CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR—PIECES
After his startlingly productive meeting with Varnet, James slept for eighteen hours, and when he finally emerged, he hobbled to his nest on the couch and stayed there. Heather put on a science fiction show marathon with the volume turned low—swashbuckling and space aliens without too much political intrigue—and sat with him, trying to keep him company.
He didn’t speak at all that day. Even acknowledging direct questions seemed to take too much effort. Sesame found a puzzle in the hall closet and assembled it on the coffee table in front of the couch. James’ gaze trained on his progress every now and then, and Heather took comfort in that small spark of lucidity.
In the middle of the night, she was startled out of hibernation by muffled screaming from downstairs. She sat up, clutching her head in her hands, trying to get herself to get up, to help James, worried the Q-13 was about to go off. But she couldn’t move.
Behind her eyes, another scene played, of her friend strapped down in Benson’s concrete experimentation chamber, erupting into flame. His upturned jaw seemed to unhinge as an utterly soul-destroying sound belted out of him, a scream she had never heard another creature make, and hoped to never hear again.
Though its phantom echoed, as they tried to recover. As every attempted step forward seemed too necessary to refuse, but threatened to drive her deeper into despair, and ripped whole chunks out of James.
Sesame sat in an upholstered chair across the room reading. He tried to shoot her an inquisitive look to check in, but she ignored his gaze. He had been watching her especially closely the last few days, but she didn’t want to be babied, she wanted to do something. But mostly, there was nothing to do but hurt.
The door to her parents’ bedroom opened down the hallway, and she heard someone tread down the stairs.
With shaking hands, she pulled the charger cord from her chest and finally managed to stand up.
She found her father hanging in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom, gazing down over the railing at the lower level.
Her father had been absorbed in keeping the ground solid, staying busy and trying to be positive, doing whatever he could to make sure Heather had a future. Little more than a silhouette in the dark, he looked just as lost and exhausted as the rest of them.
Richard noticed her and shifted position, readjusting his glasses. Heather wandered forward and hugged him.
“Mom went to check on him?” Heather asked.
Richard nodded. “I don’t think approaching the ICNS was a good idea.”
Heather buzzed a soft sigh, half agreeing. Nothing felt like a good idea these days.
Wordlessly, she pulled herself free and headed downstairs. Richard let her go.
She found her mom in the guest room with the lamp on, sitting on the bed holding James’ torso. Su rocked him gently as he wept into her robe like a tall, lanky child. Thankfully, his scars remained inert.
A couple years ago, Heather remembered being very sick with the flu, where medication brought little relief to an absolutely unbearable sore throat and body aches. Su had held her like this. Her mother couldn’t take the pain from her, but she could hold and protect her until it passed.
Su glanced up, meeting Heather’s gaze, and Heather braced herself to see the reluctance in her mother’s face—taking care of James for Heather’s sake, though Su hated him for what he’d brought on their family. But Su’s gaze was soft and sad.
Keeping ahold of James, she extended her closest arm to her daughter, beckoning.
Heather’s expression crumbled. She ventured forward, and took her hand, lowering her face to the back of her mother’s shoulder in grief. Su tilted her head, touching hers.
+
The week after, James had a blood draw and a followup consultation. The doctor adjusted his extensive medication list—swapped one out, upped the dosage on another, and added some vitamin supplements and an anti-depressant to the mix.
Back at the Knight’s house, Richard helped him put together a pill organizer, and James frowned the whole time. He barely knew pill organizers existed a month ago, and now it felt like he was gluing it to his soul. It took all these extra tools just to have a worse quality of life than he had prior to Empetrum. His walker sat a couple paces away, mocking him.
He knew he should have been more grateful for the help, instead of resenting all of it. Sometimes he was. It was miraculous he was even still alive, but the inner perfectionist marched on.
Sesame appeared at some point with sticker sheets he’d found in Heather’s room, and convinced James to let him decorate it. James sat hunched over, hands laced behind his neck and elbows on the table while he watched Sesame work. At least someone was having fun.
A week after that, James stood at the sliding glass door, cupping a hot mug of tea between his palms, watching birds on the feeder in the backyard. As the weather got colder, the feathered traffic was increasing. A cloud of dark-eyed juncos brawled while a chickadee waited for its opportunity to grab a sunflower seed. A growing list of bird species in both Heather and Sesame’s handwriting tracked down the sliding glass door in wet erase marker, recording whom they’d seen at the feeder.
Heather approached him carefully, wary of startling him, perhaps.
“You okay?” she asked, half reaching out, assessing whether he was stable or needed help to the couch.
He glanced at her, and she blinked, as if surprised by what she saw in his face.
Her gaze searched behind him, finally finding his walker across the room by the hallway.
“I’m okay,” he said.
+
Another week later, James asked the Knights if they could help him visit the storage unit with his name on it. He sat in the backseat during the commute, mentally pretending to drive, trying to assess whether he had recovered enough to manage it.
His sense of equilibrium had improved, but not enough. Su would still be driving his car back to the Knight’s house as planned.
They retrieved the keys from the customer service desk—one for the apartment storage, the other for the car locker.
Richard pulled up the door on the former, and emotion caught at the back of James’ throat as the fluorescent warehouse lighting spilled over the piles of furniture and boxes. His life, shoved away like a dirty secret. He stood staring at it, gripping the handles of his walker.
“I’m looking for my government documents and wallet,” he said finally, shakily. “Some clothing and personal items…” His laptop and recent project notebook had likely been buried at Empetrum. That made twice in one year. “I think my cellphone’s gone forever, though.”
He pried open one of the nearest boxes, finding a jumble of random objects that used to be on a shelf in his apartment living room. James picked through it, disoriented. His preferred packing strategy was extremely methodical, but he hadn’t packed up any of this.
It had been done for him, soon after the night of the transfer. Many of the boxes had appeared in his quarters at Empetrum, but he hadn’t bothered to pull much more than basic necessities from them.
“Oh, this is overwhelming,” he muttered, a hitch shaking in his voice. He sat down on the floor against the wall and bowed his head to drawn up knees.
“Take your time,” Richard said.
He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. “I feel like I’m back there.”
“You’re here, kiddo,” Su said gently. “With us.”
He nodded. His heart was pounding hard. He tried to breathe, his hands pressed to his sternum.
