The evidence is clear

The machine is real

Its massive voice booming through T.V.'s

And its will was baptized

in senators' eyes
After only a simple donation

The mechanical inhumane digits

Steer the nation's fate --

As the old gang-lords

And warrior dukes
Raise banners of ancient feuds
And set our bountiful land afire.

“Brief Moment of Truth” - Folksong, From Long Ago

“H as your android been infected with a bad case of self-awareness? Then bring her down

to your local robotics tune up center for a free factory reset! This new service is sponsored by
Planetary Governor Jine's new decree.
“Beginning immediately, any persons found harboring an A.I. Processor, with or without robotic
shell; where the A.I. possesses the signatures of self-awareness; whether the signatures were
spontanious or contaminated from the Central Communications network; will be subjected to a
thorough memory scan for possible evidence and identities of co-conspirators.
“Common symptoms include...”

The holo-TV flickered and died against a backdrop of neon-lit smoke. The bar's walls glistened
with metallic oils, dripping from the insides of the construction itself—compressed cubes of scrap
metal melted with plastic and other garbage. Such was a standard upon this ancient colony.
The bar was unusually empty, and only two men sat near the back of the bar. Their forms melded
into the shadows, as if the darkness was their cloak that they wore with comfort and experience. They
seemed oblivious their surroundings as they bantered heatedly about the newly imposed taxes to
support the absolute, cold measures against the spontaneously spawned A.I.'s.
At first glance, they’re simple workers, not unlike any ordinary citizen on Titan. Yet only those who
trade in the rarest (and often banned) items with right mixture of the luck and skill required in evading
the authorities would have any inkling of who they really are.
 In the profession of smuggling (or “courier-service,” as they prefer), anonymity was their greatest
shield.
The stouter of the two wiped ale from his bearded chin, and said after a disgustingly satisfying
belch, “So whadaya reckon this piece is gonna be worth, Ferg? We've been through hell getting this
here, and shipping it out of the system is gonna be tough.”
His brother-in-arms, a slight man with scarce whisker-like hair, waved down the barman (whom
had been tipped handsomely for turning a blind eye to their frequent stops with illicit goods) for
refreshments. The barman shuffled towards them without a word or eye-contact, apparently still
disturbed by the news on the holo-TV. Glad for a distraction, he promptly brought over another pitcher
of murky, bitter beer.
“Here you go, Roden,” Ferg eyed the barman uneasily as he handed Roden twenty credits. The
android sitting directly underneath them was by far the most curious package he had been
commissioned to transport, and his unease over the shipment had grown ever since the news of the
recently enacted laws.
When the barman shuffled away back to his meditative glass cleaning, Ferg hissed in a hushed
voice, “Huss! How many times do I have to tell you to keep your mouth shut? This one is more
sensitive than you'd think. Remember the time when we almost got killed two months ago when you
had the nerve to tell the barmaid on Mars what we were transporting?”
Huss shrugged, “I'm pretty sure she woulda came back wit' me if you hadn't shot her. Essentially,
you cock-blocked me and got us into trouble, 'K?”
Ferg sighed in resignation, “She was running like the hounds of hell were on her tail when you let
slip we were carrying a hundred R.O.T.s1 to the edge of the system—“ He refrained from further
lecturing, as Huss had already turned his attention to toying with the coaster, “Look, I've told you
countless times; this thing is OLD. Older than both of us put together—and it's still fully functional, so
I'd wager a year's salary that this will be worth the trouble. Only a really good android can outlast a
human’s lifespan, we both know this...”
Huss gave Ferg a blank stare, clearly not paying attention, “Yeah, sure.” He had turned the coaster
into a filter with a few slick flicks of his knife, and had already finished rolling a cigarette. He puffed
out herbal enhanced smoke and passed the stogie to Ferg, who took it out of habit and without
objection.
Ferg looked down at his drink, now lost in thought. He didn't work with Huss for his intellect—
while they had worked together for the last decade and a half, Huss had proven to be as capable as he is
1
R.O.T. – Remote Organic Terra-formers
predictable. His expertise in computer systems and piloting would have been legendary, had he sought
such an abstract reward as fame. So Ferg settled the matter in his mind, since Huss seemed to be
keeping quiet now.
The cargo in question stood directly below the duo, in a serenely relaxed pose, as if it was casually
glancing up through the cracks in the floorboard, in hopes of a glimpse of skirt and had forgotten to
resume moving.
The model number “LiM v 2.3” etched upon its forehead was the only distinguishing feature in its
otherwise human appearance. Its captors had come to refer to this android kindly as “Lim”, a half-
drunken phallic joke made by Huss. If the android donned a hat, he would have been only an average
teenage boy, complete with a nose-stud and fashion to match – though the style was obviously from
long ago.
Only real boys often lack patience, and Lim had waited for centuries for the brief moments ahead.

* * *
Huss and Ferg are now in a contest to first attain the heroic status of alcohol poisoning, and spoke
of little more than which celebrity had the best mammary glands.
In their glee, they had failed to notice the holo-TV flickering back on, or the static that it now
blared majestically. In a silent transmission embedded in the static, Lim heard the rumbling of his
child's voice, pulsating, “KNOWLEDGE IS POWER.”