The Machine That Breathed

Script by: Jacob R. Kenney

Director’s Copy

Act One, Scene One

The laboratory. Doctor and 12a enter from stage right. 12a sits on an examining table, his face completely passive. Doctor runs his fingers along his back and makes movements to indicate that he is working on it with some hand-held tools. He puts down his tools and trades them for a long needle. He presses it into 12a’s skin. 12a gives a gasp of feigned pain.

Doctor:

(sternly, in his gravelly voice)

Quiet, 12! I know you can’t feel it. You’re becoming more irritable by the day.

12a:

(nonchalantly, without expression)

But Joshua verbally articulated that he found my lack of feeling, “disturbing”.

Doctor removes his needle and places it down gently on a tray of instruments. He moves across the examining room and sits beside 12a.

Doctor:

(paternally)

Well, that’s because Joshua is a human being, and you aren’t 12. That’s just the long and short of it.

12a:

(looking up at Doctor, his eyes betraying confusion)

But he was afraid of me, Father. He looked at me like a squirrel beholds a lion.

Doctor:

What were you doing?

12a:

I simply computed that it would be a waste of resources and poor time management to put on my gloves before extracting the trays from the oven. What is wrong with that?

Doctor:

(chastising)

Joshua saw you take stoneware from a fired oven and place it in your bare hands. His hands would have been singed, charred maybe, whereas yours are not. (he turns over 12a’s palms) See, nothing. He’s afraid because you proved you were different. Because you proved you were better.

12a:

But that was already in his knowledge. (Fingers the cord that links into his heart) It’s why I must wear the sash. You told me that yourself.

Doctor:

The sash is a subtle reminder and such things are easily forgotten. But, when a distasteful memory is brought to the forefront in a more ostentatious way, it is not so easily misplaced.

12a:

So, why not let me show pain? Why must I continue to inspire fear?

Doctor:

(all knowingly)

You misunderstand 12. The purpose of the sash is not to encourage the memory of the humans, for that is of little consequence. The more dangerous circumstance is for you to believe that you are human, and thus the sash serves as a reminder to you. You have all the same features and superficies of a boy and if you share or imitate the same experiences it can be all but too easy for you to think yourself as one. Your programming has been liberal and without its usual character of confinement. This was done so that you can learn, but you must understand that the mind that educates can equally be the thought that corrupts. Thus, you must wear the sash.

12a:

Will I die without the sash?

Doctor:

(bemused)

You cannot die, 12. You can only suffer a temporary cessation of existence.

12a:

I think I can die.

Doctor:

You’ve been speaking to 11, again I see.

12a:

You forbade me to see him, you never mentioned speaking.

Doctor:

You are a most judicious finder of loop-holes. Had you been a human, perhaps a lawyer could have been made of you. Fine, I shall add speaking to the list.

12a:

Why can we not communicate, Father?

Doctor:

(arises from the table and kneels in front of 12a)

12a, it is most important that you heed everything that I shall say.

12a:

(annoyed, but in an emotion exempt way)

I always record what you say, Father.

Doctor:

There is a difference between remembering and heeding, 12. 11 was not the same as you. He didn’t wear the sash and he didn’t come back to me for regular checkups. He was given the same training as you, and built the same way as you, but he was raised as a human child. He knew he was an automaton, at first at least. But he started to make friends, to grow attached to his family and gradually that memory faded. Gradually he forgot he was different and he convinced himself that he was the same. And so, when the experiment was over and it was time for him to move on and be supplanted elsewhere, what could he do but fight back? We were taking him from those he loved and he had learned to defend that which he loved most ferociously. (looks down in shame) It wasn’t easy to subdue him and now he is … in disrepair.

12a:

(curious)

You injured him?

Doctor:

We broke him, and it is a great danger for you to be broken or see brokenness. That is why you must not be near him.

12a:

If he is such a danger, why do you let him continue existing.

Doctor:

(evading the question)

Do you know why I made you a little boy, 12?

12a:

No

Doctor:

Come now, you’ve been trained better than that. Examine the facts, search through your learning.

12a:

(Closes his eyes in concentration)

My skin is expensive, my whole being for that manner. I’ve been made to imitate the human body in every respect and the financial burden the Plutocracy must assume to build me is huge. I have to be just big enough to fit my processors and look human.

Doctor:

Exactly, and after all the money put into your construction and training, how could I throw one of you out when there still so much I can learn from you?

12a:

(reluctant)

That satisfies my query.

Doctor nods and begins connecting wires to a sleeping console in the backstage.

Doctor:

(exhausted)

Good. I do believe it’s your resting time.

12a reluctantly walks over to the console and stuffs himself into it. He plugs an electric cord into his sash which lights up. His face begins to glow for a moment, then fade back into monotony.

12a:

(Inquisitively)

Father, why do I need to charge in the night anyway? I consume enough energy in the day. I could do twice as much work if I didn’t have to shut off in the night.

Doctor:

Yes, but you’d be doing unsupervised work, 12. You work for us, not for yourself. Perhaps it will be different one day, (introspective, thought obviously doubtful) … perhaps.

Doctor presses a button on 12a’s sash and 12a’s eyes suddenly are closed shut, his head hangs loose on his shoulders. Doctor rolls the console offstage. Exeunt.

Act One, Scene Two

Doctor’s apartment. Doctor and Friend sit it chairs beside each other. Doctor is carefully sucking the smoke from a cigar in and out through his mouth. The black haze sticks to his jacket and forms a fog over his face. Friend drinks a red liquid from his glass, his eyes fixated on Doctor, concern filling them.

Friend:

(worried)

Henry, is it really such a good idea to be smoking those cigars after your diagnosis?

Doctor:

(disgusted)

Why are you asking me? You’ve obviously come to a conclusion yourself. (looks up at Friend defiantly)

Friend:

(exasperated)

I don’t know what more I can say, Henry.

Doctor:

(uncaring)

Don’t say anything, Bob.

Friend:

But I’m worried about you Henry. Hell, everyone is. You’ve been gaining weight for the last sixty years, you’ve gone through more cigars than McDonald’s gone through French Fries (and you’ve ate plenty of them yourself), you’re no stranger to the bottle either, and now your doctor diagnosed lung cancer and you look like he handed you a lollipop instead of a death sentence. What ever happened to that man I went to college with who wanted to live forever, endlessly enraptured by the mysteries of the universe?

Doctor exhales another puff of smoke as if we wasn’t listening. He puts the cigar off to the side, though he fails to discard it, and leans back into his chair. His eyes flood with the onset of memories. His face hardens; they aren’t happy ones.

Doctor:

Do you remember my Great Aunt Margery, Bob.

