CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—PROTOTYPE   

Monday during lunch, James denied Heather’s request to watch him work before shutting himself away in the equipment room. He tested the scanner several more times, running a battery of trials coupling different tissue samples with material lacking a genetic signature. James had to make sure the scanner didn’t just convert the DNA, but also anything else associated with it, such as the rest of the cell containing the genetic material, all the way up to the proteinaceous segments of the hair and any clothes a patient wore inside the scanner.

It had to be a clean process. Nothing left behind. A perfect transplant.

His experiments left him with bandaged fingers and assurance of success and he decided to use the remainder of his free hour exploring his professional options.

“Hello, Mr. Dhar,” he greeted once he had connected with the head of the Bureau.

“Hi, Siles,” Dhar replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

Nervousness fluttered in James’ chest. “Yesterday, I got a call from a Michael Benson from Empetrum? He said the lab’s involved with the Bureau and I wondered if you could verify.”

“Yes I can,” Dhar said after a pause. “It’s true Empetrum is connected with the Bureau, same as Larkspur. They’re a secretive branch, and like to keep off the radar, but they do important work over there. So Benson made you an offer, then?”

“Yes. I’m still thinking it over.”

“As you should. I think you’d be a good fit.”

“Thanks.” James almost asked him if Richard had really said anything about his project, but couldn’t bring himself to.

+

The fluorescent lights reflected off the sleek surface of the android’s completed body. Heather drew nearer to watch as James helped Chelo connect the remaining metal and polymeric facets of the outer layer, which all came together with satisfying, resolute snaps.

Heather examined the gray face. Seams ran from the large, closed eyes down its metal cheeks, and she knew it was to help with forming expression, but at some angles, she thought it looked like tear tracks. Inside its head, a blank space laced with wires waited for the final piece.

“It’s done,” Eve sighed. Smiling, she rubbed her hands together. “Now on to the artificial intelligence phase.”

Heather exchanged a glance with James at that, who was checking the ports inside the robot’s head. His narrow face cracked into a tired, longsuffering smile and he straightened up from the table, stretching his back. She knew he was already deeply immersed in complex, exhaustive programming for organorobotic transference. He was probably sick of it by now, if that was even possible. She offered a sympathetic expression and followed her dad toward the equipment room.

+

There were a TV and two security cameras in Erika’s medical room. Some days, she tried to pretend she was in a hospital, and not in a windowless level of an evil, pointless research facility in the middle of a wildlife reserve in which her family had camped regularly throughout her childhood. Some days, she closed her eyes and imagined setting a fire, burning it all down.

At first, it was just the fatigue and malaise, but lately, more serious symptoms had set in. She could hardly move her arms without sharp, stitching pain shooting all the way across her ribs and needling up the back of her neck. When she didn’t move, the whole area was itchy and restless. Yeun assured her this was a good sign.

To what, though, he refused to say. At the start, he had said he would keep her informed, but now, he didn’t want to tell her what the goal actually was.

Erika stared dully at the TV, which had only three stations: science documentaries, obscure black-and-white movies, and cooking shows. No news of the outside world. Nothing to inspire her to take her life back.

Dimly, she heard footsteps approaching, and she choked back the desperation rising in her throat. Yeun entered with his usual cheery greeting and started prepping for her second-to-last stem cell treatment.

Erika turned her face away.

+

As soon as lunch hour struck the next day, James closed down his coding work with his colleagues in the lab, and disappeared upstairs. He was already trotting back down to the lobby by the time the rest of them were on their way up.

“Where are you off to?” Greg inquired, halting at the foot of the stairs to give him room on the staircase.

“Errands,” James said simply.

“Right now?” Chelo asked. “What sort?”

James hesitated. “Pet store.”

“…Pet store?” she glanced back at Richard.

“Yeah.” He readjusted his bag, trying to shrug off their scrutiny as he landed off the first step and directed himself toward the door. Heather had mentioned to him Richard may have given his colleagues a summary by now, since she’d heard Greg ask a week and a half ago.

“That means you finished it!” Heather gasped, popping out from behind the group like a jack-in-the-box. “And you weren’t gonna say anything? Are you testing it today?”

“Tonight.” He slowed a little, turning back. He didn’t dare look at Richard. He was glad Eve wasn’t there that day. She might have tried to stop him. “The place closes before I get off here so…”

“Well then, get out of here,” Greg said brightly, nudging a too-skeptical Chelo. “Sorry to keep you.”

James felt their gazes on his back as he crossed the lobby alone and exited the front doors. He hadn’t discussed anything with them, but the way they were looking at him, he knew Heather had been correct.

They all knew exactly what he would be testing that evening.

+

James pushed on the door to the small shop. As an automated tone heralded his entrance, he felt incredibly out of place. His family had never owned animals, and he had given up trying to change that after age eight. He had never set foot in a place like this.

James strode up to the counter. Birds chirped unintelligibly from dispersed corners, and puppies yapped in the back. The warm, earthy smells of animals filled his nose: fur, wood shavings, birdseed, rodent food. He found the mix of stimuli calming. 

“Can I get a mouse please?” he asked the employee at the register.

“Pet or feeder?” 

James hesitated, temporarily stymied. “Feeder.”

“What size?” The kid stepped out from behind the counter.

“Uh, regular size?” James rubbed the back of his neck. “Healthy, docile.”

The clerk gave him a confused, sideways smile. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared down a a hallway lined with aquariums. 

James swallowed, feeling left for dead at the counter as a woman came in and queued up behind him. 

Within a few minutes, the kid returned with a small takeout box. He opened it, showing James the black mouse inside. Its whiskers quivered curiously and James was surprised by just how sweet and fragile it looked. For a moment he second-guessed himself.

“This one look good?”

James was sweating. “Yes.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket as the clerk secured the lid. 

“One twenty-five,” the clerk said. 

“That’s it?”

The clerk nodded. “First time feeding?”

“Uh, yeah,” James said, pulling out two bills and handing them over. 

The clerk gave him change and extended the takeout box. The mouse’s tiny nails scratched against the interior as it reoriented. “Just put it in the enclosure but stand by until your snake nabs it. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” James said. He put the change in the tip jar and gingerly took the box, holding it close to his chest as he left.

