Unknown - The_Growing_589064

She shakes her head to dispel the thought, knowing if she freezes now, she’s dead, with the rest of humanity likely following in short order.

Walking over to the battle-scarred desk, she lays her laptop atop it, then slowly circles the room, examining it from every angle by the light of the harsh overhead fluorescents. Bank upon bank of softly humming CPUs, stacked from the cool tiled floor to nearly the ceiling, take up three of the four walls. The front wall is a massive bank of monitors, each tuned to a different part of the facility. Each screen shows the androids hard at work, never wavering from the task of creating others of their kind. Never wavering, never pausing, never stopping; they are relentless in pursuit of their preprogrammed goal.

She returns to the desk, pulls out the chair, and seats herself in its faux-leather comfort. While the desk has seen better decades, the computer is spanking new and top-of-the-line. It is also fully booted and running, though a password prompt blinks at her ominously. She knows she can crack the password easily, but it will likely leave a trace if she forces it.

Contemplative, her gaze settles upon the photograph once again. In a plastic frame, the back of the picture is easily visible. Childish letters are scrawled across the back. Squinting slightly, Kirsten tries to decipher the scribbling.

Happy Father’s Day Daddy! Love, Adam, Ashely and Amber.

Kirsten smiles.

Returning to the monitor, she types in a string of letters and hits the “enter” button.

“Bingo.”

A welcome screen appears and, smirking, Kirsten prepares to get down to work.

Her heart then jumps into her throat when the door buzzes softly and opens, admitting a male droid. Her implants hum as a long data stream flows into them. The stream abruptly stops and the droid eyes her, clearly expecting a response. She sends a silent thank-you heavenward for her contacts, which, she hopes, hide the deer-in-the-headlights look she’s sure she’s wearing.

“I am a biodroid, IC6-47A, and am not programmed to respond in the way you are expecting.”

If it were possible for an android to show surprise, Kirsten is sure it would be showing some now. After a second’s hesitation, it speaks. “I received no communication that this room was to be occupied. Explain your presence here, BD-1499081.”

Kirsten, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate. “I have not been programmed with the requisite information to aid in assembly of the units. I came to offer my services as a data technician. When I noticed that this office was unoccupied, I set to work. If there is another task that you wish me to perform, I shall comply with your orders to the best of my capabilities.”

Another moment’s hesitation as the android runs the possible responses through its microchip mind. Kirsten fancies that she can almost hear the circuits humming.

“Negative. Continue with your duties here. You will be notified if other tasks require your presence.”

Kirsten returns her attention to the computer screen without acknowledgement, and it is only after she hears the door slip closed that she allows herself to sag against the desk. The taste of fear coats her mouth, high and bright, like copper, or what she imagines copper might taste like. Her heart pounds, and she can feel the tickle of sweat as it beads across her temples and her upper lip.

“Jesus,” she breathes, wiping it away. “That’ll teach you to get cocky, King. Now just get to work.”

Her fingers fly over the keys again, opening and closing screens in the blink of an eye. The database is massive, larger even than she thought it would be. The security is immense and she knows it will take hours, even days, just to break through that alone. Doing it live will assure her nothing but a quick death.

With a deep sigh, she draws her laptop closer and sets it up for a wireless transfer. Downloading the massive database onto her laptop adds time she cannot afford, but she can think of no other options. The codes she needs are buried deep, she knows, and only patience will yield the harvest she’s after.

3

Ten hours later, the download is almost completed, and Kirsten sags back in her chair, resisting the urge to rub her burning eyes. Eyestrain has given her a headache strong enough to fell a moose, and her stomach howls out its emptiness while her kidneys throb and ache like rotting teeth. Grimacing, she damns herself for forgetting the most important thing of all. Androids, no matter how human they seem, have no need for the intake of food or liquids, nor the elimination of same. Not even biodroids, which are the most “human” of all.

Suppressing a groan, she uses the edge of the desk to help push her to feet gone numb with extended inactivity. The world around her grays out momentarily as her head swims and her muscles tremble. Tending since a child toward hypoglycemia, she realizes that ten hours at a computer with nothing to eat or drink has put her in a bad spot.

Stupid, her mind helpfully supplies. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She grasps the desk tighter as her head spins, and for a long moment, it’s a tossup as to whether or not she’s going to faint. With true desperation, she manages to release her grip long enough to claw open the top drawer of the desk, pawing through assorted pencils, pens and paperclips until her fingers touch what can only be a cellophane wrapper. As she grabs for purchase, the wrapper slips further back into the desk, and she scrapes along the skin of her forearm diving in after it.

Finally, managing to snag the object between two trembling fingers, she yanks back and pulls out her prize; a red and white striped mint.

“Thank you, God,” she whispers, twisting the wrapper off and shoving the hard candy into her mouth. The glucose in the candy hits her system almost immediately, calming the tremors, easing her headache slightly, and lending her a much needed strength. This high won’t last long, and she knows it, but for now, as it’s all she has, it will have to do.

Reaching down, she presses several buttons on her still downloading laptop. Two small chips exit into her hands. After a moment of thought, she reaches down the neck of her shirt and deposits the backup chips into the cups of her bra, shifting slightly to settle them comfortably beneath her breasts.

Then, taking steady, deliberate steps across the office, she stands before the door sensor and continues through the portal as it opens.

It’s as if nothing has changed during her ten hours of isolation, and indeed, nothing has. The same droids stand before the same stations doing the same work in the same manner. While she feels as if shattered glass has replaced her bones and joints, the androids all look newly-minted.

Seeing this and, perhaps, fully realizing its implications for the first time, a depression far blacker than any she’s experienced before hovers over her like a blanket. For the smallest of instants, she struggles with the mighty temptation to just let it fall; to wallow in the solace it seems to offer her.

How can I hope to defeat this? Alone. I’m alone with all this surrounding me. Dear God.

A remnant of a recent dream slides before her eyes and she gazes, from a distance, at the old woman (Goddess? Earth? Who?) she has promised to help. Another memory of childhood hours spent in catechism melds with the vision.

Mother, please take this cup from my lips.

The non-answer is all the answer she needs. She must drink the brew, no matter the bitterness. For one crystal second, she feels a sense of profound empathy with the plight of a man she’s not sure ever existed.

This Savior stuff really sucks.

Cheered by her mind’s wicked turn—sacrilege has always done that for her—she tosses off the threatening depression and continues onward, a new strength to her step and her emotions.