Chapter 2
Nearly black hair that appears ridiculously soft. Dark lashes over closed eyes. The specification says she selected blue. It has full maroon lips, a day’s worth of stubble, veins snaking up its toned forearms, and—those hands!
“Wow,” she mutters.
“Do you think I could get my thighs to look like that?” Jett asks.
He only gives her a sympathetic look. “I can’t believe you finally clicked Purchase.”
Maybe she didn’t. She wouldn’t put it past her FRIEND Lessa to press her thumb onto the signature pad on her behalf. “Let’s look at the contract.”
Jett opens the file and scrolls all the way to the bottom. There is the evidence. Her identification number in block letters forms a circle around her thumbprint, next to an image of her face, grinning for the retina scan. No Lessa in the background to pressure her.
“You’re going to love him. Everyone’s going to want to know how far back in the DNA samples you went to find this specimen. I’ll have to get the year for when I replace Decci.”
Jett’s words barely register as K8’s reality settles around her. “What do I do?”
“Oh, I forget you’ve never activated one. The instructions are simple. There.” He points to the owner’s manual file.
“No. I meant do you think I can return it? I certainly can’t keep it. It’s not like I have the unicoin to waste—Incredible Bill’s new Inside for Winter collection will be out soon. There are several pieces I must have!” K8 swallows the anxious lump in her throat.
How does he not seem to notice the emotional crisis she’s been thrust into?
Imagine if she were to activate the thing?
After holding out on her dream of real human companionship for all these years—what type of person would that make her?
It seems all it took was one drunken night of desperation and she cracked.
If there were only one person who wanted her .
. . but in eighty-six years, there hasn’t been anyone.
Not for the first time, K8 works her way through the mental list of why this is the case.
It always comes down to one thing: K8 must be unlovable.
The GROW manupartner kit on her desk is the final, glaring proof.
Her jaw clenches. She is stronger than this. She can still find someone. Tomorrow, she will take the kit to GROW and demand her money back. Blame it on their manipulative advertising or—well, she doesn’t know, but she’ll review the contract and think of something.
“I can see your wheels turning, K8. You are not returning this beautiful specimen. If I had more time, I’d stay and force you to begin the grow process right now, but I have a Cell Tech facial scheduled.
” Jett takes another moment to stare in awe at the atrocity manupartner she’s purchased before heading for the door.
Before it closes, he says, “I’m calling Lessa.
They’ll make you activate it. Don’t have a meltdown! ”
When the door clicks shut, she’s left alone with a single awful thought: What have I done?
After an hour of ruminating, K8 meets Lessa and their manupartner, Yansy, who stand by the airlock elevator doors that will take them down to the B level SAT garages for Tower CA25. Thank Zorg no one else is waiting in line for the building’s shared transports. The sooner this is over, the better.
When Lessa messaged, they didn’t mention K8’s misguided purchase, so when they asked her to accompany them to the GROW recycle station, K8 agreed.
Better to keep busy. Knowing Lessa, they were probably so focused on recycling their manupartner, they didn’t even read Jett’s message announcing her sudden break from sanity her GROW purchase.
“Hi Yansy,” K8 says, wondering if Lessa has told it where they’re going. She knows Yansy will have no feelings about its fate. Still, she feels awkward riding with what appears to be a human to their death decommissioning.
Yansy gives her a lopsided smile. “Hi K8. I had a great time at your birthday last week.” It turns to Lessa. “My, you look delicious.”
Overeager indeed. A flaw in the design, she supposes.
That is to be expected with some of the lesser quality manupartners, but not a GROW.
But she’s heard a rumor that the company has been tinkering with its processes, trying to get a more realistic, emotive product.
An edge that would elevate them above their two biggest competitors, ManuMATE and CHOICElover.
Perhaps this minor flaw is a side effect of that tinkering.
Lessa arches an eyebrow, giving K8 a See what I mean look.
They obviously checked the friendly and agreeable boxes when they ordered it.
