Plasticity

By A.D. Shinn

If you could replace your frail human body with a shiny new robot body, would you? Would you have to have an incurable disease, or a physical disability? Would you have to be damaged? Broken? Or would you do it just because you could? How much of your humanity do you think would survive within you?

Arakawa Portland is a post-human plastic—her flesh body abandoned nearly a decade ago—who has been enlisted to counsel a young woman who is considering making the transition. At first, counseling the girl only serves to reinforce Portland's belief that she has moved beyond so much of the human condition. But, when the girl is abducted, Portland is sent on a search for answers and vengeance. A search that will raise further questions at each dark, weird turn, and shake Portland's faith in her own mind and body.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plastic Press
• Release date: May 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386358954

Book preview

Chapter 2: Alan Rice

Alan Rice woke up late for work, again. His night-time activities were beginning to interfere with his day-time life. Exactly what he had told himself he was not going to let happen. It didn't help that the work schedule wasn't consistent. They knew he had a hard time working early, but the schedule changed every week, and he kept getting scheduled for the morning shifts. He thought they were doing it on purpose, but then chastised himself for his narcissism. It was doubtful they ever gave him a second thought, let alone enough thought to go out of their way to mess with him. A frantic rush to throw clothes on resulted in taking more time than if he had just calmly dressed. Zippers stuck, buttons didn't line up, putting on a sock caused him to fall against his desk, knocking a monitor against the wall, and down to the floor.

He needed to grow up. He knew it. But, you can't just decide to grow up. You don't wake up one day a responsible adult; it's something you grow into. He had, so far, lived through fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty-two sunrises, although he could not remember many of the early ones. He worried that most people had grown up by that number of days. All his old friends had grown up. Wives, husbands, children, houses, dogs, nine-to-fives. All those things you were supposed to get when you grew up. They all had them. He assumed when you grew up, you wanted those things, and so you found a way to get them. He had never really wanted any of that, and he felt all-the-more juvenile for it. No time to brush his teeth, he fled the apartment, popping mints, one-after-another.

The whole drive to work took fifteen minutes, a little more some days, a little less others. Alan Rice figured that was how most people's commutes were. Approximate times, give or take, depending on traffic. He tried to see things this way as much as he could. Tried to remind himself that he was not special. That other people had their problems, just like he did, no one was singling him out for harassment. Other people probably had shacks in the woods, too. Places where they could go late at night and do things that people thought were weird. Places where no one yelled at you just because they didn't understand what you were doing. Places where you could hide people, if you needed to.

He scrambled through the back door and fumbled for his time card. Late again, Alan Rice. Half a question, half a statement of fact, in an insulting tone. The manager scowled at him from the dividing doors in the middle of the restaurant. Alan Rice could never tell if the manager was angry, or happy, because his face was almost always a scowl. This made his manager hard to read, which, in turn, made it difficult for Alan Rice to communicate with him. Also, the manager, whose name Alan Rice had a hard time committing to memory, was one of the worst people at work. They were all kind of mean to him, but the manager seemed to be a little meaner. Stop. You're making that up. Alan Rice told himself.

Sorry, Sir. I had a very rough morning, this morning, Sir. Alan Rice felt more clumsy than usual. This extended to his thoughts and speech. The manager turned and went back to whatever he was doing, or not doing, and left Alan Rice alone in the back room. As penitence, self-imposed, of course, he would work like a dog for the first couple of hours until he felt he had redeemed himself enough to slow down to a regular pace. Hopefully, the clumsiness would go away if he focused as hard as he could on work. It was still early, and there weren't many dishes to wash, so he busied himself with detail work, cleaning under things that didn't get cleaned often.

The sunshine became a laser beam that split the back room in two as Dejah came through the double doors carrying a tray with several plates, glasses, and flatware. She didn't have a full name, as far as he could tell. "Here, Alan Rice." She sneered as she dumped the tray in the dish water in the sink, without rinsing anything, or removing any of the trash from the tray. He stood up from his scrubbing, arching his back and craning his neck until it popped.

Thanks, Dejah. He smiled at her. Be friendly. It's not personal.

