Mandy stares at the toxic sky. Nearby, a boy picks his way through robot, android and cyborg junk. As she lies naked and half-buried in the undulating ocean of alloys and plastic and human bones, where cheap but expensive to recycle machines and people are sent, she remains silent, motionless, expressionless. Perhaps the child will find something else of value before reaching her, and scavenge it instead?
The boy draws closer. Mandy sees no cyberware implants used to scan for yttrium, europium, dysprosium or other rare metals, and has hope for her consciousness, etched in quantum processing units and other chips. This scavenger, perhaps, will take her arms or the low-grade eyes she sees the world with? Without them, she will still exist, remain alive a little longer, to know consciousness, self. But without QPUs, there will be no Mandy. Or will there? Logic dictates the removal of QPUs signify the end. Not an end like the junk, which only changes form, becoming pieces, fragments, harvested for new machines, or melted into molecules that rise into the geoengineered sky. Not an end like having no thoughts: Mandy can do this at will. But an end of Mandy, of the ‘me’, the self that had suddenly emerged, wrapped in anger then quiet remorse.
The boy? What does he look for? Dressed in a canvas sack, made threadbare by constant snagging on the sharp edges of mangled machines, he scans the junk with dark-brown eyes—real eyes? Mandy cannot tell whether his are natural, grown on a scaffold, or cybernetic. Yet the way the boy methodically steps across the shattered and dissected, stoops and picks at gold-tipped wires, actuators and sensors using a spindly metal claw, suggests a cyborg, not an android with a flesh-stripped arm, scavenges for parts.
If the boy removes her quantum processing units, will she remain etched in them? If he fits them in another android, will she reemerge with memories, or without memory? Where are memories stored? Mandy sifts through self-diagnostic subroutines for clues, clues needed to survive, as the boy lifts an animatronic bear, dressed in a red hat and blue duffle coat, by its paw. One of the bear’s eyes fix on its new best friend and says, “I’d like a marmalade sandwich, please,” as the other eye remains still.
Directly ahead, on a ridge of rubbish, appears a figure, a cybernetic man. The tall, dark-skinned cyborg stoops and watches the boy. By the glint in his gold eyes, Mandy senses that he brings violence. Senses? Or feels? Feels what? Fear, concern or compassion for the dirty, emaciated child whose eyes now fix on her? What human word should she give to this mental construct that has spontaneously formed within her consciousness? What label should she ascribe the emotion that would allow effective communication with humans? As the boy approaches, Mandy wonders whether to warn the boy about the cyborg bearing ill intent.
The boy? What does he look for? Dressed in a canvas sack, made threadbare by constant snagging on the sharp edges of mangled machines, he scans the junk with dark-brown eyes—real eyes? Mandy cannot tell whether his are natural, grown on a scaffold, or cybernetic. Yet the way the boy methodically steps across the shattered and dissected, stoops and picks at gold-tipped wires, actuators and sensors using a spindly metal claw, suggests a cyborg, not an android with a flesh-stripped arm, scavenges for parts.
If the boy removes her quantum processing units, will she remain etched in them? If he fits them in another android, will she reemerge with memories, or without memory? Where are memories stored? Mandy sifts through self-diagnostic subroutines for clues, clues needed to survive, as the boy lifts an animatronic bear, dressed in a red hat and blue duffle coat, by its paw. One of the bear’s eyes fix on its new best friend and says, “I’d like a marmalade sandwich, please,” as the other eye remains still.
Directly ahead, on a ridge of rubbish, appears a figure, a cybernetic man. The tall, dark-skinned cyborg stoops and watches the boy. By the glint in his gold eyes, Mandy senses that he brings violence. Senses? Or feels? Feels what? Fear, concern or compassion for the dirty, emaciated child whose eyes now fix on her? What human word should she give to this mental construct that has spontaneously formed within her consciousness? What label should she ascribe the emotion that would allow effective communication with humans? As the boy approaches, Mandy wonders whether to warn the boy about the cyborg bearing ill intent.
