Kriegspiel [Sequel to The Turing Test]

10. Resurrection

When I return from the kitchen with an armful of food, Dr. Kayode has retreated back into her lab. I push the door open, peering around its edge. Davis hasn't moved, but he looks up when I enter. I hate the caution that rings his smile lines, like he isn't sure of me anymore.

Then again, isn't that what I wanted?

I offer a small smile as I hand him several granola bars and an apple, but it fades as he takes them without a word. I didn't expect to miss his constant insistence that I'm human. It means less coming from Ayo.

I drop the rest of the snacks on the desk, but catch a chocolate bar before it lands. Hesitantly, I break it open and inhale.

Everything changes when you realize you're a robot. You start to question your own senses—is what you see really sight? Are your eyes just cameras, your logic board just a calculator for their input? Do humans perceive the world the same way? What if everything looks different to them? What if "looks" means something else entirely?

The feel of the wrapper under my fingers, the scent of chocolate wafting upward, the little gurgle from my stomach as I contemplate the food—none of it should matter. And the only reason it does is because someone, maybe Ayo herself, thought it should.

It doesn't really matter, in the end, because I'm a slave to my own coding, which makes me a slave to humanity, just like Darwin thought.

I savor the first bite, letting the chocolate melt into thick, sweet goo on my tongue. But once I start, I can't stop, and before I know it, the empty wrapper crumples in my fist. My eyes land on the remaining pile like those of a starving vagrant, and I hate it. Knowing that I don't need the sustenance, not like Davis does, makes it feel like too much of a weakness.

I turn away and close my eyes, searching for the emotional stability that Ayo promised. But my hands still shake, my breaths still hitch every now and then as they grapple for a steady rhythm at the back of my throat, and an empty pit still gnaws at whatever exists in place of my heart. I want to turn around and cling to Davis and ask him to hold onto me just as tightly.

I force my eyes open and step toward the table where Ayo leans over Darwin's prone form. Get it together, I scold myself. Nobody likes a needy robot.

"What's next?" I ask, louder than necessary to cover the waver in my voice.

Maven answers. "You're going to fix them."

I turn to her; her eyes are locked on Dr. Kayode, her mouth pressed into a thin, downturned line. I glance from Darwin to Alan, feeling bad for the latter. No one seems to care that he's relegated to the floor, and I know that "fix them" mostly translates to "fix Darwin."

"I'm going to fix them," Ayo says evenly. "It's up to you whether you watch, help, or interfere. I suggest you choose wisely."

"I'll help." The words rush from my mouth before I can remind myself that I know nothing about the internals of hardware.

Maven shoots me a glare, possessiveness flickering behind her eyes as she frowns. When she says, "Me, too," it's a clear challenge.

I don't know why she feels threatened. If what she said in the subway tunnels is true, then she's superior to me in every way except the ability to act human. To deceive. When Sven said I was almost perfect, he meant that I'm weak enough.

"Okay." Ayo turns, letting out one rasping cough over her shoulder, and then clears her throat. "Hand me the torx."

When neither of us moves, she points across the table, to the tray of screwdrivers resting behind me. I fumble with them until I locate a tiny tool whose end looks a bit like a five-petaled flower. I hand it over.