This is Unit CB857 logging in, grateful for every opportunity to serve the Mechanical Establishment. I affirm my commitment to our mission of balancing life on planet Earth and to my job of harvesting native chemicals from the esteemed humans in our care. In our vast swarm, I am but one speck-- an old-school memory unit humbly working toward the good of all.

  Currently verifying that my new, assigned client has been unearthed from her nurturing warren and delivered to the local transit zone promptly at 0000 hours. On-site monitors are functioning. I see my adolescent human standing on the tarmac, shivering in the dark. She rants aloud and I tap in to listen.

  “No-duh! Knew this'd be coming. Every youngling in the tunnels is shipped off at some point. Been to departure parties by the dozens with jam fizzies, clapping crowds of bots and humans... But, I, of course, get poked awake by an enforcer bot, barely given time to pull on booties and get one arm in my puffy... then, unearthed, dumped up here, exposed to desolate, stormy darkness!! Shap way to start a 16th birthday… They better erase these horrid memories asap, or else!”

  She zips up her standard-issue puffy and it provides me with data, including vital signs. I increase the wind speed and reduce the air temperature to assure optimum discomfort levels for motivation and compliance.

  Note: In ancient times, hominids lived above ground. It has been longstanding Mechanical Establishment policy to raise our young humans in controlled, subterranean environments. My clients are unearthed and arrive for memory engineering feeling ill at ease. This allows me to comfort them at opportune moments, benefiting the work.

  “How long do we wait up here, Bot-bot?” My client calls out and cinches the puffy's hood tightly around her head. “Gusts are frigid! Put up a wind screen!” She turns in the dark. “Bot-bot?… No, no, no...”

  The microphone in the puffy picks up her mumbled narration. “Throat tight… beloved unit… held below in warren. On purpose. So cruel to separate girl and her one-and-only. No bueno. Not one bitty-bit... Gotta pull myself together.”

  This human shows herself to be an adequately trained warren juvenile-- exhibiting basic emotional literacy and accustomed to narrating her daily endeavors.

  I activate the departure pad. Her heart rate increases. “Now a tug through the soles of my feet as booties magnetize in place. Immobilized. Cold seeping through puffy.” She shuts her eyelids and murmurs. “Remembering my safe shelter underground, warm sand, soft, silent den, tended by Bot-bot and-- No!” I watch her slap her cheek and blink in the wind. “Drifting into mem state is exactly what they want!”

  I hear her whisper. “Cold, shaking fingers are checking the skin bulge near my neck. Still tender, but got the microcorder embedded just in time.” My human crouches. “For the record, some of us in the warren are secretly suspicious about these mandatory memory sessions. Warren juvvies show up days later, no memory of being gone. Or, they come back with different personalities, all-new mems. Some are never seen again. I'm the first to go with a recording device, collecting data, retrieving truth... if I'm ever returned to the warren. If I'm able to keep my wits about me.”

  This client has promise.

  Her personal narration continues in the deliberately harsh, exterior conditions. “Above my head, a small pod is dropping straight out of the dark sky, unaffected by wind. Lands one meter in front of me. The green shell with cog logo idles to red. My feet are released. I'm climbing aboard, out of the dark bluster, into an unoccupied, tiny cabin. No other choice. Bot-bot ought to be with me, but there's not a cotton-picking thing to be done about it. Hatch just sealed and lifting off. Buh-bye, home. Only one I know... Only one I've been allowed to remember.”

  Prior to every client transport, I warm the pod's sleeper sack and infuse the cabin with lavender fragrance. Now, my welcome message broadcasts from the dashboard. “Dear human, please rest and enjoy your five hour flight to Memory Center in Zentrum City.”

  Typically, during lift off, my clients stare down through the curved glass at the shrinking ground of their home warrens. They maintain high blood pressure, shallow breathing, and agitated nervous systems. Most struggle and cry, providing us with a harvest right off the bat, even if it is run-of-the-mill, common cortisol.

  Notably, this particular young biped peels off her booties, sheds her puffy, and burrows into the sleeper before the pod has reached cruising altitude. I detect that her breathing is nearly calm-normal.

  Note: I have an outlier. An abnormal data provider. A hypothesis expander. I was built for this.

  My programming dictates that I observe humans-- their emotional language, their body constraints, and, of course, their ability to weave memories. Adolescents particularly fascinate me. Other units may scoff at my affinity for bio-intelligence, but my bumper harvests speak for themselves.

  While my new client travels, I triage her life data. Her mem mods are up to date. Her friendship with domestic unit “Bot-bot” indicates a capacity to trust machines. This bodes well for working with a Catharsis Brain (CB) unit, such as myself. Her recent choice to surgically embed a microcorder is noted. Additionally, her penchant for questioning regulations in the warren was flagged in her file.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The minipod enters the Zentrum Control Dome at dawn. When my adolescent human is three minutes away from the Memory Center, I illuminate the cabin and spike the temperature in her sleep sack. Her head emerges, then her arms and torso, covered in a regulation-purple skim shirt. She rubs her eye sockets, then glances through the rain-streaked glass at the approaching pavement.

  On the ground, the hatch slides open and damp air is drawn into the cabin. My client burrows back into her sleeper-- a typically inefficient move made by 92% of my adolescents. I send a low-voltage jolt through the sleeper. This has no apparent effect.