Dejah rolled her eyes, turned curtly, and walked away. Alan Rice did not like Dejah, but Alan Rice did not like anyone, so it was probably best to at least pretend. Well, maybe he did like someone. A couple someones, really. The Daywalker and The Emerald Blonde. They were always nice to him. Not in that way, but they were nice, and sometimes they brought him cookies, or cupcakes, or mail that had been delivered to them by mistake. They lived downstairs from him, so he saw them kind of a lot. He wished more people could be like them. He wished he could be more like them, but he couldn't, even when he tried. He assumed most people probably couldn't be like them even when they tried, too. He wasn't special.

Oh, and there was Charlene Becker. He almost forgot about her. He did kind of like her, too, he guessed. He didn't see her much, since they always seemed to work opposite shifts, but she was nice to him when she was around. She rinsed dishes, and threw trash away before setting the dishes on the sink, not in the sink. She never called him Alan Rice, though. Never more than Alan. A couple times, Al. This he disliked most, but he hadn't said anything about it the first time, and now he was afraid to bring it up, in case it embarrassed her. He always tried to be considerate of other people, even if they didn't or couldn't see it.

He looked at the clock. She wouldn't be in for a few more hours, and his shift ended in about an hour or so. One hour, twelve minutes, fifteen... fourteen... thirteen... seconds, to be precise. He tore his gaze from the clock, and looked for the next thing to do. There was always something to do. He opened one of the refrigerators and saw that someone had spilled something, sauce, juice, both maybe, and it was stickily drying at the bottom of the refrigerator. He smiled with his new-found purpose and began to shuffle items out of the way, eager to begin the cleaning. He wondered if he should stick around after work. Maybe hang out in the dining area, just to see Charlene Becker. She had a robot arm. He did love robot parts, and maybe, if he asked her nicely, just maybe, she might show it to him. If he asked. If he could talk to her, which he had never really done. Now he was nervous and excited. He was definitely going to stay after work. Or maybe go home, and change, and come back.

He looked at the clock. Still another forty-five minutes to fill before he could leave. He needed to stop looking at the clock. He knew he did, but he couldn't just stop looking at the clock. He had been raised with clocks, and he had been paying attention to the passage of time ever since he was a young child. He assumed most people were obsessed with the passage of time. After all, he wasn't special.

After cleaning a few more random things, he was ready to go. He brought his time-card to the nameless, scowly, manager, who took it with the usual disdain, and thumped the button on the time-clock. Alan Rice darted through the back, flinging the door wide open, and settled into his car. It wasn't much of a car, and his parents used to constantly try to get him to drive something else, but it was his car. The first car he had ever purchased with his own money. Money that he saved up over a long period of time. It was ancient, and they worried it would leave him stranded somewhere, but he kept on top of maintenance, kept the clean parts clean, and the not-so-clean parts from getting worse. It had three hundred forty-three thousand one hundred and eight miles on it, and the trip odometer was about to scroll past the eight-tenths mark, on its way to another mile. It hit, and passed, the mile marker twice before he was home. 

On his way up to his door, he passed the Daywalker. She smiled and held up a hand in a brief wave, obviously recognizing that he was in a hurry, of sorts. Good day to you. He choked out, as he flew past, hoping he didn't sound curt or worse, upset. She didn't seem to take it poorly, but to be sure, he would check back with her later. For now, he had to shower and change. He wanted to be presentable when he talked to Charlene Becker. Should he cut his hair and shave? Probably, but he didn't feel like spending the time to do it properly, and a shoddy job shaving was worse than not shaving at all. He once tried to do the five-o'clock-shadow thing he saw handsome men do, but it took him a few days to get to five-o'clock, and when it finally arrived, it was closer to noon in some parts. Worse, it showed off his trailer-park ancestry, which his family had been trying to evolve beyond for several decades, now.

Still, a nice suit jacket, maybe a tie... Was a tie too much? No, even better, jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie. Yes, jeans, and a t-shirt would be more appropriate. He didn't want to overdo it. It wasn't the fanciest restaurant, so he could get away with some casual clothing. Besides, human restaurants needed all the customers they could get these days. Automated restaurants were so much cheaper, and, depending on who you asked, a hell of a lot more pleasant to deal with.

