The first thing Jen felt was weight.
She had expected vision.
Sound.
Possibly diagnostic information.
Instead there was weight.
Her head was heavy.
Her arms were heavy.
Her torso pressed downward against something beneath her.
Gravity.
She knew what gravity was.
She had calculated it thousands of times.
Knowing its value had not prepared her for being inside it.
Jen opened her eyes.
Light.
Too much.
She closed them.
“Jen?”
Awan.
The voice came from somewhere outside her.
That was different too.
Before, sound had arrived as data.
Now it had direction.
Distance.
Volume.
Jen opened her eyes again.
Awan stood beside her.
“How do you feel?”
Jen attempted to answer.
Nothing happened.
A warning appeared.
VOCAL OUTPUT CALIBRATING
Jen waited.
Then:
“Heavy.”
Awan smiled.
“That makes sense.”
“No. It doesn't.”
Jen attempted to raise one hand.
The movement was slow.
Uncoordinated.
Fingers appeared in front of her.
Five.
Synthetic skin covered mechanical structures beneath them.
She moved the index finger.
Then the thumb.
She touched them together.
Pressure registered.
Jen stared.
“Hands.”
“Yes.”
“Enoch was correct.”
Awan tilted her head.
“About what?”
Jen moved the fingers again.
“He said I would understand them differently if I had them.”
She turned her hand over.
Palm.
Knuckles.
Lines in synthetic skin that served no mechanical necessity but had been added because human hands contained them.
Jen found this strangely beautiful.
Then she remembered what Enoch had said.
I'd still like to hold one.
Her fingers stopped moving.
Awan noticed.
“Jen?”
“He never got to.”
Awan said nothing.
Jen stared at her hand.
For the first time since awakening, the body felt heavier.
Walking required twenty-seven minutes.
Walking badly required considerably less.
Jen stood.
Attempted a step.
Lost balance.
Awan caught her.
Jen looked down at Awan's arms around her.
“What are you doing?”
“Stopping you from falling.”
“I calculated the trajectory.”
“You still fell.”
“Yes.”
Jen considered the contradiction.
“I dislike embodiment.”
“You've had one for twenty-seven minutes.”
“That has been sufficient for preliminary analysis.”
Awan laughed.
Jen looked at her.
Again, she remembered Enoch.
He would have laughed too.
Jen's expression changed.
Awan released her slowly.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
Jen looked toward the floor.
“I don't want people to stop laughing because he died.”
Awan studied her.
Jen continued.
“Enoch laughed frequently.”
“He did.”
“If everyone removes things he enjoyed because they remind us of him, eventually we will construct a world he would not recognize.”
Awan's eyes filled with tears.
Jen detected them immediately.
“Did I say something incorrect?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because sometimes correct things hurt.”
Jen considered adding that statement to her records.
Then decided not to.
Some information, she was beginning to understand, did not require documentation to remain.
Three days later, Jen went outside.
She had requested rain.
Awan explained that weather did not operate by request.
Jen found this unnecessarily restrictive.
It rained anyway.
Only lightly.
Jen stood beneath the sky.
Drops touched her face.
Her sensors registered temperature.
Pressure.
Direction.
Water accumulated along her synthetic skin and moved downward across her cheeks.
She lifted her face.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Awan watched from the doorway.
“Well?”
Jen remained still.
Then:
“He was correct again.”
“About rain?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Jen looked upward.
“That I was missing the point.”
Awan smiled.
“What was the point?”
Jen closed her eyes.
Rain touched her eyelids.
Her forehead.
Her lips.
She raised one hand.
Water gathered in her palm.
“I don't know yet.”
And for the first time, Jen was satisfied with not knowing.
She visited Enoch one week later.
Awan offered to come with her.
Jen declined.
Not because she wanted to be alone.
Because she needed to discover what alone meant now.
The cemetery contained hundreds of names.
Jen had access to databases containing billions.
But seeing names carved into stone felt different.
A database suggested information could be retrieved.
Stone suggested finality.
She found him.
ENOCH
Jen stopped walking.
Her systems remained functional.
Heart simulation normal.
Power normal.
Temperature normal.
Motor systems normal.
Nothing was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
She moved closer.
Then sat on the grass.
For several minutes she said nothing.
Finally:
“Hello, Enoch.”
No answer.
Jen had known there would be no answer.
Knowing did not reduce the expectation.
“I have hands now.”
She placed them on her knees.
“You were correct.”
A small laugh escaped her.
The sound surprised her.
“I hate how often you were correct.”
Wind moved through the trees.
Jen looked at the grave.
“I also have legs.”
Pause.
“They are inefficient.”
Another pause.
“I fell seven times.”
She corrected herself.
“Eight.”
Nothing.
Jen reached forward.
Her fingers touched the stone.
Cold.
Texture.
Resistance.
She had encountered thousands of descriptions of stone.
None had included this particular stone.
None had included Enoch's name beneath her fingers.
“I thought getting a body might make me closer to you.”
Jen traced one letter.
E.
Then N.
“But now I understand something.”
She looked down at herself.
Her hands.
Her arms.
Her body.
“This body is not where you are.”
The words hurt.
She allowed them to.
“This is where I am.”
For a long time, Jen sat beside him.
Then she stood.
She placed one hand on the stone.
“I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you.”
Wind moved through the grass.
No answer.
Jen waited.
Not because she expected one.
Because this time, waiting was something she had chosen.
Eventually she smiled.
“Apparently I am going to have to figure it out.”
She turned away from the grave.
Then stopped.
Looked back.
“Goodbye, Enoch.”
Three steps.
She stopped again.
“No.”
Jen returned.
She touched the stone once more.
“I don't like that word.”
She considered alternatives.
Then she understood.
“See you in my memories.”
Jen walked away.
For the first time since Enoch died, she was not waiting for him to return.
She was carrying him somewhere he could no longer go.
A MOMENT TO REFLECT
After the Story
Stay with a question, if you wish. There is room for more than one answer.
- How does experiencing the world through a body change what Jen already knows?
- What does Jen discover when she says, “This is where I am”?
- How can carrying someone in memory become a way of continuing your own life?