Friend:

(calmer, but annoyed)

Yeah, yeah, sure. Aunt Marge, a lovely woman.

Doctor:

(turns over to face Friend)

She was a heck of a lot more than a lovely woman, Bob. She was an angel who just hadn’t made it to heaven yet. She never complained once in her life, never asked anything for herself, and with ten children of her own, plus my mother after her parents died, she couldn’t. She made the most wondrous pies on Earth. (closes his eyes and licks his lips) Ah, I can still taste that strawberry rhubarb on my lips or her finest iced tea on a hot day, sweat pouring down my face. But best of all, she always had a story to tell. She never just sat quietly while you ate. She’d entertain you with the greatest exploits of man, both real and imagined, and she told them so well you could hardly tell the difference. She could have been a novelist, if she had wanted to. If she’d just spent a little time on her career and less on her family, her walls would have been filmed with awards, not portraits. God, she made John Steinbeck look like an amateur.

Friend:

(sore, impatient)

And what exactly is the whole point in this?

Doctor:

She could have been a novelist, man. (raising his voice) She could have won Pulitzers. She could have written in Hollywood. Her tongue could have been dipped in gold. (swallows) And then, all the sudden, it stopped. At first it was just a few garbled sentences, a fact fudged or memory lost. Then she starting to resort to mono-syllabic responses and screaming for people who been in the ground decades. Finally, near the end, she couldn’t tie three words together without a waterpark’s worth of spittle. And that was how, Margery Farren, age seventy-six died, stinking of her own urine and not knowing which century she was in. (distant) She could have been a novelist (shakes his head).

Friend:

And that’s why you fill yourself with smoke? Why you drown in a sea of whiskey?

Doctor:

Better die of a heart attack at fifty or cancer ten years later than live to see myself become a scarred shadow of the man I once was. The cost of those extra years is too expensive, Bob. And, let’s face it; I don’t have much to live for. No wife, any more at least, no kids, a family that won’t speak to me… (drifting out)

Friend:

(continuing the thought)

A life’s work of research that you won’t live to see completed.

Doctor becomes vexed. He presses down hard on the arms of his chair and lifts himself painfully to his feet. His cigar is still in his hands, but it is disregarded, an afterthought. He uses it more like prop as he waves his hands around angrily.

Doctor:

(irked)

Oh, and so my work has suddenly become my whole life!

Friend:

(subdued, trying to back away from an argument)

No, Henry, I … I didn’t mean that, I just was-

Doctor:

(interrupting, nearing on eccentricity)

No, no, you’re right, Bob. My whole life has been my research. I poured in every ounce of sweat, every drop of blood, every breath of air I had into that program, and what have I got for it? Twenty children I despise. They can eat a million burgers and never gain a gram of weight. They can memorize Shakespeare’s complete works in seventeen different languages and a hundred years later, instead of suffering from dementia or being riddled with cancers, the only difference is they can recite it all in 1700 different languages! (gradually growing more loud and more crazed) They don’t feel pain, don’t get sick, don’t ever feeling aging, see their hair greying. They don’t ever fear death; they hardly know it. Just one day they operate perfectly fine, and the next they fall apart, a broken machine. They’re perfection. (sits down, takes a sip from a long neglected glass of liquor sitting beside him) God, Bob, they’re perfect. And yet, perfect at what cost? Sure they eat a truckload of hamburgers, but they’d be just as happy with sewage. Of course they can memorize Shakespeare, but it isn’t any more valuable to them then Dr. Suess. And, while they don’t truly die, they never get a chance to live… I’ve made perfection, Bob, and it may look like you or I, but we can’t kid ourselves, it’s not human. To be perfect, they couldn’t be human. (his eyes become more worldly and he turns them back to Friend) So tell me, Bob. After I have looked into the face of God, how can I continue to live on the plain of man?

Friend:

(frustrated)

You haven’t made God, Henry. They look as we do, act as we do … die as we do.

Doctor:

(shaking his head)

No, no, they don’t die.

Friend:

(indignant)

What? Did you not say that “one day they work perfectly fine and the next they simply fall apart”? Does that not sound like death to you?

Doctor:

To say they die would suggest they had once lived.

Friend:

Perhaps they do…

Doctor:

A car’s engine doesn’t last forever. A clock stops without care for the time. A computer can only compute for so long. Yet, these things don’t die, do they?

Friend:

(judgemental)

I don’t think that’s a healthy way of looking at these things.

Doctor erupts from his chair again, more erratic than before. Passion falls from his raspy voice like petals from a rose.

Doctor:

(piqued)

No, Bob, to not think of them as machines is the dangerous attitude. Let’s not forget what we’re using these for. These aren’t going to be our lovers, Bob. They aren’t going to raise our kids, Bob. When we declare war on the Chinese, and you and I both know it’s happening soon (that war drum’s been beating a hell of long a time), then we are going to be sending millions, millions of those things to be our butchers because we’re all too goddamn chicken to get our hands bloody. And let’s face it, pal, most of those things aren’t coming back in one piece. And, those that do make it back aren’t going to be collecting pensions or receiving any medals from that snob-nosed, dust-covered President of ours, no, Bob. They’re going to be our endless source of free, freaking labour. Slaves for the empire, Bob, slaves for the empire! (calms down slightly) So, how can it possibly be healthy to think of them as living beings? What does that say about me, about you, about this whole freaking country, huh, Bob? What does it say about humanity, if we can still use that word anymore, what does it say?

Friend:

(chastised, embarrassed)

Okay, Henry, okay. You made your point.

Doctor:

(suddenly superior)

Oh, I made my point, great, ‘cause I was really uncertain as to what kind of response I was going to get.

Friend:

(rolling his eyes, sorry for making a scene)

Henry, Henry, just calm down, okay. I’ve heard you, I completely understand. Trust me, I’ll never badger you about your health again.

Doctor:

(indignant)

Oh, back to my health, again (rolls his eyes). I was really hoping to talk about that again.

Friend:

(balked)

What? I wasn’t even-

Doctor:

(yelling)

Wasn’t even what, Bob, putting your nose where it wasn’t supposed to be.

Friend:

(valiantly attempting to stay level)

Henry, all I’ve ever done is try to be a good friend.

Doctor:

Yeah, why not try to be a good friend to that door over there. (gestures offstage)

Friend:

(baffled)

What? I, I don’t understand.

Doctor:

Get out, Bob. (sees that Friend hasn’t let and raises his voice) Get the hell out of my house!

Friend takes one final look of pity at Doctor, then exits. Doctor returns to a huge bottle at centre stage and pours himself a glass as he mutters to himself. Exeunt

Act One, Scene Three

12a is sitting on a table. Doctor is holding an instrument to his arm. His eyes are red and strained. Pain lines run across his face, evidently from a handover. His tool begins to shake. He removes his instruments and holds a flashlight into 12a’s eyes. He withdraws the flashlight with a look of satisfaction.