When he returned to Larkspur, Heather, of course, wanted to see the mouse before James stored it in his office. He grudgingly allowed her a peek.

She helped him set it up in a larger container with breathing holes, water, and apple slices from her lunch, and then managed to coax him to join everyone else in the kitchenette for the remaining minutes of break.

The awkward silence among his colleagues was troubling, like he made them nervous, as if he planned to kill the mouse. With a living creature in his office, organorobotic transference was beginning to take on much more weight than in the days when it was just an idea.

“It’s a feeder mouse,” he said as he pried open a yogurt cup he had grabbed on his way out the door that morning. “Bred for snake food. I’m actually saving its life.”

“Can I watch tonight?” Heather asked. “You’re testing it after work, right?”

“I would love to show it to all of you, if you want to stay.” Dread knotted his insides, but he absolutely refused to be ashamed of his project.

Richard managed a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

James knew he should have tested it over the weekend where he wouldn’t have an audience, but he was too impatient.

Plus, he really did want to give Heather the chance to witness it.

+

James tried to ignore how nauseated he felt as Heather helped him bring out the components of the machine, set them up on one of the counters, and hook the long wires up to his laptop across the room. With jittery fingers, he started his computer and activated the program. 

Everyone had stayed to watch, gathered behind his laptop.

He administered a diluted antihistamine to sedate the mouse, and waited for it to take effect. The procedure would be even more dangerous if the mouse were mobile inside the scanner. When it was asleep, he clipped the very end of the animal’s tail, transferring some blood onto the DNA reader before lifting the mouse into the scanner and attaching the modified brainwave receivers around its head. He had omitted the electrodes for this model, instead choosing to connect the neurological detection devices into a dome-like network that enveloped the rodent’s entire head.

All feeds were operational, warming him with a growing sense of hope and vigor. He closed the lid and secured the latches of the scanner, hooking up the accessory wires to the small animal robotic body he had thrown together.

Due to the necessity of working the power core and neural networking device into the robotic body, his test subject would get a size upgrade. The robot was shaped like a guinea pig, with two small, camera eyes, but no superfluous details like a tail and auricles. Heather had already commented on his depressing lack of flair.

He only needed the body to be complex enough to demonstrate how the test subject would behave in it, to make sure everything transferred over properly. He could upgrade the creature’s new physicality later, if he had time.

After checking connections, he approved the target lock on his computer. The green bars in both the transfer and conversion regions of the program charged simultaneously, and then the light came on. Everything was going smoothly. 

“Ready?” James strapped his protective goggles to his face and his colleagues did the same. “Here we go…” Begin transfer.

James watched the computer screen, his hands curling into fists on the counter. “Please work,” he whispered to it.

Transfer in Progress, his computer reported, and electricity surged down the wires into the neural networking device, which he had implanted into the back of the robotic body, over top of the power core. The lights in the lab dimmed, struggling to overcome the small machine clamoring for their power source. 

The neurological transfer took a few minutes. Then the program switched to the conversion stage, during which the machine made even more noise.

His colleagues watched in silence behind him, and he could hardly breathe in the tension. James glanced aside at Richard, who stood excessively close to Heather. The director’s daughter flashed James a hopeful, congratulatory smile.

Finally, the light ceased, and the machine whined softly as it cooled down. 

Transfer/Conversion Complete.

James strode to the setup across the lab, nerves prickling up his back. His colleagues watched breathlessly as he undid the clasps on the scanner and opened the lid. The interior was empty, save for the neural scanning devices he’d programmed the machine to ignore in the physical mass-to-energy conversion. No trace of the mouse had been left behind.

“Woah…” Heather leaned forward to try to get a better look, but Richard held her back. Everyone’s attention gravitated to the motionless robot at the other end of the countertop.

James unplugged the wires from the robot and checked the state of the power core, which reported an impressive level of energy for such a small amount of mass. He allowed himself a relieved exhale to find the energy receptacle stable and functional. He secured the neural network and clicked the dorsal panel into place across the robot’s back. He straightened up, waiting for something to happen. Any moment, the robot would begin to move.

But the animal robot remained still.

“Just give it a little more time,” he murmured anxiously. “It’ll come around.”

They waited a few minutes longer, and James’ heart sank further with each excruciating second, with no change.

Finally, he looked up at his colleagues. Addie had her hand pressed up against her mouth. Heather met his gaze, her expression soft and worried.

The prolonged silence became oppressive.

“Everything was—I was so sure…” James said in quiet dismay. He gently nudged the robot, hoping the movement would illicit a response. Nothing happened. “It should have woken up…” He drifted over to his computer, to check the procedure history, looking for signs of a hitch. “I’ll find out what went wrong and try again. The conversion worked beautifully, I just wonder where the transfer program was faulty—”

“Maybe you should call it a night, James,” Richard said softly.

James’ raging thoughts stopped dead. “What?”

“Actually, I don’t—” the director cut himself off. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

James stared at him, his shoulders dropping and chest tightening. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m gonna head out,” Greg said, shaking himself a bit. “Thanks for the demonstration.”

Chelo and Addie uneasily followed suit. Even Heather looked perturbed, despite her efforts to hide it.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it,” she said, on her way after her father. “See you tomorrow.”

He could only stand by his machine, staring after his colleagues in profound, futile disappointment.

Soon, he was completely alone.

Dazed, he hooked his foot on a stool and pulled it close enough to take a seat. James looked again at the computer screen, but he couldn’t focus on it. He was shaking. Finally, his hands clenched, and he pounded his fists once on the counter, ducking his head with a snarl of despair.

It should have worked. Metaphysics be damned, it should have worked.

The conversion was supposed to occur only after the organism was no longer inside its body. It wasn’t even supposed to hurt it, but his colleagues—Heather—had just watched him kill an innocent creature.

After several long moments, he lifted his head, glaring at the inert robot across the room.

He picked himself up, miserably closed his laptop and wrapped up the cords. He stored his machine in a corner of his office, and brought the robot home in the box Heather had helped him prepare just that afternoon.

He couldn’t get Richard’s face out of his head. He hadn’t realized he would have just one chance.