Yansy doesn’t register Lessa’s irked expression, however.
Each manupartner is a bit of an experiment.
The consumer selects the general qualities, then hopes for the best.
The scientist in her wonders what the kit in her unit would produce. She can’t believe the specimen she picked could act eager, but they say a manupartner’s traits and build are completely distinct.
Yansy guides them into the airlock elevator. “Something the matter, my love? Are you unsettled about your decision to recycle me?”
K8 bristles. No, K8. It’s not a real person. It is almost painful how often she has to remind herself of that.
“Of course not.” Lessa notably looks anywhere but at their manupartner.
K8 spots their half-lie, knowing the twenty percent of them still clinging to it will fade away in a few days’ time.
“I only want you to be happy.” Yansy stares dreamily down at Lessa.
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that,” they say.
K8 doesn’t speak, letting the soon-to-be not-couple have their moment.
The airlock elevator they entered comes to a halt.
Inside, green light bands running the circumference of the space at regular intervals from floor to ceiling alert them that the area is safe to enter.
The pressure shifts, hissing, as the doors slide open.
K8’s ears pop as the carefully managed air depressurizes.
As she steps into the SAT garage, the air between the four rough concrete walls feels perfectly still, like her favorite antigravity-antiaging chamber.
The next available Sealed Air Transport rests on a low platform in the center of the room.
Like all SATs, its body is constructed from an acid-resistant black fluorocarbon.
A thick band of purified aluminum makes a loop around the middle.
Two matching stripes run the length of the underside.
Environmental exposure etches the smooth metal, creating little pits which must be filed down at regular intervals.
Eventually, the entire magnetic strip becomes so thin it will no longer respond to the MagTrack lines.
Then the old metal is stripped off to be reprocessed, and new ones are put in their place.
Fortunately, this one appears to be in good shape. The older ones always make her nervous.
Above the aluminum band, safety lights encased in glass flash in the Ready-Welcome sequence.
Yansy rushes around opening their doors before sliding into the back.
K8 places her palm on the panel to activate the machine.
It springs to life. The magnets produce a faint but high-pitched humming as it lifts off the ground. Whirling lights click on.
The system, in a perfectly human sounding voice, confirms, “Passenger C-K8lyn-MSP-00023468. Please register all passengers.” Little screens with handprint outlines light up in front of Lessa and Yansy’s seats.
They comply, placing their palms on the scanners.
A moment later, their NHOS identification numbers flash on the screen.
K8 taps the screen to verify the information is correct.
“Input your destination,” the system instructs.
K8 gives Lessa a sidelong glance before saying, “GROW Recycle Station. Tower MM10.”
Lessa reaches over, squeezing K8’s hand.
Probably more for her benefit than Lessa’s.
After the SAT’s display confirms its air seal has activated, the two metal doors of the garage wheeze, sliding open.
Red lights illuminate the room as the sooty outside atmosphere whooshes into the chamber.
Heavy brown particles mix with the purified breathable air.
K8 studies the difference in consistency as the lighter wisps of clean air escape.
Looks to be a bad air quality day. Worse than she predicted a week ago in her official ledger.
That usually means two things. Fewer people will be out and about, and there will be more atmosphere-assisted suicides this week.
The SAT travels along a MagTrack line out of her tower, entering the flow of SATs zipping along carefully planned routes.
They move up and down interchange paths to pick up different connections.
Half an hour later, they’ve made it into the M Quadrant of Minneapolis–Saint Paul, or MSP.
At the recycle station receiving garage, there are a dozen SATs in line.
Another half an hour passes before they make it to the front of the line.
The garage doors open. The SAT inside zips out, turning in the opposite direction they came from.
Through the thick glass, K8 sees a woman chatting animatedly with her passenger.
Like always, the entire process strikes her as unfeeling, callous even.
Unsettling to see someone moving on so flippantly from whatever this is.
Disposable. As the word flashes through her mind, her chest tightens.
