Take a hostage? No. That’s foolish. There must be ten or fifteen people down there, doing whatever they’re doing. Some kind of religious ritual, a dance to greet the sun? Barbaric. How would you know which of these mongrel people is important enough to ransom for the biomaterial we need? If you grab some random servus, they’ll just let him die. There is bold, decisive action—we commend that, you know we do—and then there is folly. You don’t know enough about these people to enact the plan you’re describing. Would you really rather risk everything than activate your emergency skin? Does the prospect of being less than perfect, even temporarily, panic you that m—
Oh Founders.
LEVEL-FOUR SECURITY ALERT. ADRENALINE ADMINISTRATION STAND BY. LIMBIC SYSTEM OVERCLOCK STAND BY. WEAPONS FABRICATION ONLINE. MIDBRAIN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT ENGAGEMENT ON THREE.
TWO.
.—
.
.—
Online. Reboot in five. Four.
Are you all right? You’re uninjured. Your composite remains unbreached. The weapon they used was an update of something we remember from before the Great Leaving. We can call it a taser. Beware, however: you are not alone.
“Hey. Easy! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Do you understand me? Okay. Good. How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for hours.”
How are we understanding him? We didn’t have time to create a translation script—and your auditory nerve is reacting out of sync with his speech. You’re actually hearing his words, intelligibly.
What’s that on your facial beads? It seems to be a device of some kind. The audio you’re hearing is being transmitted by it. It’s translating his words.
“Oh. Sorry about that. Ordinarily we use a mild neurotoxin to subdue violent people. Your, uh, artificial skin? Means we had to use something with a little more kick.”
Great caution is warranted here. Tell him nothing. He is merely a servus, in any case. Look at his skin, like sandy dust. Look at the blemishes, the inelegance of his features. One of his eyes is higher than the other, only slightly but still. Don’t be deceived; no one here wears a composite. Our skin is a mark of honor. Their skin is meaningless.
“What’s your name?”
And don’t stare.
“Well, okay. That’s your right, I guess. Maybe I should start. My name is Jaleesa. I’m—uh, a scholar? I guess that’s what you’d call it. Except I’m really just a student, and the field I study is pretty obscure, ha-ha, so right now all I am is another gawker.”
There’s too much here to explain, but we’ll try. Apparently these people still allow those beneath the ruling classes to be educated—
“You didn’t have to grab that woman, you know. You scared the hell out of her. She’s all right, if you’re wondering. More concerned about you, really, now that we’ve explained what’s going on.”
This is an interrogation. He’s attempting to put you at ease. Next will come the questions about your mission, about our home, about the secrets of our technology—
“You poor thing. My God, you must have actually thought someone was going to hurt you. Well, the police released you after notifying the town of your presence. And, uh, we put a monitor on you. I volunteered to stay with you until you regained consciousness.”
Ah, this thing on your wrist. We have historical knowledge of “watches,” primitive time devices, but this one is unsupported, strapless. How have they made it adhere to your composite? Keep this as a sample, too, when you escape.
“Sorry for that, of course, but since you already threatened someone… They might have made a bigger stink if you’d used a weapon, but it was pretty clear to everyone involved that you were just, you know, freaking out. Understandable, under the circumstances! Anyway, I’m supposed to give you this.”
What is—
Blessed Founders. This is a microfluid cell-culture dish? Sealed. These characters on the label are formed strangely, but similar to our writing… It cannot be.
“That’s what you’re here for, right? Can you read? The label says, ‘HeLa 7713.’ Yeah, that’s right. This is an active, living culture, so be careful with it. You don’t want to get it too cold or… Uh, your ship has radiation shielding, doesn’t it? Okay, good, then. If you want to keep the culture alive.”
This cannot be.
“Ha, wow, amazing how much emotion I’m picking up from your body language. Relax, it’s fine. Do you want a few additional dishes, just in case? Redundancy is good, right? Here, take some more. I’ll get you a bag or case so you can carry them easily.”
This is a trick. It must be. Why would he give us this?
“Well, you need it, right? It has something to do with how your biotech works? Your composite is pretty nifty. We use things like that for hazardous-materials cleanup, but we don’t live in them, of course! Anyway, so, there you go. Nice meeting you!”
Wait, what?
“Oh, I was just going to head back to work. Did you have any more questions? If you weren’t planning to head back to your ship right away, I can arrange a guide for you. We put a translator on your, um, face, so that should be working by now. Are you hungry? Shit, how do you eat?”
Your nutrient supply remains sufficient for now. You are hydrated. Your heart rate is elevated. Be calm.
“So you’re really just… floating around in soup in there? Sorry, we’re not supposed to… I’m sure your culture’s lifestyle is valid to you. It’s just that, well, I mean, you can make skin whenever you want, right? So… It’s Earth, after all, where we all come from. You can come out! We don’t bite!”
They are savages. Of course they bite.
“Earth” is an antiquated name for Tellus. Call it what you wish.
You know why we use composites. They’re far more efficient than skin. A composite skin can be rapidly modified to enable you to survive adverse environmental conditions. In the early days after Founding, composites were necessary to ensure the survival of workers building our habitats; they saved countless lives that might otherwise have been lost to solar flares or biohazards. Composites also reduce labor costs lost to bathroom breaks, meals, personal hygiene, medical care, interpersonal communication, and masturbation.
“And it doesn’t hurt, living without skin? It just really seems… Like, how do you have sex? How do you breastfeed? That reminds me—what’s your preferred gender? I’m a ‘her.’”
Why are you still talking to him? You have no need of this information. You’ve accomplished your mission, or you will have, once you return home. There is—
Yes. We know what “her” means. We simply do not acknowledge it.
[Reference request denied.]
[Reference request denied.]
Fine. It’s an antiquated term for a type of pleasurer—the kind with enlarged breast tissue.
“Pleasurer? I’ve never heard that word. Sorry, no idea what it is.”
You are being very persistent. Pleasurers are bots designed for sexual use. In the early days after Founding, most were given the designation “her,” out of tradition and according to the Founders’ preferences, but that pronoun has since fallen out of usage. When your mission is complete and you’ve been rewarded with the skin we promised, you’ll be issued a pleasurer. Its duty will be to maintain your penis in optimal condition. But it will not look like this thing, brown and fat and smug. What is the point of a pleasurer that’s not beautiful? If it cannot even manage to be that, then we might as well call it “him.”