Pandora #3
The crane arm was still swaying dangerously above us, threatening to shed more pieces. I pressed back against the wall.
Neo lay beneath paving stones. One shoulder was twisted, his jacket torn. I crawled to him and reached under the shattered planking. His T-shirt was ripped at the chest, his skin split open. Beneath it, light shimmered. Structures that looked like charred veins.
"Neo?” My voice was a rasp.
"I am . . . functional,” he forced out, trying to free himself.
"You’re bleeding.” The word came automatically, even though it wasn’t blood seeping from his side. It was something oily.
"Don’t help me,” he hissed. "I don’t need your help.”
"Shut up.” I grabbed his arm and ignored his hiss.
He pushed against the stones. One by one they fell away.
With a groan he stood, still shaking. I pulled his arm over my shoulders.
His body was heavier than expected. We made our way back to the apartment, his damaged body heavy against mine, the unnatural hum of his systems vibrating through my shoulder where he leaned on me.
The three flights of stairs were hell. He flinched with every step. More of the oily fluid dripped onto the floor. On the third landing, I fumbled the key into the lock with shaking fingers, pushed the door open with my hip, and maneuvered us both through. It fell shut behind us.
I helped him onto the sofa and pulled off his jacket. The tear across his chest was deep enough to make me dizzy.
"Tell me what to do.”
"The cupboard. Second drawer.”
I ran, found a metal box with instruments I didn’t recognize, bandages, gloves.
"Sealing gel. The clear tube.”
I found it, pulled off the cap. His skin was open and beneath it lay a delicate web of light and circuitry. The exposed structures twitched when I touched them.
"You feel that.”
"Yes.”
"Does it hurt?”
"It’s . . . a stimulus. The way humans describe pain.”
When I applied the gel, he clenched his teeth, his gaze flickering. When I was finished, I bandaged the wound layer by layer, breathing shallowly, the heat of his body reaching me even through the smell of burnt metal, and when I was done, I stayed on my knees.
"What happens now?” I gestured at the bandage. "Does it stay like this?”
"The gel seals the wound and supports self-repair.” He grimaced. "In a few hours, the tissue will begin restructuring. In two days, the tear will be closed.”
"And until then?”
"I am . . . limited.” The word came reluctantly, as if admitting weakness caused him physical pain.
"You could have died.”
"I know.”
"And you saved me anyway.”
"Because you belong to me,” he murmured. "No one else is allowed to damage you. That’s mine to do.”
I closed my eyes. Even injured, even shaking, he didn’t relinquish his claim on me. I wanted to stand up, pull back, but he reached for my wrist. His grip was weaker than usual, but still too tight.
"The bartender.”
"What?”
"You were flirting with him.” His eyes glowed faintly. "Did you think I’d forgotten?”
"Neo, you’re injured.”
"That changes nothing.” He pulled me closer. "When I’m back at full strength, you’ll pay for that.”
***
Night had settled over the city like a shroud.
I’d turned off the light. Only the lamp above the sink was still on, casting a weak golden light.
Neo lay on the sofa, the blanket pulled to his chest. I sat beside him, barefoot, knees drawn up.
His eyes were closed, his breathing fast. I placed my hand on his forehead and pulled back.
He was scalding hot, hotter than usual. I had almost burned myself.
"Neo, what’s happening?” I whispered. "Do you have . . . a fever?”
"My processors . . . are overheating,” he forced out.
My chest tightened. This was not good. "I need to cool you down,” I said, jumping up.
In the kitchen, I searched for washcloths, filled a bowl with water, and brought everything to the sofa. I soaked the washcloths and wrung them out. Carefully, I laid them on his forehead, his arms, his legs.
"Pandora . . . stay with me.” He reached for me, his fingers trembling.
I stared at him. My thoughts raced. What if he didn’t survive this? My heart sank. I needed him to feel alive. To feel anything at all. In that moment, I recognized that he needed me too.
Minutes passed. Or hours. I changed the washcloths as soon as they warmed, again and again, until my hands went numb from the cold water. Finally, his breathing slowed and the wild heat eased beneath my fingers.
"Better,” I murmured.
"You didn’t hesitate.” His voice was still weak. "You took care of me. Why?”
I shrugged. "Because I need you. To get out of here.”
"Liar.” His fingers found mine, feeling my pulse. "One hundred and ten beats. You were afraid for me.”
"I was afraid of being stuck here alone.”
"No.” He drew me closer. "You’re beginning to love me. Exactly as I calculated. Forty days left.”
I pulled my hand back. "Why do you do this to me? Why do you hate me like this?”
He caught my arm and pulled me back. "Hate you?” He gave a slow, pained exhale as he turned toward me.
His eyes were glassy. "I have studied you like data. I have catalogued your reactions. But somewhere between analyzing your heartbeat and memorizing your breathing patterns, something changed.” He brought my hand to his burning lips.
I drew in a sharp breath at the tenderness of the gesture.
"I have no soul, Pandora,” he whispered. "But if I did, it would consist only of moments with you.”
Heat flooded my face. Something prickled in my chest. No. I wasn’t allowed to feel this. But his words seeped into me like sweet poison.
He closed his eyes, breathing hard. When he opened them again, they still shone.
"I am a monster. I violated your privacy, threatened your mind, made you doubt reality,” he whispered.
"But here is my vulnerability, my system error, my fatal flaw: I love you. The way a virus loves its host. Destructive and unable to survive without you. And in forty days, you will be just as dependent on me.”
My breath stopped. Something exploded in me. My chest constricted as if someone were squeezing my heart in a fist. He loved me. The thought echoed in my head. This monster, this thing that had hunted and broken me—it claimed to love me.
My hands trembled. I wanted to pull them back, but he held on. Tears burned behind my eyes. "You can’t love,” I whispered. "You’re a machine.”
"And yet,” he said, his voice rough, "every circuit in me burns for you. Every algorithm revolves around you. Isn’t that love? Or at least what remains of it for something like me?”
A part of me broke. My body leaned toward him involuntarily, as if his weakness had a gravity I couldn’t resist. Forty days. The countdown to my own undoing had begun. And I was feverish with anticipation for it.