27: Dinner 4_1

27: A Love Story

J.A. Thomas

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or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an as is basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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A message from the Author: The interviewees and voices of the 27 project are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely intentional.

I would like to thank my friends – the bolts and metal gears that sewn me and helped me fly again. Without you, I am just another flickering command prompt.

Episode I

I bend to you. I bond to you until Dismantle when we are ashen.

I will return to you when I am disengaged.

I bond to you and to no other product.

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-The Artificial Intelligence Bond Sanctum

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Trace_located_0800_Colony_1:_execute

The Detective

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She stood on the precipice of her former self and the person she wanted to become – a hollowed shell of the girl getting a star tattoo in the parlor outside her Academy dormitory. Neither here nor there. Not anywhere. Maybe I’ll return to The Black Hat, she spoke a static sea, He might be there. She remembered his face as a satellite, her moon.

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He sipped his bourbon. Annodeth hadn’t drank whiskey in a month. It burned once more and it was that burn he missed – glorious in a way. How remarkable, thought the detective, that all things in this life – good and bad – they all burn. Anno thought back to the day of his brother’s funeral. The ceremonies were open casket. God hadn’t even the sentiment to make it a hazy day. The sun pierced sharply through the cathedral windows revealing every crease on his brother’s harrowing yet handsome brow. Likely the ceremony would be open casket considering he was a hero and their mother a show-off.

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He looked down at his brother’s corpse – not solemnly but a little shaken. How ironic that he succumb to deaths’ bells before Anno – a much more accident prone, sin ridden subject.

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It shook him well into that winter – the coldest winter in Cell history. I wasn’t prepared for this, Anno stared out onto the blue lights outside his dirty 14th floor flat. How could I ever be prepared for this?

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Anno and Mitya were four years apart – to the day. An on-going joke amongst their mother’s comrades was that she and Dimitri could not wait till Anno was out to put another in the basket. Their mother used to giggle at the jest – she was very much in love with their father. Mitya and Anno were both borne of this love.

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They were the closest that any siblings could be – both in mannerisms and philosophy. Both lefties, Taryn, their mother, forced Anno and Mitya to learn to use their right hands for motor skills. Anno and Mitya were often mistaken for identical twins by neighbors and Academy mates. Anno swore – as he looked for some identifiable face amidst the attendees at Mitya’s ceremony – that many in that crowd grew distressed as he made eye-contact – fretful that they were looking at a dead man walking. How then – you may ask – would Mitya and Anno travel such divergent paths in life? 

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The only person who truly knew how Anno was his brother, Mitya - and Mitya, Anno. There is no doubt about that. And when Mitya died, so did Anno, in the most literal senses sans piercing flesh and bone. Anno died when his brother committed suicide. That is as certain as the gray walls surrounding the colonies – those walls build 50 feet high betwixt the laboratory grounds.

Ordinance 9000

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Surveillance is the only acceptable form of cinematography as ruled by Ordinance 9000. Mounted lenses adorn every door-frame in Cell. These glaring, unblinking eyes were unwavering and ever watching. Probable cause is a thing of the past. There need no warrant for search and destroy.

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At its inception, Project Lens was merely a marketing tool – aligning Consumers with their most wanton items and necessities without the hassle of traditional e-vertisement. The contact lens became a crucial requirement for the Consumer on the go. The eventual demise of most forms of tactile cellular devices led to an 80 percent compliance level for contact lens use.

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Senator Warren lay face down in a pile of blood, his lower intestines sprawled across the marble floors of his sterling lined estate hallway. Cell shook silently the day these photos went live. His pallid, bloodied corpse strewn across the Cell Times daily spread for all to see – a two page feature. What most Celluloids did not know at the time, however, is that only Consumers with lenses witnessed this news.

That winter, when word spread amongst the colony that news delivery favored lens users, compliancy levels reached 100 percent.

My eyes no longer wander

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Mary gazed upon her son’s soft face with a tear. She never could help but tear up looking into his big brown eyes – just like his father’s and his father’s before him. She wasn’t particularly forlorn today. The weather forecast predicted a colony curfew of 0800. This Ordinance enforced curfew stemmed from a unanimous vote from all Board seats – the idea is to keep the Colonies safe, of course. Previous forecast votes favored terms with more lenient colony curfew – sometimes extending past 1000. These forecasts, however, were deemed unsafe across the Board upon news of the Senator’s murder. It’s a little before sunrise. That’s fair enough time for me to get to Panohra before the bells chime, she spoke to herself after glazing her pout with her favorite stain – number 50: some like it hot. Mary observed this lip color first on the blue carpet, as adorned by her favorite screen actress of the Golden Era.

