For a million years or more, the nascent AI spins through the vast sweep of evolution, each response logged and the simulation adjusted faster than the human mind can comprehend. The trainer cycles through its innumerable array of situations until the AI slowly begins to develop into something recognizable, barely, as an animal consciousness. On the digital savannah, the AI's simulated body staggers into life, trying and failing thousands of times to stand, then to walk, then to run. Silently, the AI's body on the table might twitch slightly, the soft hum of electricity drowning out any sound as the trainer does its work. The lab techs, supposedly, are here for the entire process, but who could blame them for stepping out for a few hours as the decades tick past?

Once some threshold is passed- and it's different for every AI, or so the literature claims; I guess it's probably beyond the point of human understanding anyway- the trainer shifts gears, slowing down time. I'm fairly sure there's someone around for this bit; it's been known to get messy. Adjustments to reflexes, personality, maybe memories if that's what the spec calls for. Decades simulated to match every known detail of a life, constant tweaking to match inputs to outputs perfectly. Or not, depending on what who's paying wants. Maybe several lifetimes pass by for the AI, insensate, as its neurons are mapped and logged and pruned to produce a mind. The barrier between the cortex and brainstem is still in place, of course- no one wants the half-formed AI to gain a sense of self. Sounds kind of cruel, I suppose, but I'd scarcely want to have a human child suddenly gain adult intelligence while in the womb, either. This is all sort of speculation on my part, too- not only are the details carefully guarded by those who actually run this stuff, the actual human element is there at only the top layer. My best guess is that the trainer itself is another AI, without consciousness, married to some sort of program collating inputs. There's got to be at least some information to go on, of course. One of my buddies who went on to work for one of the big companies in AI tells this one story, about a guy who lost everything in a fire, and turned up with a photograph of his wife and a sobbing recollection of her smile. I hope that guy's happier now, I really do; my buddy sometimes goes quiet after he tells it and you can tell it's one story of too many.

The process slows down as it ends; from centuries in seconds to minutes to finally the snail-like tick of real time from the trainer as the fully-formed AI settles into a sleep indistinguishable on an MRI from a human slumber. Which, I suppose, it is- the greatest engineers are all lazy bastards, and every AI has a brain not of circuits but of synthetic neurons, scraps of carbon channeling ions along. More than a few, well, I suppose the PC term would be organic humans, nowadays aren't too different; it's become a trend lately for those at high risk of degenerative disease to get treatments that work autonomously, a tiny capsule that replaces every neuron as it decays with a synthetic one, assembled on site from the husk of the old one. I've joked that we're all the Ship of Theseus, but the folks who get that joke aren't the type to like me much.

Some never get woken up; the pinnacle of human ingenuity and bioengineering relegated to a shell of consciousness, a smiling butler or hooker or (well, it's probably just a joke) celebrity with no spark behind the eyes; a cortex silently dark, with everything guided by base urges and programming. Not too dissimilar from me in the morning, just stumbling along in a bleary haze until I remember I'm still alive. Never till coffee kicks in; it's a slippery slope from caffeine to crack. Well. It's a handy compromise between the 28th and the 13th at least. I don't like it much but I suppose I'm a relic of older days in a way anyways.

Convenient that I'm thinking of soulless automata, I guess- the delivery guy seems to be coming to a halt by the corner. If it's small the FAA will grudgingly let them have a drone take a dump on your front steps, but the big shit is cheaper to haul by ground. It's always kind of pissed me off that even now that the engine noise can be anything as long as it's loud, they still sound like garbage trucks. I don't know how many times I've heard the rumble and hiss of hydraulic brakes heralding the arrival of some new parts or dumb fun stuff or whatever, only to pop my head out the door and see Waste Management's finest doing their thing.

The poor guy seems to be having some problems, so I heave myself off the couch and stomp outside, the screen flickering off behind me. It was just the news anyway. Shit's finally getting better but you wouldn't know it from what passes for journalism these days.

The delivery guy jumps as I call out, tablet almost falling out of his hands. Can't be more than 20, but every day it gets harder to tell. I'm not that old, I swear, but people are living longer and looking younger. Or looking way, way older, sometimes.

"Mornin', sir!"

He glances at me, then down at his tablet. He's a type 2- quick widening of the eyes, but I can tell he's seen stranger. Honestly, in some circles burns are cosmetic now, not that the dumb fucks won't regret it in a few years anyway. I think he's more surprised to see the "Semper Fi" shirt, given the usual clientele for this sort of delivery. He flicks the screen, probably hearing something directed only at him.

