Chapter 4
The trio disembarked from Isabelle’s private train into the Nova Roma’s Concord Station. It drew an impressed grunt from Eve, who remembered well how utilitarian the city had been before it had been granted capital city status. Now its train stations, airports and public buildings were the picture of Neoclassical tributes to the supposed glorious past of Europe. Eurovallis had ever sustained itself on its fictions, the former soldier thought. She’d spent most of her childhood on the army bases and knew all too well how fractious those early days had been. And that was only the tepid tapering of a century of conflict. The art was nice though, she thought to herself as she passed a colossal mural of a 20th century US leader. The man who’d first considered a league of nations, if she remembered her history right.
The arrivals desk was mercifully short, her employer smoothing the way with a few greased palms. It probably helped that she wasn’t hard to look at either, Eve thought as she caught the young man’s lecherous gaze. Ignoring him, she was soon exposed to the full swarming humanity of Nova Roma. Many she passed wore fairly standard clothes with moon-cut shirts and thick jackets to stave off the last dregs of winter. Their clothing ranged from professional, well-cut suits to dishevelled long hair and distressed jeans. Many sported more ostentatious mods from cat eats to digitigrade legs like her own. Eve felt a prickling of her spine as she realised that to the average person, she looked absurdly wealthy.
Stomping on that thought, she followed Isabelle to a nearby street food vendor. Francois had seemed peckish, ordering himself two large calzones. The huge man saw her expression and offered one on his account.
“She doesn’t need to eat, Francois” Isabelle explained patiently while grabbing herself a slice of pizza. As she swiped her phone to pay for their refreshments, she noticed the expression Eve wore. “What? You don’t. You’re basically a plant, if Victoria explained it right. You just need sunlight and that blue juice,” she indicated to the other woman’s thigh, taking a bite of her pizza before continuing along. The silence must have grated on her for she soon piped up to elaborate. “Apparently, you’re running on an eighty one year deficit. The horror. So, she’s working on a digestive system that’ll shred food into useable sugars,” she continued as they moved toward the metro station. Eve supposed she wouldn’t live on the outskirts with the commoners. No, she likely lorded over them from a penthouse of some description.
“If she does not have guts, where does the food and drink go?” Francois asked between mouthfuls of calzone, reminding Eve almost painfully that her sense of smell worked. It was all the worse knowing she would have to wait months, perhaps years to actually eat.
“Into a bag of enzymes that has to be manually emptied. It’s very sexy” Isabelle smirked back to her bodyguard, drawing a chortle from the man. Eve felt her eye twitch with irritation, resentment rearing from the depths. She wished oh so much to remind her which dullard had greenlit a project without having a functional body on deck. The tailed woman entered the business class train with a frown, reminding herself that she served perfectly well in her position as murder machine. Everything else had been shoved to the wayside.
The train they boarded had been specifically set aside for the great and the powerful of Nova Roma. A secure locomotive that travelled alongside civilian transport for no other reason than to make would-be bombers think twice. Eve recalled reading a site’s breakdown of their design. The opulent Edwardian interior and comfortably upholstered chairs hid a chassis and roll cage that would protect occupants from even the worst derailments. The windows, framed with cotton curtains and reactive tinting, could take a shot from some of the most powerful rifles of the day. In short, Eve reasoned, it didn’t matter what decade or century she was in. The powerful were always fearful.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Isabelle asked accusingly, having grown suspicious of the silence Eve surmised. For that reason alone, she fought against her growing irritation.
“Why, jealous?” She replied, holding her phone aloft to prove she wasn’t disobeying orders. She’d been perusing the local news, trying to note any big players that might be useful in the future. Aside from a few mentions of a perennially increasing crime rate and extremism, most of the city seemed fixated upon a TV show centred around a family who refused to modify their bodies in any way. They reminded her uncomfortably of her own family. And Isabelle’s comedically panicked rejection of her insinuation did little to stop that. “I’m just in a bad mood. Can’t imagine why,” Eve noted with a pointed look toward her employer. She seemed to get the hint thereafter leaving her to doomscroll.
