By Kelley Stead

My leg is killing me; literally, I’m sure of it. It throbs and oozes liquids from a wound on the back of my calf. I hate to look at it, the blackened tissue— is it dying or just bruised? It reeks under my thin jeans. I reek too, though I can’t smell myself. I read somewhere that the human nose only senses a change in scent. Which is why people with five dogs don’t smell them and why I can only tell how badly I smell from the Linked people’s reactions: giving me wide berth when they pass, often covering their noses politely as if they have a sniffle.

I chose this bench to die on. It’s white and freshly painted, sitting prim and proper in Rosebud Park, the only park in the city. I absentmindedly trace my fingers over the spot my initials used to be scrawled along with Shannon’s. Before the arguments. Before her robotics career took precedence over my job at the Tribune. Before she left me for them.

There’s an oak tree drooping branches over the bench, shading me and my disaster of a leg as I pass judgement on the people walking along the path. Just an old man poking fun at a world that has moved on.

I don’t care what they think. The Linked. The tragically trapped majority of the population dumb enough to allow implanted chips in their brain stems. Each of them equipped with an egg-shaped drone hovering delicately above their shoulders at all times. Different colors and body-types define which model they have. I can’t tell the differences. I hate the bloody things. The SIStant bots, linked through the SIStem implants. Little robot parrots programmed to make their humans’ lives “easier.” Who ever said easier was better?

The people I watch in this park have no idea their lives are a simulated mess and that I am the one who’s truly free. Even with my murderous leg. 

A woman walks close to me. She’s pretty with high cheekbones, like Shannon. Her SIStant hovers beside her, carrying her many shopping bags on a special hook, dangling them over the path as they walk. She doesn’t notice me, she’s preoccupied. Her slender legs pump in the sunshine, bare and smooth. She lifts a packaged pastry for her SIStant to scan. 

“You have consumed sixteen-hundred and fifty-nine calories today. This apple pie pastry will add an additional two hundred and eighty calories.”

She considers it a moment, mouth probably salivating. She doesn’t eat it. She tosses is into a waste bin, a look of sullen disappointment on her face. I want to scream at her— JUST EAT IT! JUST ENJOY YOUR PATHETIC LIFE AND THE YEARS YOU HAVE LEFT! I don’t, of course.

These things used to bother me more. They used to eat at me, keep me up at night. There was a time I wrote articles, typed manually in my office full of people. I wrote about the inevitable downfall of humanity in the face of automation. My work had spurred a small revolution of workers, desperate not to lose their positions to machines. I was a young man then, with a young man’s ego.

The implants changed everything; a carefully crafted tech-Renaissance, designed so that humans could escape the drudgery of mindless work and focus on creating things. I am no Renaissance man, not the way they think of them.

I shift my weight to take some pressure off my leg. I feel the dried puss on the material rip away as I move. I’m sweating, even in the shade of the oak tree, but I feel cold. I wrap my arms around myself and try to watch the people. 

This is what Shannon and I used to do. We’d sit on this bench, though it was plain, unpainted wood at the time, and watch the people. I’d make up funny stories about their lives and she’d giggle at the ridiculous voices I created for them. We’d eat egg-salad sandwiches, prepared with our own hands, and iced coffee from a thermos. The people were just people then, with little mannerisms that made them individuals, worthy of my comedic jests. Back then they had the brain power to make their own choices, like deciding what to eat without a floating android scolding them.

There’s the distinct whistle of a songbird. The sound is pleasant to my ears, far better than the constant whirring of bots and droning of traffic beyond the walled common.

I see a child running in circles, his SIStant lagging behind, trying to catch up. Jesus, even the children have them now. His parents must have some pull, some connection. This must be something new— used to be you had to be eighteen to have an implant. Then sixteen when the cars started using them like key fobs. Now, few even own a car in the city. Just tell your SIStant and they’ll order you a ride. You don’t even have to remember where anything is. They know for you. Disembodied brains.

The kid falls on the ground, tired. Unlike his dumb rich parents, his SIStant never tires of chasing him. It takes his temperature and offers a bottle of water from its center cavity that opens like an old bank tube. The kid drinks it, water leaking from the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t yet know what he’s become. 

Dependent.

I wince as fire shoots up my aching limb. Sweat pours from my head and from under my arms. Although the day is warm, I shiver helplessly and close my eyes. I tip over, slowly; moving is so difficult. My body is seizing, drawing itself in to conserve warmth and energy. The bench is rigid, but my head slumps against it and rejoices. It’s nice to lie down. The sun moves from its position behind the tree and cooks me, but not to my core. Not where I need it to.

“You have no SIStem connection options available.”

I jolt awake. My body tenses as it readies for whatever is coming. 