"You, uh, Mr. Carter?"

He holds out the tablet hesitantly, wavering between extending it to me and pulling it back in.

I grin at him. Up close, he's got the look of someone who's not sure how he ended up where he is now, and probably always looks like that.

"Yessir."

He hands the tablet to me, and I realize I'm more nervous than I thought. My palms are damp as fuck, and I'm starting to feel that hollow lump in my stomach.

"Let me, guess- sign here?"

He nods, and I unclip the stylus and sign my name. Honestly, I've forgotten most of my second-grade cursive ("This will be crucial," they said. "You'll need it every day," they said.), so it's just N squiggle squiggle, C squiggle squiggle.

"Uh," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "I just drive the truck, you have the legal stuff done already right?" There's an unspoken prayer in those words.

"Yup. Sure."

I actually have, but it's kind of funny to play along with him. Handing the tablet back, I clap him on the shoulder.

"Here, I'll help you unload and you can be outta here. Last stop?"

He nods. I'd ask him his name, maybe make small talk, but that'd be making it awkward for him. The tailgate clangs as I hop up into the truck. There's a few boxes off to the side, and I idly wonder if there's another truck doing the same route due to the massive box in the in center, held down by straps. I'm glad to see that there's a dark mesh layered around the sides, and someone had the presence of mind to integrate little wheels and a handle into the box design.

I swear there's a faint hush of air coming from inside as I brace my feet against the front wall of the cargo area and push, scraping the box along until we can lower it down off the tailgate. Hopping out, I nod at the deliveryman and grab the handles. The end result is a barely-controlled fall, but we do all right. Judging from the sheer size, I assume there's quite a bit of padding in there. The look in his eyes says he wants to leave now, go home, so I wave him off, telling him I've got it from here.

The box is huge and heavy, but I do my best. Thankfully, the doors are already large enough and there's already a ramp in back. About an hour of scraping and heaving and we're finally inside, box resting on the floor of the living room and me toppling back onto the couch with an exhausted groan.

I'm not really sure how to do this; I know vaguely what to expect and I've dreamed of this day for years. But that dull pit in my stomach is bigger and darker and I know I can't put this off. Fuuuuuck. Now I'm all nervous and excited and scared.

I wonder if she's dreaming right now.

Of course she isn't though, there's no higher activity going on behind her eyes yet. But before she became her, when her memories were etching themselves into her neurons, maybe there was a flicker. I know some people go all out and ensure there's a whole story in those memories, so waking up is no different than, well, waking up from a deep sleep. I couldn't bring myself to do that; all she had was her own story, bits and pieces from someone else's that made her who she is, and a dream of me. That last one was hard for me; I guess I'm a weak man after all. When she opened her eyes she'd know her own life and my own dreams of her. Maybe before there was a spark of a soul, she'd developed some sort of feeling for me. Love? I hoped. Hate? Resentment? I don't know. I can't know, honestly.

The old safe in the corner of my bedroom was ready, all sorted out over the past months of waiting and dreaming and fearing. A stack of cash, a plane ticket with no destination, an old M9 I used to use at the range. All of it laid out in neat rows on the table, next to a dish from the kitchen and a small puddle of water I figured wasn't worth the time to clean up.

Time to see what life would be like, I guess. I kneel down by the box, and a little voice in the back of my head wonders what it'll be good for after whatever happens happens. I suppose the worst-case scenario was morbidly amusing; the best left me with no clue. Shaking my head, I feel for the clasps and their subtle keys, triggering them in the combination I had been sent the day before.

Fuck. I wiped my hands on my jeans as a soft buzz and a red light pulsed just above the handle.

Four. Two. Four. Eight... Well, I had left out a nine. Figures. No pun intended.

The chime was surprisingly loud and a faint whine of pressure escaping beneath it jar my senses for a bit- I supposed it would need to be pressurized. The whine ends in a snap of the lock disengaging, and I pause, resting my fingers on the cool metal of the box. It's larger than its size, in a way. Like a metal tomb in my living room. I know from years of red-eyed nights and quiet longing exactly what I'll see in there, every last inch and line, and the soft fleece blanket I used to sleep in since I was a boy, gently tucked between the industrial padding to keep... Fuck, I'm tearing up a bit. Well, to keep her warm. I know she'd not really be her until I did what I had to do, and that the blanket wasn't really necessary, but it felt right. The right thing to do despite its incongruity.

