A math wunderkind from a breeder-world slum will sacrifice anything to become a soldierâeven her own identity.
Born into a society sculpted by endless war, Gaby dreams of fighting on the front lines. But the Intelligence Division has other uses for her talents, and sends her to witness a top-secret training exercise on an experimental starship.
Once aboard, a violent mutiny overtakes the ship, leaving Gaby alone to protect the shipâs secret weapon: Passenger, a symbiotic artificial intelligence thatâwhen joined with a compatible humanâcan hack other AIs, turning the tide of any battle, perhaps even the war.
But the only way to keep the AI out of the mutineersâ hands is to keep it in her head, and Passenger wasnât meant to stay integrated with a human for long.
With no rescue in sight, and the barrier between Gabyâs mind and the machineâs deteriorating, she must do more than evade capture: Sheâll need to fight back.
A math wunderkind from a breeder-world slum will sacrifice anything to become a soldierâeven her own identity.
Born into a society sculpted by endless war, Gaby dreams of fighting on the front lines. But the Intelligence Division has other uses for her talents, and sends her to witness a top-secret training exercise on an experimental starship.
Once aboard, a violent mutiny overtakes the ship, leaving Gaby alone to protect the shipâs secret weapon: Passenger, a symbiotic artificial intelligence thatâwhen joined with a compatible humanâcan hack other AIs, turning the tide of any battle, perhaps even the war.
But the only way to keep the AI out of the mutineersâ hands is to keep it in her head, and Passenger wasnât meant to stay integrated with a human for long.
With no rescue in sight, and the barrier between Gabyâs mind and the machineâs deteriorating, she must do more than evade capture: Sheâll need to fight back.
As I approach the apartment buildingâs entrance, I adjust the pistol stuffed in my waistband. The uncomfortable, foreign weight has been pulling on my pantsâ elastic the entire walk from the bus station, and I keep imagining it tumbling to the ground in front of random strangers. Iâm not in Lower Lefeld anymoreâsomeone might actually call the cops.
A kiosk protrudes from the brick next to the door. I tap it awake and buzz Unit 4.
No answer. Am I early?
With a twitch of mental effort, the NeurX home screen materializes, superimposing its user interface over the real world. I mean to check the time, but before I can stop myself I compulsively open the message Iâve read some fifty times already.
Dear Gabrielle Rhodes,
We regret to inform you that your financial aid application for gene-editing therapy has been denied at this time. We at the Transhuman Centers take pride in our state-of-the-art CRISPR interventionsâ
Without finishing the letter, I close my NeurX and bite down on a fingernail. Why they included a sales pitch after the rejection boggled the mind a bit. That had been Plan A. Tonight is the much less pleasant Plan B. There is no Plan C. I have to make this work.
âHoi,â a man chirps through a small speaker.
Was that a heavily accented hi, or another language? âI have an appointment?â That sounded like a question. Be more assertive, Gaby.
âYa? Name?â
âCatalina Velasquez,â I lie.
âKokay.â
The doorâs lock slides free with a metallic thunk and I step through into a dim lobby with a holotable at its center. I flinch as the door crashes shut behind me, triggering me to brush the frame of the pistol as if my body needs to know itâs still there.
The holotable kicks on, flooding the room in a pallid glow as it begins sliding through its pre-programmed adverts: Whalaâs fish tacos, Sorocini shoes, some beverage branded in a language I canât read unless I fiddle with the translator settings in my NeurX. A manâs face materializes larger than life in the hologram. He stares resolutely into the distance, firm jaw set. The caption reads: What have you done for your corporation today?
You have no idea, Mr. Billboard Man.
Glancing down, I second guess the DJ YonDon tee and baggy, hand-me-down sweats. Iâm using them as a disguise as I pretend to be someone from Eversen, whoâs pretending to be someone from somewhere else. The cover within a cover seemed clever yesterday. Now Iâm not so sure.
Near the back of a cramped hallway, I find Unit 4, and as I put my knuckles to the door my chest begins to constrict. Itâs more from anxiety than exertion, but the implant grafted to the inside of my ribcage canât tell the difference so it puffs a mist of corticosteroids and beta agonists into my lungs all the same.
