Unnatural

Unnatural

  By Anthony DiGiovanni

  Copyright 2014 Anthony DiGiovanni

  Author’s Note

  Those who expect science from this story will be subjected to vivisection. Those who expect romance from it will be forcibly sterilized. Those who expect decent language from it will have their original bodies vandalized with profanity.

  PART 1

  CHALLENGE

  “Take a moment to think about your own human body … We take our bodies completely for granted. We consider our bodies to be essential – so essential that … we cannot envision our lives without human bodies. But that is a primitive way of thinking. In the near future you will discard your body – you will literally throw it in the trash – because you will neither want it nor need it. You will discard your biological body gladly, like you would discard an old pair of shoes today. You will be quite grateful to be rid of it.”

  –Marshall Brain

  CHAPTER 1

  “God damn you, Isaac Livingston!” Uriah said under his breath. Decadents like that man had no right to the comforts of mechanical bodies. Not in the eyes of the ragged, torn-jacketed individual whose old shoes trod his kitchen tiles, anyway. All this security was so flimsy – Uriah was in, after all – but Livingston probably had paid more for it than would reliably keep ten children safe.

  Footsteps in the direction of the basement. Gotcha. He drew the electromagnetic gun and opened the cellar door a few slivers. Seeing the glint of a metallic humanoid shape, he flung the door aside and fired.

  The ensuing thud immediately preceded the muffled noise of a car crash. He looked towards the cellar window, then back at Livingston. The degenerate was dead silent. Uriah was hardly in the mood to incriminate himself, but what was he going to do? Let the driver go without medical attention because of his cowardice?

  He laid the weapon by Livingston’s hand and scurried away to the cul-de-sac. The offending vehicle had smashed into the garage door of a house directly across from the street that ran out. Uriah stuffed his gloves into his jacket. Not like he planned to stick around waiting for the ambulance, but fool me twice …

  The driver didn’t seem to have suffered any concussion, yet she was unconscious and, Uriah confirmed after a few seconds, not breathing. As he groped for a cell phone and dialed 911, he thought, Damn those richies, they’re the only ones who can afford the cars that could be saving lives more worth saving than theirs.

  No one picked up.

  Uriah looked around. Nobody else seemed to be aware of the accident, except – a body. He could just barely see it, illuminated by the street lamp. He kept dialing while approaching the limp figure, a chill rushing through him with the wind.

  Another Organic, he noticed, wearing running shorts and a headband. Poor sap must have had a heart attack. Not that he was freaking Dr. House, but it still struck him as very strange that the runner appeared as if he’d just died in his sleep, like an elderly fellow. Uriah’s next dials were quick and strong. He soon found that the cell phone had a feature that could alert a nearby android of an emergency. Figuring a medical bot couldn’t suspect him, he sent the alert.

  Idiot! CPR first, then get help. But what was the compression-to-breath ratio, again? Cursing himself, he locked his hands together and applied twenty bursts of pressure to the man’s sternum. Definitely more presses than breaths, he remembered that much, but what were the ever-loving numbers? And why the hell was the occupant of 544 Stanley Way not giving any assistance whatsoever? Five artificial respirations.

  The subtle siren of a hospital robot blared throughout the neighborhood. It was sparse relief for Uriah, however, who by this point was prepared to shoot himself for forgetting to pinch Night Runner’s nose closed. Where was an AED when you needed one? He sighed, remembering those three little words. All for Pat.

  The seconds vanished.

  It was hopeless. No breathing, no response, no evidence of Night Runner’s being anything more vivacious than the mannequin on which Uriah had first practiced CPR. He gave up, rubbing some of the fatigue out of his arms and giving himself some air. Knowing he could not save this guy made it easier to forgive himself for not trying the same method on the crash victim, who was probably beyond revival as well. Residents of Aberdeen, Nevada, were too relatively poor to have artificial doctors close enough to most people who needed them.

  Uriah refocused his gaze on the house to the right of Road Rage’s. Did these people simply not care? Maybe they knew they were as incompetent as he was. Covering his face with his hand, he departed from Stanley Way with that thud still ringing in his ears. Faint, but as distinct as the original. He was a killer.