Unnaturals by Lynna Merrill Read Free Book Online Page B

once! Can you believe it?
    Mom...help... It hurts, Mom, the world is rotating and my feet don't listen to me much any more. Mom, is it brightlights already? The windows are shuttered. Mom, I am sick, like a hundred years ago. I think I will die.
    Mel, love, when are you coming home? Take your time, of course, you're a big girl now. I'm going shopping with Meliardd1241. We'll also go to the wonderful experiences. Come join us when you can, all right?
    You won't die yet. Several variables taken into consideration, you can survive several days without water, and even more without food.
    This message had no sender. Mel watched it on the screen and could not believe her eyes. Messages always had senders. A message without a sender was like an arm or a leg without a person attached to it.
    Or, like machines who wouldn't heal her or feed her.
    So they are, after all, truly watching the feeds.
    And not only that. They must be intercepting her messages and sending new ones in her stead. Otherwise, Mom would never, ever ignore her like this.
    Or—would she? If the machines would do it, why not Mom, too? If the enemies could break machines like this, could they also not break people?
    Of course they can. Currently, they are breaking me.
    She was sitting with her back towards a wall, hugging her knees. She got up.
    She'd been crying—for Mom, for Dad, for the two Nicolases, for the blood inside her mouth and for her swollen cheeks.
    No more.
    The world rotated around her again and she coughed. Her dry throat ached. She made a step forward and fell on her face. Her mouth was dry and sticky, her head pounded as if someone was shooting fireworks inside it. Somehow she sat up and gripped something so that she wouldn't fall again.
    It was a medstat's arm, cold, immobile, and unblinking.
    Meliora vomited, though not much came out, and then she felt even thirstier than before. The machine stayed silent. It wouldn't—couldn't—help.
    Or, could it?
    Did the doctor have toothpicks in the office? Mel started crawling towards the bathroom, then she remembered that the medstat had needles. There. One needle was in the medstat's hand even now, and she was lucky she hadn't stabbed herself with it. Mel circled the machine.
    Each medstat carried a tiny box at its back, full of tiny metal pieces in various shapes. Meliora was unnatural, she noticed such things. She peeled the box's cover with a nail, and gripped the needle firmly in her fingers.
    Years ago, when the humming interfaces had first become widespread, Mel hadn't liked them. Mom finally abandoned her typing interface and adopted the hummie, saying that it was easier than the speech interface and that she could finally look natural. Mel liked typing, though Mom said it was absolutely unnatural for children. Mom pleaded with Mel to start humming, even shouted at Mel, even threw her computer away and told her she wasn't getting a new one until she learned to hum.
    Mel learned. But she didn't learn only humming. Her new computer had no typing board—and how did you type without one? So she learned to open her computer, though no one ever did that. She learned how to press tiny parts with a toothpick when no one was looking, and to make the computer produce exact words. Humming could not do this. Humming took the words from your mind and spat out something else. A toothpick—or a needle—was different. With a toothpick, the computer really understood you. Sometimes, with her fingers on the computer's warm metal, Mel thought she could even feel the computer understanding.
    The medstat, the cookingstat, the servingstat, the door—they were all computers. They could all be talked to, just not necessarily in a human voice.
    By the end of brightlights, Mel got treatment for her wounds, drank water, ate, and even slept.
    Yet, the door didn't obey her. Neither did the windows.
    Mom continued sending chatty, silly messages, and so did Mel's friends, even though Mel had stopped writing