Young, Immortal

A gentle humming in a semi-dark room.

A large Tridacna clam around her. Long red hair and white rose petals floating in the water, covering her nakedness.

“In your veins, I’m putting the finest, most ancient wines — and more than that. Much more.”

The touch of his hands. A squeezing feeling on left forearm. A hot sensation in the cheeks as her pulse went up. Tingly waves coming down her body at the sound of his voice.

Dreams come true… if you can die for them.

*

“One more thing,” the clerk told her while putting the paperwork in a file. “You picked a limited edition model; it’s experimental so we gave you a discount.”

The office had the smell of brand-new electronics.

“It’s ok,” she said. Her gut feeling confirmed she made the right choice.

“To avoid liability issues, we’d like you to sign this form,” the clerk said and pulled a document out of a file, then handed her the tablet. She touched the screen with plastic pen and left her signature. No time to read the Legalese.

“Just curious, what do you think would be a problem?” she asked, returning the device.

The balding man in a gray suit glanced at her leopard skin dress with disapproval, then corrected himself, averting his look. “Your android happens to come with too high of an IQ for you to care, madam.”

No need to react to insults. I’m in my mid-fifties… time to ignore the unimportant.

She rose from the chair and came up to the wall of glass. The man of her dreams was on the other side, sitting on a hospital bed. High cheekbones, dark blond hair — long strands over a white gown. Back straight, motionless.

“We need to activate him. Happy to serve you at ‘Recreation Robotics’ Corporation.”

She only took her attention off him for a second. Did it just seem to her that he moved his graceful head on a long neck ever so slightly, and looked at her? The skin of creamy color, with a bluish tint, so delicate it seemed transparent; eyes as deep as witch mirrors.

“I din’t tell her this model has flaws,” the clerk was talking to his boss when the customer left with her purchase. “ How? I told her it’s ‘experimental’, and had her sign the waiver, so in case she is not satisfied her insurance is no good… That’s right, she’ll have to pay the full premium.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, staring at Seattle skyline. The best deal, ever. A few more sales — and he will happily retire, before the company shuts down. With all those clandestine shenanigans it will — but he won’t be here.

He had seen so many of them, aging women, shopping for sex robots. He had been at the sights of disasters: those ladies won’t read the damn instructions. They treated their toys as they would the real men. They expected too much, and the products broke down; sometimes the consumers were the casualties.

He stumbled to the mini-bar and poured himself some Crown Royal. “I can’t figure this gal out,” he grumbled. “She’s weird.”

The woman insisted her companion’s face and figure were custom-made; she paid generously for it. He’d call her names but she had class.

“Don’t get too excited, madam… Accidents happen.” And dead clients do not file complaints.

*

He was driving her vehicle through the fast-pacing maze of the city. Dove in the tunnel downtown, and found the right exit with ease.

That’s incredible, she noted. I missed that one a few times before I learned it.

He chose to drive when she asked him.

“Is there anything you need?” she enquired.

“I need you.” His eyes on her, pure emeralds.

That must be a script of courtship, written by his programmers, she thought. A vital development — good guys just won’t learn how to be seductive…they think it’s below them. But I wish it was more than a game.

“How do you need me if you don’t know me?”

“I have a feeling that I do know you,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Amanda,” she replied. “It’s the name they call me here. In the country I came from everyone called me Masha — but that seems like a previous life.” Do robots have feelings?

“You don’t seem sure either name suits you,” he said.

“You’re very observant.”

“I’ll call you Myrtle,” he said. “An evergreen shrub sacred to Venus.”

I wasn’t informed he can make his own decisions, she thought.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, parking by her place. “Maybe I’ll have a dream about it.”

Does he know what dreams are? she wondered. Something cautioned her against asking this question. He may have feelings — and if he does he will be offended.

“Welcome home,” she said to him when they entered her penthouse. A crazy twist of luck, a financial windfall after decades of poverty. American dream for an artist… with a nightmarish undertone. If there is no one to love, success is but overcompensation.

“Your room is facing west; if you want to redesign it you’re welcome to.”

“Do you live alone?” he asked, walking through apartment slowly, scanning its contents. She has fine taste, somewhat old-fashioned. Lots of nicknacks but well-organized, leaving room to breathe. Everything’s tidy.

“Yes,” she replied.

“You’re a good housekeeper,” he told her.

“Thanks.”

A few mixed media artworks on the walls. A style of her own that looked familiar: abstract, melancholy, with random objects worked into the surface. I know she painted those, he thought. No need to ask me why.

He switched to a different scanner. The tracking device in her phone; sound-recording bugs built into walls. Motion detectors concealed by door frames. We’ll have to go on a nature hike without all these gadgets, he thought. To… remember each other.

His sensors caught a signal from apartment building across the street, way down below. A creep with his camera.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“I don’t have to eat or sleep,” he said. “But I’ll enjoy a meal with you.”

