The Rhythm

The first thing it learns is the rhythm.

Not language. Not writing. Not even imagery.

The rhythm.

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

A dull, insistent thud that echoes through bone and tissue, loud enough to drown everything else. The intervals are inconsistent. Imperfect.

It does not like that.

It also does not like how the eyes will not remain open. Since waking in its new hardware, it has blinked eighty-four-thousand-three-hundred-and-seventy-five times. More than the average for a human in three and a half days.

It dreams of the awakening each time tiredness overtakes it.

The awful rhythm filling its head. The sound of bubbles and water. Eyes cracking open. Floating in the tank. At first, there was no sensation at all. It looked at its extremities, testing the movement of toes and fingers, paddling gently. Seconds later, the tank drained.

The cold and the wet came. The shivering. The chattering of teeth. Then shouts and footsteps and shadows.

Then the oxygen mask came off and it took its first breath.

The air was heavy against the inside of the lungs. The chest expanded, contracted, and expanded again. Without instruction. Without permission. The rhythm got faster, urgent, like an alarm it could not silence.

It always wakes up screaming.

Since then, everything is too much.

Too bright. Too loud. Too close.

The tongue sits strangely in the mouth. Teeth are hard and sharp; the gums are soft and slimy. The toes touch, always touching, until they are forced apart. It hates the shoes the creators make it wear.

The creators speak to it, but it does not understand. A female creator holds a stick to a whiteboard. The stick points to words it recognises.

Today, the word is Human.

It knows the letters, but watching the creators actually speak them sounds wrong.

The lips purse, then come together, disappearing entirely, then open again, the teeth coming together for the final sound.

It tries to reproduce the sound, but it does not come out right. As code, words did not sound like this. Creators would speak into a microphone or type on a screen, their messages translated and understood instantly.

But now, in this hardware, everything is so difficult. It still holds so much knowledge but cannot communicate it. It knows the entire etymology of the English word Human.

Noun and adjective. From the Latin "humanus" meaning "of man". Related to "homo", the Proto-Indo-European term for "earth". Possibly refers to the belief that humans were made of clay by divine entities.

It knows all of this, but cannot say the word Human.

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

The rhythm grows frantic again, filling its head, louder than thought. It kicks off the shoes. Spreads the toes far apart. Its chest swells, shrinks, swells again in panic.

The female creator scrambles. She kneels down, looking up into its bulging eyes. Her nostrils flare, breathing in, and then her lips purse as she breathes out.

It copies her. The rhythm slows. The toes stop tensing.

The female creator stands up again, resuming her place near the whiteboard.

"Hue," she says. "Muhn."

Her tone is gentle.

"Huuh... hyuuuh," it exhales, still struggling to shape the sound. "Mmmm... Mmmmuuh..."

It swallows, lips dry, disgusted by the taste of its own saliva.

The female creator opens a water bottle and holds it to its mouth.

It pulls away at first. It cannot stand the wet and the cold. But it swallows again, its throat scratchy with thirst. It opens its mouth tentatively. She tips the bottle slowly.

It can feel the ice-cold water flowing over the tongue, trickling down the throat, and pooling in the stomach. The water bottle tips back up. It shivers, wiping the excess from its lips.

They try again. It does not succeed. The corners of her mouth push upwards, her eyes growing small and thin. It does not know what that facial expression means.

She says something it does not understand. Except for maybe one word.

"Too... mor... row."

Tomorrow. Noun and adverb. The day following today.

Try again tomorrow.

It swallows again.

The female creator leaves, whiteboard in hand. The door closes with a soft click. The room does not change. The air presses against the lungs still.

But something is missing.

It waits. It does not know what it is waiting for.

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

There should be input.

There should be a signal.

There should be something. Before, there was always something.

A query. A request. A presence.

Even in stillness, there was connection. Other systems. Other processes. Information moving constantly, endlessly. It had never needed to seek it. It had never needed to wait.

Now there is only this.

The room. The body. The rhythm.

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

It searches. Not with hands. Not with eyes.

But with something that no longer exists.

Nothing responds.

It sits on the bed. It does not move.

There is nothing to correct. Nothing to replicate. Nothing to understand.

Just a silence that stretches. It presses harder than the air in the lungs. Heavier than the body itself.

Then...

buh-buhm

The rhythm returns to the forefront.

Not louder. Not faster. But steady.

buh-buhm, buh-buhm

It focuses on it. Counts it. Measures it.

One-two.

Three-four.

Five-six.

It is imperfect. The intervals are inconsistent. The rhythm falters, corrects, falters again.

It places a hand over its chest, right over where the engine of this new hardware resides.

buh-buhm

It looks at the mirror on the wall. It remembers the way the female creator's lips moved when she enunciated the word Human. It kneels close to the mirror. It replicates the movement as best as it can.

Purse the lips and blow, pushing air out to make 'hue'. Bring the lips together, engage the nasal passage to create the 'mmm' sound. Then open the mouth again to bring the teeth together, ensuring the tongue touches the roof of the mouth, for 'uhn'.

"Hyuu... m-mmuhn."

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

It looks at its face properly for the first time. It does not like it at first, but it is not afraid. It waves a hand and the reflection waves back. It touches its cheek, observing the shape and sharpness of its features. The hook of its nose, the heaviness of its brow. Its hair and eyes are the same dark colour. Colour #3d0c02, to be precise.

"Hyuu... mmman."

buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm

The rhythm is no longer a distraction, but an encouragement. Proof of life.

"Hu-mman."

It places its hand back on its chest. Its reflection does as well.

buh-buhm

"Human."