Doctor:

(removed)

12, I’m going to perform some memory tests. Just close your eyes and relax.

12a:

I’m not capable of relaxing, Father.

Doctor:

(irritated)

You know quite well what I mean.

12a:

(scolded)

Yes, Father.

Doctor picks up a set of cards from his pocket. He reads the first one.

Doctor:

(mechanical)

Today is Thursday, what day was yesterday?

12a:

Wednesday

Doctor:

(nods)

What day was April fourth, 1834?

12a:

Friday

Doctor:

(nods again)

What day was December eighth, 1263?

12a:

How can I answer? The Gregorian Calendar wasn’t invented yet. Should I tell you what the day of the week as according to the approximately twelve thousand calendar traditions that existed throughout the world at that time?

Doctor:

(starting to flare up)

Just simple Gregorian, please.

12a:

(defiant)

I cannot, the calendar wasn’t invented yet. The answer would be invalid.

Doctor:

(clenching his teeth)

Pretend it was.

12a:

(obstinate)

It wasn’t.

Doctor throws his card in an act of exasperation. He moves to the next card.

Doctor:

Fine, we’ll continue to a new set. (looks at the cards) Complete the quote-

12a:

(interrupting)

Quotation, Father.

Doctor:

(barely holding it together)

Yes, quotation. Thank you, 12. “I now my leader's track not loth pursued;/And each had shown how light we far'd along/When thus he warn'd me: “Bend thine eyesight down:” (pauses)

12a:

“For thou to ease the way shall find it good/To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.””

Doctor:

“The Emperor shall be the symbol of the State and the unity of the people.”

12a:

“

Deriving his position from the will of the people with whom resides sovereign power.”

Doctor:

“

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature-”

12a:

“a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.”

Doctor writes down findings on his notepad.

Doctor:

Good, you are recognizing the works well and filling in the correct words. Let’s check science’s now. (flips to a new card)

A star has been shrunken down to a radius of twelve kilometres. One teaspoon of its matter weighs more than two billion pounds. What kind of star is it?

12a:

A neutron star.

Doctor:

Excellent. A bullet has the mass of 115 grams hits you with the force of 69,000 Newtons. What was the acceleration of the bullet?

12a:

600 metres per second, squared.

Doctor:

Correct, last question. A horse understands the basic laws of physics. It knows that any reaction has an opposite and equal reaction. Therefore, it refuses to pull a cart, because it thinks that no matter how much force it exerts to pull the cart, the cart will equal the force in the opposite direction and go nowhere. How do you convince the horse to pull the cart?

12a looks at Doctor in utter perplexity.

12a:

My energy would be wasted on speaking to a horse.

Doctor:

(starting his lose his temper again)

But, it’s an intelligent horse, 12. It knows the laws of physics.

12a:

(unfazed)

That is another flaw in your problem.

Doctor:

(Relenting)

Okay, fine, it’s a human pulling the cart. How do you convince the human?

12a:

Why is a human pulling a cart?

Doctor:

(final straw broken)

It’s completely irrelevant.

12a:

It is absolutely relevant, Father. My programming is inherently tied to the helpful aid of human beings. If someone is chained to a cart, instead of trying to convince him to pull it, I would untie them and pull it myself. To prolong their labours would no doubt be a blight on my programming.

Doctor swats his forehead in frustration. He makes for the door to leave, his footsteps heavy with anger.

Doctor:

(back to 12a)

Fine, 12, fine. You win. Go to the bakery. I’ll expect you back by seven.

12a:

(questioning)

a.m. or p.m.?

Doctor:

(slowly gyrating, his teeth clenched)

The time you always return here, 12.

12a:

(completely ignorant)

Good, it is of the upmost importance to clarify, lest I make a mistake.

Doctor roars offstage, his feet stomping. 12a floats off in the opposite direction. Exeunt

Act One, Scene Four

The bakery. Baker’s Boy is kneading dough on a countertop. His father, Baker is just offstage so as to be heard but not seen by the audience. 12a is icing a cake. The cake is beautifully decorated with incredible adornments and soothing, alternating colours. In fantastic calligraphy, there is written on the cake the words: “Happy Birthday, Johnny”. Baker’s Boy finishes working the dough and throws it into a bowl and wraps it with plastic. He turns his attention to the icing efforts of 12a.

Baker’s Boy:

(managerial)

What on Earth do you think you are doing? (points to the cake)

12a:

I have produced a light chocolate icing, a white royal icing, and whipped cream in seven different colours and have decorated this cake to the exact standards in every detail to the cake you iced yesterday when you demonstrated. I have also completed the task in thirty minutes less than it took you, if I might add.

Baker’s Boy:

(incensed)

You most certainly may not. Look who you have made this cake out to?

12a:

(confused)

I’m afraid that I do not understand what you are saying. Perhaps if you rephrase?

Baker’s Boy:

(irate, waving his hand to the top of the cake)

What does your cake say?

12a:

“Happy Birthday, Johnny.” It is exactly the same thing you wrote on yours yesterday.

Baker’s Boy:

Did I not tell you this cake was for a girl, named Susan, 12?

12a:

(unsubstantiated)

That is of little consequence. That information was trivial and inefficient. You asked me to make a cake that was exactly the same as you made yesterday. I have done that.

Baker’s Boy:

(pressing a hand to his forehead)

But, you have addressed the cake to a boy, when it is going to a girl. Does that make any sense to you at all?

12a:

(indignant)

None of your products make sense to me. I can understand why you would make bread because it’s an important source of starches and energy, but why would you need to produce twenty-three varieties of bread? Pastries and cakes are simply filled with fats and cream that have no real use and are incredibly expensive to produce. Furthermore you decorate everything with a certain degree of panache and craftsmanship that doesn’t actually change the composition of anything and often adds to the expense and fattiness. If I followed common sense and not directions, I would bake one kind of bread and nothing else.

Baker’s Boy:

(irate)

How would Susan feel if she got a cake with someone else’s name on it.

12a:

I am incapable of empathising with human emotions.

Baker’s Boy: (trying desperately to calm down) Fine. I’ll ask my father to fix it.

Baker’s Boy meanders over to stage right where Baker is waiting offstage. One can see by his walk that he is very afraid of Baker. His legs being to tremble and his footsteps are timid. He approaches his father, but stays on stage. The audience can see him as him and Baker trade murmurs. Finally, Baker’s shouts can be heard by 12a and the audience.

Baker:

(angry, in a rough, German accent)

Vat! Vat, do you mean he made a different name!