The attendant, wearing a full-environmental protection suit, stands inside the doors, waving a blinking wand to usher them inside.
Once the SAT parks on the platform, the garage doors slide shut, sealing with a loud clack.
The attendant steps into a smaller chamber as the air inside the garage rattles the SAT.
After a few minutes, the red lights switch to green.
The attendant exits the smaller room, approaching the SAT.
Lessa steps out, already pulling their device from their bag.
K8 watches from beside the SAT as the attendant says, “Documentation,” as a matter of greeting, holding out a tablet.
Lessa taps the screen a few times and both of the devices ping. The attendant reads over the information, then looks to the backseat of the SAT. With a hand, he waves Yansy out. Looking unfazed, Yansy strides around to stand beside Lessa.
“Hand, please.” As the manupartner lifts its hand, the man pulls out a little cylindrical silver device from his pocket and presses it into Yansy’s pointer finger.
Then he lowers it over his pad, depressing the button on the top.
A few drops of blood fall into the receptacle.
Neon colored lights illuminate the tablet.
The attendant nods, approving of whatever the tablet shows. “Please sign here to confirm the identity of GROW Unit 2460-MSP-Yansy-00023287.”
Without hesitation, Lessa presses their thumb into the pad, then uses their own stylus to scratch their NHOS identification number around it in a circle. “You understand this ends your contract on GROW Unit 2460-MSP-Yansy-00023287?”
K8 tunes out as Lessa completes the uncomfortable process.
If she activates the kit in her room, this will be her in three months’ time when her lease expires.
Unless she can afford an extension, which is doubtful.
No point in even thinking about it. The best plan is to return it.
Even if they don’t give her unicoin back, at least she won’t be responsible for dropping one off for recycling.
Finally, Lessa turns without looking at Yansy and approaches the SAT. “Ready?”
K8 watches as the attendant leads Yansy through the airlock doors to the interior of the building. It never looks back. Neither does Lessa as they enter the SAT.
As they pull out of the garage, Lessa carries on about what a relief it is. A weight off their shoulders. Feels so much lighter. Etcetera.
“Want to get lunch? I know this great little place near here. And since we’re in this area, we could hit a Regen Room. With the weather, I doubt we’d have to wait long. Did you hear they’re putting in a juice bar in your tower?”
K8 makes eye contact with the passenger of the SAT waiting next in line outside the garage as they pass.
She can’t tear her gaze away, her neck twisting as she holds the woman’s stare.
Not ten minutes prior, she was in that woman’s position, watching a pair exit the garage, chatting mindlessly as if nothing strange was occurring.
What does the woman think of her now? Are her thoughts similar to K8’s?
And why is she reacting like this? It’s not like this is the first time she’s been in this very garage doing the very same thing with one of her FRIENDS.
What is it about this time that strikes her so differently? Because she’s tired of being alone? Normally, that would be her determination. This time, however, her mind drifts to the temporary solution back in her unit waiting for her to GROW, then activate it.
“K8,” Lessa says, getting her attention.
She shakes the swimming thoughts from her mind. “Sure, lunch. I need to pick up a few extra task orders after that, though.”
Lessa huffs, slumping back into their seat. “Fine. I’m going to the Regen Room after.” They flip their tablet into mirror mode, inspecting the nonexistent lines around their eyes. “I think I need a full refresh. Look at this . . . right here.”
K8 leans over, trying to see whatever they’re pointing to. “Lessa, I see nothing. Wait, I think that’s a speck of dust.” K8 brushes it away. “There. All better. You don’t look a day over one hundred.”
Lessa beams. Shining, unnaturally potent chartreuse eyes.
Dewy, glowing skin, every flaw long since lasered off.
Cheeks expertly plumped to the latest fashion.
Perfect teeth gleaming within a perfectly altered smile.
Not a single gunmetal strand of hair is out of place. “Thanks, K8. You’re the best.”
Is she, though? How can she be when all she can do is sit here and think, Is any of this real?