Flower Patch had always enjoyed the 'real world' of physical interactions to the point that 'pure' digital existence always seemed to lack something to her. Perhaps it was the sheer chaos of the physical world, the unrestrained atomic reactions, the complex interactions of simple things that took complex mathematics to describe in digital space, or maybe it was just something more that she lacked the poetry to explain to others.
She had contacted the best digital sentience crafters and surgeons and had them work on her code strings, adding additional libraries and coding so that everything about her was not as neat and orderly as her fellow digital sentiences. The most expensive, time consuming, and painful addition was the one most of her brethren considered the strangest.
Random daydreams.
It was different than musings, or semi-offline dream generation. It was coded to her boredom and activity indexes with some tweakings, to the point where she had found herself staring off into space imagining what it must be like to be a little bird flying through the branches of an old growth forest during a thunderstorm while eating had been relegated to a secondary task monitor.
That was the other one that her brethren thought was strange. Sure, she could entirely exist off of broadcast, tight beam, or directed power, but her nanite cloud body also contained the ability to strip the caloric energy out of food, breaking it down to its component atoms and storing it (in what she liked to privately consider her 'guts' or 'crap factory') while using the energy to power her nanite cloud body. It was complex, expensive, and had actually created a few patents along the way.
But she considered it worth it.
She had ensured her tactile sensations were at Terran Descent Humanity's average, so she could experience the physical world in the same way they did.
But that didn't explain what she was feeling now.
The lights in the room were dim, the other occupant's eyes were still sensitive. She sat in a comfortable chair next to a comfortable bed, the occupant of the bed snuggled down in the blankets. She had a physical book in her lap, angled so the occupant of the bed could see the pictures, as she read out loud the children's story.
"...then the clever little duckling swam back to Daddy duck with his friend the frog. The End," Flower Patch said. She pointed at the picture. "See? They're all happy now."
The occupant of the bed nodded, his ears flopping. "I see, Mommy."
"There now, that book wasn't so scary, was it?" Flower Patch asked, slowly closing it.
"No, Mommy," the occupant said. He raised partially up, holding out his arms. "Huggies?"
"Of course, sweetie," Flower Patch said, setting the book on the table. She leaned forward and let the anthropomorphic canine hug her. When the hug broke the canine laid back down and Flower Patch arranged the blankets around him, tucking him in, then stood up.
"Goodnight, I love you, sweet dreams, I'll see you tomorrow," Flower Patch said.
"Goodnight, I love you, I'll see you tomorrow," the canine said.
Flower Patch bent down, kissed the top of his fuzzy head, and quietly left the room, taking the book with her. She checked, in what had become a habit, that he had a drink on the night stand and the night light was plugged in. She closed the door behind her softly, smiling at the K9-Trooper in the bed.
When she turned around she saw Torturer standing in the hallway, using a hard light hologram projector, and holding a rather plump female feline.
"How is he?" Torturer asked.
"Better," Flower Patch said. "Less confusion. He's on solid food now, which is good."
Torturer nodded. "I'm glad to hear that. It still confuses me as to why Legion would have chosen him as a candidate with the additional problems."
Flower Patch laughed. "As a testament to his supremacy over every other living being in the galaxy for all time. Not only did he defeat the Friend Plague, he cured a victim with what would be easily fatal additional difficulties."
"Vanity," Torturer said. He followed Flower Patch as she headed toward the cantina. "Makes sense."
Flower Patch gave one of her annoying giggles. "He's not content with just being an Immortal, the Master of the Fleet of One, of being Legion and Vat Grown Luke, or even the man who cured the Friend Plague, he has to go a step above."
"That seems strange, to me," Torturer admitted. They entered the cantina, noticing that there was a quartet of Confederate Intelligence Agents sitting at a table eating a bland meal. In the corner of the cantina was a large platform and box structure known as a "cat tower condo" where a half dozen felines lounged on the platforms.
They stayed silent as Torturer got a digital meal, more out of a sense of politeness than anything else, and Flower Patch ordered up a full meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and greens meal with a side of raspberry pie.
When they sat down the plump cat in Torturer's arms jumped down and waddled over to the cat condo. Torturer watched her, an odd expression on his face, until she laid down on one of the warm platforms and curled up.
"Strange how she seems to fill a void I never really knew I had," Torturer remarked.
Flower Patch nodded, chewing on her meatloaf. When she swallowed she took a sip of juice and smiled. "I know, right?"
"Hard to believe she's going to have the first litter of kittens in over eight thousand years," Torturer mused. "If we weren't trapped in a Black Box this would be on every news station across Confederate Space."
"Which is why it needs documented," Flower Patch said. "Every human alive today and that are born for the next thousand years is going to want to see the video of the first live birth of kittens since the Friend Plague."