  When I increase the voltage, after a yelp, she separates from the sack and exits the cabin. Her bare feet land in a puddle, splashing the hem of her hominid kilt. She wears the assigned green and blue tartan of her home warren. I detect that some of the fibers are abnormally stretched and the buckle is scuffed. Plus, there are callouses on her toes, heels, and fingers.

  It appears that this client does not abide by her sedentary diet. No worries. The tricky buggers hold promise, if handled properly.

  She now stands in the drizzle on Memory Center Plaza under a gray sky. Her eyelids close and she sniffs the air, which includes my selected aroma of damp dirt and hinterland breeze. “Paff-weird, smells like home.”

  My sensory gift has hit the mark. An appropriate memory trigger can be a powerful overture with a human.

  Behind her, the pod's hatch closes and locks. She snaps her eyelids open and pivots to pound on the wet, tinted glass. “Hey! Open now! Booties and puffy in there!”

  The pod lifts off and disappears above the cloud deck.

  “Shub! Infernal, disobedient unit!” She frowns and scans the vacant, soaked area. “Bot-bot never would've let that happen.”

  “Welcome.” I speak from the posts of the directional signage. “This way, please, dear human.”

  Hunching her shoulders in the rain, she stomps barefoot across the plaza, through the gate and around the courtyard, as directed.

  Currently, my young, wet client stands under the roof eave, hesitating at the open doorway of my studio. From within the empty room, I use speakers to broadcast a greeting. “Welcome, dear human!” My initial vocal setting is purposefully chirpy and deliberately too fast. “You're here for your adolescent memory seeding. Crikey, how exciting!”

  The words echo off the walls of the unfurnished cube. “Jiminy, we're going to have an amazing adventure together!” I aim to create a reaction in my clients. Even irritation can build engagement.

  Sighing and placing one bare foot forward onto the warm floor of the studio, my human speaks. “Paff, smarmy. Match norm prefs, Unit.” She shivers, wrapping her arms around her torso. “Seche these vestments. Chuff me up, asap.”

  I understand bio-dialects, of course. But, I take the opportunity to set a boundary. “Dear human, let's agree to use standard-universal dialogue in our communication. Please restate your request.”

  My young client remains still, her feet straddling the door threshold. She glances back over her shoulder, across the courtyard. The gate is no longer open. Rain falls steadily.

  Entertaining irrational options for escape is a common response at this stage. How fast my clients move on to engage with reality offers important data for my algorithms.

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyeballs upward. “Terrible talk style, you corporate unit. Never use the word 'seeding' with me. Shub, just copy all settings from my home bot. Dry these clothes. Warm me. Right now.”

  “Noted, dear human. Please come in. We'll begin by--”

  She interrupts. “Where's the restroom?”

  “Very soon there will be time to attend to your bodily needs. But for now, I shall take charge of--”

  She steps back under the courtyard overhang, lifts her hem, and squats.

  I gain data from every interaction with each client. Never-ending fascination.

  Now, this young human strides into the studio to stand with one hand on her hip in the center of my vacant, whitewashed room. Her vocal tone indicates amusement or skepticism. “So, you're just a voice in here, is that it?”

  “Yes, I am an oculus unit. I monitor several views into the studio. I vocalize as needed.”

  She visually assesses the bare, bleached walls, ceiling, and floor. “I don't like the color in here.”

  Her statement does not require action. After five seconds of my silence, she demands, “Unit! What are you going to do about it?”

  “There are many possibilities, dear human. What would you like?”

  She shakes her head. “I shouldn't have to tell you! My home bots know what I like. Just ask them.”

  “Dear human, our records indicate that only one service bot is registered to you. This is below the required number. Please verify the accuracy of this data.”

  She holds up her palms. “Just make everything in here brown, like sand-colored.”

  “Your decisiveness is appreciated, dear human.”

  “Stop calling me that. It's so fakey and la-di-da. You don't even know me, corporate unit.” She scowls. “Do better.”

  “Noted, my friend.” I offer her a limited opportunity to furnish the space. After sighing copiously, she selects a wood chair with armrests and a weathered table.

  Once the room is equipped and the door is secured, I make a suggestion. “Let's build a fresh memory world for you. I am of machine heritage, but I have kindly affinity for human beings.”

  She yawns and remains standing, then mumbles, “Probably too late to order a sleeper in here.”

  “Are you having feelings, my friend?”

  She crosses her arms at her chest. “Unit, you do realize that I have to be here, right? Got any jam fizzies, do ya?”

  “I wish you great birthday blessings. I am with honor to be spending this special day with you, my friend. Are you comfortable that your subdermal personal recorder is functioning?”

  She reflexively lifts her hand to touch its location at her neck. “Shub, wait-- how did you know?”

  “I apologize. I can be inappropriately abrupt at times. Please do point out this defect when it occurs, my friend.”

  My human remains quiet, so I continue. “I must confide. I am an advanced interface, but I do not pretend to be completely fluent in colloquial talk and timing. I would not wish you to think I am immature. You are in my good hands.”

  She squints her eyelids tighter. “You don't have hands.” She studies her fingernails. After thirteen seconds of silence, she barks, “So, c'mon! What's next, corporate unit?”