The apartment door swings in. A shirtless man looms overhead. His pasty skin is pocked with dozens of small indents. Signs of serious hardware, with no effort made to hide the surgeries. Maybe he went under the knife of some discount, back-alley surgeon. Maybe it was cheaper to overlook the cosmetics. Or maybe the aesthetic is on purpose: flaunting the upgrades to posture and intimidate. If the latter is true, I have to confess, itâs working.
His gaunt face studies me. âYou da fixer?â
âYeah. You the Doctor?â
âNah. Iâm Tumbo. In,â he says, stepping aside.
A few nervous strides bring me to the center of a cluttered living room that stinks of dirty socks. Another man appears from down the interior hall. His hairline is racing toward the back of his head, but other than that his appearance is completely unremarkable. The kind of person you could meet repeatedly and still have trouble picking out of a crowd. It must be helpful to have a face like that doing business like this. âWhoâs this?â he asks.
âYa appointment,â Tumbo says as he slides a chain lock closed on the door.
âNo.â He breathes the word. âYouâre Catalina Velasquez?â
âAll my life,â I say too eagerly.
His pupils dilate. A brief burst of light shines through artificial corneas as his facial recognition software pulls my iDent off the net. I planned for this.
You see, the public registrarâs database isnât protected by artificial intelligence. You have to run a biological computer alongside your mainframe if you want an AI to guard your dataâwell, a sentient AI that is, which is the only kind people care about these daysâand thatâs prohibitively expensive.
A database without an AI is vulnerable, but it still has security, so you start small. On a Tuesday, you pull the employment records of the public registrar building. You filter out everyone but the clerks, and by Wednesday youâve sifted through each of their public profiles, creating dictionaries of their favorite foods, their birthdays, childrenâs names, pets, hobbies, whatever.
Some might call this stalking.
By Thursday, an automated brute force attack armed with the dictionaries youâve built cracks open all of Jonas Plantâs accounts. He uses the same password for everything. Thatâs when you start digging. You learn heâs lonely. You learn he has chronic undiagnosed stomach pain. You learn his dream is to go to Tora Kiesa.
Bingo.
Now all a potential hacker needs is a little social engineering and a breaching script. By the following Monday, a fake award sent from a fake Human Resources account with a fake prize is in his inbox. Congratulations, Jonas. Youâve won a company-paid trip to the Tora Kiesa resort. Thank you for all your hard work. All you have to do is click on the details tile embedded in this message to claim your prize.
When he clicks, he gives you a back door into the registrar mainframe, allowing you to link your facial ID to counterfeit metadata, just in time for your meeting with a black market CRISPR dealer.
The Doctor makes an affirming grunt as his eyes come back to focus on me. âWell, you certainly donât look like a fixer. Donât look like youâre from Eversen either. Iâdâve pegged you as an offworlder.â
âI tan,â I say sarcastically. Most Amienites are pale. Really pale. The olive skin, black hair, and brown eyes of my mixed heritage often brings me unwanted attention. âAnd Iâm glad I donât look like a fixer. That was kind of the idea.â
The Doctor purses his lips and nods. Tumbo relaxes into a chair in the corner. Placing a hand terminal on his lap, he paws at it with one hand and snatches a burrito from a plate set on a nearby end table. Next to the plate is some type of energy weapon with a handgunâs formfactor. I have to consciously resist touching the pistol.
âI guess I see the logic,â the Doctor says. âSend someone nobody would expect as your fixer⌠Of course, that also includes the person theyâre supposed to do business with, doesnât it?â
Has he sniffed me out already?
The implication hangs in the air as he glides closer. âSo tell me, what made Eversen decide to step outside the rules?â
âGotta compete with Lefeld somehow.â
âYeah? And just like thatââhe snaps his fingersââEversenâs gonna give their players CRISPR?â
I nod. âIâm here, arenât I?â
âSo you are. Last I spoke with Coach Dermont, he didnât want his kids anywhere near gene editing.â
None of my snooping suggested Coach Dermont and the Doctor had history. Whatâd I just step in? âAgain, thatâs why Iâm here. Heâs a proud man. Being wrong is tough to admit, especially in person.â Inwardly, I congratulate myself for thinking on my feet.