Back at his apartment, he brusquely deposited everything on the kitchen table and face-planted on the couch. He figured he should try to figure out what had gone wrong, but he was far too tired, too discouraged to think anymore.

The end of his project was nigh, anyway.

Come morning, Richard would ask him to discontinue organorobotic transference. And James didn’t know what he was going to do then.

+

CHAPTER NINETEEN—OUTCOME

Pine trees. Tall grass riddled with purple wildflowers. The weathered yellow house on the hill. Stables full of the horses that had companioned her childhood—dragons for the young dragon riders, steeds for Pirate Princess Tristan and her paladin, Erika, whose three more years gave her the wisdom to keep her mistress out of trouble. When the rain pounded down, the scuffed-kneed adventurers read thick novels up in the hayloft, their legs dangling over the equine heads.

The stables were almost empty now—many of its inhabitants sold to help pay for the countless medical procedures that weren’t able to save Erika and Tristan’s mother in the end.

The memorial service. Lavishly adorned with the wildflowers their mother loved so much. Amie Davenport had taught Erika and Tristan all the flowers’ names, along with which were good for tea, which were poisonous, and which were her absolute favorites.

Dad. Sturdy, inspired, protective. Working with his hands gave him purpose. He had stayed at the hospital whenever he could. It devastated him to have to stand back and watch.

Tristan. Forfeited even classes at the community college to work and help make ends meet—putting her ambitions on hold. The flaming passion in her eyes was crushed and dull that day. Inundated with pain.

Erika’s disappearance had been only five days after the funeral. When she had most needed to be there for her family.

She couldn’t be strong enough for them.

Her eyes were open, her vision blurry in the dim space. The smothered, frantic beeping of her heart monitor screamed at her side, gaining clarity, and she realized she was awake. Then the pain registered.

Her whole torso seized up with electric barbs clawing down her spine, through her arms down to her very fingertips. It pushed out at odd points in her back, as if maybe there were limbs there too. With a cry of agony, she pitched forward to a sitting position, to get up, to do anything but sit there and let it rip her apart.

Hands braced against her shoulders.

“Ms. Davenport!” a man said urgently. “You need to lie down—”

She fought against him. Deliriously, she thought she was on fire, the way her skin burned.

The man turned his head and shouted back toward the door. “I need help in here!”

The door burst open and two figures in dark uniforms came in. 

“Hold her,” the man said. “Watch that tube in her back.”

“Let go!” Erika cried as the soft hands exchanged for two sets of larger, rougher ones, clamped on her tender arms and holding her still. She squirmed and kicked, every movement spiking with pain, but she kept fighting.

She felt the bed under her, her legs tangling wildly in the covers, the hands tight on her arms, her vision a gray, slurring haze, but clear as anything, her family appeared before her eyes in a burst of yellow light and tree branches. Dad, Tristan. Mom. Hot tears rolled down her face. 

Was she dying? She opened her mouth to call out to them.

A needle went into her arm and Erika screamed. 

“It’s okay, Ms. Davenport!” the man said, raising his dusty voice to be heard over the beeping of the urgent heart monitor, and the panicked, feral sound of her own cry. Her limbs began to feel heavy, a fog filled her mind. Medically-induced peace descended upon her like a security blanket, and the screeching nerves in her ribs started to muffle, enough that she finally recognized the voice of Elias Yeun.

“Erika, it’s okay.”

+

James woke with a start. He listened, heart pounding, the silent dark of his apartment crowding in front of his face.

Something rustled fitfully in the kitchen, followed by a clumsy dragging, clicking sound.  He sat up, eyes wide. The sound repeated, further in than before.

Abruptly, James clambered across the couch and fumbled to turn on the lamp, almost knocking it from the end table. As soon as the light came on, he spotted the empty box on its side on the kitchen floor.

James warily left his perch and crept into the shadows of the kitchen, where his hand found the light switch around the corner. He snapped on the light, beholding a small gray form crouched in the middle of the floor. It turned its head, disoriented. O.R.T-1 looked even more like a guinea pig when mobile.

“It worked…” James ran a hand through his hair and leaned hard against the wall. He laughed outright, and the sound spooked his test subject, which jerked up and attempted to flee. It slid and tripped, unable to gain traction, before it tried to turn too quickly and fell over onto its side.

“Sorry, you’ll get used to it,” he said gently, nearing the creature. It had gone very still. When he reached for it, it jerked and its robotic legs waved frantically to resume escape, but he picked it up. O.R.T-1 was still a little too disoriented to truly struggle. He was glad he hadn’t given it a mouth to bite him with. Hesitantly, it turned its head, and he watched the machinery inside the dark camera eyes readjust as it took in his face. James’ expression softened. “You’re already adapting.” Delicately, he lowered it to the linoleum and set it on its feet. “Here…experiment some more.”

James sat cross-legged on the floor while he observed the creature journey torpidly across the floor. It glanced back at him every few seconds while it searched for a place to hide. It examined the space under the oven, then bent down to touch its blunt face to it and paused, confused.

Why had it taken so much time before the mouse regained consciousness, James wondered. Maybe the transfer sent the subject into a short coma as its neural network straightened everything out.

He wanted to call Richard right away with the good news, but as he looked up to see 12:36 in the glaring lights of the microwave, he decided it could wait. He was already on thin ice.

But his project had worked.

Maybe his prospects weren’t so grim after all.

+

CHAPTER TWENTY—OPPORTUNIST      

We’ll talk about this in the morning.

Tension crept in the air as James ventured up the steps to the second floor, rustling box in hand. He turned his back to the muffled voices from the director’s office, as he quietly opened his own office door across the hallway.

Heather’s voice piped up in greeting behind him, startling him into nearly dropping the box.

The intern noticed the package right away, as well as the frantic, scraping movements inside as James repositioned it. “He woke up?”

“He did.” Relief flooded his chest to be able to tell her. He shouldered his way into his office, with Heather close behind, and removed the lid so she could see. She gasped softly to see the small, animal robot attempting to keep its balance inside the box.

“James, this is incredible.” She beamed at him. “You did it! Can you believe it?” 

James allowed himself a wan smile. He set the box on his desk, the only empty spot in a field of open notebooks, keyboards, and 3D printed models of neural components. 