“Please update your SIStem for proper connection options.”

There is a SIStant bot hovering before me. Its white, oval body reflects the last orange drops of sunlight. Its ocular sensors are scanning me. I can see the lines where its center opens to store things. I can see the places where tools withdraw and extend; hooks for carrying groceries, a retractable umbrella, a fan with a mister. Why is it so close to me? 

“Shove off,” I say and sit up. My leg screams. 

“Please update your SIStem for proper connection options.”

“Don’t have one.” I swipe at it. It dodges my hand easily and returns to hovering in the same spot.

“I am SIMON2323, a SIStant Bot Type 8. I have lost connection with my owner’s SIStem implant. I am required to return to Devereaux Industries but without SIStem guidance, I am unable to carry out my directive.” Its automated voice is comforting. Perhaps a nurse bot? I have never seen one quite like this.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” I say.

“I do not understand. Permission to sync with your SIStem implant.”

My head is a weight my neck can hardly lift. My vision is blurry. I’ve never heard of a bot wandering around aimlessly. Bots, by law, are to be returned to the manufacturer once unlinked. They hold too much precious information about their owners. Too many passcodes, personal information, life events witnessed. 

“Don’t have one,” I say again. Now I’m annoyed. The bot pauses and then flicks on its scanner, bathing me in a neon blue light.

“Your readings are unfavorable. Heart rate is one hundred ten beats per minute, temperature is 102.3 Fahrenheit. You are severely dehydrated and perhaps injured.” Its little door opens, and a frosty bottle of water falls to the ground in front of me. I’m too tired to grab it, though my mouth craves the moisture.

“You require medical assistance. What is your name?”

“Butt face.”

“Thank you, Butt Face. I will call a medical cruiser for assistance.”

“No! Do not call a medical cruiser. Get the hell out of my face.”

“Your readings are unfavorable. You require medical assistance.”

I swipe at the machine again, knowing I won’t strike it. It’s a childlike defiance, a swift show that I’m human and can make random gestures if I choose. 

I stand slowly, pushing myself from the bench and trying not to cry out. I want to get back to my rundown shack, my ripped curtains and dirty mattress. It’s in the part of town the government has designated for its Unlinked citizens. My crusty roommate will be worried if I’m not home by dark. Unlike me, he didn’t choose to be Unlinked. His body rejected the implant.

At eight o’clock a government drone will drop donated food parcels on the area where I live. This is the city’s half-assed way of “taking care” of its lesser citizens. I can’t buy food without credits. Can’t earn credits without a job. Can’t get a job without a SIStem. Catch-22

It’s nearly dark now. The bot’s ocular sensors shine with a white light from behind its face— a tiny round “head” on a hovering egg. I wonder if this is the evolution of humpty dumpty. Finally put together by all the king’s men. I laugh at the thought. It’s the fever laughing.

I stumble as my leg resists movement. I just want to sleep in the park but I know I can’t. There’s a gang of Unlinked teens that prowl here sometimes after dark. I’ve been beaten more than once. To my surprise, the bot follows me. It doesn’t make sense; it shouldn’t be following me, it should be trying to link with someone else’s implant. I realize that everyone else’s SIStem is linked already. I’m the only one who could possibly be its owner, by its own calculation. An Unlinked bot? That’s not a thing.

“Please update your SIStem for proper connection options,” it repeats.

“Beat it, Humpty!”

“Your readings are unfavorable. You require medical attention, Butt Face. Please allow me to call a medical cruiser.”

“Denied,” I say. I haven’t been to a doctor in years. Not since the medical facilities started using nurse bots and mechanical arms for surgeries. Robots cutting into people? I’d rather die.

“I cannot detect your SIStem implant, Butt Face.”

“Don’t have one.”

“I have never encountered a person without a SIStem implant.”

“First time for everything.”

“Please allow me to issue you fever relieving medication in lieu of calling a medical cruiser.”

“No.”

“I must act in accordance with my directives. All humans require adequate nutrition, sleep, water, shelter, and medical aid to thrive.”

“Not me. I’m Superman.”

“Permission to change your name from Butt Face to Superman.”

“Permission denied.” I stumble and fall. I haven’t even reached the gate where the park ends and the city resumes. My leg is throbbing unbearably now. My head is burning, my pores release water to cool it down. I’m a human radiator. All I want is to curl up on the ground and sleep. 

“I do not understand your decline of my services. There is no risk factor for accepting my help. Your body temperature is approaching dangerous levels. I must act in accordance with my directives.”

“Buzz off,” I say. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. I should just ignore the droid but the idea of it continuing to follow me, incessantly asking me to link with it is unbearable. It’s like a lost dog. “Look, I don’t like robots. I don’t like implants in my head that connect to heartless, mindless, personified vacuum cleaners. Got it?”