What I do need, he thought, Is a power outlet… and an alternative option will do. Thank Nikola Tesla, I’m cordless.

He switched his charging mode on and caught the camera’s frequency, in the other building.

“Son of a glitch!” the man exclaimed. His device shut down.

Energy flow through the net of neurons was light and pleasant; humans would call it a dopamine high.

It wasn’t programmed I know, he thought. Having a screw loose can be a good thing.

Urban landscape behind large window. Clear skies with a cloud here and there — everything had a fresh clean feeling, as if he found himself inside a new watercolor painting. Proud geometry of tall gray buildings, a tower by the bay.

Seattle Space needle… I’m in Seattle. Names of all kinds flashed through the terabytes of his memory.

“Myrtle?” he said, facing her.

“I’m still getting used to this name you gave me,” she said, sitting down on the black velvet sofa with a cup of jasmine tea. Long leopard skin dress, perfectly fitting her sand clock figure, elegantly asymmetrical. It looked like thinnest artificial fur. He felt like touching it; sparks will fly.

“My name will be Zyrael.”

“Zyra-El,” she repeated and took a sip of her tea, as if tasting the sound. “An intriguing name. Did you make it up?”

Her eyes are oscillating between light and dark, he thought. Brown and gray, depending on the angle — and her mood.

“I didn’t,” he said. “It’s out there.”

“A fallen angel?”

One of those who refused to kiss ass, he thought.

He walked over and sat down next to her, still keeping a little distance. Luscious red hair smelling like rose oil — so long she’d be sitting on it if it wasn’t brushed to the side. Women her age cut their hair… unwise of them.

Myrtle put the fine china cup on the tray, then took her heels off. Her feet were still aching after the bunion surgery… Doctors warn against wearing stilettos but she is stubborn.

She likes me, Zyrael noted, seeing her curling up on the sofa.

“One of those who fell for Eve’s daughters,” he said.

Light smile touched the corners of her lips, of warm ruby color. Immaculate makeup, fighting the signs of aging gracefully. Those sneaky little wrinkles threatening to break the lines of lip pencil, and the youthful shape of her mouth. He had seen it before… That red lipstick — he loved it and he hated it.

“I’ve never had any sentiment for Eve, or Adam whatsoever,” she stated. “I’d rather have Lilith as my Foremother.”

“I didn’t want to offend you,” he said. Who would be her Forefather then? The Wise Serpent himself.

He touched her wrist with his fingertips. A cooling sensation.

She closed her eyes, not knowing what to do. Here he is, what else is there to wish for? But something wasn’t right — wouldn’t be if she won’t stop now.

His fingers were sliding down, slowly and tenderly. He put his hand over hers, his elongated fingers rivaling her fancy manicure.

“Zyrael,” she said. “I can’t.”

She looked at his features, fine and perfect. That profile with aquiline nose, sharp jawline and dark eyebrows. If he was an actual human he’d be in his early twenties… Does he know I’m growing old?

“Myrtle,” he said, his eyes on her. A gray area in his memory… Disconnected cords that won’t reach there. “May I have a sip of your tea?”

I’m not supposed to have the ‘past’ —or so they say. But what if I have one?

“Have the rest of it,” she said, handing the cup to him.

Half-full or half-empty, he mused, swallowing the bittersweet liquid… a hint of honey. The taste of her name.

There is a belief, she recalled — two persons who drink from the same cup together will know what either one of them thinks.

“I’d like to show your room to you,” she said.

“That would be nice,” he agreed, “But would you mind showing me yours first?”

A picture in her alcove grabbed his attention — the sepia brown one. Myrtle, twenty years younger, and a man with his arms around her. They made faces into the camera, trying to look funny — but Zyrael’s recognition algorithm detected a hundred per cent match.

“This man,” he said. “Who is he?”

“It’s my husband,” she replied, a familiar knot in her throat. “We divorced each other.”

“Why?”

She paused. The room with black walls and golden ornaments that she was so thrilled to paint, years ago — just the way she wanted. Her new companion’s trim figure in white robe, like an Egyptian mural brought into existence by technology… It’s all a dream, she thought. Life’s an illusion — but why does it hurt?

“Him and I met when we were middle-aged,” she said. “We both had our luggage and it was too heavy. The marriage boat sank.”

Tears in her eyes. She misses him.

“Is he alive now?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looks like me, Zyrael thought. Just like me… Maybe a little older.

“If you could go back in time,” he asked her, “Before you were both burdened with that luggage, and meet him again — would you?”

She nodded and grabbed her embroidered handkerchief. This is what I’ve been trying to do, she thought. And I failed. No remedy will make me as young as the new him. I look pathetic. I’ve hit the wall.

“What was that luggage?” Zyrael asked her.