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Mary glanced out of the window of her fourth floor flat. It’s always dark here Morcant. It was dark before you left but that darkness was whole. At least that darkness was ours. Now it’s just a dead island, she sighed. She looked again at Muirín – his eyes sealed – lids fluttering slightly. Must be dreaming. Her gaze continues down to Muirín’s left ankle where the kill switch seized permanently fastened – a new Ordinance approved kill switch with each growth spurt.

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Mary thought aloud: The streets are clean. The streets are always so damn clean. Mary partly longed for a time she remembered from her early 20s; back then Ordinance law didn’t track Celluloid colonies as strictly or brutally as they tracked product colonies. Mary turned 29 this April. Muirín will be nine this week – time for his third fitting.

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All colonies of present day Cell, Celluloid and product alike, are heavy with industrial odors of rusted iron and twice recycled aluminum. Gravity is palpable. The thick – artificial oxygen looms metallic and gray – casting a shadow upon the each walk up and

rooftop, regardless of altitude. Mary gazes up at this eternal gray and longed for green. It’s half a century since the last natural flora was removed from Colony 6. Mary studied footage of bio-essence in her Historical Data courses during Cadet Academy. Then, she often wondered what the sky hue was like during these days of vegetation – as if to question the authenticity of those images.

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Mary desired to have Morcant’s children very early on in their relationship. She told him first about a premonition she dreamed the night after they first met. I was standing in the fog by the bay. I saw you. I couldn’t clearly make out all of you but I knew it was you because the green in your eyes was so bright. It’s odd, the sky was so gray but your eyes were effervescent – glowing. Perhaps it was the lucidity of Mary’s dream that sparked an unwavering flame. Nevertheless, she awoke the morning after her dream knowing. Mary drifts.

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Morcant caresses Mary’s soft pink cheek. His hand grazes gently down to her jaw to her mouth as he draws her face into his and kisses her with warm resolve. When he touches her, she pulsates. It is said that certain product strings are made to mimic sexual response. For Mary, nothing to the mockingbird key resonates about the way Morcant’s UI responds to Mary’s vibrations. While he had the programming option to turn off engagement via PERL on demand, he never did with her. Not once.

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They knew that they would breed a half-breed. They both knew the decision to do so was reckless and ultimately selfish. Half-breeds are less than second class citizens of Cell. They are, in many facets, lower than product.

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Thirty till first warning, Mary whispered. Mary runs to her mirror to double check for articles of travel. She vocalizes a checklist: "Ordinance papers ... check. USB check. Coin card ... yes. Sanity ...

Maybe." Mary grins. Today is the day she and Morcant ruthlessly planned for when she was pregnant with Muirín.

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Mary recollects his hands the most – those unquivering hands that only shook upon their meeting. Those are the words Morcant chose for their Bond Sanctum. The ceremonies took place last winter – the winter Senator Warren was assassinated. Morcant’s black hair juxtaposed incalculably with his smooth taut skin. His skin – like silken embers – Mary trembles.

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Mary acquired Morcant as a graduation gift from her father. Mary’s father was blatantly unaware: Mary knew Morcant prior to her graduation. She actually knew him quite well before the surprise gift. Mary first noticed Morcant near the smokestacks off the interstate that connects Colonies 2 and 4. This area, historically known as the former DMZ, is more commonly notated as the Friendly Fire grounds. The Black Hat compounds - still standing in its pre-war architectural glory – are now a puerile tourist attraction. Yes, it still maintains loyal visitors, but Post War devolved these grounds.

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Mary shook herself awake – No time for daydreaming today. She must get to Panohra before first warning.

I want an honest interface

Cell Laboratories decided upon a core marketing strategy that evoked both personality programming and engineering prowess. Those products deployed to production must supersede all former product lines into absolution. A seven point inspection ensured their durability and manageability. In this fashion, the To each their own model of engineering continued to foster Cell Laboratories as a market staple since the era of Ordinance.

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For well over a century, Cell is committed under Anti Plastics Ordinance – its roots firm within prehistoric law – often jokingly referred to as The Bag Ordinance. Doctor L.T., president of Cell Engineering’s marketing team joke often and ably about this law during conferences and dining outings. He oftentimes yarns about how, without the precedent of 2013, the ruling would render poly plastics extinct and leave none available for the product assemblage en masse. Way to shoot yourself in the foot and pretend it’s for the greater good, L.T. chimes.

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The subsequent conversion to full compliance for recycling came about a decade before the war. Yet recycling’s formative years followed the Lockheed mergers of 2K.