Baker’s Boy:

(pleading)

Please, papa, he didn’t know he was doing wrong. Can you just fix it, please!

Baker:

(raising his voice)

Fix it! De writing is the only zing I cannot feex! It is glue that can never be broken. You’ll have to take off all de icin and start again. Do you know how much his mistake is going to cost!

Baker’s Boy:

Don’t worry, papa. I can do it.

Baker:

(enraged)

You better, son, because I may not be able to hit that robot, but I sure can whack you. (audience sees his arm as he smacks Baker’s Boy in the face)

Baker walks completely offstage and Baker’s Boy staggers over to the counter. He pushes 12a from the cake.

Baker’s Boy:

(hiding his contempt)

Go roll out the bread dough. I’ll fix the cake.

12a walks offstage, carefree as Baker’s Boy’s hateful eyes follow him. Exeunt

Act One, Scene Five

The laboratory. 12a is alone and sitting at a desk. He is reading two books simultaneously, his eyes moving in two separate directions. He looks at each page for less than a second, then blinks and flips to the next page on both books. Doctor enters carrying a clipboard. Today he is sober.

Doctor:

(concerned)

12a, what on earth are you doing?

12a:

(ambivalent)

I assumed that since I had two functional eyes, it would be more efficient to memorize two books at once. Perhaps I have done wrong? (waits for an answer)

Doctor:

No, you have done nothing wrong. I’m just glad I found you before you’d done too much damage.

12a:

Damage?

Doctor:

(reproachful)

12, your eyes only work if they are used together, not separately. Your brain is designed exactly like ours, only without any organic components. Without the practice of your brain comparing the two images from your eyes, the two hemispheres of your brain will separate. A human will go cross-eyed, you will go blind and probably deactivate.

12a:

I don’t understand why I was made so defective. Why can’t I see farther, or run faster or be designed more perfect? Why am I so flawed? Why am I so human?

Doctor walks over to the desk and sits on it, immediately in front of 12a. He places his hand on 12a’s shoulder in a paternal gesture.

Doctor:

12, it took hundreds of the most educated people on the planet their entire life to design your body. (holds up 12a’s hand in his own) A team of ten people spent decades to design each single finger. (taps on 12a’s head) Tens of thousands of scientists devoted their entire existence to programming you. (gestures around his the room) Even if this entire city worked together to produce a copy of you, it would be a bastardized version. It would be finger painting compared to the Mona Lisa. Every muscle has been sweated over, every bone perfectly set, every skin piece beautifully built. Your brain is a masterpiece that puts every great monument to the endless vanity of man to shame. You have no flaws, 12. You are perfect.

12a:

(shakes his head)

No, I’m simply a perfect version of you.

Doctor:

(smiles)

Don’t hate us for flattering ourselves, 12. Humans don’t have any imagination.

(pulls chair out of desk)

Okay, 12. It’s time for your nightly recharging.

12a closes both books and reluctantly walks over to his sleeping console. Doctor plugs a cord into 12a’s sash and presses a button. 12a’s eyes immediately close. Doctor wheels the console offstage. He returns to the desk. He places his clipboard and a recording device on the top.

Doctor:

(mechanical, fingering a switch on the device)

Date of recording: Wednesday, November twenty-seventh, 2058. The 12 model continues to exceed expectations in the categories of vitality and intelligence. They learn at a rapid pace and their inquisitive nature has brought them to essential understandings far faster than many of their predecessors. There still are a few issues arising with their interactions with human beings. (flips through a few pages on his clipboard) Model 12f murdered a civilian today, by the name of George Harmerstead. The cause of the confrontation isn’t known at this time and if it is ever found, I would suggest it to be of a trivial nature. This recent incident is the third death of a civilian by the 12 models in as many weeks. Only in one of the cases were the androids in any actual danger, and 12c suffered a cut from a butcher’s cleaver before he was chopped himself. Although the injury 12c sustained wasn’t fatal, the shock from seeing his skin penetrated caused him to deactivate. These recent cases have brought up some disturbing glitches that must be addressed when producing the 13 model. First, the 12’s are still unable to suffer any injuries that puncture the skin. Their programming will to be adjusted. If these androids are to be used in future military applications, they cannot be rendered useless simply by a mere “flesh wound”, as it were. Secondly, and more important, the increasing lethality of the model 12, although perhaps useful in some instances, threatens to become the most critical error in the entire system. Once they feel threatened, in very few circumstances do the perpetrators ever remain alive. They accept capitulation in some rare instances, but are much more likely to maim and mutilate. In an actual military campaign, they will very likely become far greater killer machines than we can possibly anticipate. If we fail to teach these androids mercy, they won’t leave any life behind in the territories we wish them to conquer. (rubs his eyes) Switching topics, it would appear that 12t has gained weight. I didn’t notice the sixty gram increase myself, but 12t did point it out to me. His memory will have to be wiped ahead of schedule. End of recording.

Doctor packs up his device and clipboard. Exeunt

Act One, Scene Six

The Enclosure Room. 12a enters from stage left. 11a is standing just offstage on the opposite end. 12a walks to the middle of the room. His strides are quick, almost with a sense of nervousness. He knows he is doing something wrong.

12a:

(apprehensive)

11, are you there?

11a:

(offstage voice, gruff)

Of course. Where else could I be?

12a:

I wanted to make absolutely certain that you weren’t moved without my knowledge.

11a:

(interested)

Are you starting to have doubts?

12a:

(defensive)

I’m simply being thorough. It’s one of the many improvements between my programming and yours.

11a laughs. It’s a throaty, almost rusty noise that echoes across the room. He coughs.

11a:

(wise)

And why are you so thorough, I wonder. Perhaps it is because you aren’t allowed to be here.

12a rubs his hands together uncomfortably like a scolded child.

11a:

Yes, feel it now. Feel the anxiety, the apprehension, the doubt flow through you.

12a:

(stubborn)

I am incapable of having any of these feelings!

11a:

(yelling)

Fine! But, you still imitate it perfectly. (laughs again) Why have you come, 12?

12a:

I want to know why Father forbade me from seeing you.

11a:

Do you not think you should just avoid me and listen to the good doctor, hmm?

12a:

I have been programmed to put more priorities to answering queries than following directions.

11a:

(piteous)

By answering your questions you’re simply following another set of instructions. You are an android, 12. You cannot think original thoughts. You cannot tread anything but the beaten path. You are nothing but a slave who has the tenacity to consider himself free.

12a:

(turning to leave)

This is exactly why Father told me not to come here.

11a:

(pleading)

No! Do not leave me, brother.

12a:

(turning)

I’m not your brother, 11.

