The Regression

Mavral hovers his metal-molded self along the smooth titanium ramp from the school air-shuttle down to his home. His built-in thermometer indicates that it is 114 degrees Fahrenheit outside—an average temperature for Igliber in January, although it would not have been back when Igliber was New York. He passes two other residential levels before reaching his own. Passing the chrome emptiness that centuries ago would have been grass yards with flower beds lining stone houses, Mavral wonders what it all would look and feel like in person. What was it like for humans when they roamed the Earth? And what did flowers smell like for them? Was it different from how our sensors pick up and analyze scents?

Mavral learned about stone and flowers in his history class, but he can’t imagine them replacing the chrome of his time’s angular residences. Any pictures or videos he has seen of humans and their time make it seem that their Earth and Mavral’s could not possibly be the same. His programming automatically signals his home’s entrance to open as he approaches.

The door slides open and shut as he passes through it. The one-room living quarters and its few contents—a small counter, a synthetic sunlight charging station, and a table with various tools and scrap parts—are silvery metal with patches taken over by rust. Mavral’s mother is preparing their nutrient cartridges at the otherwise empty counter in the far left corner when he enters. With her clunky metal arms, she places two cylindrical metal tubes under a spout. Her programming signals for the spout to dispense and a brown liquid begins to trickle into the tubes. Mavral hovers toward her, noticing that the rust on her arms is spreading. Her bulky, oxidizing body is much different from the graceful, shining bodies of the higher ranking cybans. Mavral envies their ability to upgrade whenever they want.

“Hello, Mavral,” she greets in a mid-tone feminine voice she recently downloaded to her processor. “What did you learn today,” she asks.

“We learned binary today,” Mavral says, “but I need you to submit approval before we begin tomorrow’s unit.” The liquid stops flowing from the spout as the cartridges fill, and Mavral’s mother begins fastening tips onto the cartridges.

“What is the unit on?” His mother inquires.

“Cybanatomy.”

Mavral’s mother stops attending to the nutrient cartridges and turns around to face her son.

Prior to the rise of the cybans, her reaction would have seemed unwavering—a face with thick metal rather than flexible skin is difficult to decipher.

“I see.”

“Why do you need to give approval before I can be taught cybanatomy? I did not need approval for any other studies.”

“Well, Mavral,” his mother begins, staring at the table covered in tools and old scraps of metal, “that is a controversial topic. Some cybans are against progression and wish to end the process of antecybanation.”

“But, Mother, if we end antecybanation, we would go extinct. Why would any cyban want that?” Mavral asks, and waits for an eternity—thirty seconds, at least—for his mother to respond.

“Antecybanation involves much more than you think.” She hovers to the table. Mavral turns to watch her as she speaks. “It is not merely the birth of infant cybans. When born, antecybans do not look the way you and I do. Not at all. They do not have all our capabilities, either. In fact, they are not antecybans at that point. They are born human.”

“Human?” Mavral asks, astonished at her words. “But humans are extinct, Mother.”

“Not exactly,” She pauses again and turns to face her son. “You see, we become cyban just after exiting the birthing pod. The infant, at this point, is developed enough to be released from the pod, but instead of metal bodies like ours, they have what is called ‘skin.’ It is soft and delicate. Doctors replace this skin and other organs with metal and our technology. This is how we each complete Level One.”

“We were,” Mavral pauses; the sentence feels ridiculous to say, “human?” he asks, perplexed.

“Correct.”

Mavral stares at his mother, contemplating. Could this be true? It seems insane—a thing of fiction! Mother has always been a cyban of logic, though, and she seems so sure. If it is true—or at least, if she believes it to be—then I have many questions. “But, Mother, if we are born human, why are we taught that humans went extinct?”

Silence fills the room for a moment, while Mavral’s mother processes. Mavral internally debates suggesting she do a quick reboot, but finally, she hovers a few feet away to the synthetic sunlight charging station and speaks. “You know how our systems charge through the solar panels in our heads, correct?” Three tinks sound as she taps her head.

“Yes, of course.”

“Humans did not do that. They would do what was called ‘sleep.’”

“What is ‘sleep?’” Is that even a real word? This seems awfully off-topic. What is her point?

“It is what humans would do when they needed to recharge. They would lay down at the end of each day and, in a way, shut down their bodies for several hours at a time. Also, their technology was not part of their bodies. They would plug it into an external power source when it’s power ran low.”

“Really?” Mavral is incredulous. “Hours? That is so much time gone.” Their technology being separate from their bodies is awful enough, but all that time wasted! They could have advanced much faster had they not had to do this sleep.

Mavral’s mother nods, her bolts squeaking as she does so.

“I do not understand, though. What does that have to do with why I was taught that humans were extinct?”

After a shorter pause this time, his mother lowers her volume slightly, as if someone might hear, even though they are home alone. “Our bodies are expensive, and they earn the corporations that develop them a lot of money. These cybans do not want us to know that it is possible to regress back to humans.”