“That’s all you’ve got? A smile?” Heather said, softly so as not to scare the mouse. “Come on, you’ve just made history.” 

James pushed aside a stack of notebooks scrawled with mechanical diagrams and set his briefcase down. “This is just step one.”

Heather rolled her eyes at him and turned her attention to the robot, who stared up at her. “Dr. James Siles, saving lives with science.” She shot him a sideways smile.

Another smile tugged at the edge of his features. He liked the sound of that.

“Can I hold him?” Heather asked. When James nodded, she respectfully extended a hand to the creature, waiting for O.R.T-1 to take interest in her fingers before making contact. She carefully laced her fingers under its belly. “Hello, little one.”

“It probably can’t feel that,” he said as she docked it gently in the crook of her arm and stroked its back. “I didn’t put a whole lot of sensory components in.”

“Really? I think he likes it,” she replied softly. James turned to watch O.R.T-1’s reaction for himself. The transferred mouse did seem calmer under her fingertips. It nestled down, and he saw its camera eyes angle, peering up at him warily. It had just picked its favorite person.

“He’s earned a name,” Heather said. “What do you think we should call him?”

“Whatever you want to call him,” James said. “You won’t like what I’d pick.”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” Heather cooed at the robot. “Do you have any ideas?”
“O.R.T-1,” James said.

Heather stared a moment, perhaps deciding whether he was serious or not. Her lips tightened. 

James shrugged.

“Can I show my dad?” she asked. 

He hesitated. “Yes.” 

She carried the robot out of the room, and James anxiously followed her across the hall.

“Dad!” Heather pushed her way into Richard’s office. “Look! James’ machine worked.” 

“It did?” Richard readjusted his glasses and turned his surprised gaze to his colleague for an explanation.

“Yes,” James said, rubbing the back of his neck as Heather brought the robot to her father. “It woke up after midnight last night. Its neural network must have just needed time to sort itself out. I’ll start tests right away to cross reference its current mental faculties with the snapshot the machine took before transfer, as well as monitor its overall stability.”

Richard nodded, unsure of what to say. He smiled at his daughter. “It sure seems taken with you, Heather. Could you babysit him for a while? I’d like to talk to James for a moment.”

Heather nodded, and exchanged a glance with James. “Mind if I show him to everyone?”

Swallowing his reservation, James confirmed. At least she was breaking the ice for him.

Heather warily took her leave, and silence dragged into the room with the closing of the door.

“It’s a relief to see your mouse pulled through,” Richard said finally.

James nodded, allowing himself some hope. Surely, after seeing the success of a project originally deemed impossible, Richard would forget his previous misgivings.

“But I was talking to Eve last night,” the director continued softly, “And, we have to ask that you discontinue this project.”

Distress pounded against James’ ribcage. “What? Why?”
“It’s just too questionable,” Richard said.

James’ heart dropped. His hazel eyes narrowed. “Too questionable?”

“Well, what I mean is—”

“If you’ll just give me a chance, I’ll prove everything transferred completely,” James insisted.

“I really wish I could support you in this. We all do.”

“This is all Eve, isn’t it?” James demanded.

“We arrived at the decision together,” Richard said.

James was burning. He would have to tell him. “Richard, I need to see this through. It’s not just a matter of—well I mean…” James cut himself off, his gaze falling to the floor. He took a breath and closed his eyes in an expression of pain. “My dad’s dying. He has cancer and the outlook isn’t good. This is my only chance, perhaps his only hope. Please. Don’t ask me to give this up.”

Richard stared at him, his expression a sickening mix of dread and sympathy. “I’m sorry, James. I didn’t know.” 

“So you see why I can’t let this go.”

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Richard said, haltingly. “But I really don’t think this is the way to do it. Have you asked your father whether he would even be open to this option?”

“Well, no, but I thought—”

“How long do the doctors say he has?”

“Maybe half a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Richard rounded his desk. James shifted back a step.

“I didn’t want to get you involved in my family drama,” James said. “I wanted to handle this on my own.” They would never understand. The absolute certainty of it filled up his chest like dark, murky water.

“I know this is very hard,” Richard said gently. “But what you plan to do isn’t the best way to go about this.”

“There is no other way,” James tried, hoarse. “How am I supposed to stand by and just let it happen?”

“Do you need time off to go visit your parents?”

James shook his head, staring hard at the floor. “I’ll just make things worse if I see them. We don’t get along.”

Richard looked like he wanted to contest it, but didn’t. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

James nodded.

“I won’t ask you to shut down your mouse,” Richard said. “But please don’t pursue this any further.”

That was as good as a death sentence.

“Okay,” James mumbled. This project was being there for his father in the best way he knew how. What did other people do in family crises? Richard made it sound like they just sat around and accepted it.

James didn’t want pity. He wanted the people he respected to trust him.

“I know this is the last thing you wanted to hear,” Richard said as James turned to leave. “Especially after all that hard work.”

“I’ll be okay,” James lied. Once free of Richard’s office, he made for the restroom to calm down. Heather would be sure to find him, otherwise, and if he spoke to anyone now, he would lose it.

No one was going to see him break down over this.

+

For the rest of the day, James invested every bit of attention to the android. His colleagues knew him well enough not to ask him about it. No one mentioned the trial the night before, or Richard’s request, and he was grateful.

Heather didn’t know what to say when she found out, so she gave him space too.

When the time came, he fully intended to go upstairs and eat lunch with his coworkers like a well adjusted human being, to show everyone he wasn’t going to be melodramatic. But he couldn’t bring himself to face them without work to hide behind. He couldn’t face their scrutiny, their sympathy.

Alone in the sterile silence of the lab downstairs, he put aside his work and folded his arms on the counter. 

What to do now, he wondered dismally. He didn’t even want to think about giving up the project.

The door across the lab opened. He looked up, watching Heather step inside with a plastic container in her hands.

He stared at her a moment, and he felt the weight of crushed hopes in his face. He didn’t bother to hide it. She could always see right through him, anyway.

“What’s in the box?” he asked. Her expression softened and she came forward.

“Toy bricks,” she said. She took a seat and pushed it across the counter to him. She offered a wan smile and removed the lid, revealing a rainbow puddle of the minute plastic pieces they had chatted about the day they met. “Want to build something?”