âSuppose so. All right, letâs sit down and work out a treatment structure. How many players you got total?â
I donât sit. âNo, sorry. Thatâs not how the pieces fit. You saw my proposal, right?â
âSure did. Itâs a waste of time. We can come up with somethinâ better.â
âThat proposal is the only way the pieces fit for Coach Dermont.â
The Doctor drops into a beat-up recliner parked opposite the couch. An enigmatic glance passes between the Doctor and Tumbo.
âSo you want to waste half the season testing the CRISPR on a single athlete?â
âWe got this freshman on the team. Green. Kind of a scrub in all the ways youâd expect, right? But this kidâs got an arm like a railgun. Coach thinks we get some size on him, heâll be a secret weapon. No one expects Eversen to start a freshman. And if it doesnât work out,â my tone goes solemn, âwell, the kidâs too small to make much out of him without the CRISPRs, so thereâs nothing to lose.â If you want someone to believe a lie, when you really need to hook them with it, bury a seed of truth in it. âThis way, we get to see if theyâre safe.â
Tumbo lets out a truncated bark of a laugh.
The Doctor smirks. âI can assure you, they are not.â He motions toward the stained couch. I sit this time. âTumbo, you remember Fat Pat?â
âYa.â
âDid you know Fat Pat?â the Doctor asks me.
âNo,â I say. Why would I?
He shrugs one shoulder. âYouâre better for it. Fat Pat was a lowlife. A courier we used from time to time. In truth, I never trusted him. Not because I thought he was going to rat me out or double-cross me. Nothinâ like that. He was justâŚâ The Doctor turns to Tumbo and laughs. âWell, letâs just say it. Fat Pat was dumb. I knew sooner or later heâd make a mistake that dragged everyone down with him.â
âIâm not following,â I say. âIâm just here to talk business.â
âI know, I know. I ramble on sometimes. But if youâll indulge me for a minute.â He meets my eyes. Waiting.
Not knowing what else to do, I give him a single nod.
âSo you see, Fat Pat had this specific way about him. Especially the way he talked. There were certain things heâd say that no one else said. Especially this turn of phrase that was so ingrained I donât even think he noticed when heâd say it.â The Doctor leans back in his chair, spreading out. âAt first I thought it was kinda unique. Then I met a couple other people from his neighborhood. A real shithole filled with worthless UBI lifers. What was the place called?â he asks Tumbo.
âLower Lefeld,â Tumbo says.
âThatâs it. So yeah, turns out, Fat Pat talked just like everyone else from his little neighborhood, including the use of that particular turn of phrase: how the pieces fit.â
That, all of it, was pageantry. Heâs toying with me. As casually as possible, I position my hand near the grip of the pistol.
Itâs too late though. Tumbo has his weapon leveled at me. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The hexagonal barrel and the glint reflected from the mirrors within tell me itâs a pulser. Uncommon planetside, pulserâs are designed for security and policework on starships and aboard space stations where you donât want a missed shot penetrating a wall and damaging a critical system. Not that that detail matters anyâat this range and striking flesh, itâll be plenty lethal.
âWhat do you have there?â the Doctor says. He lifts himself from his chair and leans over me, patting around my waist until his hand lands on the pistol. His eyes imitate disappointment as his hand gingerly lifts my shirt up, pulling the gun free of my waistband. âTsk, tsk, tsk. Catalina? Whereâs the trust?â
He sits back down with the pistol resting on his thigh.
My instincts scream at me to run, but Iâd never make it out that door. Iâm frozen. I have no idea what my next move is.
âSo, Lower LefeldâŚâ the Doctor says, maintaining eye contact. âThatâs not what you natives call it, is it?â
âWe call it LoLe,â I admit robotically.
âThatâs it.â Thereâs venom in the Doctorâs voice now. âYou know what happened to Fat Pat?â
I shrug. Not the I donât care kind of shrug. More like an Iâm too scared to talk shrug.