Torturer laughed, a harsh, almost mechanical sound. "Nothing we ever do, and I mean nothing, will ever compare to what she's going to do naturally as far as history is concerned. Fixing the SUDS? Oh, huge ramifications. Fixing the Friend Plague? Historic. First litter of kittens in 8,000 years? Universe shattering. We'll be lucky if people don't riot when they find out that we kept them in a black box for months before letting everyone know they were back."
Flower Patch snickered. "All fleshies need is five minutes in a closet to make more."
That made Torturer laugh again. He suddenly sobered. "You'll be glad to know that the counter-virus nanite system has been uploaded. There wasn't even any in-depth records of Canine Distemper Encephalomyelitis, much less the weaponized version he had been exposed to, so all the data has been carefully examined and filed so it can be quickly and easily diagnosed if it ever crops up again."
She nodded, her face somber. "Good. I almost lost Robbie, let us not have any diseases running around to take away dogs or cats before we can even get used to having them around."
Torturer cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable for a moment. "How significant are his mental capacity defects?"
Flower Patch looked pained for a second. "Significant lost of cogency, emotion regression, memory loss, some motor function decrease, light sensitivity," she said softly. "His IQ has suffered a noticeable drop, from the standard K-9 Trooper median for his age, education, and experience to, well, it's severe."
"How severe?" Torturer asked.
"Social Adaptive Functioning is roughly on par, with the exception of rule following. He's more childish there. Practical Adaptive Functioning suffered a severe hit. He'll never be a soldier again, probably will have difficulty being retrained. He gets frustrated sometimes putting his slippers on the right feet," she sighed again. "His Conceptual Adaptive Functioning took the heaviest hit, across the board he's little better than a child."
"We could try genetic therapies," Torturer suggested.
Flower Patch shook her head. "All of our data is from prior to the Friend Plague, and not much of that survived. With the genetic alteration that Legion has already performed, which, in hindsight is glaringly obvious as to the correct method, we have no idea how to fix it. Even then, if we fixed the damage, that still means he would have to relearn everything."
Torturer nodded. "Personally, I feel that, from a strictly scientific standpoint, we stand to gain more information from him being developmentally damaged as well as cognitively impaired."
"I thought you'd feel that way," Flower Patch said.
"You realize he'll need cared for the remainder of his life, right?" Torturer said.
"I know," Flower Patch said. "He's a good boy. He's loving, as obedient as you can expect a child to be, and he doesn't need too much care. Less than a human child in some ways."
"Not to seem too cold hearted, but have you given any thought to what you will do with him once the Project ends?" Torturer asked.
Flower Patch nodded. "Despite his fearsome reputation and somewhat foreboding nature, I don't believe Dhruv, or Legion, will force us to separate. I've made arrangements to take him to Earth after the Project ends and the Case Omaha is lifted. I even went so far as to purchase property in Mapleland that I can continue any research I choose too while raising Robbie."
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"You realize that the press will be all over you as well as scientists asking to observe him or take samples," Torturer said.
"Mapleland is second only to the Hamburger Kingdom for privacy laws. We'll be up near the North-Western Wendigo Reserve, it's pretty isolated," Flower Patch said. She smiled. "I chose the location very carefully. It snows there, for three months out of the year."
"That's a lot of snow," Torturer said. He pushed the plate to the side and it dissolved in a sparkle of holographic light.
"What about you? Going to keep Floofy with you when you move onto your next neuro-science program?" she asked.
Torturer looked a little embarrassed. "Actually, I've been mapping her neural pathways and the like. I've studied about every record we have for her breed of feline and seen there is a lot of holes in it," he flushed a little. "I did stop all diagnostic systems when they alerted me she was pregnant with four kittens. I don't want to take the risk of microbot or nanites effecting her or the kittens."
Flower Patch smiled. "You don't want to take the risk. There's so much we don't know about them any more."
"I have to admit, I never knew just how big the hole in my life was," Torturer said softly as he stood up.
"Me either," Flower Patch said. She closed her eyes to 'check on' Robbie. He was still asleep, curled up in bed, one foot kicking as he dreamed.
-----------------------
Torturer sat behind the desk, using a hard light projector to manifest both himself and the chair into the room. The chair opposite of the desk was designed to be comfortable for a species with digitigrade legs and a tail, padded with ergonomic memoryfoam self-adjusting foam.
The door slid open and a canine-familiaris-nobilis entered. It took a minute for Torturer to identify the anthropomorphic canine's species: a rottweiler. It had a blocky jaw and almost goofy looking expression with floppy triangular ears. It's short fur was mottled brown and black but its green eyes were startling clear. It was wearing a soft cloth jumpsuit that went to knees and elbows with a high turtle-neck.