James stared at them, brows lowered and eyes dull. He couldn’t believe she had remembered this small detail about him.

“I originally brought these hoping they’d cheer you up, because we thought your machine hadn’t worked,” she said, and James slowly reached forward and took a piece from the top. “But I think you still need some cheering up anyway. I’m sorry for what happened.”

James studied the tiny brick of red plastic between his fingers in despondence. He set the piece on the counter between them and took a few more from the box, as carefully as if he feared they would burn him. “Thanks, Heather. This is nice of you.”

Heather smiled, softly. “That’s what friends are for.”

Surprise fluttered in James’ chest, but he focused on the square frame he was idly constructing on the countertop. He had no idea how to respond to a statement like that.

“What are you making?” she asked. 

“A tower,” he said. “Those were your favorites right?”

Heather nodded. “Mind if I help?”

“Please do.”

They took turns adding bricks, James from one side of the chrome counter, Heather from the other. They didn’t talk much, and James was glad for it. 

He wanted to ask her if she thought he should pursue the project anyway, but didn’t. He was afraid to know what she thought. And he could never ask her to choose, to risk turning her against her father.

Whatever happened now was his responsibility alone. He would let her believe he had accepted defeat and moved on.

Except, as soon as he had initiated the transfer the day before—pulled a living organism from its body and placed it into one of his own design—something had broken. James had fallen through a trap door. His colleagues had seen exactly what he was capable of, and it scared them.

The first prototype was a success, and James knew he could never let this project go. Not while he still had a shot. He was on track. There was still time.

He didn’t want to go against Richard, but he couldn’t stand back and forfeit everything he had worked for, to regret and wonder for the rest of his life what could have been. He knew what he intended to do was necessary, and he hoped that someday, his colleagues would come to understand.

That night, as soon as he returned home, he shed his bag and jacket, deposited O.R.T.-1’s box on the kitchen table, and scrolled through the call history in his cell phone until he came to the number without a name. He tapped the call key and waited.

“Dr. Siles, nice to hear from you again,” Michael Benson’s voice purred in his ear. “I take it you’ve thought over my offer?”

“I have.” James straightened his shoulders, somberly lifting his gaze to the window. “And I accept.”

+

CHAPTER FIFTEEN—ENERGY UNIT

Only a transparent barrier separated the boy from what was happening. The light on the other side of the thick glass flared like a firework, the fire stretching and sparking out of control. Even with his tinted, protective goggles, the boy squinted.

An agonized scream tore from the center of the heat and light, and he stiffened in horror.

“It’s hurting him!” he cried, turning anxiously to the man beside him, the only other person in the compartment behind the glass. “Can’t we stop it?” He didn’t receive an answer. “Grandpa?”

“Let it run its course,” was the calm reply. “Let’s see if he comes out of it.”

The boy could barely make out the shape of the figure generating the energy surge, especially as it began to disintegrate. He felt sick. Sicker than he had ever felt before. His glasses fogged up inside his goggles from the gathering tears. He whipped around toward the wall with a strangled gasp, clutching at his mouth, sure he was going to vomit.

“What are you doing?” His grandfather’s hand gripped his shoulder, turning him around and drawing him closer to his side.

“I’m scared.” The boy fought the intense urge to pull away. He knew his grandfather wouldn’t let anything happen to him, but he couldn’t stay. He felt trapped.

The touch became mellower as his grandfather placed another hand on his other shoulder, guiding him to resume facing the experiment.

“No Michael,” he said gently. “Don’t turn away.”

+++

James turned on the light in the chemistry lab. He strode toward the black soapstone counter, retrieving the fire extinguisher from the wall on the way past.

He moved all the pieces of the energy unit to one of the fume hoods in the back of the room and carefully set to work, gathering the chemicals he had purchased and stored in the lab. He had every step worked out, written down, and memorized. If he didn’t make any mistakes, he’d be fine.

“Here goes,” he breathed, buttoning up his lab coat. He threw a furtive glance behind him. The old Larkspur facility was creepy at night.

With grim determination, he situated his goggles on his face and pulled on a pair of fireproof gloves.

He arranged the components of the energy unit in order of assembly, and prepared the chemicals in two clearly labeled beakers. He began to solder, adding the substances at intervals and attaching the subsequent elements of the core. The heat from the soldering iron encouraged a more enthusiastic reaction, but he pushed forward, even at the sight of minute, inquisitive sparks.

He knew it was foolhardy to do this alone, but everything was under control.

He took the tip of the soldering iron off the device and waited for the hood to suck some of the excitement from the reaction. He prepared another pipette and drew a sharp smelling substance from the other beaker.

Directly after sealing the edge of the ring inside the square outer layer, he applied a few final drops to the delicate center.

A blinding light burst from the core. James jerked his face away in surprise. He hesitated for only a second, his mind racing. He removed all chemicals from the area and pulled the front panel of the fume hood as far down as he could while still retaining the ability to reach inside. He rushed to the nearest drawer and tugged on a pair of thicker gloves. There still remained two pieces to attach: one to contain the middle of the core, and another to complete the outside layer. He absolutely refused to have to call it and destroy everything with the fire extinguisher.

He picked up the notched, concave piece, hoping the bitter, smoky smell stayed well enough inside the hood and wouldn’t set off any alarms. His project was as good as dead if he put the facility in danger.

Fortunately, clamps held the device in place, so nothing fell over as he scrambled to contain the reaction. Impulsive and desperate, he reached into the thick of the heat and placed the cap on the inner core. He twisted it so the wires moved into their correct places, and the heat bit at his fingers through the gloves as he hastily soldered around the edge.

The end result was sloppy, but sturdy. Given the circumstances, he would have to be satisfied with it. The light quieted.

He heaved a weary sigh and dropped back onto a nearby lab stool.

However, his relief was short-lived. The fingers on his right hand started to sting with renewed vehemence as his smoking glove ignited.

With a yelp, he tore it off and sprayed it with the fire extinguisher.

+

Heather was far too perceptive.

“What did you do to your hand?”

James sighed and ceased soldering to examine the affronted hand, on which his fingers were bandaged from the first joint to the tips. “Just burned it a little last night.”

