Bloodroot

CON206 hoped no one had heard it—the empty clang of metal being struck by his backhoe. But before he could jump down from the cab to see what he had hit, the foreman was already out of his chair, wheezing from the effort. “Scraps, did you bust my rig again? I told you I’d trade you out if you couldn’t handle the controls,” the foreman yelled. Scraps—206 winced at the name. Out of habit, he glanced in the side mirror at the gaping hole where one of his eyes should be. The city had impounded it during an update session years ago, leaving an uncomfortable snarl of wires exposed, making it glaringly obvious that he was not a Bio. 206 bent the mirror away, opened the cab door, and jumped down to meet the foreman at the dig site.

A small group of CONs and Bios had formed. The foreman coming over meant there must be something to see. At ground level, 206 could see that he had partially unearthed a metal barrel, and the group was buzzing. “What are you waiting for? Get down there and haul it up!” the foreman ordered. 206 crawled down into the pit with the rest of the CONs and started digging by hand. Above them, the Bios watched impatiently. “What do you think it is?” “Oil, maybe?” “Do you know how old it would have to be? This hole ain’t that deep.” “Did you hear about this crew a while back at Western? They found an old command center while they were digging out the transport tunnels. Those guys didn’t have to work for months with all the loot that was in there.” “You think you’re getting any of this?” the foreman interrupted. “This is my site, and whatever’s in there is coming with me.”

The Bios were quiet after that, but 206’s thoughts started racing. It was hard to ignore any potential source of crypto. A replacement eye was expensive, but after seven years of saving, he was close. CONs made enough—but not enough for dreaming. Matching eyes, a charging station with leisure space, and maybe even a vocal upgrade, he thought wistfully. When work ended, 206 would often walk down a Bio street and look into the windows of their living rooms. Living room. He would turn the words over in his hands, taking them apart like a machine only to put them back together differently. Room for living. Maybe he could have that someday, he thought, as he updated his mental list—charging station with living room. He wondered what the Bios would think if they walked by and looked in on him. Would they come in one day?

The foreman snapped and 206 was suddenly back in the pit. “Scraps, bring that up and put it in my office. Rest of you—back to work.” 206 nodded in compliance, swung the barrel to his shoulder, and followed the foreman up the hill.

Once the door to the office was closed, the foreman actually smiled at 206. “C’mon Scraps, set it down and pry off the lid while I make space for inventory.” 206 put the barrel down gently and examined the top. There were no markings and no obvious openings. Nothing to hold on to, pull back, or unlock. The seal was tight and whatever secrets the drum held were steadfast. 206 knocked on the lid to get the foreman’s attention and shrugged. To his surprise, the foreman laughed. “Well, isn’t that something? The tech still works! I remember reading about this when I studied the Divide as a kid,” he said as he shifted his girth into a crouching position next to the barrel. 206 watched as the foreman felt around the bottom lip of the barrel until suddenly the top flipped open. “You see,” the foreman said, waving his fingers, “biometric imprinting. So that sheet metal like you can’t get in. Hell, who cares what’s in it, maybe I’ll just keep the barrel.” 206 smiled nervously and nodded in agreement. The foreman heaved himself up and walked around the desk to sit down. “Go on then, dump it out. Let’s see what I’ve got.”

In the moment it took 206 to lift the barrel, he catalogued six items that lay near the top: a handheld EMP, flashlight, switchblade, two bundles of paper currency labeled $10,000, and iodine tablets. Why would anyone save these things, he wondered. Still, he carefully tilted the contents of the barrel onto the desk. The foreman grabbed the first object on top of the pile—a small black book—turning it over in his hands before tossing it on the floor. “Of course, it’s all junk,” he said, no longer with any trace of a smile. “These idiots back then thought all they had to do to survive was prepare to be driven out. The smart ones, they were the guys that knew your lot would never be behind the wheel.” The foreman pushed the relics around until he found the cash. “At least this is still worth something,” he sighed, “but not much.” He stuffed the wads in his pockets and headed towards the door. “Get the rest of this out of here and get back to your station.” 206 lifted his sleeve to reveal a faint bar of light shining through his wrist. His charge was low. “Fine,” the foreman groused, “just dump the junk and get back in 20. Goddamn CONs,” he muttered and banged the door behind him.

206 found a few empty boxes and started gathering the items. The foreman said these things were for survival, but some of them clearly were not. Photographs, a broken watch, colored pencils—these do not aid survival, 206 thought. He had cleared the desk, picked up the boxes, and was heading toward the door when he stepped on the small black book that the foreman had discarded. 206 had not cared about anything in the barrel, but he had never seen a book before. He hesitated. The foreman does not want it, he reasoned, he told me to throw it away. 206 picked up the book and hid it in his pocket. He had never taken anything that was not his before, let alone something that belonged to a Bio—or used to belong to a Bio. He almost wished he could feel his heartbeat quicken, a bead of sweat form on his brow. But the only thing that felt different was the soft pat of the book as it bounced against his leg on his way to the charging station.

206 went into a stall and closed the door. He knew if he shut down, he would charge faster, but all he could think was maybe the foreman had missed something. Maybe this book had something that he could trade for crypto. 206 sat down and began to leaf through the pages, looking for anything that might indicate it had belonged to someone important, someone worth remembering. But his first scan revealed no matches to any public database, and who would pay for a partly used notebook? He leaned back and put his hand over his empty eye socket. It did not matter, he thought, with this job, I can get there. Eventually.

Ten minutes passed, but 206 still had not shut down. As he flipped through the book’s notes about trail markers, lists of seasonal temperatures, and illustrations of flora and fauna, one page caught his eye. It was not the drawing of a delicate white flower with a warm yellow center that kept him engrossed, but the tangle of brilliant red and orange roots that trailed from the stem. The caption read “Sanguinaria canadensis—boil roots, use as topical antiseptic. Also known as Bloodroot.” Bloodroot. He liked the way the name sat in his chest. The more he repeated it, the more he imagined he could feel the rush of blood through his veins, a pulse beating in his wrist. The root of blood. 206 smiled and turned the page. The foreman had missed something, he thought.

Just then, the stall door tore open, and the foreman faced 206, seething. Forty minutes had passed. 206 shut the book and attempted to shield it, but it was too late. The foreman looked down and grinned. “So, this is what you’ve been doing? Stealing company time and my personal property?” he said. 206 could not say anything in his defense. He could not ask why, if the foreman thought the book was worthless, it was worth claiming now. All he could do was stand up, meet the foreman’s gaze, and wait. The foreman stepped back and began to snake around the room. He looked almost giddy as he let the silence lengthen, let 206 wonder when the blow would fall. Finally, the foreman spoke. “Listen, I get it. You see a chance to get a little extra, you have to take it. But you forgot one thing—you never take from me. You got that? Or I’ll melt you down and sell you for parts. Now give it here.”

206 put his hand in his pocket as he looked at the foreman’s greasy palm. It’s so empty, 206 thought. He ran his digits over the book binding, pressing the pages firmly between his thumb and pointer. Noticing his hesitancy, the foreman’s face darkened, and he lowered his arm. “If you think you can stay here after pulling something like this, you’re even more busted than I thought,” the foreman growled. “Hand it over now, Scraps, or you’re never working here again.” Out of habit, 206 looked past the foreman’s heaving shoulders into the mirror behind him. A tangle of brilliant red and orange wires wove through the opening where his eye should be. He smiled at his reflection.

As 206 walked out of the door, the notebook bounced in his pocket. He reached in to grasp it. As he pressed down on the binding, he felt his pulse in his fingertips.