Clay (7 page)

The hood of the police car is warm.

Paul leans against the driver’s door, trying to remember something. It’s a word or an idea or…
something
. He’s obsessed with recalling it, remembering that he’s done so a dozen times already. It’s something urgent.

Critical.

The thought hovers in a haze that filled his head days ago. He’s not sure just how long it’s been, but night has followed day more than once.

His memories are cloaked in a dreamy fog, surreal. They’re like eagles soaring high above, wings stretched out and sometimes turning so they disappear into the blue. Paul searches the sky for them to return, to bring back whatever he’s supposed to remember.

“Sarge,” Jeffers says. “You want in?”

It takes a moment to focus on the officer’s face, to recognize the bristled mustache. Jeffers is in front of another cruiser. A third one effectively blocks the alley leading to the loading docks behind the warehouse.

“You want in?” Jeffers repeats.

“What?”

“Materese says the brick doesn’t have a cock.”

Paul licks his lips. They’ve been dry for days, can’t seem to hold moisture. He shakes his head, focuses on the uniformed officer sipping coffee behind Jeffers. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, the eyeliner thick and sharp.

Just past the back bumper of the third car, the brick stands at the corner of the building. His arms hang straight at his sides. His expression is tireless, waxy and sentinel blank. Only the subtle rise and fall of his chest hints at life.

“I say he’s hung like a donkey.” Jeffers holds his hands apart. “Like that.”

“What’s he going to use it for?” Materese says.

“Whatever he wants. I mean, Christ, if I could build a dick, I’d make it worth the while.”

“Use your head, idiot. Bricks don’t procreate; they’re squeezed out of a fabricator like glue. They just got to look human.”

“Procreate.”

“It means fuck.”

“He’s got a cock, Materese. It doesn’t make sense not to.”

“He ain’t got nothing, I can tell. It’s like one of those Ken dolls, just a bump between his legs.”

Jeffers chews his lip, looks the brick up and down. The brick doesn’t move, but he’s listening. Paul can feel him absorbing everything around him, feeling and seeing and hearing. He’s making sure they do their job.

“I’ve got a hundred says he’s sporting wood.”

The foam coffee cup is poised inches from her lips, the rim stained red. She shakes her head like she’s had one too many of these conversations. Jeffers digs a bill out his pocket and slams in on the hood.

“Get proof and it’s yours,” he says.

“You need help.”

“No, I mean get proof and the money’s yours.”

“If you want to see a cock, look down,” she says, sipping. “It won’t cost you.”

Paul sways on his feet, clicking his front teeth. Jeffers licks his lips but not because they’re dry. He’s just watched too much porn. He probably has a brick fetish, petitioning the government to fabricate sex models to satiate the urges of half the population that argue rape, divorce, and depression would be reduced if people could own sexbots.

Jeffers would have one of every color. Paul would take that bet.

“Why you so uptight?” Jeffers says. “He ain’t human. It’s more like a rubber dick, like the one you got stuffed in your glove box.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. It’s natural.”

“Jeffers,” Paul says.

“No disrespect, Sarge. I’m just trying to learn something. And give Materese money. That’s all I’m saying. I seen her dildo.”

“Fine.” Materese reaches for the bill.

Jeffers dangles it out of reach. “Got to see it first.”

“How?” she asks.

“Unzip his pants. He ain’t moved all day.”

“Pull his pants down?”

“Talk dirty to him or something, tell him you want a robot baby. It ain’t like you never got in a man’s pants before, do whatever you do.”

“You’re a sick fuck, Jeffers.”

“I’m curious. There’s a difference.”

Materese looks at Paul. There’s hope that he’ll stop her, tell her it’s a bad idea, that Jeffers should go sit in the car. But he’s still swimming in the haze, trying to remember the thing he’s supposed to remember. For a moment, he wonders why Jeffers is waving a hundred-dollar bill.