âWell, someone had enough of his shit. Not us.â Tumbo shakes his head in agreement. âOne of his other employers took him to the old ice quarries in the Night districts. Like three hours out east where itâs so cold they gotta put all the pipes and shit above ground. They bring him out there, put a bullet in one of his knees and drive away. Now, I donât think they shot him in the knee because they were worried about him walking far enough to find help. Nah, see, I think they did that so they knew he spent his last few minutes in excruciating pain as he froze to death. What do you think that felt like?â
I shift my weight, not knowing if Iâm supposed to respond or not. Weâre playing his game and I donât know the rules.
âProby hurt,â Tumbo says.
âOf course it hurt for Fat Pat. But no, I mean, what do you think it felt like to do that to someone? Sounds exhilarating to me.â He bares his teeth like a predator. âEver since I heard about that shit, Iâve been wanting to have a reason to try it out.â
Well Gaby, seems youâve gone and gotten yourself murdered.
âSo Catalina. This is whatâs gonna happen. Iâm going to ask you some questions, and you better have verifiably true answers.â
âYa in church now,â Tumbo says.
âThatâs right. Confessional time. And I am God to you. You understand?â
I nod, planting my gaze on worn carpet.
âAnd who knows, if youâre honest, and I also happen to like your answers, maybe, just maybe, we wonât be taking a drive out east.â
Tears well up despite myself. I keep my head down.
âCatalina isnât your real name, is it?â
I shake my head.
âWhat is it?â
My voice catches. I swallow hard. âGabrielle Rhodes.â
Tumbo punches it into the hand terminal.
âI spoofed my iDent,â I say, finding my voice out of fear theyâll think Iâm lying. âI wonât show in the databases until the public servers reboot.â
The Doctor cocks an eyebrow. âYou law enforcement?â
I shake my head. âNo. I donât know how to prove that to you though.â
Tumbo looks up from his screen. âWhere you learn?â
âI donât undersââ
âHeâs asking where you learned how to spoof your iDent?â
âMoore.â
The Doctor draws his chin back, noticeably taken off guard. Then, regaining his composure, he chuckles. âOfficer on deck!â he shouts, and mock salutes me. âMy cousin went there. Dude came out a straight-up merc.â
I might laugh if I wasnât so terrified. Best his cousin couldâve been at Moore wouldâve been Command Division. Sure, they get some combat training, but if CommDiv is his definition of merc, meeting a gausser would blow his mind.
âGood thing I got this away from you,â he says, waving the pistol carelessly.
âI donât get any combat training,â I say sourly. Itâs getting easier to speak.
âWell what do you do there?â
âThis waste our time,â Tumbo grumbles.
âYou got somewhere to be, Tumbo? Besides, Iâm curious. This shitâs not addinâ up.â
I shrug. âComputer coding and encryption mostly. Drone operations, and I just started firing solutions.â
âLetâs say I believe you. I guess thatâd explain how you figured out how to change who you appear to be in the public database, but nothing else makes sense. Youâre a Moore student, bang-bon future in front of you. So if youâre not law enforcement, and obviously youâre no fixer for Eversen, why are you here? Why all the trouble changing your iDent? And setting up a consultation to buy CRISPR for a football team?â
âDoes it matter? I just want some growth splices, but I know youâre not small time. I knew you wouldnât sell to just me. For just one person.â
âSo itâs for you then? For your tits?â
âNo! Whatâs wrong with my breasts?â
I squirm under his gaze as his eyes hover over my chest for an uncomfortable spell.
âSince weâre being honest here, theyâre nothing to brag about.â
Thereâs a long silence. Tumbo stands and makes for the kitchen.
âWhat were you trying to get, anyway?â The Doctorâs tone takes on a casual indifference.