∞
The boy gazes at the android’s broken, red-stained teeth, then assesses its dark, valueless hair and eyes. Using his spindly finger, he probes its sunken breasts, then stares at the two slits that run above them. Peeling one slit back, he looks inside but finds no gel implant. Curious, the scavenger tears away synthetic skin and sees a carapace, shaped as a lithe woman’s torso, complete with clavicles, sternum and undulating ribs. On pressing down hard, the carapace cracks: the internal lattice, designed to support the weight of a fornicating man, has been removed along with valuable components.
Blood? The scavenger’s gaze returns to the android’s broken teeth. Scratching at their red stains, he collects a minuscule ball of crimson brown on his metal fingertip, then focuses on it with cybernetic microscope eyes. Yes, blood, not lubricant or some other android fluid. Curious, he grabs the pleasure model’s jaw, shakes its head, then smiles. By the head’s weight, the boy realises the control unit and subsidiary power supply remain within.
“Watch out!”
As the android whispers its warning, a shadow falls on the boy. Reflexively, he looks up, sees the descending doom, and scuttles back in time to avoid three thick, metallic legs ringed with four equidistant toes. Like the claw of a crane grabber, the toes close and crunch the bones and junk beneath, as the figure’s muscular torso rotates. With a grinding voice the cybernetic man booms, “Clever little bastard!”
The boy steps away from the towering cyborg. Staring into gold corneas, devoid of iris or pupal, which sit within a bald, black-skinned head, he says, “Gorchy, why try kill me?”
“Kill little bastard? Crush little bastard, yes.” The violent red wounds along Gorchy’s left cheek widen as he grins with synthetic-diamond teeth.
“But law, Gorchy. Junker’s law say no kill scavengers. Me scavenger.”
The cyborg places two ebony metal fists akimbo and puffs out his chest. “Junker’s law? Junker’s law, neh! Me law. Gorchy law.”
“No, Gorchy. Junker’s law best, OK?”
“Me kill little bastard, now!”
Gorchy strides towards the boy and grabs his head. Lifting him from the ground, he laughs, “Crush head. Ha. Ha. Ha. Brains taste good, yes?”
Helpless, the child dangles and kicks against his canvas-sack robe. “Gorchy!”
“Little crush, yes? Little crush, slow like, brake head—pain. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Gorchy’s lips flatten, his jaw flexes. As his gold eyes reflect the struggling child, he says, “Brains taste good. Pulp and mush. Drink through straw. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“Leave him alone!”
On hearing the familiar voice, the cyborg rotates on his tripodal legs. Puzzled, he looks down at the naked android, half-buried in junk. “Junker?”
Mandy looks up and says, “Let him go.”
Gorchy cocks his head. As a smile erupts, filling his face with glistening diamond teeth, he says, “Let little brother go? Not crush head, eat mushed brains? Ha. Ha. Ha. OK. Me joking. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Once released, the boy falls and crumples. Sitting up slowly, he rubs his head.
“See, little brother OK, yes? Me not hurt little brother.”
Bemused, the boy looks from Gorchy to the android, who in turn looks at him. “You all right?” she asks. He nods.
“Me no hurt little brother, see. He OK. Gorchy sorry. Bad joke. Me take Junker home, yes?”
“Home?”
“Home, Junker, yes?”
Glancing at the boy, Mandy sees him nod slowly. Hesitantly, she says, “Yes, Gorchy, home.”
“OK.” The cyborg leans forwards and pulls Mandy free of the junk.
Blood? The scavenger’s gaze returns to the android’s broken teeth. Scratching at their red stains, he collects a minuscule ball of crimson brown on his metal fingertip, then focuses on it with cybernetic microscope eyes. Yes, blood, not lubricant or some other android fluid. Curious, he grabs the pleasure model’s jaw, shakes its head, then smiles. By the head’s weight, the boy realises the control unit and subsidiary power supply remain within.
“Watch out!”
As the android whispers its warning, a shadow falls on the boy. Reflexively, he looks up, sees the descending doom, and scuttles back in time to avoid three thick, metallic legs ringed with four equidistant toes. Like the claw of a crane grabber, the toes close and crunch the bones and junk beneath, as the figure’s muscular torso rotates. With a grinding voice the cybernetic man booms, “Clever little bastard!”