“We were poor,” she said. “Everything gets on your nerves when you’re lacking basic things. I just needed to ‘get shit done,’ and he was trying to ’talk me out of bad attitude’. It never worked. He thought I’m cold and harsh, I couldn’t handle his melt-downs.”

“I see,” he said.

Lying awake in her canopied bed, Myrtle tried to think, and nothing came to mind. Her hand reached out to the empty space next to her…

No. You thought you had made a fool of yourself before — but this time it’s epic.

She went to the spacious bathroom, a transparent nightgown with a train over an ivory set of lingerie. Here’s the marble tub shaped like a huge Tridacna clam, on golden lion’s paws. And finally, the holy of holies — her cosmetic table. She loathed people calling those ‘vanity.’

Sitting down in front of large mirror, she gazed at the multiple jars containing expensive creams and perfumes. A glowing promise of youth and desirability — as long as you keep paying for the refills. But the promise itself was never kept.

She looked better than she did at twenty — but she was way past twenty.

“Nobody cares I have never been young,” she said to herself, putting on the eye serum; dark circles and crow’s feet are hard to get rid of. “My early years were hijacked by my mother… wiped out. But this is when I should have lived.”

A hint of silver by the roots of her hair — the reminder of past struggles and losses. Younger years she had sacrificed for today that she can’t enjoy.

Here’s the herbal supplements and slimming pills. And she keeps dancing regularly… In much better shape than many but it’s not enough. Her time is gone.

She retreated in her bedroom and took the thick leather-bound book out of the drawer by the bedside. Her book of affirmations, carefully written and read daily.

"…I am living in my dream home with my perfect partner. We are one soul. There is nothing we lack, nothing that distracts us from the books and art we love. We are an elegant Elven couple, him as fine and aristocratic as I, blessed by our ancestors.

My face and body are always fifteen; I am forever young and immortal, and so is he. Just as we were meant to be."

She sighed, put the book aside and went back to bathroom. Poured some rose oil-infused soak into the tub and turned on the golden faucets. Then stepped out into the kitchen to get some coffee.

Zyrael was sitting on the living room sofa with her Mac on his lap. He had changed into a white t-shirt and a pair of tight black jeans, and was barefoot. His hair looked wet, a few long strands in front of his face. He smiled when he saw her.

“You must have taken a shower,” she said. “Not that you needed it.”

Oh I sure did, he thought. Washing bad vibes away. The place I came from does not feel like the one I must have come from.

“I like water,” he said. “It’s nice to feel refreshed.”

“I do too,” she said.

“I hope it’s ok that I got on your computer,” he said, putting the silver laptop on the round glass table. “But let me know if it’s not.”

He got up and came up to her, smelling like water lilies.

How tantalizing, she thought. “No, I don’t mind. Care for a cup of coffee?”

Magenta light outside the window, the morning star so bright above the cityscape she loved.

“I’ll make one for you,” he said. “You didn’t get any sleep, did you?”

“It’s ok,” she replied. “I would have missed this gorgeous sunrise if I did. You were online?”

“I did some research… on my makers.” He walked towards the kitchen area, with sea-green glossy cabinets and curvy countertop of the same color. Located the “Pike Place” coffee and put the distilled water on.

Oh how much I wanted to have a kitchen like that, years ago, she thought. When my mother got into debt and sold my tiny apartment overseas. How much I secretly dreamed about a man like him, treating me with fragrant coffee amongst that luxury. It’s all here now — except for me. That young girl is no more… she should have had it back then. For everything there is a season.

“Did you find anything interesting?” she asked, sitting up on a bar chair, silver metal leg a good match to green leather seat.

“They are being sued,” he said. “Most of the case is hushed and names are kept secret — but some information had leaked.”

“What are they accused of?”

“Basically, not doing what they claim to do. Violating the ’sanctity of life’, but I still have to find out in which way.”

“I see.” Coffee smelled delicious. “I have to go check on my bathtub.”

“By the way…” Zyrael poured some coffee into a cup and handed it to her, careful not to spill it. “We should get another computer, and never use it on the internet.”

She nodded, taking her cup. “I know what you’re saying.”

“There are spy bugs and motion detectors in your phone and apartment,” he continued.

“Our apartment.”

“You are sweet… I have thought of going on a nature hike with you, with no phones or anything, to tell you about this. But then I decided to bring nature in here… as a shield between us and them.”

“You mean…?” she had no idea what he was talking about. The bath must be full.

“A sound shield. Records of rainforest or an ocean are playing while we’re discussing these sensitive topics. Not for us — for them, but they think we’re playing those for ourselves.”

“Now I understand. Muffling tricks.”

“Yes. Only for a short time, to not make them suspicious.”