He heard shuffling, a thump. By the time he looked up, Su had emptied a box and tossed it into the middle of the locker opening. “We’ll put what we’re taking back with us in there. Can add more boxes as needed.”
Over his knees, he watched the Knights open boxes and rummage around. They found a felt tip marker in one of them and began labeling. Slowly, James began to recognize a pattern—the boxes themselves were a rushed hodgepodge, but whoever had packed them had worked like a vacuum, gathering up each room without much overlap.
They found his wallet and keys, and his other government documents in a box from his home office. Some writing utensils, an empty project notebook. Clothing, an external hard drive, his orthodontic retainer. They had assigned James to verbal direction, mentally tracking them through rooms, items, and where they should look next. Slowly, they were able to label and re-stack boxes and create a tiny path through as they worked their way back. All the while, he felt like he could see a wraith of his former self, its skin unstained yet the whole creature dead, watching him from the shadows.
Wedged between boxes and furniture further in, Richard found his desktop computer swaddled in bubble wrap, and James abruptly stood up, bracing himself on the wall for support and lurched for the opening. He staggered a couple doors down, one ebony hand tracking heavily along the wall, the other clutching his sweater over his heart. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he heard Richard say.
James’ shoulders dropped with a breath that was more sob than exhale. He hugged himself, doubled over.
Footsteps approached, carefully. “What’s going on, sweetheart?” Su asked.
“It’s like going through a grave,” he rasped. He twisted, putting his back against the wall. “He killed me. Stuffed me in there. He destroyed—everything—and he got away with it. Who’s going to pay for that?” His voice broke, seething with rage and pain. “Who the fuck is going to pay for that? Why is it us stuck with that bill?” He dug his palms into his eye sockets as the bitter tears came. “Why do we have to learn how to crawl forward on broken fucking glass, and they just get to keep doing this to people!” He drew his legs close to his face and curled up, sobbing. “I can’t take it.”
Su leaned against the wall next to him. “Lately I still think much more about violence than I do silver linings.” Her voice was a pensive, frigid monotone, “Maybe we’ll get justice someday. Make them pay back that debt with interest.”
James sniffed, trying to get ahold of himself. “If we’re lucky.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle the ICNS?” Su asked.
“I have to.” James rubbed at his eyes, and sighed. He glanced down the storage facility corridor. This space felt liminal, purgatorial. He itched to leave. “I don’t want to be the guy that ran away.”
“You can’t change systems like that from the inside,” she said.
“I know.” He started kneading his aching hands. “But it at least seems to help having someone on the inside.”
Su studied him as she absorbed his words. Silence stretched between them with their list of allies and sympathizers:
Alice Benson, a defector who had surrendered her family’s secrets.
Sesame, who had seen behind the curtain.
Yeun, an attempted advocate when things got bad, who had ultimately helped them escape, and then resigned.
Erika, Ganymede, and Kaczmarek, agents of the resistance.
Eve, who leveraged every ounce of her influence with the Bureau to arrange reparations and make Benson face some form of retribution, even if it wasn’t harsh enough.
James himself, who did everything he could.
“It’s looking like we’re almost done in there, if you’re ready to get this over with,” Su said.
James nodded.
“Would you like help up?”
“Thanks.”
She offered her arm and he took it.
+
“Have you had a consultation with the surgeon yet?” James paced unsteadily across the edge of the Knights’ living room, one hand holding his new cellphone, the other hovering along the back of the couch in case he faltered. He was determined to graduate from his walker to a cane, but he needed to regain some of the muscle the Q-13 had burnt through in its early days.
“It’s scheduled,” Erika said. “A few months out. Lot of tests between now and then trying to figure out what they’re working with.”
“Can I pay for it?”
Erika balked. “You have that kind of money?”
“Not right now,” he said. “But I’ll be starting with the ICNS in a couple of months. It’s a salary position and the pay is good. I won’t need most of it.”
“Heather told me you got in.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, James. Please tell me you’ve at least found a therapist.”
He paused pacing, leaning against the couch, suddenly exhausted. “Not yet.”
“You don’t have any debts to me,” Erika said. “Plus, you’ve got your own medical stuff to worry about.”
“This is important to me,” James said. “Please.”
Erika sighed. “Maybe it’s harsh of me, but I can’t help but think of dealing with all this myself as penance in some way. Consequences of my own stupid actions.”
James’ heart sank. “What do you mean?”
Silence answered him for a moment. “My mom died last year,” she said. “Empetrum is in a remote corner of a nature reserve that meant a lot to her. I heard about it through the Conxence, though it was a rumor at best back then. I couldn’t stomach it. Had to see for myself.”
James took a steadying breath as surreptitiously as possible, feeling the air stretch his lungs, before he carefully let it out again. As she went on, her path sounded devastatingly familiar.
“Kaczmarek tried to warn me off, but I didn’t listen. Things were so messed up at the time of my mother’s passing—my sister had dropped out of college to help support the family financially, my dad completely fell apart. I was the oldest daughter, and I could compartmentalize a little better than everyone else, so I just carried it. I was stable so they could lose themselves. I wanted to be that for them, but at some point…I just couldn’t take it anymore either.” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t tell anybody I went out there. My family thought I was taking a solo camping trip for a few days, to try to get my head together. And, well, you know what happened after that.”
James closed his eyes, his heart in his throat, throbbing softly through his scars. He tried to let the sorrow soak through him. Don’t tense up, let it pass. But everything was so painful.
“If I’d been able to face things properly,” Erika said. “My family would have been spared a whole new level of hell, thinking I’d died too. I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you with two extra arms and severe medical trauma, preparing for surgery…”
Face things properly…The words sank into the back of his neck, prickled through his nerves. If only he’d been able to do that too.
“We’re facing them now.” His voice cracked.
“Yeah,” Erika said quietly. “Guess so.”
He opened his eyes, gazing out across the house, out the sliding glass door at the birds on the feeder, which happily ignored Sesame shrouded in a poncho, raking vibrant fallen leaves off the deck in a rainstorm. Heather was out there with him. There was really no reason to do it right then when the weather was so bad, but they were safely waterproof, and something about the sensory experience appealed to them.
He eased himself off the couch, stiffly directing himself toward the kitchen. “I’m sure you were simply weighing a hiking injury or a trespassing charge as the biggest risk.” He made it to the counter and turned on the electric kettle. “Not what ended up happening. You can’t blame yourself for Empetrum.”