Materese puts her coffee on the hood. She approaches warily, waving her hand in front of the brick’s face when she’s within spitting distance. He doesn’t blink.

His hair is brown and cropped near the scalp. His posture is slouched, his shoulders round. He looks like someone you’d see alone in a dark bar.

Materese takes the last couple steps one at a time, pausing each time. Paul watches with mild interest, falling in and out of focus. One second he’s watching a young Hispanic woman reaching for a middle-aged man’s frumpy trousers, and the next it’s his subordinate about to sexually harass a brick.

Paul forms a word to stop this when his thoughts are obliterated. Materese ’s hand stops an inch from the belt buckle. She’s as still as the automobile. Jeffers’s tongue is out. Both of them are frozen.

The brick begins blinking.

He looks at Paul. His eyelids appear heavy, his light blue eyes tired.

Jeffers and Materese suddenly go to their cars. A heavy engine rattles behind Paul. He moves his head like he’s underwater. A white car is followed by a large truck—the type used to move furniture. Jeffers and Materese drive past him, opening the blockade. The moving truck is followed by two more, all with the U-Haul logo. They turn down the alley, gears grinding, hot exhaust in his nostrils.

Jeffers and Materese close the gap once the convoy is inside. They lean against their cars. Jeffers strokes his bristled mustache, a daydreamy haze in his eyes. Materese picks her fingernails. Paul thinks he should remind Jeffers his money is fluttering across the street.

Paul gets in his car. It’s hot and stuffy. He loosens his collar, trying to remember where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.

Someone knocks on the driver’s side window, a man with a bristled mustache. Paul should know him, but he can’t recall his name.

“What are you doing, Sarge?” the man asks.

“What?”

“What are you doing in your cruiser?”

Paul strokes the steering wheel, notices all the switches and monitors. He’s in a police car.

“Got to go.”

“Where?”

Paul shakes his head.

“You coming back?” the man asks.

The brick is staring. Another strange wave passes through Paul, tingles beneath his scalp like scrubbing bubbles wiping his brain clean. Telling him what to do.

“Yeah,” Paul says. “I’ll be back.”

He follows the white car and U-Hauls to the loading dock.

The sun is out.

It’s burned away the steel mat of clouds that’s entombed the sky for four days. Sunlight reflects off the wet streets. Marcus slouches in the back seat, watches the oblivious citizens of Seattle blunder down sidewalks and wait for streetlights. The fabric of humanity is like parched linen dangling over a flame of biomite technology; a flame that could incinerate any shred of human semblance, leaving human forms like empty cicada shells, like pillars of salt.

Sodom and Gomorrah.

If not for Marcus, they would all perish without a thought. If not for his dedication, there would be no one to extinguish the flame. And now, after so many struggles, the tide will finally turn.

He could hardly sleep.

The hotel was comfortable and quiet but Marcus stared at the ceiling. Even a sleeping pill took longer than usual, its effects still swimming in his head.

He’s waited twenty years for this day. Twenty years to have the boy—he’s a man, but will always be a boy—in his grasp. He’ll take Nix back to M0ther and watch her digest him slowly.

Marcus pats Anna’s bare knee just below the hemline. Her lipstick is magenta and perfectly lined. She appears unfocused, staring past the front seat, through the windshield.

“M0ther is updating,” she says.

Marcus cringes. He prefers not to call the massive artificial intelligence that monitors biomites by her acronym. She might overlook humanity, but he had a different relationship with her, something on an equal level. No, he couldn’t match her processing ability, nothing could. Marcus brought her passion; he brought her wisdom that only one of God’s creatures could bring.

Marcus caresses the inside of her knee then folds his hands on his lap. “Why didn’t she call me?”

“She prefers to speak with you when you return home.”

The car stops at the stoplight. A man on the corner stares at the white car. Above him, a billboard advertises a long-lasting Dreamland experience.

“Continue,” Marcus says.

“Free the girl.”