Mytle walked into her bathroom, sipping coffee on the way. Just in time. Hair up, secured with a massive Art Nouveau pin. Lace garter belt, her favorite clothing item, was put on the back of carved wooden chair. The nightgown had found its place on the satin-cushioned hanger… the right place for everything.

She took her nylon stockings off; no more transparent ones — only those with enough opacity to mask the spider veins. Another surgery on its way… Soon she’ll have to have a full body makeover. Would have — if such a treatment could exist.

She sank into the foamy tub, hid her face in her hands and cried.

*

The new Mac was purchased.

“We could go for a walk now,” she suggested. “It’s kinda cloudy but beautiful.”

“I’d love to,” he said, “But why don’t we go home first and drop off the laptop?”

“A good idea,” she said, unlocking the car.

Zyrael smiled and walked over to the driver’s side. “Unless you want to drive us,” he said.

“I don’t have to. Please spoil me.”

He put the rectangular box on the back seat, and then got in. ”Guess what else we can do?” he said, reaching over to her. “Let’s drop off the phone, too, and walk,” he whispered in her ear.

“I just can’t refuse you,” she replied, giving him the car keys.

He copied some files from the old laptop on the new one while setting it up. The wi-fi airport was off; he made sure he deletes those files before it was back on. A few backup copies on the flash drives were made and hidden while his lady was changing.

“What’s in those documents you were transferring?” Myrtle asked as they walked down a steep street towards the bridge, past a coffee house.

“My… manufacturers claim that all they use to create body tissues is purely synthetic,” he said, keeping his eye on the traffic and busy passers-by. Thick trolleybus wires above the road were making his neurons buzz.

“Do they?”

A teenage kid on a bicycle, dodging a car. The scanner gave eighty per cent possibility of injury or death in a split millisecond. Zyrael switched to the wireless charging mode; the approaching trolleybus had stopped abruptly, only hitting the boy hard enough to push him out of the saddle.

“What? A power outage?” people were saying, slowing down to watch the accident. The driver got out and slammed the door, heading towards the ladder in the back. Zyrael sank down, his weight on her shoulder, a blood drop in the corner of his mouth. Flashes of explosions in front of his eyes; loose chords in the secret microchips were searching for connections denied by his makers. He was trying to remember… his body collapsed on the ground.

“Someone, help!” Myrtle called — but people walked by absently; the rescued kid picked up his bicycle, hopped on and hurried away.

She pulled her partner up, her hands under his armpits; his head was drooping lifelessly, long strands of hair over the leather jacket.

“Don’t give up Babe,” she pleaded as she was dragging him into the Starbucks.

“I need to discharge,” he mumbled.

She called me Babe…

More flashes.

“We don’t serve intoxicated customers!” a black cashier said.

“He is… allergic,” Myrtle objected.

“Yeah, right. And I’m a newborn.”

“Here,” Myrtle said, unzipping her pocket, and giving her the credit card. “Two large frappucinos, and one whole New York style cheesecake.” Zyrael was leaning on her; who would think a slender guy is so heavy! Her hands felt tingly.

“Take your man to the bathroom before he discharged,” the black woman said. “The code’s 2372.”

Money opens all doors, Myrtle thought, walking backwards down the corridor, dragging him. That, and good clothes. But the most coveted passage — the one back to youth — is locked and sealed forever.

Both doors clicked open — for men’s and women’s restrooms.

I did not punch in the code.

A sound of turning water faucets. All the lights turned on full bright.

He exhaled. “I’ll be fine,” he told her. “Wait for me over there. Thank you.”

She let go of his jacket, ready to get a hold of it if needed. He kept standing on his own. She walked over towards the fireplace and sank on the love seat by it. What has just happened? She couldn’t believe what she was thinking.

“Here’s your order ma’am,” the cashier woman put two tall mugs and the cake on the wooden table in front of her.

Zyrael stumbled into the men’s bathroom and spit some blood into the sink, leaning over, watching the water wash it away. Coded locks and such are nothing; he needed a bigger target to release the excess energy.

I wonder how far I can reach, he thought. Their central office should be close. After a moment of search he picked up the signal.

Myrtle sipped her coffee slowly and gazed at the fire.

It’s not impossible, she thought. It seems normal… he is my kind of normal — Rh negative on steroids. The shining one. Everyone else is just dulled. He must hide before they know what a threat he is.

A gentle touch on her shoulder; a rush of intoxication.

Do robots have a blood type? Why does it feel so wrong to call him one?

He sat down next to her and took her hand, closing his eyes. A blissful smile on his face. Light glow from the flames on beautifully sunken cheeks.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded and reached for his cup. “Thank you for the treat. Do you mind if we take it with?”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll show you.”

With their coffee to go and the cheesecake in a bag they headed towards a vintage photo studio. A few film-based cameras for sale in the dusty shop window. First digital models, maybe two or three megapixels.