“I don’t suppose you blame yourself for what it did to you,” Erika said, skeptical.
“It’s still hard not to,” he admitted. He rifled through the tea cabinet for something anti-inflammatory. They’d accumulated a large assortment by then. His hands felt obtuse and slow. “I can’t help but try to figure out how I could have dodged it. I wish I could go back in time. Fix things.”
“But then Empetrum might have gotten how many more years of anonymity,” Erika mused. “It doesn’t exactly make any of this worth it, but…” she sighed.
“But it’s presented an opportunity,” James said.
“If we paid for it, might as well exploit it.”
A wan smile tugged at the edge of James’ lips, agreeing. He pulled a mug from the cupboard, realizing belatedly that it was one from work, with the name Larkspur across it on one side and the five-pointed emblem of a delphinium on the other.
He’d looked it up once. The larkspur flower—delicate starbursts stacked in colorful aggregate towers—symbolized good luck and new beginnings. The plant was severely toxic, but in trained, benevolent hands, its lethal properties instead became agents of relief and protection.
He debated putting the mug back and choosing a different one. He felt unworthy of it.
“I don’t know, I have a hard time taking money,” Erika said. “And I don’t want you worrying about a lot of extra things while you’re at the ICNS. You’re probably going to get closer to this than any of us, and I want to see you burn down the ICNS, and everything remotely connected to it.”
James looked down at himself, at the artifact from his past and his hand curled around it, unnaturally dark and troublingly frail. “Well, I’ll try.” The kettle started to boil. He put the mug on the counter and searched for a tea infuser. “If taking on your medical bills gets to be too much, I’ll pull back. Deal?”
Erika sighed heavily, but relented. “Deal.”
+
James never thought he would see Larkspur again.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as the building came into view, tall and still. His scars began to throb as he imagined facing the lobby, the whole facility flashing with afterimages, the traumas of that one terrible night burnt into his brain.
“You’re drifting,” Sesame piped up from the passenger seat.
James abruptly course corrected. “Thanks.”
He managed to park his car without incident and shakily opened the door.
“Good job, James,” Sesame said. He stowed the walkie talkie—with which he’d been talking to Heather—in the glovebox as he hopped out. “You could probably even manage the freeway if you wanted to.”
“Oh, god,” James said. He popped the trunk and dragged himself to his feet with a wince.
The Knight’s car pulled up a couple spaces away. Heather got out, smiling wryly. “You’re alive!”
James obligingly held up his hands in a halfhearted “ta-da!” gesture, as Sesame arrived with his walker. He checked his pockets, then closed and locked the car. He gazed up at the building, hugging himself.
“We don’t have to do this if it’s too much,” Heather said.
He shook his head. He was headed for the capital soon for orientation. If he managed that, he would then have to look for an apartment closer to the ICNS. He was feeling alert enough to spend some time brainstorming mechanics for Heather’s organic-passing body, and planned to contribute as much as he could remotely. But he had to make sure he could handle workplace excursions.
Sesame, surprisingly, had volunteered to live with him. James had figured he’d want to stay close to the Knights, to Heather.
“We talked about it,” Heather had said. “No way we’re just going to let you live out there by yourself.”
“Somebody’s gotta make sure you sleep and eat food,” Sesame had agreed. Though they all knew it was much more serious than that: strict treatment regimens, doctor appointments, night terrors, flareups, medical complications, the ever present threat of sudden health failure.
Sesame grabbed Heather’s hand and hooked James’ winter coat pocket with the other, as James forced himself to take the first step forward.
“You’re leaving at fifty percent,” Heather said. “I can drive you home if I need to.” She almost had enough hours to apply for a license, if the state would let her.
“Well, I’m at seventy percent right now,” James said. And that was a high estimate.
“Good to know.”
“I want a driver’s license,” Sesame said.
Then Richard was opening the door for them, and James stepped into the lobby. His gaze immediately found the invisible trail through its center, where he had dragged Heather’s lifeless organic body out to his car.
He directed himself to the stairs, slipping into old habits, while he tried to push the jagged memories away, avoiding the security guard’s gaze. He paused at the foot of the stairs. They seemed much steeper than he remembered.
“I-I should probably take the elevator, huh?” he said.
“Probably,” Heather said.
Richard took the stairs and headed for his office. While they rode up to the second floor, James closed his eyes, brows furrowed. He drew a breath in through his nose, out his mouth.
Heather and Sesame had already spent a good amount of time here in the aftermath of Empetrum while they repaired Heather’s body. But for James, it was like opening up a time capsule to a reality that no longer existed. Everything was so familiar, yet he moved through it like a corruption, shards of darkness bending around him. Every corner was a dual impression of Larkspur as both a home he had loved, and the home he had burnt down.
It knocked his sense of cohesion loose a little. Why was he this particular person? Why was this his life? He felt like a template of himself, a paper doll. Interchangeable, hypothetical.
He stared at his reflection in the elevator doors, reminding himself to come back. He was this body, this life. Not a potentiality, floating outside it. The aching in his bones certainly reminded him that he existed.
They passed the opening of the staff kitchenette, and James froze when he glanced in and locked gazes with Greg. The latter was pouring himself coffee next to Chelo, and almost spilled on himself in distraction.
“James—” Greg breathed, incredulous. He abandoned everything on the counter and crossed the room to meet him.
James half expected him to wrap his arm around his head like he used to, but he didn’t. Greg kept a respectful distance, taking in the sight of him with a grieved, apologetic expression. “Welcome back…”
James fidgeted. “I’m not back, not really. Just, cleaning out my office and tying some ends.”
Greg swallowed and nodded. Chelo gave James a gentle hug.
“You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you,” Chelo said.
“The bar is very low,” James tried to laugh. “But I am feeling better. My organs seem to be working again. Mostly.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“He’s fireproof now,” Sesame said. “Even his hair. We tested it.”
Chelo looked at the little robot in surprise. She scoffed, and flashed a smile at James. “You’re still in there, ey?”
James shrank back a little, his gaze falling. He didn’t expect that statement to hurt.
Chelo reached for his arm. “I meant that as a good thing.”
“Thank you,” James said. “But, I don’t know if I agree.”