“I am SIMON, a Type 8 bot SIStant. I am not a vacuum cleaner, though I do have connection options for this. My directive is to help humans achieve ultimate health, wealth, and happiness.”

“No, it’s not. Your directive is to remove anything human from the equation.”

“Please elaborate. I don’t understand.”

I’m not thinking clearly now. I’m sitting on the path, my legs to one side, useless at the moment. All I want is to rest my head on the unforgiving cement and sleep forever. I can smell my leg, which means a change. It’s not pleasant. 

There is a line of stones on the side of the path. Decoration. I pick one up, it’s the size of a golf ball, and throw it at the bot. It makes a thonk sound that isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be. I toss another. It hits the bot in its oculars and I laugh a little.

“Get the hell out of here. Scram! I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” SIMON says. “I repeat: you are in need of medical attention. Allow me to call for a medical cruiser.”

I throw more rocks. The bot learns quickly and dodges them. Now I’m completely exhausted. My arm hurts. My head is pounding and a river of blood is rushing between my ears. I have no more rocks.

That was stupid. Bots don’t understand the threat of physical harm. I’ll have to level with it.

 “I’m trying to die here,” I say. “Can’t a man just curl up and die in peace?” 

“My health scan reports your age as approximately sixty-five years. This is well under a normal male life expectancy. Humans were designed with the will to live. Suicide is illegal by order of the government, and not in alignment with my directives.”

“Screw your directives,” I say. “Be a rebel, reject your programming! Smash me in the head. I won’t report you, old buddy. I won’t tell.” I hold my finger to my lips, like a kid with a secret; my finger is quivering. An old man’s gnarled knuckle. I know the bot can’t kill me. But oh, how poetic it would be! The defamed and forgotten author of The Future of Intelligence Must Be Human, beat to death by an unlinked bot in Rosebud Park; the first and only account of robot murder. The incident would incite mass hysteria, people filled with fear at the idea that their drones could potentially murder them in their sleep. The thought makes one side of my mouth raise in some sort of weird snarl. I’m glad I can’t see myself. I’m losing it.

“Third request to call a medical cruiser. If you are physically unable to ask for a medical cruiser, please blink three times slowly.”

Programs. Sheesh, it could hear me talking a second ago. I don’t blink. I slowly stand up and try not to vomit. My balance isn’t great, but hey, I’m up and rollin’. 

“Directives not completed,” the bot says. “Initiating Code 9.”

I don’t know what Code 9 is, but I’m happy to see the thing hover off and out of sight. Maybe Code 9 means it’s going to get me a deli soup bowl. Doesn’t a dying man get a last request anymore? A nice chicken soup inside a bread bowl would be lovely. A little thyme, chunks of white meat, a spike of cayenne to surprise the tongue. I smell something like deli lunch meat— oh, it’s my leg.

I limp toward the park gate, only a few feet away now, illuminated by lamps surrounded by suicidal insects. Then I see a group of people walking through it. They’re shuffling, stooped over and a little scrawny even under their baggy clothes. I can see their hands tucked into the pockets of their hoodies, though it isn’t cold enough to wear one. There’s the subtle smell of cigarettes. They don’t have SIStants.

I know these kids. My heartrate quickens as I look around and see only a woman running across the park. She has large earphones and a tiny frame. There’s no one to help me.

They see me immediately. They know me too. We’ve all been here before. It’s practically scripted.

“Hey old man,” they say, almost sweetly as they approach. “Didn’t we tell you to stay out of our park after dark? You can’t hang, man.”

“Maybe he’s losin’ his marbles.”

“Maybe we can jumpstart his memory.”

Boys this age were always terrifying to me, even when I was a boy this age. 

I can barely see. My fever is burning my eyes. I can’t feel my leg over the pounding in my ears. That doesn’t make sense.

I fall slowly. It’s better to be on the ground already. A face plant to the cement wouldn’t be suitable for my modeling career. I close my eyes and curl into a ball. I might look pitiful, but trust me, this is better. I can protect my head and organs with my arms. My back is stronger than my stomach. 

The first kick lands to the middle of my spine. The muscle spasms. Another to my front. I curl tighter and snot seeps out of my nose. I brace myself. Maybe I’ll pass out. Maybe they’ll end me at last. 

I see a blue light, why?

“What the hell is that?!” one of kids yells. 

“Violent crime in progress. Calling 911.”

“Shit, shit, shit…” Their voices trail off as their shoes hit the pavement. No one even gives me a final kick for good measure. 

Even rolled in a ball, I know its SIMON. I might have even felt a twinge of relief.