“On your personal project?” she asked.

“Yes,” James said defensively as tightness rose in his chest. “I imagine Richard’s already answered all your questions about it by now.”
“I haven’t asked him,” she said. “I’m waiting for you to tell me yourself.”

James looked up at her, his eyebrows pinched in a confused, incredulous expression.

“What?” she asked uncomfortably.

James shook his head and returned his attention to his work. “I’m just not used to that, I guess.” He readjusted his grip on the soldering iron. “Thanks.”

+

The android’s body had begun to materialize into more than a collection of disjointed devices, finally taking on a vaguely humanoid shape. Its inner machinery consisted of a great deal of wiring, stabilized on metal frames. Assembling it was a colossal pain, prompting several headaches and groans of frustration. On more than one occasion, the Larkspur engineers spent hours piecing together the components, only to discover one stray wire that should have already been in the center of the bundle.

Heather was allowed to help, learning how to splice wires and relaying directions while her mentors had their hands busy. She even got to participate in a bit of the construction herself.

Stringing the android together like a metal rag doll was harsh on James’ injured fingertips. By the end of the day, he decided to go home instead of injuring it further. He had to catch up on some project records anyway. Two weeks of his personal timetable for organorobotic transference had already flown by. More than ever, he felt every second ticking away, loud and insistent while his deadline loomed steadily nearer.

Two weeks left.

+

Yeun had moved Erika from her cell to a private medical room. Treatment often left her sore and fatigued, and she had to be careful not to dislodge the cannula in her lower back.

“Good morning Ms. Davenport,” Yeun said, entering the room. “How are you feeling?”

Erika opened her eyes, grudgingly. “No developments.”

Yeun moved to prepare the stem cell injection. “Treatment number four today,” he said cheerily. “We made it.”

“How many of these are we doing again?” she sighed.

“Nine.” He punctured the seal of the first with a syringe and drew up the liquid into the barrel. “We’re about halfway there.”

“Lucky me,” she rasped.

“After we let this one settle for a day or so, I’ll need to take a blood sample to see if this is going to work out,” he said. She let him connect the syringe with the cannula and introduce the serum.

As he prepared the one to be administered to her neural stem cell supply, Erika asked, “Is today the day? Are you going to keep your word?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’ve kept yours.”

He finished up the stem cell injection and pulled a small, pre-loaded cellphone from his lab coat. “All cleared with the director.”

He connected a wire to the charging port on the cellphone and handed it over. At the other end of the wire was a remote with a button, which he kept. “Here you are. Do you know their number?”

“Yes,” Erika said, turning over the phone in her hands.

Yeun squeezed the remote, and it powered up. “It’ll be online and functional as long as I keep this depressed,” he explained. “Make sure you just tell them you’re okay. If you try to say anything to try to lead them here—” He released the button and the phone went dark. “—instant disconnect.”

“I understand,” Erika said. She readjusted herself in the bed with a wince. He had her on supplements to help compensate with the side effects of treatment, and to increase the odds of her body accepting and integrating her altered stem cells, but her system still struggled to keep up. Each new time he took readings of its progress, she hoped he would return disappointed. But it just continued, endlessly.

Yeun pushed the button again. “I’ll give you one minute, starting as soon as they answer.”

She typed in the number, put the phone up to her ear, and waited. Yeun listened to it ringing, ready. Anxiety pulled in Erika’s ribs. She’d been rehearsing in her mind what she would say to them, but had no idea how to keep enough control of the call. Emotion sat high in her throat as the phone reached its final ring.

Her dad’s voice piped up in her ear. Voicemail machine. Erika’s hopes twisted. She looked at Yeun, and glanced at the remote in his hands. He kept it activated.

“Go ahead and leave a voicemail,” Yeun said, quietly.

After the beep, she licked her lips, took a breath. When she spoke, her voice shook. She felt defeated. “Hi Dad, hi Tristan. It’s Erika.” She looked at Yeun again. “I—I’m sorry I haven’t been able to contact you until now. There’s something I got wrapped up in, unexpectedly.”

Yeun’s fingers twitched nervously, but she lifted an urgent hand, signaling him to keep the activator depressed. He complied.

“I can’t come home right now,” she went on. “But I’m fine. I’m okay, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.” She clenched her jaw, holding back tears. “I love you both. I’m sorry.”

She took the phone from her ear and hung up, averting her gaze. Yeun let the phone deactivate.

“Do you want to try again?” he offered, as she stared at the phone in her lap.

“What’s the point?” Erika said slowly. “If they pick up, they’re gonna ask questions, and you’re gonna cut me off.”

“Wouldn’t you like to hear their voices?” Yeun said. “It may comfort you.”

Erika glared at the cannula in her arm. “What do you care?”

But neither of them moved. She didn’t offer up the phone, and Yeun didn’t take it from her.

Finally, she extended it. “Forget it. I’m too tired now.”

“Maybe we’ll try again later,” Yeun said, accepting the phone. “When you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” Davenport leaned back and closed her eyes wearily. “Sure.”

“I’ll get you some coffee,” he said, taking his leave.

+

CHAPTER SIXTEEN—MORALE

James planned to head to Larkspur early Saturday morning to continue work, but the afternoon was in full swing by the time he regained consciousness. His throat felt like flaming sandpaper, and his head throbbed against hot, congested sinuses. When he finally dared to roll over and look at the clock, he cringed at what he read.

“No…” he moaned, burying his face into his pillow, only to lift it out again because he couldn’t breathe.

James rolled over and ran a hand through his bedhead and relaxed his arm with an exasperated sigh. Staring blearily at the ceiling, he considered taking the day off.

But he got up. He took a heavy dose of vitamin C, downed revolting liquid cold medicine, and planted himself at the kitchen table. He spent what was left of the afternoon with his laptop and his notes, consuming a nearly constant supply of tea as he wrote programs for the scanner and its various parts.

These components would detect the individual to be transferred, copy their organic neural network and send the information to the mechanical network to be electrically reconstructed. A collection of devices attached to the head would then transfer everything over while commanding and absorbing all the electrical signals at once, shutting down the organic brain as the mechanical network activated.

The transfer itself was the persistent question of plausibility, but he was finally beginning to feel like he was pinning it down.