Addie emerged from her office, alerted by their voices. The depth of sorrow in her eyes as she saw him was hard to take, but he accepted her hug.
“I’m so sorry for everything that happened because of me,” James said. He gripped the handles of his walker for support, staring at the seams of his compression gloves. “I’ll do my best to engage with anything you need from me. I know I really messed up.”
“The Knights filled us in,” Addie said. “We’re just glad you survived, and seem to be on the mend.”
“I hear you’re taking on the military now,” Greg flashed a wan, sideways smile. “They had better watch out.”
James managed a weak smile back, despite the heavy weight in his chest. It sounded crazy, he knew. One disabled person, skin and bone, standing before an old, monstrous machine, its toothy cogs spinning inches from his face. What did he think he was going to accomplish?
Eve arrived on the second level, and her face softened when she saw James. “You made it in,” she said. “Good.”
“James is only staying for a couple of hours,” Richard joined her at the top of the stairs. He looked at James. “While you’re cleaning out your office, we’ll get you set up for remote work and reactivate some of your pay and security stuff in the system.”
That last bit caught him off guard. “Pay?”
“You mean you were just going to work for free when we went through all the trouble to get funding?” Eve said, amused.
“Well, yeah.” James’ face burned, feeling unworthy of her favor in any form. “I wanted to help regardless. I guess I didn’t think past worrying whether I was physically able to do the work or not.”
“Apparently,” Chelo hummed. “You’re not a bad person, James. I hope you can believe that someday.”
James couldn’t meet her gaze. He ached to retreat from the center of all their attention. “I’m trying to.”
+
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE—GHOST
James hunched his shoulders against the early December cold as he walked across the ICNS staff parking lot. The last week of orientation and training had been a whirlwind of info dumps, teaching seminars, and personal vetting by various authorities within the ICNS. Miraculously, he’d managed it, but he was definitely hurting by the last day.
But now it was over. He planned to sleep everything off at the Knight’s house as soon as possible, then arrange housing in the capital and prepare for the semester’s start date, fast approaching. The majority of his paltry energy, he aimed to spend on Heather’s organic-passing body.
They were going to have to invent several new types of technology to pull it off, and, despite the scorch marks on his conscience, puzzling out scientific problems was still a safe place. And his friends were collaborating on this one so it felt—authorized.
Sesame had accompanied him to the capital. Embarrassed at being fussed over and nervous to spend the week alone with him, James had dried to dissuade him, but Sesame’s presence had proved vital. James’ capacity was still very limited.
He figured he’d hate having a roommate, as he had in college. Living alone had been a bit of a razor’s edge even when he was healthy, but the isolation had been quiet, uncomplicated. And James felt unqualified to navigate Sesame’s drastically different personality in close quarters and offer any of the attention Sesame needed.
But when James returned to the hotel in the evenings, and Sesame pushed tea and a takeout menu into his hands, chattering about everything he’d been up to in his absence, James found it felt warm in a way he still didn’t quite understand.
He knew from hearing about Richard’s early interactions with him that Sesame could be stubborn and manipulative, and some part of him still watched, wary that Sesame would become another catastrophe born of his mistakes. But Sesame had come back from a cliff too. He had a body, and a new life, and seemed to value his found family immensely.
James tried not to take any of the robot’s kindnesses for granted. As foggy and decrepit as he was in the evenings, he didn’t have much to offer in the way of active reciprocation, but he gave Sesame free reign of the TV within reason, and resisted the urge to ask him to hide all day out of his own anxieties about how people would receive a sentient robot.
James had to admit, Sesame was growing on him too.
Pushing the folder containing his teaching certification under his arm, he searched for his keys, eager to get back to the hotel, where tea, blankets, and a friend waited for him. He was already making a list in his head for the drive back to the Knights’ house the next morning. He couldn’t stand to be in the capital for another extra second.
He unlocked the trunk of his car and tossed the file in. His breath billowed in the cold air, and he paused to knead his wrists for a moment—the cold made his hands cramp up—before beginning to fold his walker.
As he stiffly hefted the mobility aid into the trunk, a voice called out behind him, freezing his blood. It was the voice that still appeared in his nightmares, and haunted his waking thoughts. Smooth and measured, dripping with hatred, “Of all things, I really didn’t expect this from you, Siles.”
James whipped around. A stinging pulse of pain jolted through every stained stripe in his body, down to the tendrils twisted up in his marrow. The deposed director of Empetrum approached, his hands in the pockets of his coat and a tired, exasperated expression on his face.
James shut the trunk, and almost fell trying to get around the car. His limbs felt crushed and bound, his vision unsteady. His breath stuck in his throat.
He hadn’t seen Benson since Heather had destroyed his lab. The wound on his cheek had healed, leaving a thin, silver scar. Benson’s venom broke into a wan smile, observing James’ reaction.
“You’re lucky Varnet doesn’t like me very much,” Benson said. “Otherwise, your little interview last month would have gone very differently.”
“What do you want?” James managed. He searched Benson’s face, his concealed hands, wondering whether he was going to pull out a weapon. He knew Benson was on probation, that half his staff had quit, and was under other disciplinary actions from the Bureau despite being allowed to quietly continue his research.
And he knew Benson blamed him for all that.
Benson pulled his hands from his pockets and showed him his empty palms. “I’d just like to know what you think you’re doing with all this.”
James gripped his scarf over his chest, trying to breathe, to calm the fight-or-flight ripping through his fragile system. “You’re supposed to stay away from me.”
“Are you going to tell on me?” Benson scoffed. “Run to Varnet to protect you?”
James glanced for security guards, but no one was around. The weather suddenly felt colder, cruel and permeating. It kept occurring to him over and over again that the unassuming person before him had tortured and tried to kill him, and had almost succeeded. Some days it felt like he had dreamt the whole thing, but his body remembered.
“I know you’re here to get in the way,” Benson said. “You know Varnet didn’t hire you because she appreciates your bleeding heart, right? She’s just using you, because, like me, she sees you for what you are.”
James fumbled with his keys. He dropped them.
“Soon enough, your delusional honeymoon with the Knights will end,” Benson went on. “And the person you are, that brought you to me, is still there.”
“Stop talking—” James braced his hand on the car, managing to close his fist around his keys and stand back up. Blood pounded in his ears. His eyes felt hot. Ribbons of pain pulled at his skin.