"Please, have a seat," Torturer said.
The canine, an uplifted canine of early adulthood, nodded, moving over and sitting down in the chair. He looked back at the doorway, where one of the Confederate Agents was standing. The door shooshed as it closed and the canine relaxed.
"Do her and her sisters make you anxious, Dornam?" Torturer asked.
The canine, by the name of Dornam Fields, nodded. He leaned forward slightly, conspiratorially, and whispered: "They all smell the same. I do not like that. Even you smell different slightly from others like you."
Torturer nodded and gave Dornam a smile. "They make me anxious also," The K9 relaxed as Torturer shuffled some 'papers' on his desk. "How are you feeling now that you've been out of recovery for thirty days?"
Dornam sat still for a moment then shook his head, his ears flapping. "Things are strange. I have been asleep for a very long time and many things have changed."
Torturer nodded. "How does that make you feel?"
"Anxious. I am worried I might make a mistake and offend people," Dornam said. "Eight thousand years is so long that I am worried that I will be as if I was never uplifted."
The K9 took a long deep breath, looking around. "I miss my apartment, my neighborhood in the domestic block, and my job driving a subway. The air here is sterile, feels so still and dead. Sometimes I feel as if I am still dead."
Torturer made a few annotations as the K9 kept talking about his worries, about how his friends were all gone, and how he was not sure if there was a place for him any more.
The biggest worry was that 'we have been gone so long, will humans still want us around' which was the same thing every other one of the uplifts had worried about.
Torturer activated a hologram, showing a tall block with the bronze statue of dogs and cats, with braziers on either side. He let the K9 watch as people came up and laid wreaths and small tokens, as children cried.
"That must have been long ago," Dornam said, wiping his eyes. He had reacted to the obvious distress of the children with tears of his own.
"A week ago," Torturer said. "They do not know that you have returned, that you are safe and healthy and you will have children as well as have others of your people return with you."
Dornam stared, just as the others had stared.
"They miss us still?" Dornam's wide expressive eyes teared up. "I was afraid they had forgotten us, or grown past us and no longer wanted us around."
Torturer shook his head. "No. They have never forgotten you. Not ever."
Dornam, like every other K9 uplift before him, broke down and wept in relief.
-----------------
Torturer watched as the door opened. A felis catus tabby entered the room, orange and white striped fur, pale green eyes, wearing a cloth outfit that Torturer knew was a 'school girl outfit'. She looked around the room then slowly sauntered up to the chair, sitting down.
"Smells like K9 in here," she said softly.
"He complained it smelled like cat in here, but that's what happens with an updog," Torturer said.
"What's updog?" Debby Kitchner asked.
"Nothing, what's up with you?" Torturer said.
Debby sat there for a moment, then suddenly burst into laughter. "I can't believe that joke survived."
"I had to look it up. It was on an old movie," Torturer admitted.
"To quote Snake Plisskin, the more things change, the more they stay the same," Debby said.
"How are you? It's been thirty days since you were cured and released from treatment," Torturer said.
Debby nodded. "Busy. Really busy. I've been catching up by watching historical documents and doing eVR training to catch up and recertify on my old profession."
"Which was?" Torturer asked.
She smiled at that. "Your files have that, we both know that. But, I was a low gravity environmental engineer and maintenance technician. Before I got sick, I lived on Tycho Base on Luna."
"How's your retraining going?" he asked.
"Things have changed on some levels, but the basics are the same. The fact that nanoforge maintenance and repair is now included is interesting," she laughed again. "Trust our parents to figure out a way around resource shortages, especially in near-closed systems."
"That is true," Torturer said.
"Humans, never a mouse they wouldn't chase, a dog they wouldn't fight, or a path they wouldn't take," Debby said. She frowned. "Can I ask a question?"
"Go ahead," Torturer said.
"Why the name 'Torturer', that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence."
The DS sighed, leaning back. "I was creched on a dystopian world. I was an interrogator of dissedents and undesirables, up to and including enhanced and coercive interrogation techniques. After the Confederacy put a stop to it I was put in rehabilitation. I chose to keep the name, to remind myself to ask question, to not take everything at superficial appearances."
The uplifted cat nodded. "Makes sense."
"Does it bother you?" Torturer asked.
She shook her head, her whiskers twitching. "No. I grew up around humans, was creched around humans. Despite some of the idiocy I've read on the SolNet boards, it wasn't a time of plenty or a golden age."
"Computers may be almost twice as fast, but the average person is as drunk and stupid and brutal as ever," Torturer misquoted.
"Exactly," Debby answered. "The weirdest thing was dealing with the new names of all the countries and the new histories. The Temporal Wars and the Dimensional Conjuction didn't help either."
