But as it always did when he was led by question or comment to remember that night, his own, inner mental-eye peered deeper, into where the removed scenes were kept. Had it been necessary to provide footage to fit the missing hours, his story would have come undone—but darkness because he was switched off was easy to both explain and to fill those minutes of missing time.
“I guess they had the ultimate black box on board…and it proved useless,” he said, because generating sympathy at such moments had proven useful in the past to deflect more probing questions. “I sang at their funerals. Heart-breaking.”
He was laying it on thick, and Monifa responded to each line the way he needed.
He heard Don McLean’s American Pie singing in his head: McLean cursing Satan for being up there on the stage and laughing about when the music died.
“You’ve never wanted an upgrade?” she asked.
“As I said: I am who I am. I’m too old, too set in my ways to trade in my metal body, or that guitar, or what I carry up here.” He tapped his head and it clanged, like the derogatory name said it would. He couldn’t afford to have anyone poking around up there. He carried the weight on his shoulders in more ways than one.
McLean had come close to the truth in his song, but only because he was in the business and had heard the rumors. There were other rumors out there about that flight: that the three guys had composed a song that had combined their talents, that one of them had brought a gun on board that had gone off accidentally, that one of the passengers or the pilot had been suffering suicidal tendencies.
“Well…thank you for your time,” Monifa said.
“You came to the concert?” he asked, thumbing at the wall, behind which another tribute act was now playing. She nodded. “Then thank you for yours.”
She liked the line, itched to write it down, but contented herself by checking her recording device.
After she had left, Duke picked up his guitar, tuned it, strummed it, but only because he knew no one would knock on the door, try to come in, whilst they heard him playing. It gave him time to let the hidden memories run.
They really were three good old boys—he hadn’t lied about that. And it really had been a tragedy. He wouldn’t have wanted them blamed, even though there were plenty that blamed him for the crash that day. The accusation generally got ignored, except by the most stubborn of conspiracy theorists—the same that held that only a robot could have made the shot that killed Kennedy.
The four of them strapped in, Buddy chattering nervously, Ritchie and the Big Bopper silent, solemn now, the plane taking off and climbing.
“We have to,” Buddy said. His glasses misted, and not from the cold. “We agreed. If not…if not, where will we all be? It’s just him at the moment…but if we don’t do something…” Buddy looked pained, his face creasing tighter. “I have a wife, a baby on the way. We’ve all got family to think about.”
They unclipped their seatbelts and came towards Duke, who sat there, not moving.
The plane wobbled as their combined weight shifted its balance.
“Is everything okay?” Duke heard his own voice from so long ago say, the recording as clear as it was the evening he’d spoken those words. The plane’s engine droning, two sweating, shining faces coming closer, and Ritchie behind them, pulling at the door.
“We can’t let the music die,” Buddy told Duke. “You Won’t Break Me? I damn well love that song, man. But we gotta eat and we gotta play.”
They undid Duke’s belt, put their hands down to pull him from the seat.
They hadn’t anticipated his weight. Duke hadn’t resisted them, though it must have seemed like that as they yanked and strained. His limbs were just locked for transport, wouldn’t bend unless he released the locks. Had they asked him to, he would have—he followed orders, and not just from his owners. He was a robot, there to perform as he was told.
It delayed the choreography of their plan—Ritchie getting the door open, the wind rushing in cold enough to make them all gasp; a scream in Buddy’s case because he hadn’t been expecting it. The scream, the wind, the sudden dip in pressure inside the plane.
The plane had turned nose-down, the screaming becoming louder, higher, the inevitable crescendo never reached because the whole symphony had ended with a dull thud.
Duke stopped strumming, the room vibrating, and it was a moment before he realized it was not coming from the band playing next door but the aftermath of his strumming. His whole body sang with the notes, as if he was being struck again: the faces that held the weapons all too familiar to him.
‘Familiar’ as in family. Not his, but of all those that blamed him.
He let his internal ringing dull to silence. Someone knocked at his door.
“Duke? It’s the final encore. The others are waiting for you.”
The imitation Elvis, Bill Hailey, Little Richard and, of course, Buddy, Ritchie and Bopper. Duke was the only authentic article among them now. Proving it wasn’t the music that died, just the musicians.
He would remember not to look the imitators’ way when their combined medley ran though his own contribution. He felt no emotion, but, if he had, it would have been guilt and not triumph he’d have felt when he sang it:
You won’t be the one to break me.
A KITTY-BOT’S TALE
Gini Koch
A note for readers of the Alien/Katherine “Kitty” Katt series—this story takes place during the events of Alien Education.
Some days you just can’t get rid of a bomb.
“Okay,” Dr. Gina Freed, who’s a human, mutters. “We can’t get the self-destruct out of her head.”
“It’s alright,” Dr. James Conason, who’s an A-C, says reassuringly. “You know I can get us out of the room quickly if necessary.”
I’m hoping it’s not necessary, because if the bomb goes off, I blow up. Because it’s my head that bomb is in.
The bomb isn’t really the issue. That’s not why Gina and Jim are worried. They’re trying to determine if I’m sentient or not. And I can’t help much, because I don’t know.