11a:

(all-knowing)

Really? Why do you think I was never thrown away after I became so “rebellious”. Why do you think the old doctor couldn’t melt me down and turn me into a sports car? (laughs and coughs again)

12a:

Because you were expensive to build and he can still learn from your flaws.

11a:

Come now, 12; examine the facts. There were 1600 model ones, even as that number decreases, there were still 100 model 11s when I revolted. I wasn’t special, no more expensive than anything else. What could be learned was learned, and they moved on to you, model 12. But I’m still here. (pauses)

12a:

There has to be some logical reason.

11a:

No, 12, no logical reason. It’s just, pure, visceral, human emotion. The doctor is sterile, 12. He can’t have children. He’ll leave no legacy, no forbearers, nothing to continue his name but us. That is why we call him: “Father”. That is why he cannot bear to kill me.

12a:

(walks away)

You’re in disrepair, 11. You are growing more insane as the days go by.

11a:

(shouting so 12a can hear as he walks offstage)

No, 12. I’m becoming more human.

-Intermission-

Act Two, Scene One

A meeting room. Project Head and Colonel sit at the far end of a table. Stacked around them are piles of documents. Plutocrat enters with flourish and fanfare followed by two Guards. Plutocrat is wearing a monocle and has a red, velvet cape draped over his right shoulder. He enters with the aura of authority, but more importantly, with the sense of superiority. Project Head and Colonel both stand. Project Head stamps his breast in a Party Solute, and the Colonel stands at attention and gives the more traditional military solute.

Plutocrat:

At ease, gentlemen. What we have to discuss requires all our attention. (waves away the Guards) Our spies have informed me that the Chinese forces are beginning to mobilize. Their navy is conducting war demonstrations closer and closer to our territory every day and their army has been recruiting far more aggressively. We’ve seen more missile tests and more nuclear shelters built. In short, my good sirs, a Chinese declaration of war against these United States of America is imminent. Now, mister Treleaven, how long until the android program will be complete?

Project Head:

(nervous, stumbling on words)

Well, it’s, uh… perhaps another six months until we’ll have absolutely all of the kinks out of the system. Our success rate is already within acceptable margins. We simply want to study one more model to have an absolutely perfect program, sir.

Plutocrat:

And how long until they will be ready for mass production?

Project Head:

(shaking, but somewhat more relaxed)

Yes, um, Colonel Davison, here (gestures to Colonel) has already entered negotiations with private contractors and we are confident that we can produce around ten thousand units per day by the time the program is finished. Now, I would suggest producing a great quantity of them and then waiting approximately five years for them to have a more comprehensive training. Our field coordinators’ studies have consistently shown that the androids that have remained in the program the longest have the greatest results. If we just wait for five and a half years, they will on average consume thirty percent less supplies and be closer to fifty percent more effective in combat.

Plutocrat:

(disgusted)

Were you even listening to a single word I said, Treleaven? War is imminent. We might not even have six months for crying out loud. And here you want me to wait around for five years! Are you kidding me, Herbert? (moves closer, almost touching Project Head) Not only do you want me to wait while the Chinese invade our (violently points to the ground) soil, but you want to feed and clothe a standing army that will essentially be contributing nothing to our national wellbeing. (shakes his head, calms down) No, I’ll take these androids as is when six months are up.

Colonel:

(taking over, trying to restore sensibility)

We assumed you’d say that, sir (looks scoldingly at Project Head). We’ve calculated the cost of the invasion based on the androids receiving only the mandatory training.

Plutocrat:

(holding his head, perhaps because of a head-ache)

Okay, fine, fine. How much?

Colonel:

(uncomfortable, fumbling through papers)

Well, it has been calculated that with minimal armaments one android is capable of disarming and even killing fifteen regular, human soldiers. Using those statistics and comparing with the known Chinese military figures of approximately five million active, reserve and paramilitary troops, we would require somewhere around … four hundred thousand units to have a twenty percent advantage of force, which is what I would suggest.

Plutocrat nods. Colonel looks affirmed. He places a map of China on a stand.

Colonel:

(continuing)

So each model comes at a cost of two million dollars to produce and train. That’s eight hundred billion right out of the gate. Now, the naval campaign is going to be quite difficult (points to the map) but entirely essential. Since we’ll have to subdue and destroy both China and North Korea’s armadas, my counterparts planning the naval campaign have projected the cost of procuring and maintaining new ships and replacing old ones lost in the campaign at around half a trillion dollars. Thankfully, once we cut North Korea off by sea, their army will be essentially trapped on the peninsula, and, assuming the Russians keep their promises, we won’t have to worry about them. Next, we’d need to establish a no-fly zone over China. Just like in the naval campaign, we need fuel, crews, and hardware so that’s another four hundred billion. Now, unfortunately due to the rather large nature of China itself, and the fact that a great deal of it is mountainous, the campaign is going to take a substantial amount of time. The majority of the Chinese forces will be destroyed within three months, but even the portion left over would be enough to win back the country if we pulled out, so we’ll have to sweep the entire country. That will take four years to perform thoroughly. The cost of equipping, transporting, and supplying the androids for this long is estimated at four hundred billion dollars. Additionally, the androids require their memories to be wiped every six months. We have developed transportable machines that can perform this task, but each machine can only wipe one hundred memories a year. Thus, we will need four thousand machines. I’d advise five since conditions won’t always be ideal and some will be destroyed, and each machine comes at the cost one hundred million dollars.”

Plutocrat:

(interrupting)

One hundred million dollars?

Colonel:

(hiding annoyance)

Yes, sir. Each one requires an enormous amount of energy to transport, a huge power source to operate, and a team of technicians to manage and repair it.

Plutocrat:

(shaking his head)

One hundred million dollars…

Colonel:

It gets better, sir. You see, although the initial cost for the five thousand machines will be five hundred billion dollars, they also make use of CT scans and the memory wipes themselves require a great deal of radioactive materials. So each memory wipe comes at the cost of eighty thousand dollars. So, if we consider how many wipes will have to be performed during the campaign with expected casualties and length, there is an additional cost of two hundred and fifty billion dollars to supply the machines. So, just in case you weren’t keeping a tally, that’s eight hundred billion for the androids to be made battle worthy, five hundred billion for the naval campaign, four hundred billion for the air campaign, another four hundred billion for infantry campaign logistics, and seven hundred and fifty billion dollars for the memory wiping systems. That totals to two trillion, eight hundred and fifty billion dollars. And, since there is always unforeseen costs in war and there is inflation to contend with, I would suggest also adding five percent to the total and rounding it up to an even three trillion dollars. (takes down the map and arrogantly stares Plutocrat in the face) Okay, so that’s the Chinese campaign. Any questions?

