I sit out on a café patio, backpack slung up on the table and a tall canteen in my hand. Leaning my head back, I take a few hefty glugs of my electrolyte drink. It's rude, I know, to bring your own things to a restaurant, but they can get over it. I'm tired and even a little depressed. I have no energy left to give a crap.
This patio is broad and airy, and I have a good view of the wide open street and the capitol building towering behind it. Tech peddlers stand on the edges of either side of the expansive passageway with their bright, flashy displays. Some choose to remain by their inventory, but others take a direct approach and run alongside passersby holding vibroblades and comm devices and extolling of their usefulness.
In the middle of the road, several of the peddlers' children are playing. They run around in a circle, arms linked together as they skip around clockwise. Their hands form a variable color pattern; some have red left hands, others are clean.
I notice a little motion in an alleyway several yards behind them. Despite the obnoxious vendor light shows assaulting my eyes, I think my gaze was drawn there by the glint of metal in the sunlight. There stands a tall metal skeleton that resembles a person. Its rigid arm holds a turquoise staff perfectly still, despite the gusty winds. I can see a young boy, five or six years old, sitting up against the stiff-legged robot. Tethered to his metal mother by a chain, he stares at the street children passively. His blank eyes seem to take the scene in as a whole, not caring to follow around any one particular frolicking sprout.
The sun shifts ever so slightly, and he squints. Out of disdain for the bright light, he moves behind his guardian into the shade of the alley and leans away as far as he can, his little blue hand hoisted up by his cuff. It's blue from dye rather than blood restriction, I know.
I observe a couple of metal guards rigidly pick their way down the streets. The breeze carries along the sound of tinkling chains as the boy rushes to his feet. His chubby blue hand flies up to his forehead in salute as they pass. Saluting a rust bucket of artificial intelligence...how has it come to this?
The scene flickers out before me. A flashback...to my times here as a youngster. It's only a little town, and I hold the hand of my dear mother. My human mother. She doesn't seem to notice I'm different, so I don't either.
The present comes back to me with a gust of the wind. I grip my hand as if afraid that the blue will seep through my gloves, the child's eyes will round with recognition, and he'd feel hope. Because here sits the shell of the savior of which the clone children's tales boast.
YOU ARE READING
SmackDown: Back to Our Roots
Science FictionOur previous two SmackDowns were both massive successes, and it's high time for another. You might remember the last one was heavy on the "game" elements, maybe even too heavy. This time we're going back to the basics and keeping it simple. It's jus...
