I've never jumped out of an airplane before. You know, the way that some people do it as a lark. Or maybe they call it a sport? Obviously, I’m talking about using a parachute and all. And, in the unlikely event I’d ever willingly leap from a plane, I'd be quite remiss were I not to savor the moment. The trick would be to enjoy the experience for what it was—giddy insanity! Unfortunately, because I have this thing about heights, I’d be terrified. I might be able to come to terms with soiling myself, but if I failed to be fully present to the wonderment of free fall—that would be unacceptable.

Of course, we should strive to be present each and every moment of our lives.

However, when the guy in the white coveralls shot me with that green light—or, as Nora would insist, when the robot zapped me with the ray gun—I wasn't prepared at all. I'd gotten sloppy. Sloppy and cocky. I mean, there I was, toe-to-toe with the madman, August. If he'd punched me in my face, or pulled a shiv from his back pocket, it would be in keeping with the situation. Much like standing in the opened hatch of an airplane over the drop zone, there are reasonable outcomes in specific situations. Violence in the former, falling in the latter.

At that moment, being blindsided by a robot wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. None of my, let’s just say, “manly training,” ever covered such a scenario.

Ah, well, if you have to go, ray gun blast from a robot has gotta rank up there with being swallowed whole by an anaconda or getting struck by an asteroid. Something to add to the CV, to be sure. And would you look at me, two out of three!

I reminded myself not to let the distractions keep me from the experience of the moment. Not the robots. Not the psychopathic killer. Not even the girls screaming. Well, it was just Nora. I guess Rose didn’t rate me scream-worthy.

No. Ignore all that. Clear the mind.

Be. Here. Now.

That’s what Sal’s old boss would tell me to do. The Great Oberon. Or, as I liked to call him when he was sober enough to be baited, Oberon Mahoney, the Phony Messiah.

And I did, I followed his advice. It took a second, after the initial shock of being, what? Transformed? Then I took a breath. Breath? Did I still have lungs?

Calm. Calm and centered.

There. Not so bad. I wasn’t in pain.

In fact, I could feel little in the way of sensation. It occurred to me that I also wasn’t able to hear. The sound of Nora screaming faded out completely after I had been shot. My vision worked well enough. It certainly appeared she was still screaming, I just couldn’t hear her.

Actually, my vision was better than ever. I had an eye on each side of my head—or whatever passed for a head. I could see the entire room. This was useful, because I couldn’t turn around even if I wanted to.

At some point Nora’s scream of surprise shifted to a battle cry. Well, that’s what it looked like. She launched herself at the robot who shot me. He went down. Rose scanned the room. And with barely a second thought, reached under one of the control consoles and wrenched loose a handful of cables. If only there’d been sparks!

Oh, but that didn’t diminish the experience. I mean, how thrilling! I had a front row seat, watching these two women avenging me.

They were so fierce. It should have been much more exciting and energetic, but the robot made no move to resist. Perhaps resisting attack wasn’t part of its program. Once they had that one trussed up and subdued, I watched Nora walk to the robot in charge of the control room. She picked up a curvy and futuristic chromium office chair (did the presence of chairs mean that robots sit?) and lifted it over her head. The robot observed the indignity about to be performed upon him with detached and perplexed submission. Once the chair smashed down, the robot collapsed like someone had just turned him off. In a way, I guess someone did.

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Nora’s robot-love was a fickle thing.

Rose crossed over to where I was. She knelt down to peer closely at me and August. Between us lay my red toupee. Rose held up the hairpiece and looked from me to August. I realized she didn’t know who was who. I tried to wink or wave, but I had no control over my flabby, boneless body.

Nora and Rose grabbed hold of the two robots, and with not a scrap of delicacy nor decorum, they dragged them down the stairs and out of sight.

I could see my tentacles twitching. There really was no other word to describe them. Tentacles, like a cephalopod. Like Cleo. Their movements were wholly involuntary.

This was a level of vulnerability that didn’t sit well with me. But, no, I reminded myself. Be. Here. Now. August was no threat—he seemed in the same state as I. Twitchy, goggle-eyed, and helpless.

We lay there, observing one another. Probably I looked the same to August as he did to me. Because we were more blobby than elongated, we possessed a greater resemblance to octopi than squid. Maybe more like slugs, with feelers. I kept thinking that this was what an octopus would look like as drawn by a five-year-old. Simply sad. Something you really didn’t want to be looking at it. The worst of all, there was not a hint of humanity to be seen in this current form of mine. Nothing cute. Not noble. It’d be like trying to anthropomorphize a turd. Even if I were to say, “at least you’d not want to step on me,” it wouldn’t be because of your compassion for all things sentient, but mostly because, well, ick!

I was hoping I wasn’t too icky for Rose and Nora to come back for me.

Though I don’t know what one does with an icky, sentient, uncommunicative slug with feelers.

Might there be some de-squidifier in this place? I’d even be fine if my brain could be scooped out and put in one of those robots. They do run to the scrawny and pasty, but I’m not that vain. Besides, they might have sexier models.

No, no.

No.

Centered. Focused.

Be here now, Moreno.

So, I assume you want to know how I first learned of this post-rebirth “condition”—my tendency to turn into something ghastly if I happened to wander too far from my penthouse (or too far from Sal).

That one’s easy. I found out on day one. I mean, no one likes being cooped up. First thing I did when Sal’s personal assistant returned from the store with some jeans, a nice cotton guayabera, and a pair of espadrilles, was to head off to explore my new city.

Almost died on the elevator ride down.

Also, I freaked out the workers in the lobby who—after seeing what I had turned into—surely would have stomped me flat if not for the intercession by a couple of Network admin types who’d “seen a few things,” as they say.

I soon had the basic rules of my condition explained to me.

But, I demanded, what the hell was that thing? That horrible thing that was apparently part of me. The thing that I had finally become.

The sad truth was, no one knew.

Or, they pretended not to know.

Those tight-lipped half-wits from the Network would just shrug and mutter something about “the Changes,” as if those two words were enough to smooth out my existential terror of becoming a helpless monster. It was like offering someone a band-aid after a shark attack.

But, because I had never transformed so, well, completely into this creature, I’d never had to learn how to transform out of it. Didn’t even know if that was possible. Of course, if I did know of some handy trick, I wouldn’t have been able to share it with Rose and Nora. I mean, I didn’t even have a mouth!

Oh, speaking of Rose and Nora, they soon returned. Returned from disposing of the robots. Heaved them over the railing, perhaps? Like August did with the other one. I noticed that Rose was carrying, draped over her arm, two white jumpsuits. I wondered what a naked robot looked like. I won’t lie, that was something I’d have liked to see. Were they smooth, like a Ken doll? Or maybe there was an attempt at anatomical fidelity?

Rose handed one of the jumpsuits to Nora. They approached. One covered up August, the other, me.

The old blanket-over-the-birdcage trick. Exactly how you tuck in a budgie for the night.

Just like that, all of my senses were gone.

Nothing but me and my thoughts.

Be. Here. Now.

As if I had a choice.