“Is she awake?” Gina asks worriedly. “She’s not supposed to be awake.”
“Sorry. I think I am.”
Jim pats my hand. “It’s okay, Kitty.”
“We shouldn’t call her that,” Gina says. “She’s not Kitty.”
“I didn’t think you knew her,” I say. I don’t know Kitty. Though I am Kitty. Sort of. But Gina’s never said she’s met me. Her. The human being that I’m just like. Only I’m not just like her. She doesn’t have a bomb in her head, for starters.
“I don’t,” Gina says. “But I do know you’re not her.”
“She’s not,” Jim agrees. “But that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have a name.”
“Sentient things get names,” Gina says.
Jim shakes his head. “Machines get names, too.”
“And if they were roses, they’d still smell as sweet, right?”
They both stare at me. “That sounds kind of sentient,” Jim says hopefully.
“It’s not.” I want to be sure that, if I’m listed as sentient, it’s earned. That it’s real. “It’s part of my programming. I have the full Shakespearean catalog downloaded.”
“You didn’t have that originally,” Gina points out.
“I know. John and Cameron had me do the download. I’ve downloaded a lot of things on their recommendations.”
Colonel John Butler and Cameron Maurer are both androids. Well, they’re humans who were unwillingly turned into androids. Kitty—the real one, not me—saved them. Because they, like me, had bombs in their heads. They had bombs other places, too. Only everyone was able to take their bombs out. They’re my friends, my best friends. Well, really, my only friends. I want to be friends with Gina and Jim, but I think they’re kind of scared of me. Of getting attached to me.
“What else have you downloaded?” Gina asks carefully.
“Movies, music, books, mi
litary strategies, encyc-lopedias, dictionaries. Did you realize that not all the dictionaries and encyclopedias say the same things? Sometimes they contradict each other.”
“Yes, that happens,” Jim says. “Why do you think that is?”
I thought about this for a bit. “Because different people wrote the different entries?”
“Yes.” Jim sounds excited. “See? I really think she’s sentient.”
“I think you want her to be, so you’re giving her a Turing Test that she can pass.” Gina frowns. At me. “But that wasn’t anything more than logic.”
“I’m sorry.” I am. I really want to know if I’m sentient or not. Jim looks angry. Gina notices and she looks away, but her eyes are a little brighter and I know she’s trying not to cry. They only fight about me. “Can I sit up?”
Gina carefully closes up the part of my head that was open while Jim takes off the straps that keep me from moving at a dangerous time. They don’t speak to each other or me while they do this.
They both help me sit up. I don’t need it, but I don’t let them know because I like that they do this—it shows that they care about me, at least a little.
“Doctors Freed and Conason,” a man’s voice says through the intercom, “Doctor Hernandez is here to see you and assess your progress.”
Jim and Gina exchange a worried glance. “Is he coming here or are we going to him?” Jim asks, as Gina ensures that her clothes aren’t askew.
Someone knocks on the door before either Gina or Jim can reply. The door opens to show my favorite person other than Gina, Jim, John, or Cameron. “I’m coming to you,” Tito—he’s asked me to call him Tito, so I do—says as he comes through the door.
“Doctor Hernandez!” Gina stands up straight; Jim snaps to attention. I don’t know why. He’s so nice. “We weren’t expecting you, sir.”
He grins and shakes his head. “You two need to relax. How’s our patient?”
Before either one of them can reply, though, alarms go off. Gina and Jim both jump. Tito doesn’t. Neither do I, but that’s because I wasn’t made that way.
“What’s going on?” Jim asks. “Are we doing some kind of drill?”
Tito looks worried. “No, not that I was informed of.”
“Level Five emergency,” the man on the intercom says. “The Science Center and Intergalactic School are under attack. All non-military personnel move to the tunnels immediately.”
“That’s you two,” Tito says to Gina and Jim.
“Where are you going?” Gina asks him.
“It’s where are we going,” Tito points to me and himself. “If it’s military, I’m needed. And Kitty-B might be able to help.”
“Is that my nickname or my real name?”
Tito cocks his head at me. “Which would you prefer?”
“Nickname, because that’s what your friends call you. Like Gina calls James ‘Jim,’ so I do, too.”
Tito nods. “Interesting choice. Fine with me. Let’s go, Kitty-B.”
“No,” Jim says firmly. “We can’t authorize her to do any kind of mission. We still don’t know if we’ve deactivated the bomb in her head or not. And I think Kitty-B is too close to Kitty-Bot. If she wants another name, it should be hers alone.”
“I outrank you, and she’s coming,” Tito says calmly.
“What name?” Gina asks.
“We’re kind of on a schedule here,” Tito points out. “You two can decide this later.”
“Honey-Bee,” Jim says. “It’s pretty and Bee is a cute nickname.”
“I like that.” I do. It’s very pretty and different.
“Good.” Jim takes Gina’s hand and my hand, too. This is the first time he’s ever held my hand. “Now that that’s decided, Gina and I are coming, too.”
Tito shrugs. “Suit yourselves.” He takes my free hand. “I just want us up there, helping out. Jim, get us up to the motor pool level.”