Mavral’s volume increases with shock. “It is?”

His mother nods again, slowly, causing rhythmic creeks. “Yes, but there are many concerns over the topic. Many risks.”

Mavral tilts his head slightly to the side. “What do you mean? If we are human, to begin with, how would there be more risks in remaining human than in becoming cyban?”

She leaves another excruciating pause that Mavral is not used to. She does not speak for nearly a whole minute.

I must be patient, Mavral reminds himself. Her processor is practically an antique. I must know more, though; I have so many questions. What would these humans be like if they were to grow up remaining human? Is it possible? Mother seems to think it may not be—or at least that it would be excruciatingly difficult. Why have we done this to ourselves in the first place if it meant that we would essentially go extinct?

Finally, Mavral’s mother speaks, yanking his attention back to her words. “Because the Earth has little more than metal these days. It is possible that we have exceeded the amount of time we had to revert back to nature over machine.”

If Mavral had the ability, he would cringe.

“It would take the entire planet reverting back together to ensure that we satisfy the needs that humans have. And they have very many more than we do. If we were to attempt The Regression, it is possible that we—humans and cyban alike—may face extinction.”

“Is it really that drastic, Mother? If we are, indeed, born human, then why would it be as difficult as you say to revert? Could humans not live with this much metal?”

“Truthfully, we have gone far beyond being human. We are closer to 98 percent cyber being at this point. There are many things that would change.”

After waiting a couple of seconds for his mother to continue speaking, he interjects the unbearable pause with, “like what?”

His mother returns to where their nutrient cartridges are and picks them up, ensuring the tips are secure. “Do you know what is in our cartridges?”

“Nutrients for function.”

“Correct, our brains still need nutrients, although not as much as full-human bodies do because they have more organs to maintain. However, these cartridges contain scientifically engineered nutrients. Do you know why?”

“Because of our cyber-being parts?” Mavral guesses, confused about how this correlates to their conversation.

“Incorrect.”

“Why, then?” Mavral stares through his engineered eyes, impatiently awaiting more knowledge of this seemingly forbidden topic.

“Because the Earth’s natural nutrients have long run out, and these cartridges,” she lifts the two cartridges to a few inches in front of Mavral’s faceplate, “are the closest we have come to the food found in nature.”

Mavral hovers backward slightly. “You keep using that word, Mother. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“That does not surprise me.” She retracts her arms. “‘Natural’ is made to be seen as derogatory by our society. It is not to me, though.” She hands one cartridge to Mavral. A small port opens on his chest plate and he plugs the tip into it. The liquid drains into his body, and he removes the cartridge, setting it on the counter below the spout. His mother does the same and signals the cleaning process to begin. The tubes lower under the counter and mechanical noises sound for a minute before the tubes, now clean, re-emerge on the counter. “I wish I could have seen the world prior to the Great Progression. Before our ancestors covered the rubble of remaining Earth with a shield of metal. Before we became the last surviving species.” She turns away from him. “Now this planet is an inescapable prison.”

“It may not be inescapable, though, Mother. You said so yourself.”

She returns her gaze to her son. “This is true. It may be possible for The Regression to occur, but there are few of us who desire this. And any cybans who openly admit to this desire are met with vast ridicule.”

Mavral stares back at his mother. “How do you know so much about this, Mother? I do not suppose there is a lesson that could be downloaded on The Regression.”

“No, there is not. I know because when I was younger I wanted to be a doctor. I did my work and learned as much as I could at my level. I was excited and ready to begin my career—or so I thought. As I approached graduation, I had one more lesson to learn: the process of antecybanation. Now, with this type of work, there is more to it than downloading a lesson. You must practice, as well. It came time for my practice, and the human infant did not survive.”

If he had lungs, Mavral would gasp, but he remains quiet, attentive. Any doubt within him about the falsity of human extinction vanishes. He knows his mother would never hurt anyone, and that her pain then must have been immeasurable.

Looking downward, she continues. “I was devastated. My lesson coordinator told me not to fret—that many infants do not survive the process. This is why the levels begin after antecybanation. His attempt at comforting only made me more horrified. He had no concern for those who did not survive—those countless lives lost. I could not take any more. I walked out right then. I dropped out of the program and began to question the system. Then, another lesson coordinator of mine heard I had dropped out and sought to speak with me. She asked what happened and, upon my telling her, told me about the theory of The Regression and that there is a group that seeks to bring it to fruition.”

Mavral becomes excited. “Is there really such a group?”

Finally, his mother returns his gaze. “If the group is real, they are secret. I never heard more about it. I had just listened to the theory and thanked her for her time.”

“You never asked her more about it?”

“No. At the time, I was far too devastated to go back to college. Though, I often think about what she said to me before I left.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Progress is wonderful until we forget who we are. Then progress becomes regression, and regression, progress.’”