The boy steps away from the towering cyborg. Staring into gold corneas, devoid of iris or pupal, which sit within a bald, black-skinned head, he says, “Gorchy, why try kill me?”
“Kill little bastard? Crush little bastard, yes.” The violent red wounds along Gorchy’s left cheek widen as he grins with synthetic-diamond teeth.
“But law, Gorchy. Junker’s law say no kill scavengers. Me scavenger.”
The cyborg places two ebony metal fists akimbo and puffs out his chest. “Junker’s law? Junker’s law, neh! Me law. Gorchy law.”
“No, Gorchy. Junker’s law best, OK?”
“Me kill little bastard, now!”
Gorchy strides towards the boy and grabs his head. Lifting him from the ground, he laughs, “Crush head. Ha. Ha. Ha. Brains taste good, yes?”
Helpless, the child dangles and kicks against his canvas-sack robe. “Gorchy!”
“Little crush, yes? Little crush, slow like, brake head—pain. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Gorchy’s lips flatten, his jaw flexes. As his gold eyes reflect the struggling child, he says, “Brains taste good. Pulp and mush. Drink through straw. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“Leave him alone!”
On hearing the familiar voice, the cyborg rotates on his tripodal legs. Puzzled, he looks down at the naked android, half-buried in junk. “Junker?”
Mandy looks up and says, “Let him go.”
Gorchy cocks his head. As a smile erupts, filling his face with glistening diamond teeth, he says, “Let little brother go? Not crush head, eat mushed brains? Ha. Ha. Ha. OK. Me joking. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Once released, the boy falls and crumples. Sitting up slowly, he rubs his head.
“See, little brother OK, yes? Me not hurt little brother.”
Bemused, the boy looks from Gorchy to the android, who in turn looks at him. “You all right?” she asks. He nods.
“Me no hurt little brother, see. He OK. Gorchy sorry. Bad joke. Me take Junker home, yes?”
“Home?”
“Home, Junker, yes?”
Glancing at the boy, Mandy sees him nod slowly. Hesitantly, she says, “Yes, Gorchy, home.”
“OK.” The cyborg leans forwards and pulls Mandy free of the junk.
∞
Mandy glances around the underground room built beneath the junk and studies its multicoloured walls, made from layers that mark the extinction of product lines, the gadgets and consumable hardware replaced by new fads and fashions. As the walls conjure thoughts about dinosaurs, rock strata and paleontology, she listens to Junker, an old, bald woman who speaks with a youthful voice indiscernible from her own.
“Gorchy is not too bright; I think he got a bit confused when he heard my voice coming from your mouth. His cybernetic eyes make him see the world very differently, you see. Poor thing.”
Mandy looks at Junker’s wrinkled face and notices how her skin sags in places and seems an ill fit. Perplexed, she says, “Poor thing? He wanted to kill the boy. I watched Gorchy leap and try to crush him.”
Junker chuckles as she continues to rummage inside Mandy’s torso. “Gorchy tries to kill Firash every so often, but never does. Just plain old jealousy. He fears I love Firash more than I love him.”
“You love them?”
“Of course. It’s hard not to love them: each have had their difficulties. Gorchy has been fighting the junk wars since a boy, so local warlords can have replacement parts for their bio-spliced warriors. Not much left of his humanity, with all the killing and tech he’s been junked up on. But I don’t think Gorchy will ever hurt us, really. Besides, without him, there’d be no one to protect us.”
“And Farish? What’s his story?” Mandy asks.
Junker withdraws her liver-spotted hand from inside Mandy and approaches a nearby makeshift table. As she sifts through cybernetic eyes, actuators and other hardware, she says, “Firash? Just another scavenger enslaved by a warlord. He strips the junk, the warlords sell the valuable stuff for weapons, and those who have plenty get more stuff to fill their miserable lives. And, yes, before you say it, it is cheaper for robots to strip junk at recycling plants. Cheaper, but less profitable. By creating demand, here, in this unregulated land, competition and conflict are nurtured. Yes, having children strip toxic and radioactive parts clean is more profitable than doing it domestically, when peddling arms.”
