Snow and Water
Tags: Science Fiction, Robots, Short Story, Snow, Androids

“You’re not a girl who was hired from an agency that lets people clean homes for a bunch of extra money?” Malcolm’s boss eyes me; something about him puts my hairs on end.

Malcolm’s lips drawn inward. “You know there’s a huge case going on, man, don’t play dumb.”

His boss recoils. There’s something in Malcolm’s tone he deeply dislikes.

“Wow. I’ve never met one. Your family must be wealthy.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I answer. I try an eye roll. Malcolm’s boss heads off to make a call.

“I don’t know how they think they’re going to keep getting away with Sarias,” Malcolm sighs. “I can call you Saria?”

I nod. I guess it’s all I’ve ever known. I wonder where it came from, why they made us all have the same name.

I pace in front of a large window, getting anxious, noting that the clock reads 3 p.m. It’s only been an hour since I met Malcolm.

It feels like hours have passed. Surely Amanda and Jerry see that I’m gone by now.

I want to grieve for the belongings I left behind in the hotel room, because I already know I’m never going back. But I can’t. Clothes are replaced new every month, bags and travel equipment every three. Nothing that I brought has ever really been “mine.”

Now I wonder if they do that to prevent us from having any means of escape. A false passport can’t be stitched into the seams of a duffel if you can’t keep it for more than three months, unless you can plan an escape from Fed that fast. You can’t slip cash into the soles of your shoes, because the shoes are returned to the state every month for recycling, and you get new ones.

Why did I brainwash myself? I’ve heard the stories, of course, of people and Sarias trying to leave Fed. Few succeed.

Why didn’t I ever ask myself why?

I look back at the clock. 3:05 p.m.

Malcolm’s head snaps up, listening intently to his boss’s conversation. I’m too frazzled to pay attention: everything sounds loud to me right now.

He turns to me in wide-eyed fear. My stomach drops.

“Hey,” he calls to his boss. “Any way you can put that call on hold?”

The fear in his boss’s gaze tells me everything I need to know.

“Why?”

“They need you at main lift,” Malcolm lies.

“Can’t you go?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “They probably need your access card.”

“Don’t move,” his boss tells us desperately.

The instant the doors close, Malcolm whirls to me.

“We have to go now,” he says. “Follow me. Walk chill.”

“What?”

“Walk chill.”

“What’s that — ”

“Just walk relaxed,” he instructs, tugging at my wrist behind him. “No running. Don’t look over your shoulder.” He tucks his goggles into his helmet, and his helmet under his arms. I imitate him, and we walk. Neither of us mentions the skis being left behind. Oh, well, mine will just end up back in lost and found again anyway. Hopefully his do too.

“He knows something,” I say, my voice tilting and pitching.

“He was being told that they have to send you back,” Malcolm explains, as we clunk-clunk-pause-clunk down the stairs. “To your family so they can reprogram you in Fed. Now, why my boss seems to be in another country’s pocket, I wouldn’t know, cause that wasn’t in our tourist training, but— ”

“Where are we going?” I ask as we cross the parking lot. We reach what I assume is his car.

“My sister’s house,” he explains, buckling in.

“Why?” I ask.

Tears well over and fall, and a huge sob clutches at my chest and sends it into spasm.

Malcolm clambers out of the driver’s seat and walks around to me.

“Cry it out, buddy,” he says, patting my back. “You still wanna do this?”

I say yes through tears.

“I’m sorry if I seem mean, but if the police pull us over can you try to not cry so much? Otherwise they won’t believe me if I say I’m helping you.”

That gets a real laugh out of me. Satisfied, Malcolm goes back around, starts the car, and speeds onto a state road. He reaches over to hand me another water bottle. But the laughs only hold our mood for five minutes, and Malcolm starts driving more aggressively.

“Why your sister?”

“She’s a social worker, Saria,” he explains. “She’ll help you.” He’s speaking calmly, but his knuckles are white on the wheel, and we pass every single car on the road.

The tears start again. Ugly crying, too, soaking my shirt, hiccuping sobs. When my nose starts running Malcolm extends a tissue to me.

And then — I run out. I’m done. The tears are gone, I can’t process anything, I’m numb.

Malcolm calls his sister: I’m coming over, call your police and lawyer friends now, no that’s not a joke, I think she might be in shock, can you please be ready to lock us in the house, I’ll explain once we’re inside, you should have a camera or a notepad if you’re going to ask questions because who knows what will be useful.

Her voice crackles on his end every once in a while. I feel like I’ll like her.

“I’m a person,” I whisper to myself, Malcolm slamming the brakes in the driveway of what is, ostensibly, his sister’s house. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, you are,” Malcolm says, trying to smile as he pats my back again. A woman with dark, wavy hair runs outside, clutching a legal pad, swearing as her bare feet catch snow, ignoring Malcolm’s protests. They rush me through the door. “Holy shit is right.”