+

Again, James was absent from the group come lunch hour. He had been doing this for two weeks straight, but none of his colleagues seemed surprised.

“It’s a known habit.” Chelo said simply when Heather mentioned it.

“Do you think he gets lonely down there?” Heather asked.

“Doubt it,” Greg said. “You’ve seen him when he’s working.” He tapped the side of his head. “Nothing else exists.”

Chelo nodded. “He’ll be social if he wants.”

“Sometimes he surprises you,” Greg agreed.

“But he has been particularly keyed up lately,” Addie said.

Heather glanced at her dad, who replied as nonchalantly as he could, “He’s working on a personal project. I’ve granted him use of the equipment for it.”

“He’s running himself into the ground again,” Eve murmured, concerned.

“He’ll grow out of it in a year or two,” Chelo said.

Heather stood up. “I think I’ll go see what he’s up to.”

As Heather slipped down the staircase, she heard Greg say, “So, a side project, huh? What is it this time?”

James wasn’t in either lab. Heather found him at a spare counter in the back of the equipment room. She knocked softly on the door. James straightened up and twisted around. She worried he might be cross to have been caught off guard again, but he just looked at her, inquisitive.

“Hi,” she said quietly. “I thought I might keep you company, if that’s all right.”

James’ expression lowered a bit in suspicion. He blinked, then shrugged as he returned to his work. “Sure, I guess. Not much to see today.”

“That’s okay.” Heather ventured closer. His hands were inside a metal, rectangular container the size of a breadbox, attaching pre-fabricated inner components.

He groped for the tissue box and managed to catch a sneeze. His shoulders slumped.

Heather smirked. “You made yourself sick, didn’t you?”

“It’s on its way out,” he said, indifferent. He still sounded stuffed up.

“You should go home and rest, James.”

“No thanks.”

She watched him in silence for a while, trying to guess the connection between the wire-laden chips, the square device he had worked on the week before, and this box. “Is this still a secret?”

“…That depends.”

“On what?”

He didn’t look up. “On how open your mind is.”

“It’s super open,” she insisted. She pulled a granola bar from her sweater pocket. “I won’t make a big deal about it or anything. I know it’s really important to you, but that Dad must have been discouraging. I won’t tell anyone without your permission.” She placed the bar on the counter. “I’m safe. You can tell me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he considered her offering. “Is this a bribe?”

“No.” Heather crossed her arms, her face flushed. “I just figured you might be hungry, skipping lunch and all.”

He remained very still for a few moments, staring at the bar. He looked up at her, and Heather was surprised by how vulnerable he appeared in that moment. “You swear?”

“I absolutely swear.”

He hesitated again. Then, finally. “Okay.” He picked up a fine-tipped screwdriver to continue working. “I call it ‘organorobotic transference…’ It’s a means of consciousness transfer, from an organic vessel to a mechanical replacement.”

Heather blinked. She hadn’t been expected something that drastic. “You mean like body switching?”

“Yeah…to be used clinically to prevent premature death.” He crossed his arms, his shoulders tense. Did he really care what she thought? “Like as a last resort, a failsafe.”

“Sounds neat,” Heather said.

He paused, surprised. “Really?”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “How far along are you?”

“Pretty close with the first prototype, actually,” he said. A shy smile brightened his face.

“How’s it work?”

He fumbled, but once he started talking, it all started spilling out. He even explained technical jargon he might not have in his usual, guarded state, as if he really wanted her to understand the process, how possible it was.

She was beyond impressed, but mainly, she was just happy he was finally talking to her.

At first, he was apprehensive, but as Heather asked thoughtful questions instead of backing away, his posture straightened and he became more animated.

“What inspired you to tackle something like this?” Heather asked.

James blanched. “Is it okay if I don’t answer that?”

Dread stirred in Heather’s stomach, concerned for James’ health and safety, but she said. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

And for whatever reason, that final piece disarmed him completely. A weight seemed to lift off his shoulders, and for the first time since their conversation on the airplane, she saw her presence was welcome.

+

A few days later, James was back to full health and able to resume neglecting his body’s basic needs in favor of work. As he opened the door to his office, Heather flitted into the hallway. “Good morning!”

He returned the greeting much more quietly as he entered his office. He set his briefcase on the desk. “Hey, look.” He bobbed up a small paper bag. “Food. Aren’t you proud?”

Heather smiled. “So proud.”

“Oh, and I finished the scanner last night and made good headway on some of the accessory devices.” He couldn’t help smiling back. He hadn’t expected how good it would feel to have someone to share his victories with, instead of getting stuck in his own head. Perhaps he should have trusted her earlier. “I should be able to finish it soon.”

“That’s great,” Heather said. “Dad says he has to stay late tonight to finish the weekly report for the Bureau. Can I hang out with you after work?”

He hesitated. “Fine with me, but you should ask your dad first.”

+

“Will it hurt?” Heather watched as James connected wires to an adapter and plugged the setup into his laptop. The wires ended in two electrodes and a small, rectangular device.

“No,” he said. “These are just brain wave sensors.” He stuck the electrodes on his forehead and held the additional device to the back of his head. “I wish I could’ve made this full-sized so I could really see how well it works—but that would take too long, as size-specific as this part of the project is.”

He pressed the spacebar on his keyboard. A suite of windows popped up on the screen. On a black bar across the top, a white line carved a variable path along the centerline as signals registered from the electrodes. A window in the lower right corner displayed a blurry visual replication of the laptop, translating visual information James’ brain was currently processing. Error messages barred the other windows.

Heather intently looked between James and the screen. “Woah.”

James’ brow furrowed as he moved the sensor and watched the signal waver and cut out. He put the receiver above his ear, and the occipital window lost signal while another labeled Temporal began transmitting a subdued mix of waves and hazy shapes. Continuing to move the device, he was able to generate transmission for two more windows, but not all of them.

“Because the receiver’s so small, the signal’s narrow and weak,” he commented, half to himself. “And I’m only getting information from the cerebral cortex.” He sighed, closing out the program and pulling the electrodes off his forehead. “I can’t wait to make the real thing.” He considered building larger, more powerful sensors just to have on hand for the eventuality, but it would take too much time.

