If you sent garbage to the landfill, it got buried underground, but what about garbage in the ether? Did it float around silently on the airwaves? Would all the spam and the deleted mail come back to haunt her in the form of ether pollution or some such specialised name?
While she sat there, the speakers gave off a faint ping. She clicked and waited as the new message filled her screen.
Happy Birthday, Alternate Girl! Today is a milestone for all of us. You have successfully completed one hundred weeks of expatriate life. In recognition of your hard work, a reward has been issued to you at the designated station. Report in as soon as you can and don’t forget to register at our renewed website. Greetings from Memomach@metaltown.com
Alternate Girl squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them and stared once more at the message on her screen.
Could it be what she had been waiting for all this time, or was Mechanic finally calling her home?
Most expatriates express mixed feelings regarding their origin. Many of them harbour a secret fear of losing touch with the collective memory. While they seem content with their new lives, repatriation is a common subject of conversation. For the expatriate, to return raises a complex response.
One of the subjects of this study worded it this way: “Return is something I fantasise about and desire. But at the same time, it is something I am afraid of."
Choosing to build a new life in an unfamiliar land represents a leaving behind of the collective, and while there may still be remnants of a shared life, the expatriate faces uncertainty. What if he or she has lost the ability to pick up the threads of their old life?
Her first recollection was of Father’s eyes shining down at her from his great height. Light filtered in through drawn shades and she could see an outline of buildings from where she lay. It seemed as if there were a thousand busy bees buzzing inside her skull. Beside her, someone moaned. She shivered and echoed the sound.
“There, there,” Father said. “No need to be frightened.”
“Father,” he said pointing to himself. “Metal Town.” He gestured to something beyond her vision.
She repeated the words after him, and listened as he murmured sounds of approval.
“You’re progressing very well,” he said. “Soon, I’ll take you to the Mechanic.”
He shuffled away, out of her line of sight. She heard a thump and another moan, and she called out anxiously.
“Father?”
“I’m here,” Father said. His voice was soothing and she drifted away into a kaleidoscope of screeching metal and the crescendo of another voice wailing out Father’s name.
When she woke, the curtains were drawn back. From where she was, she could see black metal struts and the carcasses of vehicles piled on top of one another.
From far away, came the hum of lasers and a low bass thrum that she later discovered was the Equilibrium Machine. A man bent over her; his face was shiny and round and she saw metal cogs where his ears should have been.
His fingers felt cold and hard on her skin.
“Just like one of them,” he whispered. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were one of them.”
His words made her uncomfortable, and when he took her hand she pulled it away.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Fighting only makes it worse.”
She felt something sharp and burning on her skin. Wet leaked out of her eyes. She couldn’t move.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s all part of the process.”
Staring at the message on her screen, she wondered if Mechanic considered this as yet another part of the process.
“Leaving is a part of the process,” Father had said.
“While we may long for return, we also know that having left we are already changed.”
She looked around at her cosy nest, stared at the brilliant blues and greens of her living room, at the paintings of sunflowers and butterflies, and she wondered whether she would be able to go back and surrender to a life spent waiting for harvest.
Outside, the digging machines had fallen silent. She looked up at the clock. It was half past twelve and the men who drove them were probably off to lunch.
Extract from Notes on the creation of Alternate Girclass="underline" 2001 hours
Original model expired at 2000 hours.
Harvested from prototype AG 119-2:
Pulsebeat, bodyframe, eyes, memory, emo chip
2021 hours
Applied Mechanic’s new plastics to bodyframe. Installed chip, memory, pulsebeat, eyes. Molding of face follows, arms, legs, and other parts. Assembly proceeded as planned. Pliables applied.
2065 hours
Awareness installed. Test successful.
2070 hours
Emo chip installed. Test successful.
2098 hours
Memory chip activated. Trace and recall function activated. Registration complete.
There was a party when she passed the 4000-hour mark. Father beamed, and Mechanic looked happy and hopeful. Metal Town’s citizens came in reply to Mechanic’s summons. Of these, she loved most the ones who rolled in on lopsided wheels and who smiled and chirped code at her.
When she tried to chirp back, they encircled her and projected their enthusiasm in signals and bleeps that she couldn’t put into proper words.
“You are one of us,” the chirpers said. And she felt welcomed and included.
Father beamed at the compliments he received.
“Yes, I am proud of her,” he said. “Our first success,” Mechanic said. Alternate Girl wondered at his words. Had there been others then? If she was the first success, where were the ones that had failed?
The chirpers moved away and she was surrounded by tall and gangly ones who took her hands in theirs. They ran their fingers up and down her arms, peered into her eyes and asked her questions about her training. Mechanic beamed and looked on. He sipped oil from a can he held in his hand and bowed his head and gestured towards her.
Where were the words to tell a powerful being that you had no wish to be looked upon and admired as if you were a foreign object placed on display?
Foreign. It struck her then. She lifted her hands, marvelling at the elasticity of her flesh. Of course, she was foreign.
Notes on progression:
AG 119-2 perfectly adjusted. All systems normal. Social skills optimal. Sequence failures, nil.
In the weeks that followed, she passed through various tests.
A model housewife, she learnt, was dedicated to maintaining a perfect home and garden. She perused hundreds of pages of magazines culled from God knew where. Housewives by the hundreds, all extolling the virtues of various cleaning products, household goods, cooking sauces, oils, liniments, lotions, facial creams, garden products and intimate apparel. The array of faces and products dazzled her.
“Will there be others like me?” she asked Father.
“If all goes well,” he replied.
“What about you?” she asked.
“When the time comes, the old must give way to the new.”
She waited for him to continue. Wanting to know more, wanting to understand what he meant by his words.
“You’re not old,” she said.
He touched her cheek and shook his head.
“I shall tell you more soon,” he said.
These hours spent with Father were precious to her. He was patient with her attempts to put to practice the things she had learnt.