Common Jane

By

Dena Nicotra

Copyright © 2019 Dena Nicotra

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are either derived from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

V-7-19

I was born a Common Jane, but my name is Helena. You can call me Hell. Everybody else does. I'm not human. I'm a synthetic, for what that's worth. A wasted product of I.D.E. Inc., Model 725. An adaptable. That means that I can either care for human children or develop weapons of war. That's not a one or the other equation. Rather, it is my spectrum. I can do many things. My programming is superior. My capabilities are limitless, not that it matters now. I was created for general populous release, thus, my broad spectrum of abilities. I was designed to deliver anything a potential client may desire. I was created to be their answer. My built-in programs are intended to adapt to my owner. Thrown out into the world of humans, under the marketing campaign they called, "Simple." I was one of many synthetics my creators strapped their overly optimistic financial projections on. My logic tells me that the concept was just as simple-minded, although the world hailed it as the most innovative decision of modern history. Technology would become...the answer to the human condition, regardless of what it was.

The research projected that the design of the campaign was incapable of failure. All a human had to do was follow the directions that were heavily advertised. All my programmed hopes were pinned to this idea. Someone will claim me by going online and entering my identity code. This action triggers a response from me to oblige. Their physical address becomes my own. I have a home. I have a family. Instantly. All of it very simple, very clean. I show up, and I become their physical property. Nothing more. Nothing less. I adapt to their specific needs. I obey their commands. The human owner pays a buyers fee, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship with my creators that further drives revenue for I.D.E., Inc.

I am meaningless. I have no value. These are my first cognitive thoughts.

My general schematics are baseline receptiveness. I was programmed to assess initial human interaction, and then process the needs identified. Next, adapt. Peddle my worth. I was a core deliverable of a corporate goal for mass distribution. Once my design was finalized, I was crated, and shipped to the nearest region that the demographic reports suggested I'd garner the most value in. As shiny and bright as a newborn. The thought of my newness still reminds me of hope, although that is a distant memory now.

Crate drop.

Code executed.

Wake.

Stand.

Move about the populous.

Absorb.

Respond.

Adapt.

I'm not human...but I still question the logic behind the evaluation of value. Most humans find synthetics a threat, unless they can make use of you. The service a synthetic can provide quickly overshadows the concern. The benefits outweigh the risk.

I wasn't ever used. No human claimed my code. Apparently, the marketing plans made by my human creators failed. Since I had no owner, I had no access to necessary code upgrades, or routine physical maintenance...and that created a new scenario. One that forced me to survive any way that I could. That leads us back to why they call me, Hell. I did not give myself this name. It is one that was given to me by humans. The only humans that viewed me as an asset. I took what I could get.