Thankfully, at least to Eve, more extreme modifications had trickled down from the upper classes. Now it seemed her strange body would not attract too much attention beyond the fact that she’d not sheathed her legs in ‘Adafur’. A fully synthetic, programmable furry skin that could take on the desired attributes of its wearer with a few software changes. The model they’d chosen had gone with a neon pink, whole-body covering. It brought a smirk to Eve’s features as she pondered what other strange fashions awaited her in the city centre.
What set Eve to disquiet once again was the realisation that Isabelle had not been lying when she’d extolled the virtues of her armour. It wasn’t even widely available to the public, slated for release in five years. She noted with wide eyes that bullets simply didn’t even dent a square of the same substance that now coated her thighs. Apparently, it was an effect of the non-Newtonian internal structures. Whatever that meant.
As the train deposited the three of them in the central city, Eve marvelled at how close the skyscrapers were. Their interlocking canopies cast the streets below into artificial twilight. The pedestrians were far more reserved in their modifications, instead preferring subtle named brands that had been stylized into tattoos. Eve smirked to herself as she attracted a few looks, removing her sunglasses due to the abhorrent lighting. She was fairly sure that without streetlights the road’s many trees and manicured gardens would play perfectly into a covert mission. Even the most modern city’s infrastructure wasn’t going to survive a conventional attack. Though if Nova Roma ever shared the fate of Kharkiv in 2067, there wouldn’t be much fighting to be had.
Her macabre reveries were broken suddenly as a corpulent man rode by in his Transviro, casting Eve a dirty look as he noticed her eyes. With suspicion growing, the former soldier made her way swiftly to Isabelle. She seemed eager to be home, speeding up her gait and checking her phone compulsively.
“Is there something I should know about my eyes?” Eve asked, casting a challenging glare at a middle-aged woman.
“Dr Beltane developed them. Your brain isn’t compatible with regular implants,” Isabelle explained over her shoulder as they entered under the grand awning of a colossal skyscraper. The kind that would command views to Iceland on a clear day, Eve thought. The news about her eyes was disconcerting though not so bad she didn’t notice the grandeur of rich red marble pillars strewn through with white veins. After signing in at the desk, Isabelle took her bodyguards to the lifts where an eager bellhop took her bags and set them trundling toward the heights of the glass tower they now inhabited. As they disembarked into an antechamber equipped with low sofas and suitably generic paintings, it took Eve a moment to notice that Isabelle didn’t merely rent an apartment. The apartment was the entire floor.
Entering her home, Eve noted Isabelle’s appreciation for minimalism. The apartment was loosely divided by four load-bearing walls connected by a square core. The outer walls were almost entirely glass supported by black steel pillars. Beyond lay a balcony and the city sprawling beneath them until it met with roaring seas. Behind them lay the forests and suburbs of Nova Roma. As Isabelle dropped her bags into a living room that sat before the balcony, she seemed to hurry to the kitchen where glasses soon began clinking. Francois availed himself of the piano that sat in the living room, playing something relatively calming.
“I thought you could both use a sonata or two,” he noted with a warm smile. His fingers showed surprising dexterity for their size. Eve made her way over with a glum expression, the music bringing to mind church organs. She briefly wondered whether any of the faithful would take her now. Many of them would assert that she was a facsimile, a replication of a real person without a soul. Her tail swished as she contemplated whether they might be right on that front. There was no way to actually prove she was the same person after all. She only had the word of Isabelle and her employees. It shouldn’t have made a difference, realistically. Yet the thought tightened its tendrils, recalling the blonde woman with her scar. She was thankful for her ramshackle body in that moment. “Ma would clip me around the ears if I didn’t practice,” Francois suddenly chuckled, stirring Eve from her stupor. She gave him a knowing smile before passing on a compliment.
Once Isabelle had finished taking her liquid courage for whatever purpose, she passed behind one of the larger walls and drew the curtain that served as a door. Probably the bedroom. Sure enough, sounds of her struggling with the dress’ zipper soon sounded.