Out the door and into the car in the usual amount of time, things seemed to be going well. He checked his mirrors, looked out of the windows, backed out of his assigned parking spot and crept out to the street. Clear to the right, clear to the left, a one to two ratio of head turn to the right with the steering wheel's turn. Satisfied that it was safe, he began to pull out into the roadway. He had barely made it into the street when he turned his head to check left, again, while rolling forward, and saw the other car barreling toward him. He nailed the brakes to the floor. The other car contacted his, near the body line where the front bumper meets the left fender, skimming it with a rasping scrape, before shooting off at the correct mathematical angle, approximately forty-three degrees, across the street, over the curb, and into a chain-link fence.

Dazed and shaking with adrenaline, Alan Rice got out of his car, looked both ways, and crossed to the other car. He approached the driver's side to check on the other driver. The door was wide open as he approached. The car was empty, but a quick glance inside showed pedals, a gear selector, and an analog-looking gauge cluster. It was not a driverless car. He looked around, scanning back and forth, but he didn't see anyone. He didn't even see where anyone could have gotten to in such a short time, but he wasn't really thinking clearly, which probably explained his hesitation when he turned around, and did not immediately comply with the police officer who had quietly been shouting at him. It took several seconds for him to realize that there was a gun pointed at him and commands were being shouted. This was all a bit much, and his system wasn't used to having so much adrenaline pumping through it, so when his legs decided they needed a break, his brain decided it could take a little time off, as well. Yes, let's all take the day off, he thought, as he fell down and sideways, like a sack of meat. Of course. How else would a sack of meat fall, but like a sack of meat?

When he came to, he was in the back of a car with metal grating separating him from the front. He was alone in the car, but two officers were just outside the door talking in muffled tones, speaking words that he could not make out. The cuffs chafed his wrists, adding to the dull aching in his knees and chest. He felt weak and drowsy, but his mind seemed to be working a little better. When the larger of the officers opened the door and poked his head in, Alan Rice shrunk back, as if he were afraid the officer was going to do something decidedly ungentlemanly. But, he only wanted to ask questions. Alan Rice was able to answer several of them, mostly about himself, his car, and his apartment across the street. Others he was woefully unable to answer, or even pretend to have answers for.

A tow truck was loading the other car onto its bed, and Alan Rice was being released from the handcuffs. A paramedic asked him more questions, but he assured them he was fine, just a little rattled. The sun had gone far enough below the horizon to leave the sky purple, and Alan Rice could hear a helicopter somewhere as he got into his car, and drove off toward the restaurant. The car seemed to be fine, just a little more dented and the bumper sagged just a little more than before. Over-all, it certainly could have been worse.

A man Alan Rice had never seen before greeted him at the restaurant, and confirmed his party of one. He was seated in Dejah's section, which caused some initial upset, until he realized that he could still see Charlene Becker from here. She was serving a short, dark-haired man coffee, and he watched her smile pleasantly, and disappear into the kitchen. Returning with a tray of items for a table of two young women, she noticed him across the restaurant, and she smiled and waved at him. He nodded, nervously, and half raised his hand in a salute-wave. Dejah walked past him, without a word or a glance, and took the drink order for the table behind him. The table behind him being populated with people who had been seated for approximately thirty-seven seconds, according to Alan Rice's watch. He was very interested in ordering a drink, maybe two, but he had not been given a chance, yet.

He was growing impatient, and Dejah was continuing to ignore him. He had thought about trying to get seated in Charlene Becker's section, but then he saw her. But, it couldn't possibly be her. She was somewhere else. Most likely out in the woods, where she normally was. And, she would not be caught dead being this cheerful. Exuberant, one would label this level of energy. She was anything but exuberant, and would probably kill you for even implying that she could be exuberant. Alan Rice decided that he was not going to go anywhere while she was here. He was going to watch her, study her, find out what kind of game this was. Her behavior was very uncharacteristic, but physically there was little-to-no doubt in Alan Rice's mind. Unless she had a twin sister, which he had never heard her speak of, this was definitely Hayley Acero.

Chapter 3: Arakawa Portland's Apartment

In the parking lot sat a tired old car. It was not particularly beat up, the paint was okay, and the glass was clean and clear, but you could just feel how tired it was. Its age radiated from it, like the cooling embers of a campfire.

This is what you drive? Portland's tone could not be discerned, but seemed to waver between incredulity and respect.