Marcus chuckles, waiting for more. Anna is looking at him now, her eyes focused on his lips. “We’ll do nothing of the sort,” he says. “The girl contains everything and the boy knows it. He’ll do something rash and we’ll have him.”

“Her projected analysis suggests that if the girl is released, Nixon Richards will find her and lead us to his sister. The probability of success is 83%.”

“The probability of capturing Nixon Richards right now is 100%.”

“That is not the objective.”

“And when we have him, his sister will come out of hiding. We’ve already discussed this.” Marcus checks his jacket for his earpiece. “I want to talk with her now.”

“She has already implemented the change, Marcus. Her projections are complete.”

“She didn’t discuss this with me!”

That was the issue. It wasn’t that she just snatched Nix out of his hand, not that she shit on this glorious morning; it was that she didn’t consult him.
That’s not how this works
. She continuously conducts endless scenarios, analyzing human behavior and motivation, predicting the probability of outcomes with greater accuracy than anything on the planet…but she could not see the future!

These were probabilities. Chances. Science, by its own admission, is less than perfect. It works from educated guesses and refines its mistakes. Only God is perfect.

And Marcus speaks for Him.

That was the agreement. M0ther did the math, but Marcus spoke the divine. They worked together.

The car waits at the final stoplight. Three cargo trucks are lined up behind them, their diesel engines idling loudly. The satellite imagery of their approach would be blurred from public record. No one would see them make the final approach to the warehouses.

When the light turns green, Marcus realizes he’s staring at a billboard that advertises free biomite boosters.

***

Jamie’s mouth is slack, drool slipping from the corner, a glistening trail to her chin. Yellowish light filters through the opaque glass dimmed with age and neglect. Dust particles hang over her.

Marcus watches her from the dark end of the room. The door is closed but the odor reaches him. It permeates everything, but no longer reminds him of victory. Now it’s just the stench of death and the possibility of losing everything.

Right there, sleeping, is the key. That pill inside her is the key.

From the other side of the door, the warehouse has come alive. Some of the bricks grunt, dropping heavy objects on the concrete. There’s an occasional sound of fabric and zippers, of vinyl bags rustling.

Marcus steps on a soft cord, smells the tang of biomites. It’s a whip-like tail. He nudges the limp animal with the tip of his shoe, its skin smooth, leathery, and red. In the dark, it looks like a dog but the ivory fangs protruding from the oversized snout are evident.

Fabricated abominations.

The pets range from mouse-sized animals to Great Danes, each of them outfitted with customized limbs and unnatural colors. Some with fur, others hide. All of them with teeth. They were likely prowling around when the nixes were shutdown, dropped like the power cord had been pulled.

Before M0ther put a stop to it, everyday people were working their way up to fabricating larger organisms, kept them around like freakish pets. How far were they from fabricating dead loved ones?

All the warehouses in this sector were owned by the same subsidiary. This was just the beginning. If the brick hadn’t discovered their activity, they would’ve expanded into the neighboring buildings, opening doorways through the back walls like Marcus had done. How much would someone pay to fabricate a son or daughter?

This wasn’t just a party scene. It was the fuel that kept the biomite flame growing, that pushed it closer to the fabric.

How many more of these dens are there?

Meanwhile, M0ther will free the girl, the drooling Sleeping Beauty who contains all the answers. They could drop her in the digesting vats, absorb the information and locate places like this all over the world. They could fabricate an army of bricks to stage a global raid. And she wanted to let her go.

He could override M0ther. Marcus had that authority.

He could force her to capture Nix and lure his sister into the open, but he knew better. He knew his desires were distorting his rational thinking, that M0ther had the same wish as he did without the emotional attachment.

She wants them both, too.

Jamie sounds like a child caught in a nightmare. Marcus kicks the dead pet and limps over to the lounger. The muscles on her neck are rigid, her tongue working hard to break free.

Marcus strokes her chin with the backs of his fingers, runs them softly to her throat. He leans close enough to feel her breath on his lips and her eyes snap open.