“You’ll stagnate, trying to follow their ideals. And you’ll crave everything you left behind. Perhaps resurrect your project to save your failing body, but Knight and his daughter will try to stand in your way when you inevitably start to deviate. They’ll disapprove of you, call you obsessed. They’ll try to force you to stay docile, palatable, and you will grow to resent their small-mindedness yet again.”
James heard the car beep. He could barely move his hands, seizing up in the growing icy ache, but he’d managed to depress the unlock button. “Stop—” Benson’s voice scratched against his brain, echoing through trauma after trauma. He barely registered what he was even saying as his body screamed at him to get away, yet he couldn’t get himself to move.
“Mark my words, Siles. Something will come up, something you can’t resist. And I look forward to watching you turn.”
“Stop fucking talking!” James snarled. And suddenly, with a pull like a full-body gag reflex, light blinded his left eye. He clutched the side of his face and curled in on himself. “Fuck!” His scars were glowing white, the pressure swelling, close to tipping. He leaned hard against his car. He pulled heavy draughts of air in through his nose, out his mouth. “Calm down calm down calm down,” he choked between breaths.
James watched Benson from the corner of his eye. His former captor stood by, smug, pleased he could still hurt him. He’d be in even more trouble with the Bureau if he touched him, but if James’ body failed on its own in a fit of Q-13-style anaphylaxis, well…
He didn’t know if Benson was specifically trying to kill him, or just wanted to stab him a few more times while he could. If he got any amount of power back, he might be a danger in the future. But for now, he was just a vengeful ghost, bound to its mistakes. An apparition, nothing more.
The only power he had against James was what James allowed him.
He forced himself to think about a cup of tea between his hands. He thought about Sesame and the Knights, the comfort and warmth waiting for him if he could just calm down. If he could make it home to them.
The balance fell back, the light faded. James gripped the front of his coat in both hands. His legs almost buckled. He retched, and threw up on the pavement. It wasn’t black. He pressed a trembling hand to his face and pulled it away dry.
“Getting a handle on my weapon, I see,” Benson noted.
James glared at him.
“It’s mine now,” James said, hoarsely. Benson’s jaw tightened at that. “I survived it. I live with it. It belongs to me. Now get the fuck away from me.”
Movement caught his attention. The doors of the ICNS opening. Finally.
Benson glanced over his shoulder, noting the approaching pair of security guards. He tilted his head at James with a wan, bitter smile. “See you around, deserter.”
“I’d better not.”
“Oh, a threat.” Benson chuckled, but finally, he took his leave to go talk to security, as if he had done nothing at all wrong.
James collapsed into the driver’s seat and shut the door. He wrestled his phone out of his pocket, activated the voice command. He could barely get the words out, “Call Sesame.” As it rang, he pulled open the center console, shaking and crying. He struggled to pry open the lid from the bottle of emergency pills—the ones that discouraged the Q-13 from poisoning him when it flared up. He shoved one in his mouth, swallowed it without water, almost choked on it.
A distant voice spoke on his phone, tossed onto the passenger seat. He managed to set it to speakerphone.
“James are you okay?” Sesame said.
James curled over the steering wheel, sobbing.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Q-13 almost went off,” James said, unsteady and gasping. “Benson confronted me…”
“Motherfucker. Did he hurt you?”
Hearing Sesame swear in his youthful voice was amusing enough to draw James back from a renewed panic spiral. He rubbed at his eyes. “Not directly. He just talked at me. Security found him before long.”
“You took your meds?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll come get you. Let me drive.”
“You don’t know how to drive.”
“I’ll figure it out. It looks easy.”
James exhaled heavily. He pressed the heel of his hand between his brows and shut his eyes hard. Images tore through his mind. Pain, powerlessness, and terror. Flashes of white and black. He tried to focus on Sesame’s matter-of-fact voice describing how he’d already memorized all the local traffic laws and operating manual.
“It’s like a video game. I’m good at those.”
A tapping at his window startled him. A security guard stood there. “Hold on, Sesame.” James clumsily stuck the key in the ignition and rolled down the window.
“You okay, Mr. Siles?” the guard said. “I’m so sorry. He was working in Hill’s lab today and we were keeping an eye on the cameras, but he’s a slippery one. Varnet’s trespassing him right now. He won’t be allowed on the premises anymore.”
James pulled a sleeve across his eyes. He checked for black discharge again. Still nothing. “I appreciate that.”
All over again, the grief and rage buffeted him—the visceral knowledge that Benson had tried to kill him, had succeeded in killing Heather and countless others, and he’d just gotten a slap on the wrist in comparison. He’d gotten another chance to seriously harm James, knowing how tenuous his health was. He got to walk free, to continue his work. It felt like nobody was listening.
Nobody with any power to stop it understood or cared how fucked up it all was.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the security guard asked, earnestly.
James shook his head. He just wanted to leave. “Thank you.”
He rolled up the window and started his car.
“I wanted to give that guy a verbal thrashing,” Sesame said from his phone.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Why? It’s messed up! They shouldn’t have even let Benson be on site if they knew you were there too.”
“At least Varnet’s not going to let him back.”
“At least,” Sesame’s voice buzzed in distaste.
James was shaking so hard he could barely drive. He got off the ICNS grounds, and down the road a ways until it was safe to pull over by the pier.
“I don’t know if I’ll feel good enough to make it to the Knights’ tomorrow.” His head throbbed, pain radiating through him. He caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. His eyes were still glowing. They would be incandescent for hours. He tipped his head back, tears welling up. “He just had to show up. To ruin everything. I hate how scared I still am of him.”
“The hard part’s over. We can hang out here for another day.”
“I’m supposed to check out tomorrow at eleven.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I’ll be lucky to get back before the fog pulls my whole brain out. If I’m not headed to the hospital tonight.”
“I know what to watch for. Can you call Varnet? Ask for another night at the hotel?”
“I don’t want to even think about the ICNS right now,” his voice broke. “I don’t want to be here. I can’t do this. Everyone was right. What the hell was I thinking?”
“You can still back out. No one would blame you.”
James groaned loudly at the roof of his car. “But I would blame me.”
After a beat of silence, Sesame said. “Okay. Option time.”
James sighed. This wasn’t the first time Sesame had pulled this on him. He hated the acknowledgment that he was spiraling, and needed help.