“Where’s she off to?” Eve inquired between Francois’ well-practiced pieces. He looked up for a moment, eyes toward his employer with a frown.
“One of the board members of AmTech is holding a gala in memory of the late CEO. I had assumed you would be coming along too,” he explained with a perplexed expression. Both senior and junior bodyguard reached their conclusion in unison just as Isabelle made her way back into the living room, sporting an elegant evening gown with matching gloves.
“It would be exceptionally risky to bring Eve. She’s not even fully tested yet. Speaking of which,” she noted quickly, reaching over to her bags and rummaging within. She withdrew a thick black file, the kind that could hold a phonebook of paper if needed. Checking the title before nodding with approval, she handed the weighty tome to her blue-eyed guest. “Victoria told me to give you this. Owner’s manual, apparently,” she smirked, righting herself as Eve took the file into her hands. Flipping it open, it had the very professional title of ‘Explaining Vitals Elegantly’. She rolled her eyes, placing the file on one of the plush sofas. “So, here’s the plan. You do your homework, watch the TV, don’t contact your loved ones and I’ll be back by midnight,” Isabelle instructed with surprising sternness as her charge looked forlornly toward her phone once again. The two of them had a stare-down for a moment before Eve seemed to relent, placing her phone face down on the piano. The billionaire heiress or whatever she was probably had the right of it, for once. Tempting as it was, what would she even say? She couldn’t even remember their names.
Francois and Isabelle departed shortly after, having said their goodbyes and making sure Eve wouldn’t renege on her promise. At first, the former soldier attempted to maintain her relative fitness. It was only after her warmup that she noticed her muscles didn’t seem to require oxygen. She couldn’t even exercise to take her mind off things. With irritation she picked up the file, begrudgingly admiring Victoria’s commitment to organizational skills. It had helpfully been divided into different sections including a blue divider labelled ‘your brain’. It consisted of diagrams of her synthetic neurons, their general purpose and, helpfully, a giant question mark under the heading ‘how your thoughts work’. Apparently, the living brain had taught the synthetic neurons how to think and form connections. Which was tremendously helpful.
Returning to the more mundane sections, she noticed that her body was based upon a chassis named the A-22 Werewolf. She was obviously going to read about that.
Her body was designed originally as a suit of armour for infiltration and scouting. She was fast, light and now heavily armoured. It had been termed the Werewolf because it had the ability to obscure most of its more dangerous elements. When the occupant deemed it necessary, they could spring 2cm claws from their fingertips, cause the sharpened tail to secrete venom and reshape their teeth. Apparently, her teeth were made of metal that changed shape when electrically charged. She hoped that she never had a pressing need to lick batteries. Though the ability to grow claws became eminently concerning when Victoria noted in large, underlined letters that she still had this ability.
Experimentally, Eve lowered her homework and stood, holding her hands before her. She cautiously thought of her claws sliding free, attempting to manifest them through will alone. When no additional talons made themselves known she gave the air an enthusiastic swipe. However they were activated, she was fairly confident her lovers wouldn’t have any prickly surprises in the near future. It was only when she returned to her booklet that Victoria noted she’d disabled those protocols with the exception of extreme distress. Funnily enough, for the same reasons Eve had been worried.
“They made me a furry and didn’t even give me the cool parts,” Eve grumbled to herself flicking through the file in search of more interesting features. Her body had been given all the elements Isabelle would value. A body that looked beautiful and experienced pleasure. All except the simple ones such as eating. The file insisted she had tear ducts despite evidence to the contrary. Insisted that she could sleep though she didn’t feel tired. Perhaps it would come in time, but the day had felt like a lifetime.
That lifetime now weighed on her as she sunk into the sofa, insensate as she cast aside the book of technical jargon. After some rummaging, she discovered the remote and turned on the TV. She silently thanked whatever clever engineer had considered redundant systems. Many simply used a mod installed in their hands. Eve looked to her own hand, flexing it. Even the veins were gone. No intricate tracery of blue under white. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalled that she didn’t even have body hair. Consulting the file once again, Victoria explained that synthetic follicles were a trying, expensive technology. She smirked to herself at the irony. Possibly the greatest achievement in human history marred by spendthrift.