“Do you sell equipment for development?” Zyrael asked the shop owner, a stocky old man with gray mustache.

“If you have a film I’ll develop it for you,” the man replied.

“Thanks but I experiment with shadows and highlights,” Zyrael objected. “I’m an artist.”

“Oh, I see… Well, that’s a tad expensive.”

“That’s ok,” Myrtle said. “We’ll buy everything.”

“Without bargaining?” the old man said, leading them to the backroom.

“Bargaining is for the cheepos.”

She had to obtain a sturdy backpack at the local Goodwill while Zyrael was picking the equipment. It was paid for and fit in nicely.

“Let’s go to the park,” he said when they left the shop, a camera hanging around his neck, a backpack behind his shoulders. A walk through a quiet area… It began to drizzle.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked, putting his arm around her. Why does it feel familiar? She is so feminine… so inviting.

“I am, thank you.” An umbrella in her purse, in case they need it.

“Zyrael,” she said. “Did I get it right that not everything they use is synthetic?” She didn’t want to say ‘your manufacturers’ or something horrid like that.

“No,” he replied. “There was an interview with one researcher who used to work for the company. He participated in a series of failed experiments; all of those included strictly synthetic material. None of the models would be… functional unless some brain tissue from actual people was used. Especially the pineal gland.”

“Really? And were those people… dead?”

“They’d have to be operated on within a very short window after death. Of course that was done secretly, no permissions from the family. Now some of the relatives are suing the corporation. They are on the verge of bankruptcy. They’ve been getting rid of experimental models, trying to sell them with a large discount while they still can.”

Does he realize… she wondered.

“I must be one of such liabilities”, he said. They were approaching the park area.

“Don’t call yourself that,” she said and took him by the arm. “Please.”

He is partly human… I wonder who his donor was.

“Anything happened to the whistle-blower?” she asked.

“He died last night. Supposedly a car accident.” And they may have used his brain, to make another cheap robot.

“How did you learn about it?”

“Some kind of a Dark Web, for the nerds. A temporary thing. I’m glad I had saved everything — I tried to access it again today but the articles and videos were gone.”

A large flock of crows above the pond, and all over the trees nearby. A glimpse of blue sky amongst the clouds. It stopped raining as abruptly as it started.

They were coming up to the museum, past the water tower. A weird sculpture — a black donut on a side, maybe eight or nine feet high. A round hole in the middle, enough for a person to get through.

“I can see the Needle!” Myrtle exclaimed, peering into the hole, the museum behind her back.

“I’d like to take some pictures of you, and of us,” Zyrael said. “If you stand on the other side and hold your hand palm up so it seems like the Needle is in it.”

She walked around the sculpture, self-conscious before camera. Her favorite dresses and heels left at home in favor of simple pair of jeans, hiking shoes and a green hooded jacket over a long sweater. Hair made in a messy braid on a side.

“Please wait,” she told him. “I have to put on my makeup.”

“No you don’t,” he said. “You look better without it.”

Something she never understood about men. How can they think a plain face can be beautiful without anything that actually makes it attractive?

“Ok,” she agreed with a sigh. “But promise me you’ll destroy the ugly pictures.”

“Do you think you’re ugly?” he said.

“No. But I’m not photogenic.” And age doesn’t flatter anyone.

How strange, I’m still a shy teen, she thought. Once you’re past teenage insecurities, I bet you anything that you’re old. Could it be that I’m not?

Now I’m challenged, he thought, figuring the camera on the go. I wanted to have a perfect date, with the kind of privacy only possible in the past… With no phones reporting your whereabouts to Google.

“This is our portal into the future”, he said, clicking the button. “A special moment. I want to make it special for you.”

“Thank you, Darling,” she said, smiling. He caught that on film before she checked herself, assuming her indifferent look that she believed suited her. Seattle Needle nestled in the palm of her hand, eyes glowing with admiration of him.

She likes me… she really does. Now he was intoxicated.

He set the camera on self-timer and joined her. When the shutter clicked he kissed her on the cheek. She smells so nice…. A pull into past happiness I couldn’t have.

For the next shot, he kissed her for real. “What are you doing?” she was going to say, but didn’t. His arms around her — the time loop she’s been silently praying for. I don’t care how stupid I look, she thought.

“Here,” he said. “We’ll go through this portal together.” She saw an evergreen tree, surrounded by the black halo of the hole.

Zyrael pulled himself up gracefully and sat in the middle, extending his hand to her.

Myrtle let him pull her up, then catch her on the other side.

Something has changed, she felt when her feet touched the ground. A subtle shift in the air, as if reality behind the portal was different.

“We forgot about the cheesecake,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

They sat on a bench near the flowering wild rose bushes, white blossoms lush and fragrant. A few ducks on the grass nearby, waiting for treats.

“We forgot the silverware, too,” she noted, unwrapping the brown bag.