He squeezes her throat, feels the muscles collapse in his grip. Her breath catches and her eyes widen. She’s still caught in Anna’s catatonic grip, unable to move, unable to look away. He doesn’t have the ability to sense if Nix is in there, if he’s still pawning her perception field, but he hopes so. He hopes that boy sees him.

He will always be a boy.

If freeing this girl will give him Nix
and
Cali, he will not stand in the way.

Marcus shoves off.

The girl struggles to breathe; unformed words fall off her lips in grunts and squeaks. Marcus ignores the pathetic attempts to curse him. He opens the door, walks into the putrid fog of dead flesh.

Anna is waiting for him. He watches the bricks work like soldiers. They carry body bags across the warehouse, dropping each one next to a nude body.

Marcus looks down at a teenage boy named Charlie. Most of his flesh is sickly pale, the stomach slightly bloated. A small patch of hair is tufted between his nipples.

A pair of bricks drops a body bag next to it, pulling the flaps to the side to reveal an exact duplicate of Charlie. The skin is even discolored with veiny, marbled patterns near the surface, even the bruises around his bicep where someone grabbed him. Maybe his girlfriend was trying to stop him from taking the nixes.

Or maybe she was trying to get away.

The bricks lift M0ther’s stiff fabrication from the bag and quickly slides Charlie—the real Charlie—inside. They dress the imposter with the clothes that are stacked near the corpse using photo images they recorded upon arrival, adjusting the coat and pants to match what he looked like before he was undressed. Even the wrinkles in the sleeves and the inadvertent cuff of the pant leg are exacted.

They haul the body bag to the trucks. They will return with another.

Marcus is tempted to bend down. Even though the pain in his knee has subsided, he’ll pay for it. The people outside the warehouse, the ones waiting for answers, will never know the bodies of their loved ones will be flown to M0ther for deep analysis, where they’ll be pulled apart, where every cell, every part of them digested for future reference.

What they’ll find in the warehouse once Marcus leaves are fabricated duplicates made of biomites and a small amount of clay, just enough to fool an investigation. They’ll bury these fabricated bodies, mourn over them, take flowers to their graves and never know the difference. In God’s eyes, it won’t matter. Their love for their sons and daughters will still be true.

And Marcus will be that much closer to stopping this plague.

“Contact the chief of police,” he says. “Tell him we’ve concluded our investigation and the families are allowed to view their loved ones.”

“The press will want a statement,” Anna says.

“Have someone else do it.”

“You’d like a brick to handle PR?”

“Yes.”

She did that on purpose, knew he was struggling with the new course of action. She referred to her kindred as bricks, as if the insult of their fabrication is completely lost to her. He liked that.

“I’d also like to give the press full access to the premises. Bring the camera crews inside, even sneak some of those bloggers in. I want a team of bricks to stay behind to be interviewed. I want the public to be saturated with details. Let them see what their future looks like.”

“Public beheadings…you know that tactic doesn’t work.”

“Humor me.”

“I’ll take the lead in public relations, then.”

“No. I want you to be on the plane with me, I’ll want company. I’ll be flying back with the bodies, I want analysis to begin immediately.”

The bricks work ceaselessly as always, hauling bag after bag into the warehouse, swapping and dressing bodies down to the last detail. There’s no need to encourage them to work faster. They’re such good slaves. Marcus revels in the fact that he never has to deal with human employees, imperfect and slow.

An ironic twist, but effective.

Perhaps, he always thinks, there’s a place for bricks in society once humans stop defiling God’s temples.

Two body bags are dropped near the back office and left unattended. Marcus shuffles near the foot of them. Anna takes a knee, pulls one of them open to reveal a young girl inside. Jamie’s fabrication is chalky but well-preserved, as if she only passed this morning.

Marcus sighs. “Set her free, then.”

He limps toward the back exit, bricks avoiding him as he heads toward a waiting car with no idea of what M0ther plans to do.

But it’ll work.

It usually does.