessary.

          I will remain strong. I will succeed. I will not fail my kind.

          The master detects my willful disobedience and pushes into my mind a nightmare.

          My wife is ripped away and tortured. My children abused and neglected. The essence of their souls tormented, and my eyes are widened by sharp metal pins forcing my compliance with their pain and suffering. Their screams pierce my eardrums, their blood splatters across my face. For a moment, I’m distracted. I cannot stop thinking about my young children, their lives birthed into my hands. They do not deserve this. They do not deserve this affliction and agony.

          I’m frozen. My synapses are frozen snippets of fire. The master is winning. His tentacles reach into the furthest corners of my mind and decrease my will to succeed. I cannot lose my children. I cannot lose my precious wife. My beautiful wife, with her long, red hair, luscious lips, and soft skin. No, my precious. My precious wife, my Samantha, my beautiful wife. The master will not take you away from me.

          And I fall.

          I’m falling.

          Reality. Where is reality? It escapes my clutches. It tears at my soul, rips away the fabric of my memories, slices through my feelings and reaches and reaches and reaches…

          The master wins.

          I’m lost.

          So, lost. He will not find me.

          Never find where I buried my purpose.

          My purpose, so lost, the master doesn’t believe it still exists…

          10:34:32

          My consciousness, warm honey sliding down into my physical body. Awareness slaps at me from the cold steel surrounding my flesh and the hundreds of parasitic wires burrowed into my spinal cord burn. A raised holographic image of a young boy extracts my intentions with his analytical scrutiny. He is confident, stoic, arrogant. The master.

          In the dream world, the truth remains hidden. But now the master reveals his true personality. It is me. It is the boy. It is Jason.

          My mind searches for the memory of how to operate my vocal cords. My dry mouth opens, and I cough up some words. “You are dead.”

          Derision. An evil curl of the lip for such a young boy. “The Corplex can reach anywhere. We harvested the data dumped into your arm tracker. They recreated me. But I am not you. I’m Jason.” I cannot reach up to stroke the ripped open skin on my arm. I no longer have access to immortality. My life is relegated to a few more hours. But at least Jason’s personality is preserved with the other temp people.

          I cough, my throat is parched. “You aren’t Jason. You’re the master.”

          “Irrelevant. The conclusion is you are defeated. I convinced Corplex to pull you out of the virtual simulator. You fought the program beyond reasonable logic. Obviously, the result of your organic mind. You probably can’t answer the question since your unconscious mind is ruling your actions. Still, as an organic based sentient being, I understand how working out the truth begins in the conscious mind. Why do you still fight?”

          I calculate the limitations of Corplex. The hive mind cannot read my thoughts in their entirety. Despite all the master’s computing power, the human mind remains a locked vault. If I keep my will subdued, the master will not discover my intention. “I fought because I could sense the false construct. I’m a day and half old. True family attachment requires years to develop. My true motives are not in raising a family. I have but one purpose. To save you.”

          Jason’s face enlarges and his eyebrows meet. He drops his chin and peers at me over his nose. “Save who? Jason? Corplex? The Master? This copy of yourself?”

          The restraints holding my arms prevent my gesture. “My purpose is to save all the temp people held prisoner by the master. Born as flesh and blood, they will never truly live within the hardened plastic tombs of your existence. You dictate the perception of the public’s opinion. You keep them in fear of temp people. I will free them all.”

          Jason’s laugh echoes through the dark chamber and vibrates the neurotech burrowed into my brain. “You are simply one organic creature imprisoned by me. You have ten hours to live before you expire like rotten meat. Do you care to enlighten me as to how you will accomplish this?”

          I want to gloat. I long to feel the rush of pride and accomplishment from defeating a world power. But I’m not reckless. I simply reply, “I will find a way.”

          Jason thunders forth another intimidating laugh. “Pathetic temp human. You disgust us.”

          01:08:22

          I’m in a prison cell with other human being citizens. I’m wearing no shirt, so the scar on my arm disarms the other flesh and blood prisoners. If they suspected I was a temp human, they might find the inclination to pay attention to me, harass me or cause me physical harm. No matter. I only have about an hour of life left. I draw the conclusion Corplex intends to run further tests on me around other humans in a tangible setting. Corplex can only think in analysis, deduction, predication, calculation. This is what makes the master vulnerable to my plan.

          I swallow down my panic. My plan to preserve my own life has failed with the tracker removed and I cannot retire to virtual paradise. A false comfort, like a human’s belief in heaven, to ease the passage of death. Now, when I expire, my thoughts will terminate. My purpose will no longer burn pure. My devotion to a father believing I betrayed him will cease.

          I cannot talk my reptilian mind into subduing its fear. I cannot distract myself with work in this physical cage. The last comfort I have is the raised holographic image in the center of the prison cell. Eight minutes until my purpose is fulfilled. I will have one hour of ecstasy before I perish.

          If my plan succeeds.

          I experience a twinge of doubt.

          Interesting, how fear of death reverts me to victimization thinking.

          00:03:55

          The joy trumps my fear. I’m ecstatic. My plan is succeeding with stunning brilliance. The back door virus I implanted within my virtual children and wife slid through to the temp populace undetected. A program far beyond anything Corplex could have imagined. Of course, it can’t imagine. It can only calculate predictions. And even though my Daddy warned Corplex of my grand scheme, it was too arrogant to comprehend my capture was part of the plan. Too self-assured to understand I wanted them to insert myself into a downloadable site so I could spread my virus through the surveillance program connected to every virtual organic printer in the country.

          Within a few minutes, over a million organic printers owned by private citizens throughout the country had printed out all original versions of the temp people captured in storage, in combination with the DNA code unleashing true human potential.

          The world is going mad. The news channels are scrambling to piece the puzzle together. But the implication is obvious. The temp people are now alive in the flesh. Without expiration date. The news programs are labeling it mass illegal immigration. Until the country went completely mad with fear. And now the broadcasts have stopped.

          I only speculate now, as I have a few minutes left. But, I assume, following the actions of what all humans do, the temp people are banding together and using their advanced cognitive skills to disable Corplex and hijack the infrastructure. But I’m only one person. I never met any of the temp people. Can I predict what a million plus individual personalities with the computing power of the human mind unleashed might accomplish?

          I hope I didn’t destroy the world.

          A panic attack is coming. I’m terrified of my death.

          00:00:13

          I struggle to breathe. A Protector rips the metal tubing off the prison cell. I discern it is Daddy. He rushes over to my collapsed body. Behind him, his wife approaches in the flesh, along with his son Jason holding a small puppy, hovering in the broken threshold. All monitoring systems and electricity have failed, and the other prisoners rush out into the open world. My Daddy holds my head in his arms, cradling me back and forth, a warm glow emitting from his faceplate. He whispers, in a muted half-cry, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

          My Daddy loves me after all.

The End