Jim runs and we run with him. I don’t know where we’re going—I’ve only been in my containment room, the examination room, or in John’s room here. Cameron gets to live in a house with his family, but I’ve never been there. I’ve never been wherever we are, either, because Jim runs us up fourteen sets of stairs.
The man on the intercom is still talking. “We have at least six hundred Fem-Bots attacking. They resemble the First Lady’s ward, Elizabeth Vrabel. The real Elizabeth Vrabel is confirmed to be with the President and First Lady. Therefore, all are considered targets. All Field agents need to report to ground level for assignments.”
We reach what must be the ground level, where the motor pool is. There are a lot of gray cars and even more people dressed like Jim: in black suits, white shirts, black ties, and black dress shoes. I file this new knowledge in my Dulce Science Center folder. John suggests I keep a tidy mind, so I do.
Tito takes us to a window. There are no windows where I stay. I blink against the sunlight—I haven’t seen sunlight since I was brought here. Since I let Tito turn me off so I could sleep. I woke up in the room with Gina and Jim looking at me.
Once my eyes adjust, I see that there are busses in the desert outside the building. There are also hundreds of what look like the same teenaged girl. They’re moving fast, and moving in funny ways, ways I can’t move. At least, I hope I can’t, since some of them are walking on their hands as well as their feet, looking kind of like four-legged spiders, with their heads up at a right angle to their backs. This isn’t a natural human or A-C position.
“Do you want me to go fight them?” I ask Tito.
“Why would you think that?” Jim asks, sounding horrified. “There are hundreds of them!”
“Tito brought me for some reason.”
“I did. I want to see if you can connect with them in some way. If they’re getting radio signals or similar, maybe you can intercept them and help us.”
The building shakes and there’s a loud sound. I don’t have anything to compare it to, but it sounds like the description of an explosion—as if the world around me was being torn apart with noise. “Is that a bomb going off?”
“Yes,” Gina says, sounding scared.
“Will I sound like that when my head explodes?”
“No,” Jim says firmly. “Because you’re not going to explode.”
“Okay.” I hope he’s right. “Tito, what do I do?”
“I don’t know how you’d connect with another Fem-Bot,” he replies. “That’s a robotic thing that we don’t yet understand.”
I concentrate. I don’t hear anything except another bomb, though it sounds farther away. While I’m trying to focus, though, I hear Gina and Jim talking softly to Tito.
“She’s the oldest model,” Jim says. “These look incredibly advanced—she can’t do half of what we’re seeing.”
“What you’re asking could make the bomb in her head trigger,” Gina adds. “We have no idea if it’s deactivated or not. If she blows, we all die.”
I feel bad. They’re right. I don’t know if I’m going to blow up or not. I see some of the Field agents going out a rectangular opening near some of the cars. As I register it as a garage door, or this building’s equivalent, I have an idea.
I don’t ask permission because I don’t think any of them will say yes. Instead, I run after the Field agents and go outside.
“Madam First Lady, why are you here?” one of them asks me, sounding shocked.
“I’m not her. I’m trying to help.” If I stay and talk to him, Jim and Gina might notice where I am. I run towards the Fem-Bots.
Another bomb hits, very near to me. I stop to watch it—the fire and billowing smoke, how sand sprays when debris hits it. It’s kind of beautiful in a terrible way. The bomb hits on something that shimmers. A shield. That’s right, the A-Cs have shields on their buildings. Everyone should be safe. Only, as I watch, the shimmer disappears in the area where the bomb hit.
This isn’t good. Jim, Gina, and Tito are near to where the shimmer disappeared. That means they’re i
n danger. They might only be my almost-friends right now, but they won’t be able to become my real friends if they blow up.
I wish John and Cameron were here to help me, but I did download everything they told me to, so I access my memory banks and look for how to connect with another robotic mind. There isn’t a lot of data on this, and what there is, talks about me. I make a note to be flattered later.
So I search for what to do when you’re outnumbered six hundred to one. Not a lot of answers that are applicable to this particular situation. So I concentrate and try to see if I can connect with the other robotic minds.
I hear something. It’s faint and sounds more like static than anything else. I try to get my mind closer to it.
I succeed, in a way. The static is louder and I can hear voices. But I can’t understand what anyone is saying, or if they’re saying words, numbers, speaking gibberish, or what. My memory banks share that this is a lot like the song “Mexican Radio” by Wall of Voodoo—the voices or whatever they are sound like something but I’m never going to know what it is.
The sounds start to hurt my head and I try to pull my mind away. It’s back to being static in the background, but I can’t ignore it. I’ve read about headaches—I think they feel just like this.
Someone grabs my shoulder and I spin around. It’s Gina. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?” she shouts. She’s out of breath and she looks scared.
“I’m trying to stop them.” My head throbs and I wince.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, as Jim and Tito appear next to us.
As I register that Gina ran out here without letting Jim or Tito know, I rub my temples. “I have a headache.” I explain what I tried to do and how it didn’t really work.
Jim fusses around the back of my head but it doesn’t help. Gina makes him stop. “It’s not helping her.” She puts her arm around my waist. “You look like you’re in pain.”