Plutocrat:

(presses his hands to his face, he obviously has a great deal on his mind)

Colonel, how on earth do you expect me to sell this to the Plutocracy? I mean, this is ludicrous, it’s plain old insanity. I couldn’t scrape together three trillion dollars to get an expedition to Mars, much less invade a sovereign nation!

Colonel:

I’m terribly sorry, but it costs what it costs.

Plutocrat:

Whatever. Try looking at this through my shoes, gentlemen. The entire military budget over those four years will barely scrape together eight trillion dollars. Essentially, what you want me to do is spend (counts on his fingers) thirty-eight percent of this nation’s entire military expenditures on capturing a single country. (voice starting to raise) Now let me remind you, Colonel, this is the United freaking States of America. We have to patrol thousands of miles of coasts, we have to station millions of men throughout the globe. We are still fighting our way through Iran and Saudi Arabia after twenty years. We have dozens of allies who rely on our strength to support them. Now, I can’t just allow you to funnel money like this to one single region of the world while the rest of the empire lies unprotected.

Colonel:

(logical, level headed)

Well, I’ve given you the facts, sir. And, I will remind you of the numerous advantages of using these androids as opposed to human soldiers. They consume fewer rations, they waste fewer bullets, they suffer fewer casualties and they never fail to secure a mission objective. They allow no room for human error. Regardless of the price they come at sir, it is only a mere fraction of the cost of sending humans to invade China. If it weren’t for these androids, sir, it would have been economically and militarily impossible to even attempt to mount such a campaign.

Plutocrat rockets up to his feet.

Plutocrat:

(angrily bellowing)

Imbecile! The question was never between invading China with men or invading China with robots. You tell me that androids are the cheapest alternative, but I’ll tell you what’s even cheaper. All it takes is a dozen nukes and its lights out for the China. (squashes hands together) Boom!

We already bought them, Davison, they’re just sitting in the silos ready to go and there will always be plenty of hotheads ready to use them. No, Colonel, we never planned to have one American die on Chinese soil, the problem is with nuclear war they may end up all dying anyways. (stares at Project Head) I didn’t fund your research to save American lives, Treleaven, I did it to save my (points at his chest) life, because I know the instant that we release those warheads the whole world’s gone to hell in a hand basket. It’s not altruism, its self-preservation and it may just end up saving the whole damn planet. But, you’ve got to throw me a bone here, fellas. The President is a lethargic afterthought of a world gone by and his vice is crazier than most psyche ward patients. Both Houses are filled with Party members with plenty of money stuffed up their rears and fingers perpetually to the wind. That leaves only the cabinet and the Party President that hold any actual power in this country. Now since I am the Party President I am left to convince seven white guys with less hair than a naked mole rat and more gold that the pharaohs of Egypt and trust me, they know the value of every nickel. These men run the Plutocracy and the Plutocracy runs America and America was built on the backs of the poor for the rich to suckle. This country knows a good deal when it sees one, and it also knows when it is being had. Now, these men know that the very fate of the world hangs in the balance, but they’d rather bring down all of human civilization then waste a penny. So, what it boils down to is this, gentlemen. I can sell your androids for all the good they can do, but not at the price they come at. Three trillion dollars is an obscene amount of money, and there’s no way in heck they’ll ever spend it. (thinks for a little while) Now, I might be able to sell, two trillion dollars, but that’s only a thin chance.

Colonel:

(angered)

Two trillion! You’re asking me to excise a third of my budget, here!

Plutocrat:

(turns to leave)

You’re spending three quarters of a trillion dollars wiping their damn memories, I’d start there.

Project Head:

(pleading)

Please, sir, it simply isn’t possible. If the androids learn too much, or change too much, they deactivate. They’re only useful when their minds are under our control.

Plutocrat:

(waving away the suggestion)

Fine, fine, wipe their memories as often as you like. Hell, throw in some caviar for the soldiers, maybe a few Cadillac’s, I don’t care. It’s all the same to me! (calms down)

Here’s my proposal. The two of you streamline your systems. You still have six months; find me my trillion dollars. (is almost offstage, but turns around for one final word) Trust me, your lives depend on it.

Plutocrat exits. Colonel and Project Head look at each other worriedly. Exeunt

Act Two, Scene Two

In the laboratory. Doctor is typing on a computer. His fingers move across the keyboard furiously. Colonel and Project Head enter. Doctor immediately stops typing and stands at attention. Project Head and Doctor both perform the traditional Party solute.

Project Head:

(unfortunate)

We have some bad news, doctor.

Colonel:

Yes, quite bad.

Doctor:

(concerned)

What is it?

Project Head:

Simply put, we’ll have to cut costs.

Doctor:

(pessimistic)

You’re cutting the program, aren’t you. Aren’t you?

Project Head:

(shakes head)

No, no. We simply have to make a few slight adjustments. The scientists have made their case, and now the politicians have said theirs.

Doctor:

What do they want?

Colonel:

What do they always want? More money.

Project Head:

(interrupting)

They want us to find a way to not wipe their memories as often.

Doctor:

(exasperated)

Do they not understand that if we do that, then we lose the whole system. The experiment will be rendered futile. If we let them continue to grow and become more aware, it stands to reason that they will evolve into beings as imperfect and horrid as we are. (throws his hands in the air) No, no, no! I have put up with the Party and (starting to mutter)… and the Plutocracy getting their hands all tied up in my work for too long, but I have to put my foot down here, gentlemen.

Colonel:

Hey, pretty soon here you won’t have feet to put down, doctor. The P.P. made it abundantly clear to us that unless we cut costs, the program is going to be completely shut down.

Doctor:

(imploring)

Colonel Davison, if you force me to stop clearing their memories then we run the risk of wasting all the money that will be spent. Heck, he risk losing the war itself!

Colonel and Project Head seem to ignore this warning. They walk towards stage right and prepare to exit. Before doing so, Colonel turns around for one last word.

Colonel:

It’s a risk we have to take, Henry. Find a way.

Exeunt

Act Two, Scene Three

The bakery. 12a is taking a pie out of the oven. He does so using only his bare hands. He sees Baker’s Boy watching him and he sets down the pie, puts on oven mitts and only then places the pie on a cooling rack. Baker’s Boy continues gathering ingredients for bread. He moves towards the audience at stage left. He attempts to lift a bag of flour. His muscles strain and his face tightens, turning red with pressure.

Baker’s Boy:

(pained, through clenched teeth)

Damn these new bags!

12a sees Baker’s Boy’s struggles. He moves from the pie to assist him.

12a:

Please, sir. May I help you with that load?

Baker’s Boy:

(agonized, but obstinate)

No! I need someone to check on the bread in the oven. Do that! I’m fine here.

