Paradigm Shift

Chatper 6

Artemis stiffly stood up and moved to the door, checking his face in the mirror: red dribbled down his chin as the flaps of skin shivered at any subtle movement. In the cupboard, he pulled out a sewing kit and little white soft pads. He threaded a needle and carefully stared into the mirror as he punctured the skin and began to sew the flaps into place. It weaved in and slowly out. In, and then out. Very carefully, in and out, until he pulled the thread tight, and the skin came closely together like two mountainous peaks closing the valley. He tied the thread. Then, he covered the stitches with a soft gauze pad and tapped it on (he wasn't even bothered to clean the fluids that already dried to his synthetic skin.)

Artemis never breathed, nor even knowing how to, yet he made a scratching sound with his fan to huff. He had a face of determination etched into the natural indentations and wrinkles he caused from over-stretching his grafted skin.

His coding repeated in his head—-

Kill.

I must—kill.

After waiting a short moment, Artemis turned to poor William Jackson, cut off a band of cloth from his t-shirt, rapped it around his shredded neck, and walked out the door. A spot of blood from the last breath Jackson would ever take splattered on Artemis's face.

—-

In space, no one can hear you scream.

—-

Dr. Sydnee haphazardly stumbled down the corridor; she needed to see the Captain.

"Captain! Captain!" She yelled vociferously. "There's an emergency, Captain!" The doctor frantically banged on the door. A few people, Taylor and Smith, came out from their rooms to stare at the crazed woman.

"Yes yes yes? What seems to be the problem?" The door automatically slid open with a quick swish of the pressurized air.

"Captain, Jackson's dead."

—-

Once everyone was in the cafeteria, some were stiff and shaken with grief, others were yet to hear of the terrible news. The Captain retold the story to everyone what Dr. Sydnee was terrified of: there was a killer among them.

Peterson nervously chuckled, "how do we know he didn't kill himself?" He sat there, chewing his lip.

Rachel moved to open her mouth, but Dr. Sydnee started to speak first, "there were clear signs of struggle, and the marks couldn't have been made from that angle if it was self inflicted." Two metal feet walked in, robotically as ever, inquiring about the meeting.

"Artemis," Rachel began, "we believe Jackson was killed."

"Killed, how?" He innocently asked—Artemis pretended he knew not what he did—"how did the accident happen?" His back was straight and arrogant, and his tone was soft.

"No, Artemis—"

"Emma," Dr. Watson spoke to Rachel. She stiffened at the sound of her first name. "Arty can't comprehend homicide and humans killing humans. I didn't build him like that. . ."

Taylor stiffened as Artemis sat next to him—he stared at the machine whirring away as it paid attention to the argument. He carefully examined the cloth tied around his neck and the bandage taped to his face—there, just below the gauze, a dribble of blood. Licking his finger wet, Taylor rubbed the bloody spot until his fingertip was unnaturally pink with it, and tasted it.

It tasted of iron.

"Dr. Watson," Taylor spoke over the arguing, "does Artemis here run on blood?"

Dr. Watson sighed and turned his head to look over shoulder at Taylor, "no, it's synthetic. It's just water. Taylor, now's not the time for questions about Arty or engineering. We have a dead man on our hands." Dr. Watson turned back and started again from where he left off.

"Doctor," Taylor spoke over the argument again, "would it be possible for a blood splatter of any size—any type—any—If he was murdered, or even killed other than by himself, wouldn't his blood. . .wouldn't his blood. . ." Wouldn't his blood be on the killer?

Taylor slowly drifted off as he stared at Artemis who glared back at him ferociously. Death glinted in his glass eyes. "No," Dr. Sydnee faced Rachel upfront, "when I found him he was clean. Bruises on his neck, but no blood."

If Jackson was clean, then how did Artemis get blood on his face?

As everyone filed out of the cafeteria, Taylor waited for the android to leave before he did because Taylor did not want that machine behind him. They stood up almost synchronized and started to walk toward the exit; their eyes were trained on each other. Slowly, but ever so slightly, they careened across the floor, but when they reached the threshold, Artemis clenched and pushed Taylor against the wall. His heart raced and his breathing quickened to a loud gasp. He paused, silent now, to listen.

Softy, yet monotonous, Artemis spoke, "if you ever say a word about this to anyone," he leaned in "you are next. . ." A small, quite distasteful, smile grew on the machine's face. Artemis then carefully caressed Taylor's lip, lightly brushing the pink with his wet fingertip—a black bead of liquid soaked into his skin. . .

He let go of Taylor slowly, and then started down the hall without a glance back, whistling robotically as he went; the clinking of harsh metal on metal echoing in the cabin.

—-

Two hours prior. . .

Beyond the engineering and workshop spaces and in the corner of the room between two pipes, a small foldable table contained precious stolen instruments that bubbled and foamed with liquid. Something was being manufactured.

Artemis Watson, overrun with terrible thoughts consuming his mind, focused on the little vial he held between his two fingers—the fluid was clear like rubbing alcohol, but at the bottom sank thick black flecks of contagious goop.

He titled the vial sideways watching death slowly drift to the other end of the glass bead.

"What wonderful beings you truly are. . ." He whispered to them, "yes, truly magnificent. . ."