She set about watching the second greatest invention in human history babble about a terror attack on a mod factory. It was ever so unnatural, giving people damaged by war their limbs back Eve thought with an eyeroll. There had been a strain of thought ever since the 2060s that modification was inherently wrong based on the notion that it would eventually lead to, well, Eve. She sat up slightly, pressing a hand to her chest. The heartbeat that resounded within her felt genuine enough. She was a person. Whether artificial or a continuation, she felt that to be true at least. Though she would be lying to say the question didn’t raise more unsettling notions. Returning to the news, she smiled with relief to see Isabelle arriving at the gala. She shook her head, noting as several dignitaries followed suit. AmTech must have really made something of itself since she’d disappeared into the dark for five years. She remembered using guns built by them, missiles developed by them. She was fairly sure the toaster was AmTech.
There was a soft chiming that originated from the rafters, startling Eve from her gameshow-induced stupor. It was followed by four quick raps upon the apartment door, a masculine voice calling through the wood. Realising that she was literally designed to tear human bodies apart, Eve got to her feet and made her way to the video feed from the antechamber. Standing there in a sharp suit was a man that looked to be approaching his forties, a short crop of curly hair on his head. He wore stubble that would have been very fashionable a century prior. Clean shaven was the style now, if Eve recalled. He appeared to be of Arabic ancestry and dressed comparatively modestly when Isabelle was the bar. She remembered him from her doomscrolling. AmTech board member, though his name escaped her.
“Who is it?” she asked, her finger on the intercom. He took a step back to be seen by the camera more effectively, offering a congenial smile.
“It’s Waleed. I’m Isabelle’s date for the gala,” the well-dressed man introduced himself. “I don’t think we’ve met, who are you?”
“I’m Ada. I’m Isabelle’s date for after the gala,” Eve lied. It was better that fewer people knew. If he were a board member as she suspected, he would likely know about Isabelle’s bunker. But he wouldn’t necessarily know of the success. If she hadn’t told him, there might be a reason. Though the instinctual loyalty to a woman who’d smiled at her and flirted a few times stung her pride somewhat. “She’s already left, sorry. Did she ask you to meet her there?” she attempted to suggest helpfully. The sooner he left, the sooner her paranoia could stop.
“She must have heavily implied it,” Waleed mused with a hint of sarcasm, jovially scratching his chin. “I’ll go meet her there. Sorry to have bothered you!” he smiled up at the camera before turning to leave, Eve’s finger leaving the intercom to sigh with relief. Relief that vanished like a lightning bolt the second he turned back toward the apartment. “Careful with Isabelle, Ada. She’s a wily one,” he winked before resuming his way back toward the lift.
Eve’s nostrils flared, her heart pounding. Survival instincts told her that nobody could be trusted. She’d known this to be true. But to hear another confirm it so candidly had set her anxiety onto the cliff edge once more. Realising that he may be expecting a reply, despite his walking away, the digitigrade dame dared a stab at humour.
“I’m not running a subscription service,” she drawled in her best impersonation of a bored professional. The man simply chuckled heartily as he entered the lift, hands in his pockets as the doors closed before him.
Eve trotted back to the sofa in a daze, slumping once more into the crevice she’d carved from the cushions. So, Isabelle was keeping the board in the dark. Or Waleed was simply one of those rich kids who’d lucked into a position on daddy’s company. She briefly wondered whether Isabelle was such a person, retrieving her phone to sate her curiosity. After what little cursory research she deigned to do, Eve gleaned that her patroness was, surprisingly, fairly impressive. With a smile, she noticed that Isabelle was an accredited engineer in her own right. The smile vanished as she absorbed a few additional facts, holding them as swords of Damocles. A fool would trust her. Yet Eve so desperately wanted to. To end the dizzying uncertainty, the constant sensation of falling through a thousand unknown realities. Not even her rescuer, her lifeguard from the dark waters that still haunted the edges of her mind, could be trusted. They all wore the mask of friends, smiles and comforting gestures. But Victoria had condemned hundreds to those pools, several more to insanity. And for what? Eve wasn’t a weapon. Not nearly as effective as a drone or human with a gun and a few mods.