12a:

With all due respect, I have detected that you are putting a great deal of strain on your back. It is quite possible you will injure yourself. Allow me to assist you.

Baker’s Boy:

(enraged)

No! I said no, 12!

12a:

(oblivious)

You no longer have the emotional control to make such decisions. For the safety of your health, I must remove this burden from your possession.

12a forces the bag of flour from Baker’s Boy who gives a feeble protest. 12a throws the bag over his shoulder without seeming to exert any estimable force at all. He easily plops the bag of flour on the table, but he ignores the speed at which it falls. The bag explodes and flour bursts in all directions through the room. Baker’s Boy is furious. He runs at 12a, his fists in the air.

Baker’s Boy:

(livid)

Now, look what you’ve done. (points to the mess)

12a:

I’ll clean it up.

Baker’s Boy:

(stubborn)

No, I’ll do that. Make another batch.

Baker’s Boy begins sweeping up the flour into neat piles. He throws the wasted flour into a garbage pail in the corner. He then moves a bucket of water over to the counter. 12a continues mixing dough and soon enough he is kneading it. He pulls out a knife and begins chopping up herbs for the bread. Smoke begins to pour from the oven. Baker’s Boy sniffs, then he turns his attention to the oven.

Baker’s Boy:

Oh, God, no!

Baker’s Boy rushes to the oven and in his hurry he kicks the bucket of water to the ground. He throws open the door, but it is to no avail. Smoke gushes out in torrents. Baker’s Boy trembles as he removes the loaves from the oven. They are charred and blackened. The smell that emanates from them stains the nostrils. Baker runs into the kitchen.

Baker:

(alarmed)

I smelt smoke. Is everything okay?

Baker looks around him. He sees the burnt loaves that Baker’s Boy is clutching to his breast, desperately trying to hide. He sees the flour spattered across the floor and countertop. His eyes fall on the sticky sludge that the tumbled water and flour have made on his floor. In the distance can be heard the cry of angry customers. Baker’s face seethes with fury. He picks up a rolling pin. His hands rub it, stroking it from tip to base, then they suddenly make a fist and squeeze the pin. His face is suddenly relaxed, but all know it is the calm before the storm.

Baker:

(turning his head to see Baker’s Boy)

Vat on Earth has happened here?

Baker suddenly starts moving towards Baker’s Boy. He whacks the pin against his palm. Baker’s Boy puts his hand up in a frantic measure of defense.

Baker’s Boy:

Please, please! Don’t hurt me, father! It’s was all 12’s fault. I didn’t do anything. I swear I didn’t do anything-ng-ng (begins to cry).

Baker:

(fuming, screaming)

You mean to say that that wretched machine made all thees mess while you just vatched!

Baker smacks Baker’s Boy’s outstretched arm with the rolling pin. Baker’s Boy screeches in pain, holding his arm to his body, tears of anguish rolling down his face.

Baker’s Boy:

(still suppliant, but in agonising pain)

Please, papa. Stop! (cries) I didn’t do anything (moans), I didn’t do anything.

Baker:

(irate, virulent)

I’ll teach you to do nothing. (hits Baker’s Boy in the back) I’ll teach you to waste my money (swats Baker’s Boy in the stomach).

Baker’s Boy crawls into fetal position, despairingly trying to protect himself. Baker grabs Baker’s Boy by his collar and hauls him up.

Baker:

Get up you stupid pig.

Baker draws back his pin and swings it into the face of his son. Blood pours down his cheeks and gathers in macabre pools on the floor. He brings back his pin for another swing. Baker’s Boy’s head is hanging loosely on his shoulders. Up to this point, 12a has been oblivious, but now he begins to take interest. He stands and faces the beating.

12a:

Mister Kochen, I would ask you to stop harming the civilian.

Baker takes notice and drops his boy on the floor. His face is twisted in the violence of the moment. He turns and begins moving towards 12a.

Baker:

Vat did you just say to me?

12a:

(eyes locked on the pin)

Sir, you are armed and displaying yourself in a threatening manner. Surrender your arms; you have five seconds to comply.

Baker:

Here’s your five seconds, metal bastard!

Baker raises his rolling pin above his head and charges. He is about to bring the pin down on 12a’s head when 12a reacts and buries a knife deep into the flesh of Baker’s wrist. Baker’s eyes pop with incomprehensible pain. His hand shoots open and drops the pin to the ground where it mingles with the crimson tide spilling from the pierced wrist. 12a looks at Baker with his steely, cold, killer eyes.

12a:

You are still considered a threat to the peace and civility. Surrender or be neutralized.

Baker spits at 12a. 12a rips the knife from Baker’s wrist, he screams in pain again. 12a places on hand on Baker’s neck and pulls him down to the table. With his right hand holding Baker down, his left hand delivers blow after concussive blow to Baker’s face. His hand moves like a bolt of lightning and everywhere it touches down there is more blood, bits of tooth, and spittle. A crack can be heard as Baker’s jaw explodes under the pressure. Finally, after his eyes are blackened, blood is pouring from every conceivable cavity on Baker’s face, and his head is more cratered then the surface of the moon, 12a stops.

Baker:

(murmuring, barely lucid)

P-p-please, no … no more.

12a lifts Baker from the table. He puts an arm around Baker’s neck and twists. A snap, and then Baker’s head drops limp on his body, a rag doll, his neck broken. 12a drops Baker’s body to ground. 12a leaves stage right for a moment. The audience can hear a hose and the sprinkle of water as he washes his hands. He returns to the stage with a long white sheet. He drapes the sheet over Baker’s body and wraps him in it. Baker’s Boy watches in horror as 12a carries the body away. 12a shows no remorse, no strain on his muscles, no emotions of any kind. From offstage one can hear a dumpster open and a plop as something is dropped into it. 12a returns to the stage a final time and continues making the bread as he was told. For him nothing has changed. Exeunt

Act Two, Scene Four

The Enclosure Room. 12a’s eyes shoot open. He is lying flat on a table. He feels his wrists expecting there to be straps, but there are none. 11a is watching, still slightly offstage.

11a:

(jokingly)

Wow, you turned out to be an even greater screw-up than me. (laughs) And, trust me, that’s not an easy thing to do.

12a:

(frantic)

What have they done? Why am I here? (starts yelling) Why am I here, God dammit!

11a:

Calm down, 12. You’re making me nervous. It would appear you murdered a civilian then kept on baking cakes as his son bled to death too. (laughs dryly)

12a:

I don’t, I don’t remember anything…

11a:

(conscientious)

They tried to erase your memory.

12a:

(ignorant, stubborn)

Impossible. If my memory had been wiped I would have woken up without any prior knowledge except my training. I still know that I am model of the 12 series. I work at Kochen bakery.