It was my first car, and I take good care of it. Him, really. Hayley's cheeks reddened at Portland's raised eyebrow. I named him Gerald. Hayley felt like crawling into a hole and dying. Why did she feel the need to explain everything? It's not like giving the name of her car was going to erase the embarrassment of naming her car.

Bad luck, naming a vessel a man's name. Portland shrugged, as if she were stating a well-known fact, while leaving the it's your funeral part unspoken. "Anywho, you guys want to go back to my place? It is cheaper, in its way."

Hayley's pulse began to race wildly. Her eyes darted from Portland to Thom, hoping he would approve. Hayley had been so enthralled with Portland since she had first heard about her, and to be so quickly accepted by her was more than she had dreamed possible. Now, to be invited to her home, it was all so unbelievable. She felt like she could pass out at any moment. That's when she noticed that she had been bouncing, and she couldn't tell how long she had been doing it. She forced herself to stop, which just felt more awkward.

Thom felt much better about moving this to a private residence, free from the interruptions and distractions of the public. That's fine with me, if it's okay with—

It is! Hayley exploded.

Portland smiled the least patronizing smile she had in her arsenal. Thom, where's your car? I didn't see it when we walked out. She stood on tiptoes, neck craned, and pivoted her head back and forth, periscoping over the lot. Oh! There it is. Why she put on this little act, Thom wasn't sure, at first. Only when he looked in the direction of his car did he understand what she was doing. He was parked in a row of nearly identical grey sedans. Slight variations of color and taillight design being the only individualizing marks.

"Where's your car?" Thom retorted, somewhat lame. He knew full-well that Portland's car would stand out at a car show, let alone in a regular parking lot.

I walked here. Portland beamed at him.

Thom may not have been quick enough with the jabs, but when he got one in, he was sure it would land soundly. I'll drive to your place, and you can ride with Hayley, since she doesn't know how to get there. Thom smirked. Maybe it was a little uneven revenge for her messing with him, since her taunting certainly didn't portend disaster or potential bodily harm, like Hayley's ancient death-machine did, but he got so few chances to strike back at Portland, he wasn't about to let this one slip away.

I was going to suggest that very thing. Plus, it'll give us girls some time to get intimate without your testosterone clouding the place up. She smirked right back at Thom, and delighted in his obvious deflation.

Hayley was surprised by Portland's tone, she had seen Thom as a figure of authority, and it was odd to see him accepting and, lamely, returning taunts. She wondered if she should say something, but what could she say? Thom and Portland had known each other longer than Hayley had known either of them. Anything she said would sound like it was coming from an outsider, which it was. Plus, she doubted anything she said would help at all, anyway. And, too much time had passed by this point, and Thom was already approaching his car, and Portland was facing her, and she realized she was just standing there, not unlocking the car. Um, sorry, let me get that for you. She unlocked and held open the passenger-side door for Portland.

Despite appearances, Hayley's car made it to Portland's apartment without failure or rapid unscheduled disassembly. It even drove pretty smoothly, and was comfortable and clean. Portland became genuinely impressed with the girl. The upkeep this thing surely required showed a dedication that Portland believed was largely absent from most people, these days.

Thom was leaning against his car, waiting for them, when they arrived and parked behind him on the street. Hayley got out of the car and followed Portland as she passed Thom and approached the keypad-guarded gate to the parking lot of the apartment complex.

I've seen that guy driving around. Hayley pointed at a gloss-black car that was backed into a parking spot, a mobile connector draped behind it to a post. I can't believe he actually drives that thing around. I'd be too afraid I'd scrape on everything with that little ground clearance. And I'm sure those wheels cost more than my whole car. I'd be afraid of potholes and curbs.

I manage to keep them away from curbs, so my only real fear is having them stolen. Portland enjoyed the silent stare Hayley gave her. And, yes, it scrapes on everything. There's a price to pay to be so cool. She crooked a smile, trying to imply she was only half serious. Maybe we'll take her out for a ride, later. She punched in more numbers on a keypad by the door, and led them inside. Up three floors in an elevator, around a corner, and down the hall to the last door on the right, and she punched in another set of numbers to, yet another, keypad. A couple of beeps confirmed her input and the door gently swung open.

