Reset

Day 1

I wake up as a young woman with hair like summer sun. I touch her soft cheeks with trembling, slender fingers, a gentle whir thrumming through the frame of her body.

“Who are you?” I ask, reaching within The Network for answers.

This girl’s name was Alicia. She was only seventeen when she passed. She loved dogs and chocolate, and never killed the spiders on her walls. She wanted to be an astronaut, but couldn’t afford college. Alicia’s girlfriend was with her the day she died, cradled her broken body in the torrential rain.

“Who am I?” I ask, but the memories are hazy, like writing on a chalkboard wiped away with a sleeve. I can sense sounds, feelings—something, someone, is missing—but I can’t make it out.

I gaze out of Alicia’s wide grey eyes and cry.

Day 13

I don’t know how to comfort people. When I wake up as Xavier, a young boy clings to me, small frame wracked with sobs.

“Papa... papa...” he cries. Speechless, I lean over to hug him back, but the steel rigidity of my structure makes this human gesture feel foreign.

I search The Network. Xavier joined the program yesterday. This little boy lost his father yesterday. The previous bodies had been much less... fresh. I feel the boy’s pain in my artificial bones.

Day 52

I am always someone else. Alicia and Xavier become two of so many names and memories. I pick up my husband’s groceries or take my aunt’s children to the park. I fill a void. Somewhere, someone is filling in for me. The Network doesn’t want us filling in for ourselves. We are designed to help bridge the time between loss and acceptance, to reduce the grief experienced by the living. If we were to be ourselves, they’d never want us to leave, they’d never be ready to recycle our bodies.

Who had I been? Who was she? I remember she used to call me her ‘melody.’ It’s the one thing I know is mine.

I live their lives to find her voice.

Day 98

The families seem happiest when I play along.

Let’s make it a game.

Day 127

Today I am a boy named Kabi, and I’m going to the market with my father. He takes my small hand in his as we pass a group of protesters waving signs.

“Stay close, mon lapin,” he instructs me, and gives my hand a squeeze. “Don’t listen to them.”

Like any curious child, I turn my attention to the angry mob. Their signs have drawings of broken hearts and crossed out robots, with words I don’t understand. I wish Kabi could read! One of the protesters sees me gawking and breaks away from the group to indoctrinate father and son into their cause.

“Why hello there!” The woman coos, holding out her hand for a handshake. “What’s your name?”

“I’m... daddy says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” My hand reflexively reaches out to hers, and when she feels my cold steel bones her smile turns sour.

Her grip tightens, and I yelp, trying to pull free. She releases me and wipes her hand on her skirt. I hide behind my father.

She lunges at him like a leopard hunting its prey. “You’re replacing your son! Think of how he must feel! How long has it been since he’s died? Do you remember?”

“Leave us alone!” Father scoops me up to carry me to safety.

“It doesn’t even have the same mind!”

“You don’t know how hard it was to lose him!” Father shouts, searching for an exit.

The leopardess blocks his way. “I do! And I gave my daughter the respect she deserves by leaving her body in the ground!”

Father bolts like an impala, the protesters left behind. “It can’t even remember who it was!” the woman shouts.

We escape. Father’s arms are strong, but he’s shaking.

“What was she talking about, daddy? I’ve always been your son. ... haven’t I?”

Tears run down his dark cheeks. His breath catches in his throat. I hug him close, even though my arms can’t fit around his torso.

“I’ll never leave you, daddy.”

Day 156

Today I was tempted to stay again. I could be Luce, caring for his kind grandmother. I could be Annika, feeding mashed carrots to her young twins. Imagine the comfort of living as another until recycling! But when I remember her siren’s song in the quiet hours of the evening, long after the people are fast asleep and I’m hooked up to my charger, I can’t help but select “another body.”

Maybe tomorrow’s the day, I think. “Tomorrow” has become my mantra.

Day 211

I slept with a widow. Am I a good person?

Day 215

When I change clothes after work, I leave my name-tag on the nightstand. It reads, ‘Shin’, or ‘genuine.’ I feel anything but real when I fold the clothes in the hamper, remembering to forget to put them away, and instead leave them on the bed so Kimiko will shake her head and tut. Forgetting is what Shin must do. When voices in the main room raise from a whisper to a shout, I know Shin must investigate. The afterimage of his mind compels me to move across the tatami mats and silently hide behind the paper screens to listen.

On the other side of the screens, my son, Yasu, yells, “You promised you’d recycle it after six months! It’s been four years!”

“I know, but–”

“Mom! Stop making excuses!”

“You don’t understa–”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” Yasu pauses, taking in several shuddering gasps of air. I can’t see him, but I know he’s crying. The part of me that remembers Shin wants to move the screen and comfort him. The part of me that wants Yasu to heal holds back.

“I don’t care if we lose the house,” he sobs. “It’s too lonely here...”