Whyâs he asking? Is he actually entertaining the idea of selling to me? Whatâs the best angle to play here? I have no idea, so I answer honestly. âHuman growth hormone secretagogues, epi plate skeletal growth compounds, and anterior pituitary gland enhancers. And itâs a long shot, but maybe IL-4 receptor modulators for asthma too.â
He furrows his brow at me. âSounds like you done your homework, so maybe you already know: the splice I sell, itâs generic. That means itâs not specifically tuned to any one personâs DNA. Itâs cheaper that way, but way more dangerous. I sell it to dumb jocks whoâll do anything to make it pro. What do they got to lose, right? If they donât go pro, theyâre either enlisting and gettinâ killed, or scrubbing toilets for five percent over basic. A Moore student has a future. It ainât worth it.â
âItâs worth it to me.â
âThe shopping list you just gave me, probably kill you.â
âI already said, Iâm willing to risk it.â
âIâm not. One of these jocksâ heart explodes, nobody bothers with it. Everyone knows they use. And ainât nobody cares about some athlete. But a Moore student dies of CRISPR Shock? You better believe theyâll find a way to track it to me. Iâd be better off putting you in the ground tonight.â
âYou donât understand, I need to be bigger. Please.â I blink back the tears. Twenty-one centimeters too short. Sixteen kilograms too light. At seventeen, thereâs less than a year to change all that. âThis is my last chance. Iâm begging you.â
He stares at me for what seems an eternity. His impassive face gives away nothing.
Tumbo shifts his weight at the edge of my vision, leaning against the kitchen door frame. âNo worth it, boss.â
The Doctor clears his throat. âYouâre not leaving here with splice, Gabrielle Rhodes. But you do get to leave.â His eyes flick toward the door. âGo.â
I stand on shaky legs, tears roaming unchecked down my cheeks.
âIâm keeping this,â the Doctor says, spinning the pistol on his finger like a gunslinger from some VR show. âYou donât see old style slug-throwers like this too often.â
âI, I need it back,â I blurt out. âI borrowed it, and if it doesnât show back up, thereâll be questions.â
âMerits,â Tumbo says.
âThatâs why I keep him around,â the Doctor says. âHis pragmatism. You brought merits, right? I donât think you came in here to hold me up for the splice.â Then he turns to Tumbo, smiling. âAlthough after everything else, hell, maybe she did.â
âNo, I was gonna pay.â
âSo you got an unregistered card?â
âYeah,â I admit, realizing where this is going. Fishing it from my pocket, it goes from me, to the Doctor, to Tumboâs waiting hand.
Tumbo taps it against his terminal. âFour âtousand, three hundred and twelf.â
âYour lucky day, Gabrielle. That is the exact fee to get this gun back.â
âAll of it?â I whisper.
ââFraid so. Ammunitionâs sold separately.â He pops the magazine free and pulls the slide back. The cartridge spirals from the chamber, landing silently on the carpetâs pile. He empties the rounds from the magazine before offering it back to me. He doesnât let go until he says, âForget you ever heard about me. TonightâŚthis shit, did not happen. You get me?â
I try to speak, but I can only choke down the knot in my throat and nod.
In a future ruled by corporations and war, Gaby wanted more than anything to be a soldier like her war hero brother. But her talents lead her to the Intelligence Division. Even though she was still a student at Moore Academy, Gaby was invited to witness the test of a top-secret AI weapon. When mutineers take over the starship intending to steal the weapon, Gaby must integrate with the AI to keep it out of enemy hands.Â
Me and the Machine is a science fiction thriller by Wesley Watts. Set in a dystopian future, Wattsâ novel is part coming-of-age story wrapped in a cyberpunk space opera. More than anything, this is a pure science fiction tale. This is not a tale of space lasers or hostile aliens. Even though much of the novel is set in space, all the conflicts involve humans with AI and cyber implant assistance. Wattsâ novel is based purely on existing science and where it could lead the technology of the future. This is more a hard-core sci-fi story than fantasy.
From political science to space flight to artificial intelligence and virtual reality, Me and the Machine is action-packed, filled with brutal fight scenes and narrow escapes. Though it starts out a bit slow, as the plot progresses, so does the excitement. Once the pace picks up, this becomes a hard book to put down. Add in an enthralling main character and antagonists with sympathetic motivations, and Wattsâ novel is a compelling read. Â
It is said that sci-fi is a speculative fiction that deals with an imaginative future. Wattsâ book not only fits the description but goes beyond. With the current political climate, it is not hard to imagine his dystopian future. The advanced technology is realistic. Fans of true science fiction will find a lot of satisfaction with this novel, especially cyberpunk geeks. For an out-of-this-world sci-fi experience, escape with Me and the Machine.