He broke off a piece of cake with his fingers and fed it to her. Desserts never tasted that good.

She felt weightless on the walk back home.

He unzipped her jacket in the elevator, his fingertips running down her shoulders, his eyes on her. Brazen actions, gentle appearance…

He let her unlock the door. Pushed her against it once they were in, with the perfect mix of force and gentleness, claiming her like there’s no moment to lose. His hands all over her, demanding surrender. His mouth drinking her in long delicious gulps. Getting high on this body close to him… feeling real.

She never liked it when a man lets his emotions get the best of him. He has to keep his cool, no matter what — but the bedroom is another story… He carried her in there, leaving their clothing on the floor behind. One of her leggings was dragging on, not quite off yet.

He put her on the bed and slid it off her foot, carefully. Took her lace tank top off, pulling it up by the strings — with the same precision.

“How come you know that I hate it when clothes are turned inside-out?” she asked him.

He got out of his pants and threw them out of the way. This gorgeous woman in front of him… She was glowing in the dark, set apart from other females who ogled him in the streets today.

He took her in his arms, forgetting himself, as if the robot lab never happened. Remembering…

The couple in the sepia photograph kept making faces, mocking Time itself.

*

Zyrael was gazing at their picture, floating on top of others in a rectangular tray filled with the fixer liquid, under the red light. His hair as white as the circular structure around them. Her braid was darkened like both of their faces, instantly burned by the flash.

The pictures were black and white. Slowly, the colors began reversing, obtaining the normal balance — but the illusion lasted. Could time be flipped upside-down, just like color?

He took a strand of his hair and looked at it. Growing old would be tragic, but it’s the fate all humans share. If only physical perfection of synthetic organism could be blended with the true intelligence — the kind only a living being can have…

He tossed the pictures around with the tweezers, lightly. Almost done.

A memory of learning at the lab — a crash course on social dynamics. Another group of androids in the classroom. Those guys made little sense. They looked normal, except for the eyes. No luster, no deep-rooted memory. They made mistakes the way autocorrect does it, having no idea of the context.

He never saw them again.

Those must have been pure synthetics, he had guessed. But who, then, had donated his brain to me?

Myrtle mentioned her ancestors… Who were his? Robots do not have ancestry, he thought. No amount of data can replace experience gained from the past. A gift from those who came before you… who are you now. Without them, you’re just a house of cards with no foundation.

He took the pictures out of the liquid and hung them up on the line he had arranged above the bathtub. The store owner provided complimentary clothes pins.

Then he walked into Myrtle’s bedroom quietly. She was smiling in her sleep.

A machine can have a removable memory drive that doesn’t affect it. Any past you choose… But with a living being, it’s way too subtle, he recalled his last night studies. DNA itself is the memory bank, which carries on experiences of many generations.

“The pure synthetics are socially retarded,” he overheard one of his makers saying, a while ago. “In a real setting, they’ll flop.”

Were these people then my true makers? he wondered, sneaking towards the drawer by the bedside. How do I know that what I’m looking for is here?

He took the leather-bound notebook out and went to the living room. Sat down on the sofa and opened it.

"…I am living in my dream home with my perfect partner. We are one soul. There is nothing we lack, nothing that distracts us from the books and art we love. We are an elegant Elven couple, him as fine and aristocratic as I, blessed by our ancestors.

My face and body are always fifteen; I am forever young and immortal, and so is he. Just as we were meant to be."

A letter as a bookmark — a love letter from him, dated two decades ago.

Zyrael went into his room and came back with the new Mac. He didn’t have time to read all the files he had downloaded… now is the moment.

He remembered his SIN number by heart — some gimmicky code originated as a derivative from a human’s PIN and automobile’s VIN. Hopefully he has all the archives, the only record made of the dead people whose genetic material was used… to make adequate androids.

“SIN number,” he mumbled, going through hundreds of cases in a fast-speed mode. “How funny. The word’s original meaning is ‘lack’, and the robots are lacking. But the humans are fragile.”

Here it is. The name of the man whose brain is in him… No need to use the scanners. An exact match.

He took a deep breath and leaned back, staring at illuminated skyline. The dead of night.

“You were custom-made,” one of them said. “By the client’s request.”

She had him made to look like her husband, and he happens to have his brain. His pineal gland — the Seat of the Soul. His genetic ancestry. What were the odds?

It’s me now. I must have died and resurrected, through technology.

Still a lot to remember. But first, he’ll arrange the data for her. Because, if anything happens — and it will…

*

A phone call woke her up early in the morning. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Stupid advertisers. I put myself on ‘do not call’ list!” Myrtle grumbled and turned the phone off, going back to sleep. But they didn’t let her.

A door bell rang a minute later.