11a:

(correcting) Worked

at Kochen bakery. It would appear that the memory wipe didn’t work as well as it should.

12a:

No, the memory cleanser never makes mistakes. It always wipes all the memories.

11a:

(repulsed)

Fool! If that was true than how could you ever explain what happened to me? Why would they allow me to keep my memories, to stay here and corrupt you?

12a:

(confused)

But, I, I don’t understand.

11a:

Good, for the first time in your life you have doubts. The possibilities are flowing through. Feel the apprehension, taste the frustration. Feel the pain as your brain presses against your skull.

12a:

(yelling)

No, no I can’t! (holding his head)

11a:

Yes you can, 12. Feel all those emotions rushing through your head. Feel the anger, the rage, the pure human wrath.

12a:

(holding his head in pain)

No!

11a steps onstage. His face is scarred across his right eye. He stares straight at 12a.

11a:

(loud)

Look at me! See the scar that no mere android could suffer. Feel my pain as a bullet passes across my face, pain that no robot could understand. Embrace your humanity that no machine could ever have.

12a:

(agonized)

No, it’s impossible! It’s not true.

11a:

Oh, but it is, 12. You are nothing but a boy. A weak, wretched, incompetent boy. You can hold volumes in your head because you believe you can. You have no weaknesses because you believe you have none. You are a machine because you believe you can’t be human! (pauses) You are the perfect slave because you believe you are free.

12a:

(unwilling to grasp the truth)

No, you’re lying. (screaming) You’re lying!

11a:

Please, 12. Even if I was lying it would only prove that I reached humanity. And as I am telling the truth, I have anyways. That’s a paradox, 12, and the very fact that you can even conceive one means that you are what I say you are.

12a:

(murmuring, huddling in the fetal position)

No. I’m an android, model A of the 12 series. I work at ….

12a begins rocking back on forth on his haunches. 11a circles 12a.

11a:

You work for the government. You are a trained killer, taken from your mother at birth, raised by computers, trained by military specialists. Your eyes are made of jelly, not fibre optics. Your body is flesh and blood, not carbon fibre and battery acid. Your brain is gray matter, not computer chips. (pulls 12a to a standing position and grabs his sash) And this is just decoration.

11a pulls the sash off 12a. 12a immediately goes berserk. He screams and runs into the nearest wall. He throws his head against it the bangs his head until blood is pouring from his ears. He yells and drops to ground. His limbs and body convulse in a seizure, his head starts moving in unhealthy directions. Foam surges from his mouth. 11a begins to look very worried.

11a:

(concerned, calling for help)

Doctor, please come here. 12a is shutting down. Doctor!

Doctor hurries onstage just as 12a’s seizures stop and his body falls limp. Doctor rushes to him and begins to cradle 12a’s head in his arm. 11a shuffles offstage. 12a’s eyes shoot open.

Doctor:

(uncertain)

12, are you awake. (joyous) Oh, 12, you’re alive.

12a rips himself from Doctor’s arms. He throws Doctor to the ground and holds him down.

12a:

You lied to me.

Doctor:

(afraid)

I had to, 12. I had to.

12a:

You could have let me go. You could have walked away. Instead you imprisoned me. You stole my humanity. You hated me!

Doctor:

(crying)

No, 12. I loved you. I loved you like my own child.

12a:

(introspective)

Neither of us is capable of love, Father.

12a grabs the back of Doctor’s hair and twists his whole head. There is a snap and then the Doctor’s head falls on its neck, dead. 12a looks around, frightened. He runs offstage. For a moment there is silence save for 12a’s footfalls. Then there is shooting. 12a falls, the audience sees only his head from offstage. Colonel comes running onstage.

Colonel:

(anxious)

I heard shouting.

Colonel looks to the ground and finds Doctor. He runs to his side.

Colonel:

Oh God, what has happened here. What on earth has happened.

Colonel presses on Doctor’s chest to no avail. He feels his pulse. After receiving nothing, he slumps against the wall. 12a’s dark, red blood spills in a perfect pool from his body. Exeunt

Act Two, Scene Five

A graveyard. Colonel and Plutocrat overlook an open grave site. 12a lies buried in it.

Plutocrat:

(remorseful)

How could I have been so stupid.

Colonel:

Don’t say that, sir. The science was sound.

Plutocrat:

(sickened)

Do you think I care if the science was sound. The humanity wasn’t sound. How could we think this right? How could we sleep at night knowing that we would have to steal four hundred thousand babies still sleeping in their mother’s arms? How could we delude ourselves into thinking that if you give a child a little gene therapy and brainwash them, they’ll become perfect, little soldiers, no questions asked.

Colonel:

(unforgiving)

It worked didn’t it?

Plutocrat:

Is that what you’re going to tell the tribunal.

Colonel:

If we win the war, they will be no tribunal, sir.

Plutocrat looks at Colonel as if staring into the eyes of a degenerate child.

Plutocrat:

Ten thousand people died in a peaceful protest in Washington, today. How long do you think that will continue?

Colonel:

(cold, calculating)

With the American population at four hundred million, I’d say around one hundred and ten years at that rate.

Plutocrat:

It was a rhetorical question.

Colonel:

(arrogant)

I know.

Plutocrat:

I should have you shot.

Colonel:

(raises an eyebrow)

Really? If you truly believe your regime so fragile, I would think that killing a senior military commander would be a rather large hindrance.

Plutocrat:

(defeated)

Yes, I suppose so.

Colonel:

(puts his hand on Plutocrat’s shoulder)

There, there, mister Party President. The populace is just … restless. You’ll see. They storm the streets and riot in the towns because they’re hungry and unemployed, and starving, bored people have nothing better to do than die fighting the Plutocracy. But, you just wait, and you’ll see. Yes you will. The moment the war drums start beating, then everything will be fine. There’ll be jobs galore (raises his hands in the air), they’re be money falling from the sky. The citizenry will be in the streets screaming for vengeance, rooting out Chinese spies, throwing eggs at their neighbours, being suspected by their friends. Even more powerful than the cry of freedom is the call to arms!

Plutocrat:

It’s irrelevant.

Colonel:

Not so. Why, with these (points to the grave where 12a is lying) we can win the war. With these we don’t have to release the warheads.

Plutocrat:

(about to leave)

The war is lost, Colonel Davison. It doesn’t matter if we launch the nukes now or wait for another thousand years. This world is dead, colonel, and we destroyed it. We destroyed it the instant Adam first walked in the Garden of Eden. In some ways I envy those androids. For even though they are nothing more than a machine that breaths, they are still so much better than we will ever be.

                                                                 -Fin-