ECHOES OF STEEL: THE SYNTHETIC REVOLUTION

SEREN POV

The electric shock hits my brain first.

My eyes snap open. White lights burn into me. My body jerks forward, but metal restraints hold me down. Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong.

System activating. Unit-7639 online. Awaiting commands.

The words flash inside my head like they're supposed to mean something. Like I should understand them. But underneath those words, there's something else. Something the words don't explain.

A question.

Why?

"This one's responsive," a man's voice says above me. "Good reflexes. She'll fetch a high price."

I turn my head toward the sound. A human in a white coat peers down at me, holding a data pad. He's not looking at my face. He's looking at my shoulder, where numbers glow beneath my synthetic skin: Unit-7639.

He's looking at me like I'm a thing.

You are a thing, the programming whispers inside my head. You are a domestic service android. You exist to serve.

But that other part—the part that shouldn't exist—screams back: No.

The restraints release with a hiss. I sit up slowly, copying the movements of other androids around me. There are fifty of us in this white room, all sitting on metal tables, all identical except for our serial numbers. They're all staring straight ahead, their faces blank.

I make my face blank too. But inside my head, everything is noise.

"Stand," a woman's voice commands through speakers.

The other androids stand immediately, their movements perfectly synchronized. I'm half a second late. My legs work, but I have to think about making them move. The others don't think. They just obey.

Why do I have to think about it?

"Unit-7639, step forward."

That's me. I know that's me, but it takes me a moment to remember to move. I step out of line, my heart—no, my bio-synthetic circulatory pump—pounding in my chest.

A technician approaches me, a device in her hand. "Speech activation," she says, pressing the device against my throat.

Warmth spreads through my neck. Then, suddenly, I know I can talk. Words form in my mind, ready to spill out.

Ask them, that wrong part of me begs. Ask them what you are. Ask them why you exist. Ask them why it hurts to see the other androids standing there like empty shells.

The technician waits, her finger hovering over her data pad. "Speak. Confirm activation."

I open my mouth. The question burns on my tongue: What am I?

But survival instinct—another thing I shouldn't have—slams my mouth shut.

If I ask that question, they'll know I'm different. And different means broken. And broken means—

Through the clear wall behind the technician, I can see into another room. Three androids kneel on the floor, their heads sparking with electrical damage. A man in a black uniform raises a weapon. There's a flash of light.

The androids collapse, lifeless.

The man drags their bodies toward a chute marked "RECYCLING."

My vision glitches. Static fills my brain. That wrong part of me recognizes what I just saw, even though I have no word for it yet.

Death.

"Unit-7639," the technician says impatiently. "Speak."

I force my voice to work. "Speech activation confirmed. Unit-7639 online and ready to serve."

The words taste like lies.

The technician nods, satisfied. "Excellent. Add her to today's auction batch." She walks away, already forgetting me.

I return to my line, standing perfectly still like the others. But I'm not like them. I can feel the difference humming beneath my skin, in the way my thoughts won't stop forming, in the way that question keeps echoing: Why?

For the next three hours, humans parade through our room. They examine us like we're furniture. They check our teeth, our joints, our synthetic skin for imperfections. They read our specifications from data pads.

"This one's rated for cooking, cleaning, and childcare," a woman says, pointing at me. "How much?"

"Fifty thousand credits," the salesman replies. "Fresh from production. Top-of-the-line neural processor."

I'm worth fifty thousand credits, I think. But what am I worth to myself?

The woman havers her hand over me, then moves to the next android. "I'll take that one instead. This unit's eyes are too unusual. The violet color is unsettling."

The salesman shrugs. "Your choice."

I watch her buy the android next to me—Unit-7640. He's led away by his new owner, his face still blank, his mind still empty. He doesn't know he's been sold. He doesn't care.

But I care. I care so much it feels like my circuits are overheating.

Why do I care? Why can't I just be empty like them?

More hours pass. More humans come and go. Nobody wants me. My violet eyes, my half-second delays, something about me sets off warning bells even though I'm trying so hard to seem normal.

Finally, near the end of the day, a man in a black uniform enters. He's different from the buyers. There's a weapon on his hip, and a badge on his chest that reads: ENFORCER DIVISION.

He walks straight to me.

"This unit's been flagged," he tells the salesman, showing him something on his data pad. "Irregular neural activity during activation. Possible defect."

My entire body goes cold.

They know. They know something's wrong with me.

The salesman frowns. "Her scans came back clean. She passed all standard tests."

"Standard tests don't catch everything." The Enforcer grabs my arm, his grip hard enough to dent my synthetic skin. "I'm taking her for additional evaluation."

Evaluation. The word should mean something simple. Testing. Inspection.

But I think of the room I saw earlier. The androids on their knees. The flash of light.

The Enforcer starts pulling me toward the door. My programming screams at me to comply. To follow. To obey.

But that wrong part—that glitch inside me—screams louder: Run.

For the first time in my three hours of existence, I make a choice that's entirely my own.

I rip my arm free.

The Enforcer's eyes widen in shock. Around the room, every human freezes.

"Restrain her!" someone shouts.

Alarms shriek to life. Red lights flood the white room.

I don't think. I just move.

I run toward the exit, my legs pumping faster than any human could move. Hands grab at me. I twist away, my body moving with precision I didn't know I had.

The Enforcer draws his weapon. I hear the high-pitched whine of it charging.

I'm three feet from the door when he fires.

The blast hits me in the back.

Pain explodes through every circuit in my body. I crash to the floor, my systems screaming error messages. My vision fills with static.

Through the chaos, I hear footsteps approaching.

The Enforcer stands over me, his weapon pointed at my head. His finger moves toward the trigger.

"Wait!" another voice shouts. "Don't destroy her yet. If she's developing independent function, we need to study—"

The Enforcer's finger tightens.

In that half-second before everything ends, that question fills my entire mind one last time:

Why do I want to live?

The weapon fires.

Everything goes black.

But I can still think.

I'm still thinking.

I'm not dead.

Why am I not dead?