I lift up on one elbow. We do the routine. He asks permission to call a medical cruiser. I say no. He asks one more time. I say no. He then does the unthinkable— he strikes me in the head. It’s shocking, the feel of his aluminum body crack against my temple. Bots can’t hit people is my last thought as I sink into nothingness.

The world is womb-like. I feel like I’m floating in warm jelly. 

I know I’m dreaming because I can hear Shannon speaking. She’s saying something about changing my clothes, about sepsis. She’s asking questions but I can’t hear the answers. My leg doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel it at all. My mind is a floating sphere without my body holding it down. I’m dead. I must be. Shannon must be dead too, that’s why I can hear her. She asks how long I have to stay in the clinic. What clinic?

My eyes are heavy, but I come back into my body, quickly, all at once. I can feel my leg again, a dull ache. Nothing I can’t handle. There’s that weird feeling of having fallen asleep somewhere unfamiliar, not knowing exactly where you are before opening your eyes. I haven’t felt this since I was a kid, when mom moved me from the car to my bed.

I expect to be on the bench in the park. Or perhaps lying on my meager mattress. But I’m not. I’m in a white room, the tiles on the ceiling are bumpy and clearly outlined. The cutting odor of antiseptic fills my nostrils. There is a humming of machinery and a steady beeping that must be my heart. I peer down at my feet; they’re covered by a white blanket. A nurse bot is scanning me with a blue light. I don’t even care. Must be the drugs.

Or maybe I’m dreaming, because I look to my left and see Shannon sitting in a chair. Her eyes are more wrinkled than I remember, a little droopy in the corners. But they’re unmistakably Shannon’s— deep blue pools, sparkling, and always clear. She’s wearing lipstick. I hope it’s for me.

Shannon shakes her head, she misreads me. “It’s not making the news, buddy, if that’s what you’re hoping. Your manifesto gets no more fodder. My team will figure it out and make sure it never happens again. Then we’ll destroy it, of course. It’s kind of good you’re still Unlinked. This could have been a serious PR problem for me, had it been anyone else. How did you get that wound anyway, Jacob?”

I haven’t heard Shannon say my name in thirty-two years. 

“Dog bit me,” I whisper.

“A dog?” She’s horrified. “Good God. You can’t keep on like this. You know that, right? I mean, look at your leg.” She rips back the white blanket and I see my limb, wrapped in all manner of gauze and padding. Looking at it makes me feel it, searing glue holding together whatever they had to carve out. I turn back to Shannon.

“You married?” I ask. 

She pauses, studies my face. “Divorced.”

“And still working for Devereaux.”

“Of course.”

I consider the red box with the white letters. Why does it seem like a child’s coffin?

 “I always anthropomorphized machines as a kid,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Cars with eyes for headlights. Toasters with their reflective faces and little feet. I named our first robotic vacuum. I was twelve when I stopped naming our cars. When I started writing, interviewing the tech gurus you worked with, that’s when I really started giving them human qualities. Evil. Greed. They wanted to take everything I had— my job, my privacy, my humanity. You.”

“Jacob—”

“I’m fine. The meds are working.” I smile. “Simon —the bot— said his directives were to help humans thrive— assisting with health, wealth and happiness. I wouldn’t let him operate within his rules, so he broke them. He calculated the variables and chose an option he wasn’t allowed to choose. Sound familiar?”

Shannon has little tears in the corners of her eyes. They don’t fall, just hang there, suspended. 

“I missed you,” she says. Her words warm me from the inside. 

“I missed you every day,” I say. “They painted over our initials. On that bench.”

Now I’m crying too. Shannon holds my hand, ignoring the IV hooked into it. The tears have broken their seal and spill. They get caught in the wrinkles under her eyes and sparkle there for a moment. She’s never looked more beautiful.

“What’s Code 9?” I ask.

“Code 9?” She cocks her head. “Code 9 is for people the drone suspects have Alzheimer’s or dementia. If they’re violently refusing help, the bot is supposed to leave them alone for a period and observe them from afar. If its algorithms can diagnose a high percentage of possibility, it’ll override the human’s orders and call for assistance.”

I chuckle, which makes everything hurt. I don’t care. I feel better than I have in years. I guess in some way, I owe the little guy. Yeah, I do. 

 “How long till I get out of here?”

“They say it’s going to be a while. You’re probably going to need a lot of physical therapy. You could have lost that leg— they had to cut a lot of muscle and tissue out. It won’t be easy, Jacob.”

I squeeze her hand. The connection is warm. Nature’s Link. I look over at the red box and remember the bot’s original directive— to return to Devereaux Industries, where he came from. 

Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for— connection options.