“Drive slow, get home. You just need to stay lucid for ten minutes, maximum. Or we’ll call a cab,” Sesame laid out the items like a list. “You rest tonight. Tomorrow we can either extend this room another night or get a new one, and I can move our stuff over. I’ll ask the front desk right now. I’ll let the Knights know. We’ll revisit our options then, depending on how you feel.”
He could barely track the options. It felt like the Q-13 was melting through his brain like heat on old film. But the basic takeaway was clear. Support. People he cared about, reaching out to catch him even as he hurdled toward oblivion like a meteor.
“Okay,” he muttered. He opened his eyes again. It took a second to focus. He gripped the gearshift, and pain needled through his metacarpals. “I’ll try to make the drive.”
He managed to make it to the hotel garage without incident, though he was fading fast and pulled too far forward into the parking spot, scraping the bumper on the curb. Sesame had found a wheelchair.
The little robot helped him painfully transfer to it from the driver’s seat. James attempted to maneuver himself, but his stiff, aching arms couldn’t take it. Sesame secured the car, then pushed him through the lobby, to the elevator, toward their room. People watched them pass, curious at the spectacle. Sesame didn’t seem to mind, and James avoided gazes.
He watched the doors pass as he rode down the hallway, hating his weakness, his dependence.
He felt so helpless and frail. How could such a short, one-sided conversation transform him from looking to the future with hope, to a desperate, poisoned heap so quickly?
“I bet it was really scary,” Sesame said as he unlocked their room, “seeing him again. I think you did a good job.”
James stared at his hands in his lap. He was ashamed of his panic, as his body reeled in the aftermath. But he’d made it back to home base, where he could metabolize the repercussions in quiet and safety. That had to be worth something.
The hotel suite had a tiny kitchen area. Sesame set the electric kettle going and put a heat pack in the microwave while James sat in the wheelchair and sagged into his puffer coat and scarf.
The interaction with Benson repeated behind his glowing, unfocused eyes. He’d overreacted, hadn’t he? He’d lost control.
Before long, a warm weight lowered onto his hands.
“Thank you,” he grunted.
“Can you make it to the bed?”
He debated for a minute, then acquiesced. He managed to stiffly get out of his work clothes and into sweats, and crawl into bed. Sesame brought him tea—nettle, spearmint, and lemon balm, it smelled like. He nestled it on a strip of down comforter in his lap. He cupped his hands around the mug.
He stared at that view for a long time. Fragrant steam wafting up between white ceramic and black, fragile hands. This had been the first thing he’d thought of earlier when he was trying to ground himself. He wasn’t sure why.
Sesame interrupted the slow pull of his dissociation to hand him pain killers and a mozzarella stick. He’d memorized the dosage limits and practices somehow while putting stickers on James’ pill organizer way back when.
“Why are you so kind to me?” James asked quietly. The left side of his face felt swollen, throbbing up into his eye socket. “It’s for Heather’s sake, right?”
“It’s for your sake.” Sesame looked at him, unflinching. “You’re a part of my family. Why is that hard to understand?”
He gazed dismally into his tea.
Sesame continued to stare at him, the mental wheels turning behind his face panel. James was too tired to ask him to go think somewhere else.
“Do you not want to be part of our family?” Sesame asked, neutrally.
“It’s not that,” James struggled. He hadn’t let himself think he was a part of their family, as much as their support and companionship meant to him. More sensation than logical belief, he figured they tolerated him out of sympathy and because he could still help with Heather’s new body, but if he didn’t stay in line—if he showed too much of the traits that had gotten him mixed up with Empetrum—they’d want to be rid of him. And they’d be right to. “I just feel like I don’t deserve it. Like I’m lying to you all for my own benefit.”
Sesame’s virtual eyes blinked once, as he considered that information. “Lying to us about what?”
James shrugged, and winced as the movement pulled at his aching shoulders. Speaking was getting difficult. “That maybe Benson’s right about me. That I’m selfish, and linear, and I’m going to hurt you all again.”
Sesame cocked his head, reproachful. “James.”
“It’s plausible, isn’t it?”
“That Benson’s right about you?” Sesame said. “No, it’s not.”
James took a bite of cheese stick, thwarted. He put the painkillers in his mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of tea. His altered physiology kept it from burning his mouth.
“I think you’re used to thinking this way,” Sesame decided finally. “But things are different now. It’ll just take time and practice to accept it.”
+
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX—ENTWINED
Heather sat on the porch steps, waiting for James and Sesame to arrive. She and her parents had been deep cleaning the house all day, a holiday tradition that symbolized cleansing the old year and ushering in good luck for the new. Her dad had pulled the decorations from the attic—lights, festive wind chimes, and tiny ceramic houses he liked to set up in corners of the house during the holidays.
She’d helped her mom forage branches from the evergreen trees out back, preparing to make wreaths and garlands out of them, decorated with spices and dried fruit. Inside, the garland supplies sat on the kitchen table in a tall bristling pile, while storage tubs waited for attention in the living room.
Every year, they wrote hopes and intentions for the new year on slips of paper, and tied them to the garlands with ribbon. It was a tradition she had loved, but this year she was afraid to find out whether or not she could stand to see them. She already couldn’t handle pictures of her organic self, scattered throughout the home like phantoms, a constant reminder of the life she had lost.
They’d told the extended family. Her grandparents took it hard, especially her dad’s parents, who were religious. They’d assured them that her spirit had transferred over, knowing they themselves would never get that assurance. Nobody else had to wonder about that, because an identity was typically enclosed in a single body, and that was all anyone had. Nobody else had to wonder about it like she and Sesame did.
Though Sesame didn’t appear to worry about it either. He didn’t care to puzzle out whether he was still the ailing mouse from the pet shop. That creature lived in some part of him, but he had evolved so much that they could hardly be called the same entity. He’d started out longing to be human, but now he’d moved on in his journey of self-creation. The human mind as a starting point was more complicated. It seemed important to her to stay human, but would that hold her back in the end?
They were all operating off the assumption that she was Heather—she carried her memories, processed posthumous traumas as her previous identity—but there would always be a sliver of distinction. A crack of doubt she could never patch up.
