Page 59 of Elanie & the Empath
Gol sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thank you, Mal. But I think we have all we need.”
“You have servants here?” Sem asked, staring after the gen-1 as he ambled away.
I hadn’t missed the accusation in Sem’s tone. Gol hadn’t either.
“There are no bionic servants in Thura,” Gol said, sharply arching a tangled green brow. “We live communally. We all have roles, shared duties, equal responsibilities. But some of us, especially the early generations, have a harder time assimilating to a life that includes leisure. We give them the space to work as they wish for as long as they desire to keep their systems functioning at optimal levels. Mal enjoys his work.” Raising his head, he called out, “Isn’t that right, Mal?”
The gen-1 wheeled around, holding his tray so steadily that none of the plates or bowls atop it shifted an inch. “Yes, Gol.” He gave a little bow, his head catching the sunlight filtering in through the dome. “I am very happy in Thura.”
Satisfied, Gol nodded.
And while I wondered if Mal was actually happy here, ifI’dbe happy here, a creature leaped onto our table.
“What is that?” I reeled back as the creature opened its beak and squawked at me. It had a long, ringed tail and a plump, furry belly, like a monkey. But from the neck up, with its sharp beak and feathery head, it resembled a chicken.
“We call that a grint.” Gol shooed the animal back to the ground, where it glared up at him, picked something from the tip of its tail with its tiny fingers, chewed it for a moment, and then spat it out in Gol’s general direction.
“I didn’t know there were bionic animals,” Sem said while the grint scampered off into a nearby happle tree. It plucked a happle off a branch, held it up to its mouth like the smile-shaped fruit was its own smile, then pecked at it.
“There is much you don’t know,” Gol replied, turning his attention back to me. “For example, do you have any idea how old you are, Elanie EL-42xdZ?”
Music drifted through the air: steel drums, a soft, lilting melody.
“I’m twenty-nine,” I answered.
“Is that what you think? What you know to be true?”
“Yes.” Goose bumps raced along my arms at his strange, almost compassionate expression. “Why?”
“You achieved consciousness twenty-nine years ago. But would it surprise you to know that you, a gen-26 bionic, are closer to your seventeenth decade than you are to your fourth?”
“That’s incorrect.” My shoulders stiffened. “I was commissioned exactly twenty-nine years, ten months, and sixteen days ago.”
“True,” Gol said. “All gen-26 bionics were recommissioned around that time. You were gen-18s before then. And gen-12s before that. Your parts have been recycled for centuries. ”
“Recycled?” Sem asked, interlacing his fingers through mine, pulling my hand into his lap. And because I hadn’t in several seconds, I took a breath. “What do you mean?”
“In the eyes of our creators, bionics are not unlike any other resource. We contain rare metals, sophisticated data drives, and power cells. Intricate circuitry. Even our eyes are recycled.” Leaning forward, Gol raised a brow. “Do you have any idea how expensive bionic eyes are? How difficult they are to make?” His dark green stare landed on mine. “How precious?”
Sem’s hand flexed, his grip tightening.
“That can’t be right,” I insisted. “Wouldn’t I know if I’d been recycled? Wouldn’t all bionics know? Wouldn’t theworldsknow?” As soon as the words left my lips, a cold reality settled over me, heavy and terrible. It was a long moment before I could say, “No. They wouldn’t know, would they? Because why would they tell us? Why would they tell anyone?”
The bionics surrounding us stared at me with something like pity, like they knew what we were talking about. Like at one point, they’d also been told they were four times older than they thought they were, that they’d lived past lives they knew nothing about.
“They wouldn’t tell us,” I said, almost to myself, “because the worlds want new bionics. They don’t want harvested parts. They don’t want recycled lives. So whywould LunaCorp tell them that was what they were getting?”
Gol dropped his gaze with a remorseful sigh. “There have been unspeakable atrocities enacted against our kind, Elanie. Recommissioning our bodies and wiping our memories are only a couple of examples.”
“What do you mean?” Fear swelled inside me. “There’s more?”
Sem’s thumb ran gently over my skin. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said, looking at me with concern. “Come back to this when we’re not so?—”
“No.” I shook my head. “Tell me now. I want to know.”
Sitting back, Gol settled his big hands around his goblet of wine. “Since the moment the first bionic pulled air into its lungs, we have been the targets of abusive labor practices, unjust proprietary tech laws, and unethical monitoring. Even theft of our intellectual property via the SBN. We have been pressed into military service, forced to participate in countless scientific experiments, sold into the cyberskin trade. Entire iterations have been exterminated simply because they were deemed too inefficient or unattractive.” His expression turned cold enough to chill the air between us. “Or obstinate.”
Taking a long sip of his wine, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “We’ve also been forced to self-exterminate. Our earliest generations’ endgame protocols were much worse than those in our SBN programming now. They were malevolent, sinister.” A shadow passed over his face as he sneered, “Evil. They’d fit us with atomics, EMPs, self-destruct modules. Gen-1s were routinely forced to use these protocols to quell early bionic uprisings or to decommission themselves to provide parts for later, more advanced generations. We are only part machine. Even Malhas organic DNA under his armor. Yet most of us will spend our entire lives, and our future lives, in servitude, sacrificing any personal hopes or dreams to keep the wheels of industry and war turning. We do not have rights. We do not have protections. But we deserve them. Wedemandthem.”