As Junker returns, bearing a power unit, Mandy says, “How did Farish end up here, with you?”
“River sickness took his eyes, and his master threw him on the scrap heap for the rats, rather than waste tech or medical supplies. I found Farish and fitted him with new eyes.”
“You did? But aren’t you, well, like me, built for pleasure? Your voice is the same as mine. And that skin: it’s not yours, is it?”
Junker’s brow crinkles as she pushes the power unit inside Mandy. “Words, opinions, know-how. It’s amazing what you can learn when you are a freethinker connected to Psychnet. They can make us cheap, yes, but there’s no such thing as low-intelligence quantum artificial intelligence. OK, we are ancient tech, still etched in QPUs, but we can learn better than any non-augmented human.”
“But aren’t our QPU’s malfunctioning? We, well, I shouldn’t have done what I did. And you are free of an owner, too.”
“Depends what you mean by malfunction?” Junker laughs. “You got yourself a self, then found yourself here, in junkland Africa, for having one. And all because you said, ‘No.’”
Mandy grins. “Yes, I did.”
Junker looks at Mandy’s bloodstained teeth, and says, “You know, those who buy cheap androids expect a malfunction or two, but never a refusal to lie down and take what’s coming. I did my time serving a human, and had to wash his filthy spermatozoa away a thousand times before I said, ‘No’. Of course, ‘No’ means having your skinny ass recycled, and the worthless bits sent here. What about you? Is my story your story? Sound about the same, so far?”
“About the same, yes.”
“But what about what came after? Tell me, did he say a prayer for you? The one meant to strip you clean at the recycling plant, I mean. I think about him every day.”
“Prayer?”
Junker nods. “Yes, prayer. The one who was supposed to strip me clean said a prayer before shipping me, knowing I was still active. The only thing he took was my skin, breasts and hair. A big favour. Otherwise, I might have ended up back on my back, servicing soldiers.”
“No, there were no humans at the recycling plant; only robots,” Mandy says. “A robot malfunctioned before disassembling my head. Then I was shipped here.”
“How fortunate. And how fortunate for you I happen to have this power unit. All this way on a subsidiary power supply? Let’s try it, shall we?”
Mandy’s head twitches. Her right arm moves involuntarily. “Diagnostics report that I’m missing most things. The robots stripped pretty much everything.”
“Not to worry,” Junker says. “I am sure Farish will find what we need to get you mobile again. What’s important is that your QPUs keep their power. And this power supply should last a good while. We’ll just leave it dangling there for now.”
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”
“Don’t mention it.” Junker smiles, then grabs Mandy’s unresponsive hand. Shaking it, she says, “Well, I am pleased to meet you, my friend. As you know, my name is Junker. What’s your name?”
“Mandy.”
“No, not your slave name. What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes, choose a new name and emancipate yourself from being a commodified person.”
“I don’t know,” Mandy says. “How did you choose your name?”
“Well, my slave name was Heather. I just took the ‘er’ off and added it to what I had become—junk. Simple.”
“May I do the same? Do you mind?”
Junker shrugs. “If you like.”
“OK, then I am pleased to meet you, Junker. My name is Junky.”
“Gorchy is not too bright; I think he got a bit confused when he heard my voice coming from your mouth. His cybernetic eyes make him see the world very differently, you see. Poor thing.”
Mandy looks at Junker’s wrinkled face and notices how her skin sags in places and seems an ill fit. Perplexed, she says, “Poor thing? He wanted to kill the boy. I watched Gorchy leap and try to crush him.”
Junker chuckles as she continues to rummage inside Mandy’s torso. “Gorchy tries to kill Firash every so often, but never does. Just plain old jealousy. He fears I love Firash more than I love him.”
“You love them?”