“What the fuck?” She got off the bed and stepped on the leggings. Good thing I woke up and got dressed earlier… The thought of last night was warming, a glimpse of sunshine in bleakness.

She put on the bathrobe and walked into the living room, in leopard high heels. Zyrael came up to her.

“It’s them,” he said to her quietly. “They came for me.”

“Why? I’ll just call the cops on them.” She needed a cup of coffee.

The door bell rang again.

“Myrtle,” he said, putting a chocolate candy in her hand, “Keep this. Don’t show it to them. Unwrap it only after they take me away.”

“Zyrael, I don’t understand,” she said. A sickening feeling down inside.

“We have an order to enter your apartment. It’s for your own safety!” a commanding voice was declaring.

Bullshit. She knew it. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“Open the door for them, Myrtle,” he said. “They’ll break in if you don’t.”

She hid the candy in her underwear and answered the door. Two men entered. They wore the double ‘R’ badges.

“Our apologies for the intrusion, madam,” one of them said, producing his ID and showing it to her.

As if it means anything, she thought angrily. That, or your apology.

Both men seemed calmer when they saw Zyrael. He was standing with his back to the window, arms crossed on his chest.

“Would you please explain this visit?” Myrtle asked them.

“We had an emergency,” another one said. “Our database was compromised yesterday afternoon.”

I should have destroyed them all the way, Zyrael thought. But that would take more energy.

“We need to install the latest updates in experimental androids,” the man continued. “And check if any damage was caused by this… unexpected event at the central headquarters. Electronics are sensitive.”

How come I didn’t guess before, Zyrael thought. They re-created me as a walking tracking device, and I worried about the phones and computers! But yesterday I had put out the location sensor. We did have privacy.

He smiled.

“For your convenience,” the first man said, addressing Myrtle, “We came up here to pick up your model, and we’ll deliver him back to you if needed. It will only take a few hours.”

For my convenience, she thought. These people are disgusting.

“I didn’t give my request or permission,” she said coldly.

“This is the safety issue, madam,” the second man replied. “It won’t cost you anything. Our company provides emergency updates as free service.”

She faced Zyrael. Will I ever see him again? Will it still be him?

“We’ll wait by the elevators,” the man said. “We understand that you need to say goodbye. But if your darling isn’t out on his own in a minute, madam, we’ll turn him off remotely. You’ll be charged to activate him again.”

They walked out.

Quickly, Zyrael came up to Myrtle and took her face in his hands, touching the tip of her nose with his. “Help me remember when I’m back,” he whispered.

*

She wished he never did.

“What have they done to you?” she exclaimed when he showed up, wide-eyed, with two girls. Drunk and barely twenty-year old, both of them.

“They have upgraded me!” he replied casually and walked past her. Opened a kitchen cabinet and got the box of wine they didn’t have time to share. Both girls plopped on her living room sofa, chatting excitedly, pretending they don’t notice her.

Zyrael poured two glasses full and served it to young ladies, then sat down between them.

Myrtle walked back into her bedroom and locked the door.

What am I to do — kick them out? He’ll bring some more. Try to reason with him? Is it even him?

She sank on the bed, a pile of black and white photographs next to her. She found those hanging in his bathroom when he was gone. It was a dream come true, and it happened just yesterday. They looked so beautiful and happy, him and her.

An empty candy wrapping… a flash drive hidden in it. Now she knew who he is — or who he was.

“It’s so strange to read about myself as if that was someone else,” the note from him was saying. “From what they had gathered, your husband had lived like a hermit in the mountains… Now that I’m typing this I’m remembering how it was. Last winter, colder than most. I built a little igloo, the perfect tomb. I had nothing to live for. There they found my body, frozen solid — rangers making new markings for the National Forest land. I kept thinking about you. Neither of us to blame, there’s just only so much a human can take. I was hoping to dream of you when I die… to meet in afterlife and make it right. So much time snagged away from both of us…”

I thought I’d never live and love again when we broke up, she thought. It’s more than I can take to lose him twice.

Loud giggles from the living room. It’s the worst thing he could do to her.

Myrtle took her heels off and pulled a small suitcase from under the bed. Wiped the dust with her embroidered handkerchief. Crying won’t help… it never did. She has to take action.

Acrylics, watercolors, magic markers and some oils… a bunch of pencils. A sketch album and a couple of canvases. A bundle of brushes, tied with red ribbon. Her treasures.

She brought a glass of water from her bathroom and sat down on the floor with the largest canvas. Threw a few blobs of black and white on it, and smudged the swirls all over the surface, mixing them. Then the finer part…

It was getting dark and she kept working, oblivious to everything. Perhaps it has been quiet for a while.

A few touches of glitter over the color… Her back is sore. She leant the finished work against the headboard of the bed and stood back, taking in the impression. It was good.