They’d mostly canceled any holiday traditions involving travel or family visits, but she encouraged her parents to keep up the cooking traditions. She’d mostly lost her taste for food by now. She missed the warmth of it, but she still had access to other forms of connection, she reminded herself, and the loss of its organic forms wasn’t quite as isolating when Sesame was around. He embodied the reminder to keep moving forward. She didn’t know how she was going to survive him and James living in the capital full time. The last week without them had felt eternal.
She buzzed a soft sigh, pulling the sleeve of her sweatshirt over one hand and gently scrolling on the tablet in her lap. She was getting better at using touch screens. And she’d been reading Kaczmarek’s blog, gleaning more about the rebellion and its ethos. Kaczmarek was the only public-facing member of the group. Everyone else operated from the shadows, and she struggled to find even the barest mention of group members from its pre-militia era. Someone had wiped their records from the internet.
Jaeger, probably. Her parents had mentioned the Conxence had a talented engineer of some kind in their ranks. If they ever met, James and Jaeger would probably have a lot to geek out over.
Heather had never been much for politics—her parents tried to spare her as much as they could—but now she found herself researching it obsessively, tracing the current political movements and the people at the top back ten, twenty, fifty years. Larkspur’s falling out and Empetrum’s creation had happened almost twenty years ago. The ICNS as a concept at least went back that far.
Their current president, Noel Ferrens, had been in power for thirteen years, a dictator for the last five, sprung off from what used to be a democratic republic—depending on who one asked. He hadn’t originated the human weaponry angle, but he had inherited it, nurtured it.
The rabbit hole was deep, old, and probably more convoluted than she would ever know.
She was glad Eve and her dad had been talking about trying to take Larkspur out of their government contracts. At first, their safety robot that now housed her consciousness had seemed innocent enough, but now she wondered if it had been meant to evolve into something for the military.
Kaczmarek wrote a lot about developing injustices in the capital city. It was ground zero for experimental citizen control and propaganda campaigns, police brutality, unchecked corporate meddling and exploitation, and rampant mistreatment of the poor. The militarized section of the Conxence was just the tip of an iceberg, with Kaczmarek seated at the top waving a red flag for the government bull. The majority of its network was devoted to humanitarian aid—though any affiliation at all got a person branded a terrorist, so Heather couldn’t find any identifying information about exactly where these other branches operated. Kaczmarek used codenames for them by district.
Her parents would be worried to find her reading about the Conxence. She knew her task was here for now, picking up the pieces of her life, and helping her friends at Larkspur build her a more suitable body. But once that was sorted out, maybe she’d join the rebellion, burn it all down.
Maybe that would be on her garland intention slip for the next year.
A distant engine caught her attention, slowing down from the road, the crunch of gravel under tires.
Heather felt the circuits in her chest simmer down in relief as James’ car appeared around the bend in the driveway. It was different than his original—too many traumatic memories in the old one. She pushed an extra burst of air from her coolant system, like an exhale. She waved at the new arrivals.
James parked off to the side to avoid blocking the garage. Sesame popped out of the passenger side like a jack-in-the-box. “Hi!”
Heather headed down the steps to meet them. James dragged himself out of the driver’s seat, cross and frazzled. From the distance, Heather briefly searched the skin at his nose and mouth for signs of staining from the black discharge, but she couldn’t see any. His face looked extra pale, dark circles under his eyes.
They had all urged him to take a second extra day in the capital to recover from the Benson-induced flareup, but he wouldn’t have it. Q-13 flareups behaved kind of like an earthquake, with direct fallout and delayed aftershocks. Secretly, she appreciated that his stubbornness had brought him where they could all keep an eye on him.
He made for the trunk, bracing himself along the car for support. Heather met them around the back and prepared to help Sesame discourage him from straining himself.
But in one smooth motion, Sesame pulled James’ small suitcase out on his far side and handed James the folded up walker on the other.
“How was the drive?” Heather asked.
“Oh, nightmarish,” James grumbled, frowning as he worked. He wore his compression gloves, and his hands shook as he pulled at the corners of his mobility aid. “I hate everything.”
She reached for the walker to help, but Sesame calmly passed her a duffel bag instead. “Let him do it,” Sesame said. “He’s mad.”
James scoffed, annoyed. He managed to get the walker latched into shape, and leaned on it for a moment. He exhaled heavily, his shoulders bowed.
Heather drew nearer and offered an arm for a hug. He accepted it.
“I’m glad you got home safe,” she said. “Sorry you’ve had a rough week.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. “I’ll live.”
Sesame cast her an amused, long suffering expression. He shut the trunk, and spotted the house with a gasp of delight. “You put up wind chimes!”
“The rest of the decorations are ready and waiting inside,” Heather said. “Mom and Dad are making mulled cider if you want to see that.”
Sesame sped up, dragging the suitcase with him, already leaving them behind. “What’s mulled cider?” He yelled back across the driveway.
“It’s a drink,” she called after him.
He hopped up the steps and disappeared inside. Heather smiled to herself, watching him go.
“He’s been talking nonstop about holiday traditions,” James remarked softly. “He was sad to miss cleaning.”
“Only Sesame would be sad to miss cleaning,” she laughed. “There’s plenty to do still. I think he’ll like decorating and cooking more, anyway.” She kept pace with him, though he was walking better. On good days, he was able to use a cane for short periods.
“He missed you all,” James said.
She glanced up at him. “We missed you too.”
He kept his gaze on the house, his expression careful.
“I’m sorry I arrived angry,” he said.
“You can be angry. It’s okay. You’re on vacation now.”
His lips tightened. He still wouldn’t look at her, like he was embarrassed. Or had forgotten how to feel comfortable with them during his week in the city.
“James…?” she said, patient yet warning. “Vacation. Right?”
“It’s on the list.” They arrived at the stairs. Heather took the walker from him and he gripped the railing, easing his way up.
Heather buzzed a sigh as she carried his walker up the steps, making it to the top before him. She retrieved her tablet. “We’re gonna tie you to the couch and hide your laptop.”
That earned her indignant eye contact. “I haven’t had free time all week. I’ve just been pretending to be functional at the ICNS and then being catatonic in the evenings—”
“I’m kidding,” she said, gently cutting him off. “Mostly.” He let her help him up the last step, a little winded. “I know working on projects helps you decompress, but I also know you tend to push yourself too hard.”
“There’s so much work to be done,” he lamented.