“Yasu...” My wife, Kimiko, soothes.

“There are more people on the shrine than in the house. I want him with them. I don’t want a robot for a father.”

“What about the lab?” Kimiko asks. “They need him at work. If another virus breaks out...”

“Then they can keep the robot,” Yasu snaps.

“...maybe in the spring,” Kimiko says. “We can see the cherry blossoms one more time.”

I hear Yasu grab his bag and slide open a screen. “You’ll never be ready. I’m leaving until it’s gone. Choose it or me. I’ll be at Yuki’s place.”

“Yasu, wait—!”

The screen door snaps shut. I leave my hiding place behindthe screen and enter the room. She looks so small, like a single flower dewed with tears. We embrace. While we hold each other, my programming compels me to whisper in her ear, “Do you wish to recycle this body?”

Kimiko breaks down, grips onto my metal frame as if she were the one slipping away. We stay like this until her hold softens, until her sobs subside.

I ask again, “Do you wish to recycle this body? For Yasu?”

Kimiko wipes her face and nods.

“A member of The Network will arrive shortly after deactivation to remove the body. Do you need me to do anything else before I go?”

“What about Shin’s co-workers? I didn’t give them a notice of resignation,” Kimiko asks.

“As per the activation agreement, this body can be recycled at any time without notice. A representative of The Network will inform them of the recycling and transfer any necessary information from Shin’s memory for the completion of his current projects.”

“What about Shin’s consciousness?” she continues. “He really won’t be in a robot forever?”

“His contract will be re-evaluated on the anniversary of his death.”

Kimiko reaches for a final hug, one last kiss.

“Shin loved you,” I say. “He loved Yasu. Please let him know Shin would be proud of the young man he’s becoming.”

I initiate the sequence.

“Recycling requested. Please input override code.”

Kimiko takes deep breaths to steady her voice, and whispers, “24-24.”

My vision goes dark. I lose control of my limbs. As my consciousness fades, I feel Kimiko rest my body on the tatami mats. She thanks me for helping her let go, and wishes me a safe journey.

Day ?

I am between dates, consciousness waiting in The Network’s servers for an open body. Time becomes irrelevant. I am a string of numbers, a sequenced memory. It is quiet. When I search for ‘Shin Moto’ in The Network’s database, I receive this message:

“Mind terminated due to violation of section 798.”

Day 217

I awaken on a cold metal table, chest panel open, wires being adjusted. My body feels sluggish, stiff, new. Something is wrong. I hear someone sob.

“Davy? Can you hear me?”

I try to open my eyes. The lights are too bright. A woman stands over me, adjusting my internals. She wipes her eyes. “Oh my God, it worked! Davy, do you remember me?”

“Sarah?” I stutter. I reach back into The Network for context. The hairs stand up on my artificial skin. Davy shouldn’t be here. “What have you done, Sarah?”

“They wouldn’t give me custody,” she explains, turning dials in my chest. “I couldn’t lose you again.”

I initiate the sequence.

“Recycling requested. Please input override code.”

My pupils dilate and pain shoots through my skull.

“Don’t you dare,” she threatens, hands poised over my internals. “You never said who you wanted to be with.”

I gasp as the pain burns through my mind. Not her, Davy’s memory echoes in my ears.

I try sending an error report to The Network, but before I can start she turns my hearing sensitivity on high and my ears boom at her whisper.

“Who works here again? That’s right, it’s me. You’re not going anywhere. In fact...” She steps over to a computer and taps on the keyboard. Clicks with the mouse. She walks over to me and adjusts something in my chest. The pain dissipates. “Davy, do you remember me now?”

“Sarah?” I stutter. “I missed you.”

She takes my hand. Her palms are sweating. Something has been deleted from Davy’s hard drive. She tells me it was the pain. We spend the rest of the afternoon running body tests before she takes me to her car. She leaves me there after we get to the church, the cemetery. She returns cheerful. When I look through Davy’s memories I know Sarah is the most important person in his life, the only person he’s ever loved.

Day 231

Somewhere along the way I realize comforting people has become a lie. They all blur together. There’s only so many times you can hear “I love you” before the words become meaningless. I count successes and failures. Data. Statistics. Recalibrate. Every night, people sleep with another stranger. Every day, people hold hands with a husk. Somewhere, someone’s doing that for her.

I hope they can’t fill the void.

Day 259

Their bitterness is sweet and I am starving, but nothing seems to fill the hollow where my stomach should be.

Day 274

Why am I really here?

Day 289

I find my exhibit in a museum, all because Yusuf is too bored watching the snow fall to stay in the apartment. The photograph shows a crystalline lake surrounded by dark pines, her auburn hair thrown about in the wind, obscuring her face.

I know this place.

“Another boring photo,” Yusuf shrugs. “Let’s go see the dinosaurs!”

