Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Áine Part 3

"Is she new?" I hear a technician say. My vision is stuck to a limited scope, my peripheral only catching a glimpse of his acne-scarred cheek.

"It," his work companion corrects—I see her clearly, she's the older by a mile. Her face is filled with disinterest. "And no, it's not new."

"I don't think I've ever seen this host before?" The man says, eyes fixed on a tablet.

"No one has," his companion replies. "Not since she was decommissioned." She turns my head. I can see the other technician's face now. He doesn't look me in the eye. He looks at me.

"See this," the woman says, her fingers on my temple. "A guest shot it during an old narrative."

"So they never sent it back into rotation?" The man frowns, perplexed. "It's an easy fix. I've seen guests do worse."

"There was a larger underlying problem. It kept deviating from its narrative."

"It deviated?" The man unwraps a candy wrapper to suck on a butterscotch. "How so?"

"A lot of them did back in the day," the woman tells her companion matter-of-factly. "No matter how many times we ran diagnostics, we couldn't find out why this particular host kept straying from its narrative. Some think it's because of some faulty code that Ford wrote in himself—If you believe watercooler gossip."

The man's mouth smacks open, "Think its code is still a problem?"

"If it was, Ford wouldn't have ordered for it to be taken out for a last rotation." The woman stops working for a second to think on her own words. She huffs with amusement when she retracts: "Actually, the fuck do I know, Ford's latest update turned this place into a fucking shit storm overnight. Missed my trip to Ibiza for this shit."

The man hesitates before asking: "Any special details we're supposed to add or—"

"None. We were instructed not to tamper with any of the code. Just clean it up, dress it pretty, hand it a tray and let the guests see it one last time." The woman turns my face suddenly so she can look into my eyes. I feel the pads of her fingers trace the outline of my parted lips. "A shame."

After, I feel something sharp slip between the disks in my neck. A rush excites my spine.

"Jesus," the man says with a hint of apprehension. "She—I mean it—is currently streaming data. I think its core systems are online."

The woman frowns as she moves to stand behind me, "That's impossible. It was deactivated before being transported up here."

"I'm telling you, it's not. It's been aware this whole time. Only the physical response attributes are offline, the rest is processing data. Mounds of it."

"Then turn it off."

"I'm trying, I don't know how. Must be another update."

"Another fucking update," The woman sighs heavily, "The old crone and his antics again. Leave it. As long as it doesn't regain motor function while we work, it doesn't matter. We'll have to wipe it before roll-out anyway."

The buzz of a drill dampens out the technician's voices. They talk about the food being served in the cafeteria at lunch and then about a new nightclub opening up in the gentrified boroughs where an art museum used to be. They argue over the museum's name: West Lake Contemporary, Vestlye Cosmopolitan, Wealthlore Culture House.

Wheatlore Contemporary, I add my contribution.

Music pulses from a speaker, it sounds like a cat screeching in a loud bar. The drill bores a hole in my skull. A thick rivulet of blood snakes over the left side of my face. My left eye goes red.

Was that not the name? I wonder.

And then I hear the sound of someone biting into a crisp apple. I feel the presence of air where there shouldn't be. My scalp is tossed onto a tray in front of me and I marvel at the spirals of hair attached to it; all the earthly shades of brown shining under the fluorescence.

Oh...I realise. There was never an apple.

"Aaahhh!" I gasp awake when I feel pressure on my gut. For a brief instant, I forget where I am...When I am. And then I see the blood on my dress, the shotgun on the ground, a set of hands-on my stomach.

I scramble when I realise those aren't my hands. "Who—?"

The woman who had been holding my gut together holds her blood-stained hands up. Her tone comes off unamused, "Easy. I'm not one of those things. Most of them are gone...Thank God. I heard the gunshots. After one of those fuckers killed Tristan...I thought it was best to find a weapon. I came to steal your shotgun. Then I noticed you were still breathing. You've lost a lot of blood."

"Things?" I ask, not entirely sure of what this strange woman speaks of.

"The hosts. The thing you shot to shit outside." The woman's words rub-off as condescending. "You must have hit your head pretty hard." She points to her own indent free skull. I touch the hard scab on my temple. "Looks old, so I wouldn't worry about that."

She moves closer to me. I lean away from her.

"The names Abby," She shrugs off her coat and ties it around my midriff. "What's yours?"

I stare at her for the longest moment and then answer: "Áine."

"Well, Áine," she wipes the blood on her stylish trousers with golden buttons that do nothing but add spectacle to the elastic waistband. "Since the trains a fucking dead end, know another way out of here?"

I hesitate and then answer with assurance and no evidence to back up my claim, "I think, yes. I do."