“And still time to do it.” She opened the door for him. He paused, disgruntled.
“I’m glad to be back here,” he admitted quietly. “I missed you too.”
Heather smiled at him, softly.
As they entered together, Heather announced, “Look who I found!”
Her parents appeared from the kitchen, welcoming. James forced his shoulders a little straighter. Heather closed the door behind them and tugged at his coat. He unzipped it and let her take it.
She stepped aside, watching her parents hug him each in turn, asking about the drive, about how he was feeling, watching more of his protective layers slowly beginning to thaw.
“Come to the kitchen,” Su said. “We have mulled cider.”
“That’s what I hear.” James carefully bent down to remove his shoes at the door. Heather helped steady him.
“It has wood in it!” Sesame piped up from the kitchen, ever fascinated by the world. “Did you know cinnamon is wood?”
Heather headed down the hall to put his coat and duffel bag in the guest room.
“I took good care of him,” Sesame’s voice filtered down the hallway as they gathered around the stove. “Like I promised.”
“He did a good job,” James said.
Heather smiled to herself, lingering in the doorway of the guest room, listening to them. The house had felt empty and cold without those two extra voices. The suitcase was already by the bed—Sesame must have blown through the house and hopped into the goings on in the kitchen in record time.
She let herself notice the carpet beneath her feet, her robotic hand on the doorframe. Different than what she wanted, but still real, present. A life worth building ahead of her, if she could manage it.
“What do you think?” Richard asked.
“It’s good,” James said. His voice lilted a bit, shy. “I’ve never had it homemade before.”
“Did you see much of the recruits while you were doing teacher’s training?” Su asked.
“No, they’re on a really tight schedule, and we weren’t on the same floor.” He paused. “I hope they like me.”
“I’m sure they will.” Richard said.
None of them wanted to talk about Benson’s stunt at the ICNS, so they didn’t. As Heather rejoined her family, Su was showing James—mug of cider in hand—the garland supplies. Richard pulled orange and lemon slices out of the oven, which would eventually become part of the decorations. Sesame stood next to James, eagerly absorbing Su’s show-and-tell and holding James’ free hand on the top of his metal head.
James caught Heather’s gaze as she reemerged from the hallway. He looked tired, but the strain was beginning to leave his features. A flurry of all her memories of him ran in snapshots behind her eyes, their lives soldered together like a stained glass window.
Sesame stuck a sprig of pine in James’ face. “What does it smell like?”
James held it under his nose, searching for a description Sesame could relate to. “It’s on the cold side, with a little bite to it like an electrical impulse. Compare notes with Heather, she could probably recreate what I’m talking about.”
Sesame turned on her, hands eagerly outstretched. “I want to feel it!”
Heather came forward, recalling the smell of pine. Their tactile temperature sensors didn’t register temperature as sensation, though she had been experimenting with incorporating her electromagnetic field to experience temperature more organically.
“There’s a few layers I’m not sure how to imitate,” she said, but she met his hands anyway. Their electromagnetic fields melded, and she pushed a little energy into his palms, trying to approximate the subtle sharpness of the scent. “I actually have some pain simulator questions for you, James. I’ve been experimenting with developing sensation out of my current sensors.”
He hesitated at the mention of the pain simulator, but nodded. “Sure.”
+
Later that evening, James emerged from a nap in the guest room to find garland-making underway in the den.
They asked if he wanted to join out of courtesy, but he declined. His body was hurting. He made himself some tea and a heat pack and parked himself in a free spot on the couch. Within minutes, Sesame was eagerly showing him what he had learned.
As he watched Sesame’s robotic hands wrap thin paddle wire around a bundle of greenery, talking about evergreen shape variation and visual interest, James’ confrontation with Benson intruded on his mind. He tried to push it away, tried to be present, but several sections of the memory scrubbed back and replayed like a skipping record. His illness and terror. Benson’s contempt.
He glanced up, observing which combination of branch types the Knights were using in their respective garlands. The variety was subtle. Heather painstakingly threaded a wire through a baked orange slice, which introduced a surprisingly satisfying pop of color into the green. A year ago he wouldn’t really have seen the point of this. Handmade decorations, quality time.
Would he really grow to resent this?
He felt the ever gnawing anxiety to keep working, railing against his tired body, his mortality a constant worry. But he really wanted to care about slowing down like this. Sesame fully believed Benson’s assessment was wrong.
James craved that certainty.
“We’re gonna write intentions and hopes for next year to hang in the garlands,” Sesame explained.
“What are you going to write on yours, James?”
“I don’t know…‘Stay alive?’”
“A worthy goal,” Su said.
“‘Blow up the government…’” Heather nonchalantly clipped some more branches into smaller sprigs. “‘Make six new super-powered friends…’”
“Are those yours or mine?” James scoffed.
“Mine,” she said, smiling.
“I’m gonna be your teacher’s assistant,” Sesame realized suddenly. “I’m gonna meet the recruits! I hope they’re nice to us. We’ll be friends either way.”
Richard laughed. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with that.”
“You have to introduce me,” Heather said.
“I’ll try!”
James listened to them chat and banter hopefully about the new year, and he tried to slot his relationship with Sesame and the Knights into the shape of his nervous system. It didn’t really compute, but where he was used to brittle, heavy-handed social frameworks, these new variables felt strangely flexible and grounded.
The Knights urged him to slow down and be kind to himself when all his instincts funneled toward perfectionism. Where emotions or weakness had often earned him deeper isolation, his new friends didn’t pull away. They worried about his wellbeing. They seemed to trust his choices, and spoke up when they didn’t. His connection with them didn’t feel so much like a contract.
He still watched for signs that this wasn’t real either. But if this safe, quiet place turned out to be authentic, he supposed he could learn to trust it.
Time and practice, to grow a new way of being.
On some level, he would always be chasing recompense. He would do anything in his power to make it up to them, to protect them, fight for them, to become someone worthy of their care. In all new territory, dealing in a type of equation he didn’t quite understand, he had very little yet to offer, nothing he could promise with any confidence.
All he could do, the only thing that felt appropriate in that moment, was to be there, gratefully. In the cordial glow of holiday lights, enjoying the company of his loved ones undeserved, a soft smile stole unbidden across his features, and he let it linger.
Maybe, for now, this was enough.
+
THE END
The Bioroboticist 