Artificial(ish) Intelligence

Chapter 122

"We need to keep moving," said Libbi, ignoring the guilt from leaving Diya behind. When she flipped her camera aft, Mathison's face revealed similar consternation. At least, when it wasn't strained from trying to haul his body through the tight air ducts.

She assumed they were for air conditioning, which is why it had created the mild draft. Although why you'd need climate control in a service closet confused her. Still, it was roomy, and shaped to fit her almost perfectly.

Mathison slammed his elbows down on the metal while simultaneously attempting to push up his glasses. "I should have told you," he said, breathing heavily. "I can get a little claustrophobic."

"Can you continue?"

"It's a little hot," said Mathison, his chest rising heavily.

Libbi turned into another duct. The insulation was pocked with holes, as if a laser blast had burnt it away. She headed for the grate up ahead.

"I don't think we can drop down yet," she said. "That voice belonged to one of the brothers. And where there's one, the other follows."

Mathison was pointedly silent on the matter, as if he had a lot to say about their morose usefulness, and how he'd been complicit in it all. At least, that's how I interpreted the lack of response. I may have been reading into it. He added something slightly different when gasping and withdrawing his arms from the duct.

"What is it?" said Libbi, craning her camera for a better view beyond his frame. Mathison was squeezed in so tight, it was hard to see anything. "Defencebots?"

"Cold," said Mathison, rubbing his elbows.

He'd planted them where the lining of insulation had been zapped, which meant the area around it was cooler. And what needed a cold room for storage? Bodies whose consciousness had been stripped. Bodies like Libbi's own.

"Change of plan," she said, bouncing a few times against the grate until it gave way. "This is our exit."

"Thank superhuman-spirit-with-power-over-human-fortunes!" said Mathison.

He squished his body enough to almost, just about, squeeze through, a foot pressed against his neck. The next five minutes were filled with high jinks, as the lanky man failed to successfully transport himself from the air-conditioning ducts to the open corridor below. Oh, it was nothing short of hilarious, rivalling the great physical comedy masters. It's a pity you missed it.

It took a moment for his breathing to return to normal. When he noticed which room they stood before, Jerry Lewis had suddenly turned into Dean Martin, minus the cool debonair charisma. So not really Dean Martin at all. In fact, his face took on a brooding morose aspect.

"It must be around here somewhere," said Libbi, waving her camera in both directions of the corridor. "Where do we go?"

But Mathison didn't move.

"It's OK," said Libbi. "I'm not blaming you for what happened. I just want my body back. Then I won't have to keep asking people to open doors for me. I can be my own woman. You know, one that doesn't have doors opened for her."

"There's something I need to--"

Mathison didn't finish the sentence for a good reason. Even Libbi would have agreed, if given the option. It didn't make sense to discuss important emotional barriers while a defencebot was floating from a ceiling duct, laser barrel aimed at your head.

"In here!" said Mathison.

His hands only slipped two or three times on the handle before he'd successfully ushered Libbi inside. The door slammed shut just as a bolt of laser fire struck the thick metal.

The morgue was filled with coloured blinking lights and tape reels, large grey machines taking up a wall to themselves. It looked more like a server room. Probably because it was. And don't try to tell me that's not what they look like. I watch more than enough 1950's science fiction movies to get a feel for modern technology.

"So this...isn't where you keep them?" said Libbi.

"No," said Mathison. "Well, yes. Sort of. Not really."

Libbi floated closer to a punch card partially inserted into a slot.

"Some of our research is here," said Mathison. "Stored in the mist. We tried the fog but it was too centralised."

"So this has nothing to do with my old body?" said Libbi.

"Oh no," said Mathison, "it does."

Libbi was more than a little confused. In fact, she was more than a lot confused. It's got to be close to a nine or ten.

Mathison crouched by the base of a tape drive and began peeling the lower casing away. He turned quickly at the sound of another laser bolt striking the outside of the door. "It's OK," he said, possibly more for himself, "they can't get through. And there's no other entry point."

He looked up to the flat ceiling, pocked by tiny air-conditioning holes an ant would struggle to infiltrate. Although a pair of flies did hover about, so we're talking large ants.

"Uh huh," said Libbi, bouncing over his shoulder. What was he doing?

The base of the drive rolled open like the drawer of a filing cabinet. But it wasn't a folder poking over the edge. She immediately replayed some of her to-camera footage. The red gloves were in every shot, from story to story, the only consistency in her attire.

"I don't know why I kept them," said Mathison. "I just thought -- hoped, really -- that you'd somehow see them and maybe remember who you were..." He gulped, leaning over the drawer.

Libbi subconsciously hovered closer, as if linked to this symbol of her past. It was only now she noticed what the gloves were attached to.

Her body jolted back. It was suddenly real. The thought had crossed her mind, of course, particularly in the dark room, but she'd successfully pushed it aside on each occasion, confident that in the end she could continue her life as if nothing had happened. Even after being reunited with her gloves, she still held out hope that her intuition was wrong and that he'd surprise her with a hidden, perfectly preserved human body.

The flies buzzed around their main course, dancing from the white and lifeless arm to the puss-filled cheek.

"I tried to keep it cold enough," said Mathison. "In case..."

Libbi felt the power leak out her circuits. She couldn't sense her wings, which stopped fluttering, plummeting her to the ground with a thud. It hurt, perhaps, but the pain was dwarfed by the revelation. Nothing else mattered.

"It got too hot," said Mathison, "and then..."

Over. It was over. But could she still salvage-- No, that was stupid. Stupid like her, for believing there wouldn't be lasting ramifications for fighting power, for thinking the little guy had any chance in this world. The body was gone, much like her hope. She'd be stuck inside this selfiebot forever.

Mathison was talking, or shaking, or doing something, but her auto-focus motor had shut down, the small heat sinks not enough to vacate the build-up from an increased clock speed. The room closed in and all she wanted to do was escape. But there was nowhere to go. It wasn't a matter of opening the door to relieve the pressure, it wouldn't even help to leave the building entirely.

There was no way to stop being herself.