Her eyes returned to the TV, throwing barricades against such thoughts as they turned to the snake. Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence. It was now verging dangerously close to enemy action. Perhaps it was merely the shade of her family. Her father. Though she couldn’t imagine him ever offering so much as an olive branch, let alone a lifeline.
Shaking her head vigorously, snarling angrily at herself, she hoped Anthony had a superlative selection of toys for her when they eventually met. Isabelle would likely buy whatever had the biggest price tag. Curiously, she once more reached a hand toward her phone, intending to conduct a little research of her own. Sighing, she thought better of temptation. Even now, Isabelle’s gentle chiding voice rung in her ears. Gritting her teeth, she banished the phantom.
Her boredom had run its course, determination forming as she marched toward the door. She didn’t care if she couldn’t drink or eat. There had to be something other than empty corporate smiles in this world. As she reached the door, she turned it and gave a tug only to find it magnetically locked. Bracing herself against it, she gave a firmer pull only to be met with obstinance. With her rage building, Eve began to pace about the apartment with nostrils flared and strange eyes searching for an escape route. She even briefly considered the balcony before realising armour likely wouldn’t protect her from a thirty storey drop.
It was only after a few minutes of fruitlessly searching the apartment for distractions that Eve eventually discovered an alcove set in a corner of the penthouse. Isabelle had hung tapestries of dark cloth against the windows, spreading like wings around an easel set with canvas. A chest of drawers filled with supplies sat nearby, her palette and brush placed atop it. Turning her attention to the subject of her skills, Eve was taken aback to discover that it was Victoria. An immaculately rendered likeness of the doctor, sweltering in warm colours that set themselves against the green waves of aurora behind her. It only confused the cybernetic woman more. Though it did remind her of the days her mother would spend in the sun, keeping a keen eye on her rambunctious tree-climbing daughter. The few moments of childhood bliss, an island of painting in a firestorm.
She reached out and took a canvas, sitting herself down beside the drawers. After some rummaging, she found supplies to use and began her work. Her mother had often tried to teach her, Eve remembered as she looked to the piano. She hoped there would be enough latent talent and muscle memory to express the knotted, icy rope in her chest. The unending unease of it all. Thankfully, Isabelle seemed to prefer watercolours to oils. Painting with oils had always been an arduous task. Yet her mother had always insisted it was the only way to get the perfect colours.
The hours melted into moments as Eve worked away at her painting. She was far from the most talented artist in history. But she didn’t need to be. This was to be the one thing even the most advanced of synthetic intelligences couldn’t even dream of. They had no thought, no leisure, no concept of the world around them. They did not think. With every stroke of the brush, she felt herself move further from failed technology to the rising ape wise men had written of, passing their wisdom through the teeth of death itself. The TV’s blaring did not dissuade her from her thoughts, attending to every element in turn until reality would not be ignored any longer.
The door to the apartment once again disturbed her. Its locks opened, a groan from Francois as he stretched was heard. Isabelle complained of boredom, only to suddenly stop once she noticed her missing guest. She called and, for the briefest ludicrous moment, Eve considered not answering. The temptation was rendered moot once the dark curls leaned around the wall that separated her makeshift studio from the rest of the apartment. She saw the painting, eyes lost in thought for a moment before she wished goodnight to her bodyguard over her shoulder. Then, her gaze returned to Eve. The budding artist stood herself up awkwardly, making comment about joining Francois in the security’s apartments.
“I don’t think you should be alone right now,” Isabelle suggested gently, offering a hand to Eve as she looked toward the painting. “Would you like to stay with me?”
