Photo courtesy of Eric Skadson

The door alert throbbing catches me a little off guard. I knew it would come. Servants aren’t used to seeing someone in a bathrobe, mismatched socks, holding an empty coffee cup in one hand… maybe I feel for them. I’m certainly never what it expects.

Grainy light dances in the landscape of my one-room space, dust particles glimmer glammer around me as I open the door, squinting against the green-yellow flashers on a Serve & Protect vehicle hovering one room cube beneath me.

I sip on the empty cup, eyes narrowed, opposite hand in the torn robe pocket at my hip - a nanocylin punch blade curled in my knuckles. I shove my vintage Ray-Ban frames up my nose, waiting. Let the servant initiate.

“Was his name Figueroa?” it inquires behind mirrored glasses.

Right to it then…

Let’s play along with this, I ponder. “I don’t think so,” I answer.

“Hmmmm… well I guess we will have to start from square one,” it answers.

“Why not square two?” I press.

“We seek a check in box one before we move on, if you please,” it answers.

We. Serve and Protect. The servants of this age, birthed from failed social agencies and gangs of militarized police forces. Still… jackboots with flashing lights and tinfoil logos.

Continuing, “Where were you last night?”

I answer truthfully, “In bed.”

“Who will confirm this?”

“My pillow, my dog… who’s Figueroa?” I answer.

“Anyone sentient, as in human?” it emphasizes.

S&P still rely on human integrity. No answer to my query. I make a mental note.

“Right. Of course. Unfortunately, no. I was in collaboration last night, for several hours, agent time stamps can confirm via addresses and logos stamps, of that I am certain.”

Its mouth squirms a bit. A logos query? Glitch, more likely. Something I can exploit, I think, adjusting my grip, and empty sipping again. The motions give S&P something to track.

“We would like to skim your device for confirmation. You have it, I presume.”

First person. Huh. Noted.

“There’s no need to skim physical. A quick read of your inputs and you’ll find what you need there, I’m sure,” I answer.

Another mouth squirm, left side. It’s checking the logos. Let’s keep the movements and discourse active.

Empty-sip.

Grip adjustment.

“So… this Figueroa…”

“We’ll get to that. Do you know where you are?”

Where you are. Hmmm. Abstract. Dangerously close to when you are.

“Of course,” sip, cup down, “my flat,” I answer.

“Correct. Where…” mouth squirm “…exactly?” It leans slightly into the door frame, gaze holding. In the mirrored glasses, sleep behind my eyes, advanced crows feet, eyes still green, stubble peppering my face.

“In… the doorway…” I offer. More like seek for an affirmation.

“Quite right,” it answers, breaking the locked gaze, and mimicking an over the shoulder personal security scan.

We’re stacked to the rafters in these structures. Anonymous, really. Cubes of light that are a giveaway to occupancy, absence, or silence. The yellow-on-green pulses laze the faces of those peeping tomming.

Truth. I don’t know when or where I am. I feel like a cotton ball dipped in flavored stim juice, dizzy with the strobe-scans. I see a door frame, nanocylin vibrating on my right hand knuckles, dirty terrycloth on my shoulders. I just arrived, to this when and to this where.

“Your collaboration… care to elaborate?” the servant breaks my patterning.

“Is this a question?”

“Yes.”

“Please check your logos data, servant.” I thrust my empty cup in his face, for emphasis.

It turns its wrist, glances down as a face loosely resembling mine mists onto its display. Returning its arm to its side, the mirrors return.

“I can confirm the skim resembles your current condition.”

I grin, lips tight. “Does it?”

“Just so,” it pauses, “Now-cryption validates where you were last night. There is a wondering about how…” The servant turns, facing the doorway, keeping its feet pointed towards me.

These things are reasoning. Stay with the mission, I repeat to myself, you are here to gather more logos. We can’t let them advance to choose sides.

It is wondering. Gaze fixed on the doorway corner, maybe he spies a dronespooler. I thumb the ridge of my nanocylin, shaping it pointer-style, for behind the ear structure entry. I feel it hum in response, materials shifting and charging.

Bathrobe open, mismatched stance, toes curling, I drop the cup, clang-shattering on my floor, expecting it to turn.

The servant stays fixed.

Figueroa. A code.

My next moves sequence, patterning-humming, yellow-green… yellow-green… yellow-green.

“Hey!” I snap my left forefinger and thumb. “I have a query, Figueroa!” I shout, the nanocylin piercing the soft tissue behind its earlobe. A smile emerges on its face, head turning, as the nanos invade it, no fluids, nothing. Just the rippling. With plenty of seconds to amp, the nanos will digest whatever materials exist, upload their analysis, and self-destruct.

I keep one eye on the servant, the other on my device, left lens, conducting a quick facial scan, and utter the words, “Dime store is a go.” I notice the servant mist in the lazed lights mixed with disturbed lint and dust. It mirrors melt, exposing grey-going-black eyes.

An orange wire-thin grid emerges in my eyeglasses, confirming a materials upload. I blink it away, “voice activate” I mutter.

“Damn,” I whisper. “It’s skinned!”

Logos data runs furious on my device display, green checks polka-dot confirmations received. The S&P floater vehicle drifts away.

Standing in my robe and socks, dingy, buzzing, “This means it has happened,” I whisper. “They’ve chosen sides.”