“Did you feel anything when those things were on your head?” Heather asked. Her cell phone chimed beside her.

James rubbed his hand over the top of his head, where he had last held the device. “Yeah, it’s a little like pins and needles.”

“Weird.” She scrolled her phone’s touch screen and tapped back a reply. “Dad’s ready to go.” She hopped off the counter and headed for the door, swinging back around. “Thanks for letting me bug you for a while, James.” She hesitated, smiling. “And for letting me in. It means a lot.”

James blinked, surprised and a little embarrassed.

“Yeah—no problem,” he fumbled.

Heather beamed. “Later.”

“Bye.” He closed his laptop and stood up to locate his supplies for the targeting system, which would read and process a sample of DNA to ensure the machine locked on the correct subject.

“Thanks for taking such interest,” he murmured with a soft smile.

+

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—PROPOSITION

James was well immersed in programming Sunday afternoon, tucked away in a silent corner of the lab with all the completed structures sprawled before him when his cell phone startled him.

Private caller, the caller ID reported, with no number.

“Hello?” He answered it grudgingly, prepared to hang up.

“Hello. Is this Dr. James Siles?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Michael Benson,” the man explained coolly. “I am the director of Empetrum, another laboratory under the Federal Bureau of Science and Innovation, same as Larkspur. We’re very impressed with your work, and I wanted to extend an opportunity to you, if I may claim a moment of your time?”

“Oh. Thank you.” James straightened up. “How have you heard of my work?”

“Through the Bureau, of course.”

“Oh, of course. You have my attention, sir.”

“Wonderful.”

James reached over and grabbed his project notebook, opening it to a blank page as Benson continued, “Empetrum’s research spans biochemisty as well as engineering. One of the head scientists in our biorobotics division resigned, and that position isn’t something we can offer to just anyone. We’ve heard of your brilliant innovations and tireless work ethic, and it sounds like you’re exactly what Empetrum needs. I would like to offer you a position here, if you’re interested. You would have your own personal lab and complete creative freedom, as well as a considerable raise.”

“Thank you,” James said, taken aback. “Excuse my hesitance, but I’ve never heard anything about Empetrum before…”

“I appreciate your caution,” Benson said. “As you know, Larkspur has spent most of its life hidden from the public. Empetrum’s work is even more federally sensitive, so for extra security, it has been concealed from even your branch of Larkspur. However, I have clearance to reach out to you specifically, to see that you have continued opportunity to flourish. Director Brophy has expressed misgiving about your recent project, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” James admitted, his eyebrows lowered. Had Richard seriously told on him to the Bureau about his personal project? Benson couldn’t have known about it otherwise.

“Does it worry you?” Benson asked.

“It does,” James said. “But Brophy has given me permission to pursue it. He wouldn’t arrange to rescind it without telling me…”

“Would he?”

James hesitated. Maybe if Richard worried James’ project would ultimately endanger himself or his peers, he would change his mind.

But Richard trusted him. He would never allow his daughter to be alone with James in a soundproof lab if he believed he was unstable.

“At Empetrum, you’d have been encouraged to work on it during business hours, and receive pay for your efforts.”

Benson’s words sank in like an anchor drop. James had repeatedly run himself into the ground trying to balance this project with work over the last few weeks. Maybe he wouldn’t have burnt himself preparing the power core if he hadn’t had to do it in isolation. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten sick. It hurt to be awake, and he felt like he was losing his mind at the pace he had been going.

“I know how suspicious an unexpected solicitation like this must be,” Benson added. “Please contact the Bureau yourself to put your mind at ease.”

“I will,” James said. “And I’ll be sure to consider your offer.”

“Great. Take all the time you need,” Benson said. “Give me a call at this number when you’ve made your decision. And please don’t discuss this with anyone.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I hope to speak with you again soon, Dr. Siles.”

When the call ended, James set his phone aside. He rested his elbows on the counter and laced his fingers under his nose, narrowing his eyes at the wall.

His own lab. Complete creative freedom. Richard wasn’t aware of what the project meant to him, but James certainly felt stifled by his reservations. Finally, he could admit it to himself.

And perhaps his project wasn’t as secure under Larkspur as he had hoped.

+

After over fifteen hours of exhaustive programming, all components were finally connected, calibrated, and ready to test. James wanted to run the conversion procedure at least once before heading home to pass out.

The scanner whirred softly from the counter. The program stood open on the screen of his laptop, which he had modified in his spare time before moving to Worthing to wield much more power than the average computer. The power core rested nearby, attached to the scanner with four thickly insulated wires.

James selected a command from the program on his screen: Input Target. A panel slid out from the scanner’s flank, light glinting off the polished metal disk inside.

He disinfected a needle he had pilfered from a repair kit in his sock drawer, using it to draw blood from one of his fingers.

He pulled a hair from his head, checked for the follicle, and set it in the scanner. He closed the lid and again attended to the computer. Target. The machine hummed as a blue light roved inside, leaking slightly from underneath the lid.

An image of the hair with the base highlighted materialized on his laptop screen, along with the prompt, Confirm Target?

Yes. The window retreated to the back of the others, and James unchecked a box at the top of the command window, fading out an entire section having to do with the neurological transfer. A pop-up requested confirmation. He was only testing the matter-to-energy conversion.

Ready for conversion. The button became a loading bar after he selected it, and the machine’s humming grew more decisive. James reached aside and strapped on protective goggles.

Ready. The bar filled with green. A corresponding green light flicked on near the base of the scanner.

Begin Conversion.

The machine eased into action, the humming growing louder but muffled by the tightly clamped lid. Despite his already established confidence in the core’s stability, he closed the doors around the lab.

The lights dimmed as the smooth metal box emitted sharp snapping sounds and electricity surged through the wires into the dormant cube attached to them. James watched breathlessly. The conversion took only a few seconds, as the mass was small.

Conversion Complete, a pop-up on his computer said. He returned to the scanner in anticipation, waiting for the humming to cease before undoing the warm clasps. Nothing remained between the concave surfaces of the scanner. The power core reported the additional energy.

James closed his eyes. Burying a relieved hand in his hair, he tipped a haggard smile toward the ceiling. He exhaled heavily, then moved to pack up and head home.

+