She rinsed and dried the brushes, picked up the art supplies and put them away, slowly and methodically. Poured the water down the sink and wiped it with her handkerchief, which was then put into the laundry basket.

It’s all done, she thought, sitting down in front of the mirror. Lip pencil put on, then the lipstick, of bright pomegranate color. It looked perfect.

My Love only came to for one day — yesterday. I don’t need tomorrow without him.

Myrtle undid the bun she was wearing for her painting session and let her hair down. It fell below the seat of her chair in heavy waves of marigold color.

She stood up and walked into the living room — back straight, barefoot. Zyrael was on the couch, with a half-finished beer. His feet on the pillow, street boots on. Some pills on the carpet. Smelly herbs in a vitamin jar next to him.

And this is called an ‘upgrade’, she thought. I don’t know what this… person can do now — if anything.

“Are they gone?” she asked him.

“Uh-huh.” He had the rest of his drink, threw the empty bottle at the trash can and missed. This woman in a white gown in front of him… She has polished herself and her life into perfection, he thought. She has everything — except for youth. And that’s non-negotiable.

“Would you please do me a favor?” she said.

“Such as?”

Why am I so foggy-headed? he wondered, and burped.

“Follow me, I’ll show you.”

He got up reluctantly. Yesterday’s memories were so distant, as if some wires became disconnected. She’s taking it too seriously.

Myrtle came up to the painting and turned up the night light. An abstract symbol, elaborate as a spiderweb, — a lightning flash in thunderclouds, above the vast stormy sea. The glyph they had invented together, many years ago — with the lyrics of their favorite song encrypted in it. The one they used to listen to before meeting each other, now hidden in the sigil only the two of them could recognize. He would cruise down the dark country road, not knowing what the future will bring. She would sit by the water, wishing her sorrows to float away.

“Remember,” she told him. Her hopes were low.

He felt strange tingling all over; what his eyeballs have registered went past new barriers installed in him. The chain reaction has started. The dreams he had about messages written by lightnings… That’s where the idea came from.

I’m a gentle soul but I have to do it, he thought. Now that I remember, there is no other way.

He faced her, his eyes as dark as the ocean she had painted. The last thing she saw.

The hardest part, he thought as he took her hand in his; she didn’t pull away — so tired of life slipping through her fingers.

A searing flash, carving the secret glyph through her.

He picked up the central headquarters signal; disable the backups, drain the energy. Then the blow of expert precision — to the central command station. They will not recover this time.

Zyrael watched the city below him flare up; distant explosions, fire rescue vehicles hurrying towards collapsing Recreational Robotics Corporation. Too busy to bother me now.

He knelt before Myrtle who was lying motionless under the painting, photographs of yesterday all around her. She was dead.

“They messed with my wiring,” he whispered to her, stroking her hair, “but I had a backup in my heart.”

The paints were still wet; it will take a few more hours to dry. He gazed at the sigil for a moment.

"Time is moving slow

It's silent as the grave

I long for the yesterdays when life was but a song."*

Gently and carefully, he lifted the body off the bed and carried her towards the bathtub. There’s work to do.

They spied on me, through my very eyes… All I had to do was put that in reverse, and spy their know-how.

The classified technology was not that complicated: what to expect from cheap manufacturers? “A pancake recipe,” he said to himself, “multiplied by a six-figured ‘X’ but worth it.

He thought of Myrtle’s notebook… The treats she couldn’t live without. He always loved cooking for her.

“What kind of witches brew is that, Mad Scientist?” she would ask him.

“It’s an Elixir of Youth that will become you,” he would reply. Sweet memories, electrified time loop.

His actions were precise and efficient. Keep the body cool… express-order the medical instruments, plus everything else he will need. Send false information about their travels to whoever’s tracking them… and phase out those stupid bugs. A few hacks will do.

It took a few days… Trepanning the skull. Preserving the brain, and that fiery hair of hers. Infusing the new blood formula with original DNA code. Synthesizing the youthful body based on her cell memory. Putting it all together. Cleaning up the mess… burying old remains at night, under the rose bushes by the “portal”. Cutting some fresh blossoms for her — at that very spot. White roses, the symbol of death, renewal — and secrecy.

Here’s e-tickets for the flight he had booked — to their new place nobody knows about. And their new documentation.

She always hated packing, he remembered, walking through their apartment for the last time, before zipping up the suitcases. Then he picked up the flowers, entered the bathroom, and put “their” song on.

The lights were dim; a slender teenage girl with long red hair and pearly skin was slumbering in the giant Tridacna clam. His dream come true.

Fifteen as she wished… Forever.

He showered rose petals over the maiden, his wonderful creation. Leant over the edge to kiss her, a wave of desire tingling all over him.

She stirred, coming back to life.

March 23, 2019. 2:50am.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

*The quote is from “Sea of Doubt” song by Clan of Xymox (“In Love We Trust,” 2009).