Skip to main content

Today's Reading

“Other side’s more solid,” a voice says. It has the smoothness of an artificial voice, but the cadence is wrong. I can’t see anyone in the room with me until I sit up cautiously, using my arms on the rim of the bathtub for leverage. There is a dirty, skinny dog with matted black-brown fur sitting in the room’s doorway. The line of lights along its head, the blocky shape of an implant at its throat, and one artificial eye provides an immediate explanation: a bio-mech hybrid, a cyborg.

“How do you know?” I ask it. My voice sounds odd and unfamiliar to my audio processors, and I realize I have not actually spoken in nearly two decades.

“I can smell the mold and the rotten wood,” the dog answers. It jerks its head, pointing. “Not as strong on your left, against the wall. Did you come in that way? You must have.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have no memory of my arrival.”

“Why are you in a bathtub?”

“I don’t know that, either,” I say. I am starting to be a little irritated, which is unfair, as the dog is not responsible for my situation. And I did have to come in some way, presumably carried by an unknown person or persons who could lift my 275-kilogram inert body up into the tub without all of us breaking through the floor together. It aggravates me that I can only speculate.

Though why the dog is here, now, is also something I don’t know, so I ask.

“I heard noises,” the dog answers. “Thought maybe you were a rat, or something else I could catch. I’m hungry.”

“I would strongly reconsider the wisdom of eating anything you can catch here; the entire city is a red zone,” I say.

“Thanks,” the dog says, sarcasm heavy in its voice. “Not eating is a great survival tactic. Can’t believe I never thought of that on my own.”

“If you can find and bring someone back here to render assistance to me, I would be willing to locate and obtain some manner of clean food for you in return,” I offer.

“It’d take me a while to find someone who’ll come. Not a lot of your kind are willing to talk to hybrids,” the dog says. “Not that I want to turn down food, but if you get out on the wall side, you should be fine without help.”

“If only it were that simple,” I say. “Whoever put me in here also stole one of my legs.”

The dog gives a short, sharp bark, and I’m not sure if it’s from surprise, or if it is laughing at me, or what. I have very little knowledge about mammals other than humankind, and that last was imposed, not voluntarily sought.

“I see,” the dog says, after a brief appraisal. “I suppose when you’re mandroid-shaped—”

“I am not a mandroid,” I interrupt, angry at the slur but also the underlying implication. “I am merely bipedal.”

“Well, unipedal, I guess,” the dog says. “Monopedal? Unopedal? No-redundancy-pedal?”

What I do not need—and have never and will never need, though I did not know it until this moment—is humor from a smart-mouthed cyborg dog. It must have figured that out itself, because its mouth opened as if to say more, then closed again. “I’ll see what I can do,” the dog says. “You’ll feed me?”

“I will,” I say, then at the dog’s continued look, add, “I give my word.”

“Okay, I suppose,” the dog says. It stands and turns—I can see now how gaunt it is, the shape of its ribs showing under its fur—and leaves. I hear it for a little while, its footsteps varying as it crosses different surfaces, but then it is gone and I am alone again, in my bathtub, in a ruined building, and nothing worth my time to think on except for who might have wanted my leg enough to go the effort to steal it and yet not bother to steal both.

I have plenty of power, but still I shut down to a semi-idle state to conserve what I have, and if it also gives me fewer computational cycles for my thoughts to chase each other in endless, pointless circles, that is not unwelcome.

• • •

It is the footsteps a few hours past dawn, the interspersed thump and staccato of dog and some other, much heavier, multi-legged mechlife growing louder and closer, that finally pull me away from the edge of misery.

“Keep to your left inside the room,” I hear the dog say, and then an eight-legged mech strides in, arranging their thick legs in narrow series to fit through the doorway, until they can stand over the tub and look down at me.

What our readers think...

Ode to the Half-Broken | Online Book Clubs Skip to main content

Today's Reading

“Other side’s more solid,” a voice says. It has the smoothness of an artificial voice, but the cadence is wrong. I can’t see anyone in the room with me until I sit up cautiously, using my arms on the rim of the bathtub for leverage. There is a dirty, skinny dog with matted black-brown fur sitting in the room’s doorway. The line of lights along its head, the blocky shape of an implant at its throat, and one artificial eye provides an immediate explanation: a bio-mech hybrid, a cyborg.

“How do you know?” I ask it. My voice sounds odd and unfamiliar to my audio processors, and I realize I have not actually spoken in nearly two decades.

“I can smell the mold and the rotten wood,” the dog answers. It jerks its head, pointing. “Not as strong on your left, against the wall. Did you come in that way? You must have.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have no memory of my arrival.”

“Why are you in a bathtub?”

“I don’t know that, either,” I say. I am starting to be a little irritated, which is unfair, as the dog is not responsible for my situation. And I did have to come in some way, presumably carried by an unknown person or persons who could lift my 275-kilogram inert body up into the tub without all of us breaking through the floor together. It aggravates me that I can only speculate.

Though why the dog is here, now, is also something I don’t know, so I ask.

“I heard noises,” the dog answers. “Thought maybe you were a rat, or something else I could catch. I’m hungry.”

“I would strongly reconsider the wisdom of eating anything you can catch here; the entire city is a red zone,” I say.

“Thanks,” the dog says, sarcasm heavy in its voice. “Not eating is a great survival tactic. Can’t believe I never thought of that on my own.”

“If you can find and bring someone back here to render assistance to me, I would be willing to locate and obtain some manner of clean food for you in return,” I offer.

“It’d take me a while to find someone who’ll come. Not a lot of your kind are willing to talk to hybrids,” the dog says. “Not that I want to turn down food, but if you get out on the wall side, you should be fine without help.”

“If only it were that simple,” I say. “Whoever put me in here also stole one of my legs.”

The dog gives a short, sharp bark, and I’m not sure if it’s from surprise, or if it is laughing at me, or what. I have very little knowledge about mammals other than humankind, and that last was imposed, not voluntarily sought.

“I see,” the dog says, after a brief appraisal. “I suppose when you’re mandroid-shaped—”

“I am not a mandroid,” I interrupt, angry at the slur but also the underlying implication. “I am merely bipedal.”

“Well, unipedal, I guess,” the dog says. “Monopedal? Unopedal? No-redundancy-pedal?”

What I do not need—and have never and will never need, though I did not know it until this moment—is humor from a smart-mouthed cyborg dog. It must have figured that out itself, because its mouth opened as if to say more, then closed again. “I’ll see what I can do,” the dog says. “You’ll feed me?”

“I will,” I say, then at the dog’s continued look, add, “I give my word.”

“Okay, I suppose,” the dog says. It stands and turns—I can see now how gaunt it is, the shape of its ribs showing under its fur—and leaves. I hear it for a little while, its footsteps varying as it crosses different surfaces, but then it is gone and I am alone again, in my bathtub, in a ruined building, and nothing worth my time to think on except for who might have wanted my leg enough to go the effort to steal it and yet not bother to steal both.

I have plenty of power, but still I shut down to a semi-idle state to conserve what I have, and if it also gives me fewer computational cycles for my thoughts to chase each other in endless, pointless circles, that is not unwelcome.

• • •

It is the footsteps a few hours past dawn, the interspersed thump and staccato of dog and some other, much heavier, multi-legged mechlife growing louder and closer, that finally pull me away from the edge of misery.

“Keep to your left inside the room,” I hear the dog say, and then an eight-legged mech strides in, arranging their thick legs in narrow series to fit through the doorway, until they can stand over the tub and look down at me.

What our readers think...