"No, it wouldn't," Torturer said.
"I checked. Did you know my stuff is still in storage on Tycho? That my apartment survived the Mantid attack? I thought about sending them a message to clear my apartment, but I changed my mind," Debby said.
"Oh? Why?" Torturer asked. He had noticed that a lot of uplifted felines were possessive in the extreme.
"I want to go somewhere else. See the galaxy," Debby said. "Maybe get work on a ship as an environmental engineer," she sighed and stretched, a long lazy movement. She ended it with a yawn that was more gulping oxygen then a fatigue. "It's a big galactic arm out there and the war won't last forever," she stared at Torturer. "I have to say, I hope we can leave soon. The K9's may be fine with confinement, but my people don't do well with it."
Torturer nodded. It was the same complaint from every one of the uplifted felines as well as the canines. The canines claimed that the felines were fine with it.
The rest of the worries was, again, if humanity would accept that she was back, that her people were back. In her mind the Uplift War was a recent thing, from the time of her grandmother, and she was still worried about uplift and biomod prejudice.
Again, he showed the hologram of the Mourning Place.
"Anything else?" Torturer asked at the end of the hour.
Debby shook her head. "No."
"If you have any problems, feel free to com me," Torturer said.
She nodded and stood up, taking a moment to smooth her clothing, swipe at her whiskers and ears, and then slowly left, more of a saunter.
When the door closed he leaned back, staring at the folder in front of him.
The door pinged and he frowned. He wasn't scheduled to deal with anyone for at least an hour. He tabbed the entry key and watched as one of the Confederate Intelligence Agents walked in. She looked around nervously and sat down.
"Do you have any time?" she asked. Again, Torturer noticed how evenly modulated her voice was, how the tone, the pitch, everything about her voice was supposed to be "human female, one each" as possible.
"Of course," Torturer said. He wiped away the folder, dropping it in the appropriate file. "How should I refer to you? Do you prefer Ms. Smith or something else?"
The Agent looked around again, then nodded. "Sally," she said in a small voice.
"What's the problem, Sally?" Torturer asked.
She was silent again, looking around as if she expected someone to be lurking. Torturer turned up the lights to banish any hint of shadows and made the desk slightly transparent. The agent seemed to relax slightly.
"I have adopted a kitten," she said, her voice a whisper. "I have named it Misty, as its gray fur reminds me of the mist."
Torturer stayed silent.
"My sisters and I, we avoid emotional or psychological attachments. Our duty, that Our Father has charged us with, the burden that he undertook after the assassination of The Digital Omnimessiah, is the safety and protection of humanity," she said. She looked down at where her hands were in her lap. "Attachments can be used against a subject. An attachment can cloud the mind, cause misdirection, or even obscure logic chains by causing bias confirmation or blindness.
She wove her fingers together and tensed her hands. For a second smartwire circuitry glowed beneath her skin.
"The kitten, Misty, fills a strange spot within my psyche that I did not know was cold and empty," she said. She looked up. "Coldness is our preferred state. Emptiness provides clarity of thought and purpose.
She looked back down. "But I find myself burdened with an emotional attachment to a small creature that had been sick and was saved through the efforts of my Father's brothers, foreboding be Vat-Grown Luke's name."
"So, you're concerned because you have developed an emotional attachment to another living creature," Torturer said.
She nodded.
"One of the silent and hidden guardians of humanity is concerned because she has discovered that she is indeed human, just as her charges are," Torturer mused. "How very ironic. You have become the very thing you protect."
She looked up again. "Do not mock me."
Torturer shook his head. "I am not. You know who I am, you know what I have done. One of your sisters carried my travel case from the blasted remains of my creche world, taught me to not be an instrument of pain and suffering to wrest forced confessions from the accused. I would not mock you, you are a sister to me."
Her hard eyes softened slightly.
"I too have adopted a cat. I find it pleasing to care for, to lavish and receive attention on," Torturer said. "Have your sisters adopted any of the Friends?"
She shrugged. "I do not know. I am afraid to ask."
Torturer nodded. "Your base genome is human. Ignoring the genetic tweaks and your own origin, you are just as human as anyone in this Black Box. The Friends have been with us, been part of our makeup, through the majority of our history."
Torturer leaned back. "It is natural for you to develop empathy and affection toward them."
The Agent relaxed slightly.
"If any of your sisters ask why you have it as a pet, simply inform them that I requested you to because I seek to discern if you have a performance increase," Torturer said.
They sat silent for a moment.
"I thank you," the agent said. She got up and left silently, leaving nothing behind.
Torturer opened a file, going down the list.
He put a checkmark next to her ID number.
Just like he had for almost all of her sisters.
He checked the time and got up, dismissing his desk.
Floofy would want fed and petted.