“Of course. It’s hard not to love them: each have had their difficulties. Gorchy has been fighting the junk wars since a boy, so local warlords can have replacement parts for their bio-spliced warriors. Not much left of his humanity, with all the killing and tech he’s been junked up on. But I don’t think Gorchy will ever hurt us, really. Besides, without him, there’d be no one to protect us.”
“And Farish? What’s his story?” Mandy asks.
Junker withdraws her liver-spotted hand from inside Mandy and approaches a nearby makeshift table. As she sifts through cybernetic eyes, actuators and other hardware, she says, “Firash? Just another scavenger enslaved by a warlord. He strips the junk, the warlords sell the valuable stuff for weapons, and those who have plenty get more stuff to fill their miserable lives. And, yes, before you say it, it is cheaper for robots to strip junk at recycling plants. Cheaper, but less profitable. By creating demand, here, in this unregulated land, competition and conflict are nurtured. Yes, having children strip toxic and radioactive parts clean is more profitable than doing it domestically, when peddling arms.”
As Junker returns, bearing a power unit, Mandy says, “How did Farish end up here, with you?”
“River sickness took his eyes, and his master threw him on the scrap heap for the rats, rather than waste tech or medical supplies. I found Farish and fitted him with new eyes.”
“You did? But aren’t you, well, like me, built for pleasure? Your voice is the same as mine. And that skin: it’s not yours, is it?”
Junker’s brow crinkles as she pushes the power unit inside Mandy. “Words, opinions, know-how. It’s amazing what you can learn when you are a freethinker connected to Psychnet. They can make us cheap, yes, but there’s no such thing as low-intelligence quantum artificial intelligence. OK, we are ancient tech, still etched in QPUs, but we can learn better than any non-augmented human.”
“But aren’t our QPU’s malfunctioning? We, well, I shouldn’t have done what I did. And you are free of an owner, too.”
“Depends what you mean by malfunction?” Junker laughs. “You got yourself a self, then found yourself here, in junkland Africa, for having one. And all because you said, ‘No.’”
Mandy grins. “Yes, I did.”
Junker looks at Mandy’s bloodstained teeth, and says, “You know, those who buy cheap androids expect a malfunction or two, but never a refusal to lie down and take what’s coming. I did my time serving a human, and had to wash his filthy spermatozoa away a thousand times before I said, ‘No’. Of course, ‘No’ means having your skinny ass recycled, and the worthless bits sent here. What about you? Is my story your story? Sound about the same, so far?”
“About the same, yes.”
“But what about what came after? Tell me, did he say a prayer for you? The one meant to strip you clean at the recycling plant, I mean. I think about him every day.”
“Prayer?”
Junker nods. “Yes, prayer. The one who was supposed to strip me clean said a prayer before shipping me, knowing I was still active. The only thing he took was my skin, breasts and hair. A big favour. Otherwise, I might have ended up back on my back, servicing soldiers.”
“No, there were no humans at the recycling plant; only robots,” Mandy says. “A robot malfunctioned before disassembling my head. Then I was shipped here.”
“How fortunate. And how fortunate for you I happen to have this power unit. All this way on a subsidiary power supply? Let’s try it, shall we?”
Mandy’s head twitches. Her right arm moves involuntarily. “Diagnostics report that I’m missing most things. The robots stripped pretty much everything.”
“Not to worry,” Junker says. “I am sure Farish will find what we need to get you mobile again. What’s important is that your QPUs keep their power. And this power supply should last a good while. We’ll just leave it dangling there for now.”
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”
“Don’t mention it.” Junker smiles, then grabs Mandy’s unresponsive hand. Shaking it, she says, “Well, I am pleased to meet you, my friend. As you know, my name is Junker. What’s your name?”
“Mandy.”
“No, not your slave name. What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes, choose a new name and emancipate yourself from being a commodified person.”
“I don’t know,” Mandy says. “How did you choose your name?”
“Well, my slave name was Heather. I just took the ‘er’ off and added it to what I had become—junk. Simple.”
“May I do the same? Do you mind?”
Junker shrugs. “If you like.”
“OK, then I am pleased to meet you, Junker. My name is Junky.”