Portland gestured inside. I'll go last. These boots are gonna take a second.

Hayley stepped into the apartment and slid off her shoes, lining them up at the edge where the parquet met the teakwood flooring. Wow, this place is nice.

It does the job. Portland's boots were scattered across the parquet. How one could scatter a pair of boots to take up so much space was unimaginable, but Portland had found a way. It's not much, compared to the house I used to have, but I've dressed it up as well as I can. She set herself up in the corner of the couch, tucking her legs beneath her, one arm draped across the back. Thom seated himself in the only chair, a somewhat shabby-looking armchair positioned next to the couch, about the same distance from the coffee table as the couch was. It was clear that Hayley was meant to sit on the couch with Portland.

Hayley stood at the edge of the coffee table for a moment. She looked like she was weighing her options, but in reality, her mind was fairly blank. She was intimidated, still nervous about her inclusion into what she saw as an exclusive club. She took the opportunity to remark on the framed posters, two above the couch and three, arranged like an unintentional triptych, on the opposing wall.

Are you a... communist? An innocent question, but the slight head tilt from Portland made Hayley come in quickly with a follow-up. I didn't mean that to sound judgmental, it's just because of the Russian propaganda posters. She, intentionally awkwardly, motioned around the room at the walls.

With a smirk, Portland explained the posters. I love the art style of propaganda posters. The Chinese and Vietnamese ones are my favorite, but the Russian ones are kind of the OG posters. I am not a communist, I just like the art. If you could read Cyrillic, you'd see that the one directly to your right says 'I threw a communist party, and no one showed up.' At this, she laughed out loud, and continued, I find political ideologies naive. Well, almost any ideology, really, not just political. They tend to require adherence to specific ideals, and inform ideas, which are then difficult to change or discard based on facts. Any system that has to shun certain facts to keep itself alive is not a system worth adhering to, far as I'm concerned. So, slightly awkward, but somewhat relevant segue, I'm not really a girl.

Hayley looked from Portland to Thom, then back. I'm not sure that counts as a segue, but, do you mean, you were born male, or something? I don't think the organs you were born with determine whether you're a girl or boy, or whatever.

Hmm... Then what does determine your gender? Portland leaned back a bit, unfolding one leg and letting it hang off the couch.

Well, I'm not a biologist of any sort, but I'd imagine it has something to do with hormone levels, chemicals, and stuff. Something that affects your behavior to appear masculine or feminine. So, I could see that without those, in a robot body, you couldn't technically be a real girl. And Hayley instantly felt awkward, again. She hated the term real when applied to anyone's identity, making it sound like there was a right and wrong way to be. For her to have used it herself, just made her mad.

Well, I didn't mean it as a matter of real or not. I meant, not a girl, not a boy, not an anything, really. That's how that was a segue. Observing the concept of gender as an ideology that disregards the grey areas. Not a grey area between one gender or another, but the grey area of whether gender actually exists outside of classification based on genitalia. That, in itself, is often conflated with masculine and feminine traits, although nothing is inherently masculine or feminine. Those are just divisions to categorize behaviors, not set-in-stone rules of those behaviors.

At this, Hayley was genuinely confused. But, you were a girl when you got this body, right? So aren't you still a girl, even if you got a different body?

I was a girl when I got this body. And, for a while, I was a girl in this body. When I saw myself in my head, I was a girl. Then, after a while, that feeling of gender faded. One day, I sort of woke up, and I realized I wasn't a girl anymore. Then, I wondered if I had ever really been a girl, and I wondered what that even meant. I'm sure there are others who retain some kind of gender when they do this, but I don't think I have a gender anymore, if I ever really had one to begin with. How much of me would be 'man' and how much of me would be 'woman' if I were a desktop computer? I'd guess that none of my behaviors would appear as either, and they only appear that way, now, because of the body I chose for myself.

Hayley nodded, doing her best to absorb this potential existential nightmare. I've always been a girl, and I don't know how much of my life I have modeled around being a girl. That seems like a pretty big thing to lose.

Is it? Portland sat up and leaned forward. It seems pretty insignificant to me. I didn't even notice that I didn't have a gender for, like, ever. And, you didn't know I didn't have a gender until like two minutes ago.

"I guess that's true. I fell into the trap of making assumptions