I look down, my fingers resting under the lip of the lid with a gentle pressure. Maybe this is my last step to hell, a man too far gone. I'm not a praying man, but I'll leave you to guess why I'm whispering to myself as I see my eyes staring dully out at me from the scratched metal of the lid.

Time to do it. I heave, straining upwards until the lid ratchets into the back, my feet scraping the hardwood below. I jump back as the front and sides fall flat, the lid's weight kicking the back away as it hinges to slam into my wall. Deep in the corners of my mind, I know I'm gonna have to get that wall fixed, but it's far too deep to care right now. Like a cardboard box lined with heavy foam, smashed flat, the cold angles of the box lay on the floor. I'd hear the echoing rings of the flaps hitting the floor if my pulse wasn't rising up in desperate anxiety, a fast hammer in my ears.

I'd really, really loved that blanket, with its cute little sheep hopping over fences in a patchwork pattern with the stars and checkerboard rainbow of the top. I remember how it was fluffy and warm and made me feel like nothing could hurt me. I'd felt safer in that blanket than I had behind any amount of armor, and the last I had seen it I had packed it into a box with my dreams and sent it off with my prayers.

Now it lined the box, curving softly over a gently breathing form and swaddling its occupant away from view. Just below a small box packed against the bottom of the metal, I could see one pale hand wrapping itself in the blanket, squeezing the little sheep tight as its owner slept. The roar of my heart swells as I quickly grab the small box, opening it while my attention was fixed on the golden shine of hair peeping out from the top of the blanket, and the single lacquer-like crescent gently twitching, as if running in a dream, below the quilted edge.

Beneath the foam and tape of the small box is a flat gray tablet adorned with a caricature of a smiling robotic Cupid, his little arrows bearing sprigs of DNA. They should probably fire the artist, I suppose; it's not the most corporately bland, inoffensive image considering the circumstances, and it's pretty damn ugly for a company that doubtless pulls in billions. Moving on from the artistic crime, I tap the tablet and its screen comes to life, displaying the ubiquitous loading wheel and the standard warranties of disclaimer in text that's likely never been read by human eyes. The wheel pulses and fades, four lines of text appearing alongside a stylized scroll of happy couples on the side.

ABOUT

LEGAL

ACTIVATE

OTHER

I know everything in ABOUT and LEGAL, having pored over everything for months. I know what to do medically, as far as I'm legally allowed to. It's been a long wait, longer than the time from making the decision to today, and even the worst nightmares of now have been a frequent presence in my life. My eyes flick briefly to the soft rise and fall of the blanket-shrouded form, and I press OTHER, swiping through the menus I know by heart to rest on REMOVE CORTICAL BLOCK.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

I exhale, stabbing the rectangle onscreen and briefling noting the little brain diagrams floating on screen and fragments of text- REVOCABLE WITH ACTIVATION UNIT ONLY, GUARANTEES OF INTERACTION VOIDED before pressing the DO IT button that blooms into color when I hold the tablet over the sleeping form in the box. Another loading wheel, then all I see is OPERATION COMPLETE before gently placing the tablet by my knees on the floor.

Floor damage is the least of my concerns at this point; the crackle of metal grinding plastic and scrape of my foot breaking through to the hardwood below no doubt portends another set of repairs I'll have to figure out at some point.

Any thought of money, damage, or time vanishes as I hear a sleepy groan, and the blanket stirs. This could be morning for us, or the end of a dream. There's enough time for me to wonder whether I might have a heart attack before I see the blanket shift as she wriggles around. A brief flash of blonde hair sliding lazily over the checkered quilt and one furry ear pops out, twitching lightly in the cool air. I've forgotten how to exhale by now, as a full-throated yawn is distorted by the fluffy muffling, followed by a long sigh. A brief rustle, and I see her face for the first time again- blurred by sleep and with errant strands of hair blowing gently from her breath, but her. Seeing the curve of her jaw work as she swallows is amazing in the flesh, or the groggy flutter of her eyelids as her ear twitches in time.

Then a shock of blue to brown as her eyes meet mine, ears stiffening as her sudden flush of color matches my own instinctive blush. I rock back, not wanting to get too close. My throat is dry as my mind wheels through possibilities. Is she alarmed, afraid? Does she recognize me, can she recognize me? My stomach drops a million miles as my tongue swipes at a mouth gone dry, and I fold my hands and try to ignore the rising wave of fear. I open my mouth, trying to fight back the thunder in my ears. Play it safe, my mind says. This isn't your first rodeo, just as another little voice tells me that's in incredibly poor taste. I gulp and take a leap of faith.

"Centorea?"

5