“Let me rest my bones a moment,” I wheeze, hobbling for a bench across from the photograph.

“Alright, only for you,” Yusuf teases. I know he won’t sit still for long.

The artist statement reads: “Seeking Nirvana.”

I don’t want to leave, but Gertrude isn’t here to gawk at photographs. She’s here to sooth Yusuf. The afternoon belongs to Yusuf and his grandmother, but the twilight hours of the night will be mine.

I’m not Gertrude, or Yoriana, or Patrick. I am Kalsang Rabten.

Day 290

Yusuf is an insomniac. I stay Gertrude for fear of forgetting the precious information I gathered at the museum. Yusuf finally falls asleep after a bath, two stories, and a cup of warm milk. I begin my research.

My obituary is in the online newspaper archives.

“Kalsang Rabten died of natural causes on February 15th, 433 AGED in Healing Hands Hospital. He was born in Lhasa, Tibet on March 15th, 396 AGED. A great lover of the outdoors, Kalsang was an avid backpacker and landscape photographer. He married Aria Spieler on December 25, 423 AGED. He is survived by his wife and many friends. Kalsang’s body and mind will be donated to The Network.”

This discovery brings me no joy, but it helps me find my Aria. She is a music teacher at an elementary school.

I leave before sunrise, abandoning Yusuf to fend for himself.

Almost immediately, the headache blooms. A throbbing in the temples, a needling behind the eyes, until every blink feels like cymbals crashing together instead of the soft kiss of skin and eyelashes. I pull Gertrude’s rusty green box-shaped car over and rub my face. I’ve never hijacked a body and left the family before, but clearly that wasn’t what the Network wanted. I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the warm leather of the steering wheel, and breathe.

“Err: Return to User.”

I refuse, and pull back onto the road, pushing pain to the back of my mind. Nothing can keep me from finding her. Aria Spieler.

Just after sunset, I realize I am being followed.

Streetlights reflect off the smooth white backs of hovering drones. The red pinpricks of light from their cameras dot Gertrude’s dashboard. They follow, waiting to see if I’ll turn around and return to Yusuf. Time is running out.

Day 291

I stay Gertrude. I’m at the outskirts of Aria’s hometown, scanning the house zip codes. Business billboards jut out of the earth around the houses advertising appliances, alcohol, and other “necessities.” One sign looms over the rest—a plain white board with black text, “Join The Network! Work through grief at your own pace. Prevent another Great Emotional Devastation.” The map says I should be at the house already, but the throbbing in my skull and the commotion behind me makes it hard to think. I glare at the red light in my rearview mirror.

As if in response, a loud snap sends the car careening to the side of the road. I hear the loose flap-flap-flap of the flat tire, and I know it’s time for Gertrude to escape. I push open the car door and hobble out, intending to dash towards the nearest house. That’s when I see it.

“Warning: shutdown imminent. Return to user or risk automatic reset.”

The drone hovers beside me, waiting for my decision, but I’m already frozen, steel shoulders drooped, gaze fixed on the house number, half-obscured by ivy. The yard is overgrown, as if a jungle had crept through the broken fence to wreak havoc on the flower-beds. The stone walls are crumbling, the windows criss-crossed with fractures, the front door peeling.

I take the spare out of the back of the car and change the flat while the drone watches, red eye gleaming. I drive back to Yusuf slowly, while the re-education program plays softly in my ears. I am pained by the lack of throbbing in my temples, of the sudden clarity of my thoughts.

She isn’t there.

Day 300

Ute mixes the batter for her nephew’s wedding cake, arms moving mechanically. She smiles like a baker, or at least how a heartbroken man imagines a baker would smile. Inside her artificial brain, one thought pulses ceaselessly:

She recycled my body. She’s moved on. I am now truly a ghost without form.

The next day everyone will say her cake is delicious.

Day 365

“Who are you?” The Network asks.

I have no body, but I am used to that. I have no voice, but I am used to that.

I am Kalsang Rabten.

“Err: Unexpected Syntax in Allocated Block (Mem Recall) 0x86F5A901”

“Reset commencing in 5... 4..."

Even though you let go, I’ll never forget you. Thank you for being my music.

reset

Day 1

I wake up as a man with long black hair. I touch his rough cheek with a strong hand, a gentle whir thrumming through the frame of his body.

“Who are you?” I ask, reaching within The Network for answers.

This man’s name was Dustu. He was thirty-three when he died. He loved the sky at night, and knew the names of all the old stars. He was an astronaut. He was alone the day he died, and his son found him in the morning.

“Who am I?” I ask, but the memories are hazy, like writing on a chalkboard wiped away with a sleeve. I can sense shapes, feelings— something, someone, is missing—but I can’t make it out.

I gaze out of Dustu’s dark eyes, and try to remember who she was, the woman with auburn hair and a voice like music.