Dreaming in Static

Chapter 2

Polaris

Polaris woke at exactly 5:00a.m., two hours before sunrise; two hours of freedom.

Actually, two hours and two minutes of freedom—two hours, one minute, 48 seconds, and 5.6 milliseconds, to be exact, as her mildly annoying brain-calculator-thing reminded her.

She sat up, opened her eyes, and started to breathe, a special ability most androids didn't have. Hew owners wanted her to seem as humanlike as possible, so she had olive skin, dark blue-and-purple hair, and features so realistic, no one would doubt that she was human unless they looked very closely at her temple, where her chips were stored.

Polaris swung her legs off the bed and stood up. Her sonachip activated, and she smiled. "Open windows in this room and living room," she said, and the windows gently opened, letting in air that smelled vaguely of pine trees and orchids and hopes and dreams.

Polaris leaned on the dresser to look into the mirror, combing her hair back into a loose braid. She put on her clothes: leggings, skirt, loose blouse, scarf. They were all galaxy-themed. Polaris loved the idea of exploring the universe, even though she knew it'd be impossible for an insignificant android like herself to even step out of the city. She didn't have the programming of a Nova-edition android, which were the ones the International Space Association sent into space. She even doubted whether she could ever actually see the stars; pollution clouded the skies in thick shrouds of brown and gray, and even if it was less dense here, out in the suburbs, she'd never be able to go outside at night. Her Serfdroid programming controlled her actions through NT-85, the neurotransmitter that all androids had, limiting their moves from sunrise to the second they fell asleep. If she tried to escape, NT-85 would force her back. She had to "sleep" from 8p.m. to 5a.m. At least her owners had been relatively lenient, allowing her two hours of Sonadroid programming every morning.

Still, though—no stars.

Polaris pulled up an image of her favorite painting on her mirror touchscreen: Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh. She imagined that this was what stars looked like if you journeyed out far enough. Explosions of light scattered across a dark canvas, flowing in harmony with the wind, like glowing, radiant tidal waves.

She sighed and tapped the red exit button, returning to a screen that displayed a map of the house. It informed her that five windows were open and that the coffee machine had run out of coffee grounds. She'd take care of that later. She swiped the screen away, and the mirror-screen became a mirror again.

"Lights," she murmured, and the lights flashed to life, bathing the room in a cold, hospital-room white. "News."

The wall-screen, what she used as her television (although television was an ancient word, practically prehistoric), displayed what was surely a Workdroid but with uncannily realistic features, shuffling the notes in front of—

No, that couldn't be a Workdroid. Polaris edged closer, squinting. Wrinkles. Workdroids never had wrinkles. Even humans seldom had wrinkles.

Gray hair. Blue eyes. They shone. They were watering.

Oh, this was a human.

But that was impossible—Workdroids did everything, from building houses to reporting the news.

"Volume: 29," Polaris whispered. At 30, her owners' SleepTech would automatically wake them up.

"Today, we have news that may change our lives forever," the woman said, and she sounded tired, her voice cracking. Oh, this was definitely not a Workdroid. "All registered androids have suddenly entered permanent shutdown, and despite the combined efforts of iDroid, Nova Industries, and Bots Incorporated, we have not been able to determine the cause of these malfunctions."