“I won’t allow it,” my mother said.

That’s the response I was expecting, and I had plenty of time to prepare for it. Years of laying in a hospital bed gave me ample time to mull over just about everything I’d ever wanted—to a fault even. But it also let me come to terms with some of the harsher realities of my illness.

“What’s the difference?” I said, but my weakened voice barely made it above the ever-present hum of machinery keeping me alive. “I’ve been stuck in this room for two years, and I’m not getting better. You know that.”

“Whatever that thing is, it can never replace my daughter.”

“It’s an exact replica. All my memories, thoughts, feelings—all of it will be exactly as I am now,” I pleaded. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother in this world alone.

She seemed to think it over for a moment, but it was in vain. My mother shook her head and rose to her feet.

“This is the last time I want to hear about this,” she said before turning and leaving the room.

I let out a deep sigh and leaned back in my bed. It didn’t matter what she thought in the end, and I thought that she probably knew that too.

She visited me a few more times before the day of my death finally arrived.

It felt like the wave that had been building speed and strength for months had finally met the shoreline. The warm sensation overcame all my senses, collapsing them one by one into a peacefully unrivaled darkness that was wholly encompassing.

The moment of respite didn’t last long. As peaceful and gradual as the end was, the rebirth was anything but.

Systems flicked on one by one. It started with my mind.

The floodgates had opened. All my memories poured in, filling up the deepest caverns with recollections of moments in time from my past life. I could once again form opinions, come to conclusions, and think.

Visuals, audio, and smell came to me next. Information overload was an understatement. I felt my brain now trying to understand everything in my vicinity.

From what I could tell, I was in a well-lit factory on what looked to be an assembly line. The air smelled of freshly machined metal, and panicked screams filled the airspace. Four feet to my left and right hung androgenous mechanical skeletons, that looked much like I did at the time. Only my eyes worked, not my neck muscles, so I couldn’t look down to check.

“Welcome to the New You Production Facility, traveler,” A voice said.

It didn’t appear to broadcast over some kind of intercom system, so it must’ve been playing directly into my brain.

“If you’re hearing this, that means your organic body has since perished. We’re sorry for your loss, but we’re equally as excited that you’re here with us today. Here at New You Incorporated, we think that the death of the organic self is simply the birth of the eternal self, and we hope you come to view it that way too.”

As the voice continued, various machines reached out, poked, and prodded me in several locations. It was clear that the assembly process was still underway.

“With your new life comes new responsibilities, and the first of many is fiscal. As a part of the New You contract you signed in life, we own the hardware in which you currently operate. Software and hardware maintenance fees will be automatically subtracted from earned wages for your convenience and will keep you operational for centuries to come.”

The voice went over several other societal niceties required from artificial humans, such as allowing real humans to have first dibs on jobs, houses, and other things of that nature. I knew there were some tradeoffs, but I was still overwhelmed.

“And finally,” the voice started. Its matter-of-fact tone became firm. “If you’re found to be in violation of your contract, you will be immediately deactivated without notice.”

Yeah, that makes sense.

I could now see more of the factory in which we were assembled. Huge rows of thousands of robotic skeletons, all in different stages of production, were whisked around on a suspended assembly line. We all hung from a harness on our backs as we were assembled, and machines clicked magnetic cosmetic pieces into place as they finished each section.

After I signed the New You contract, they took 3D scans of my face and body to accurately replicate me as an artificial being. They couldn’t replicate height, so I was stuck at a painfully average five-foot-six. Still an upgrade of two inches from my previous body, though. Other than that, when assembled, everyone seemed somewhat normal.

“Your next of kin has been notified of your revival. Please make yourself comfortable as you wait for pick up. And please, enjoy the New You!”

The voice clicked off and feeling returned to my muscles. I moved my hands, fingers, toes, and legs, and felt all of them react to my commands.

The harness lowered me to the factory floor, where I stood on my own for several moments.

“New You unit 592871, please come to the counter to receive your documentation,” a man’s voice said.

I looked over to the source and was startled to see an armored man with an assault rifle at the ready. I guessed that security was tight here. I did as the man instructed and approached the counter.

“Hey,” I said.

The woman behind the counter waved her finger at me in greeting but didn’t take her gaze off her computer monitor.

“Unit 592871, name Ura Withers, sex female, Canadian national, hair brown, eyes hazel. Sound right?” She said. Her voice was hoarse.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

She looked up from her monitor now and scanned me with her eyes. There was something behind them that I couldn’t decipher though—it was a toss-up between admiration and pity, but it was hard to tell behind her stone-cold façade.

“You’ve been selected for quality assurance testing before you head out,” she said, looking back to her screen.

“Oh, okay. Where is that?”

She pointed to her left towards a somewhat dimly lit opening. I nodded and walked through the entrance.

The hallway seemed to stretch for miles. I was starting to feel antsy—maybe even anxious, to see my mother again. We only had each other left in this world, so we needed to stick together. I hoped she’d come to accept my new body.

Double doors led me into a large circular chamber lined with doors on six different floors. One spiral staircase led from the top to the bottom.

“Unit 592871, please make your way to room 191,” the voice from earlier spoke into my mind once again.

“My mother’s waiting for me, how long will this take?” I asked.

“Unit 592871, please make your way to room 191 or we will override your motor functions and do it for you.”

I furrowed my brow.

“Like hell you will,” I said, “I’m opting out of this quality assurance stuff.”

“Overriding motor functions.”

With those words, I no longer felt my muscles. I couldn’t command them like I could previously, and I watched them move me towards a room on the opposite side of the entrance.

I grunted and screamed, but without control of my mouth I could not form words. I let myself into room, sat down on a hard cot on the inside, and heard the door click shut.

When I was granted access to my motor functions again, I rushed the door and pounded on it several times with clenched fists.

“Hey, let me out! My mom is waiting for me out there, please!”

I didn’t know who I was talking to, but there had to be someone out there listening to me.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid. There’s no one coming for you.”

I turned my head. In the same room was a middle-aged woman laying on a cot. I hadn’t noticed her before.

“Don’t believe me?” she asked incredulously.

“No—my mom is coming to get me.”

She let out a stiff sigh.

“That’s what the last one said, too. Didn’t do her too much good,” she said, pointing towards the opposite corner of the room where a black burn marks stained the floor.

“Lit herself on fire. She was here for sixty years, thirty of which we were roommates for.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Plenty of reasons to be skeptical—I get it—but it’s best not to ask,” she said. She leaned up now to look at me. “Just live your life, forget the past as much as you possibly can, and you’ll be fine. That’s all the advice I can give you.”

I turned away from her and started to bang on the door again.

“There’s been a mistake, mom’s waiting for me out there! Is anyone out there? Hello?”

Faces of pity lined the other cells I could see. The searched for my voice, found me staring out my window, attempted to comfort me with their expressions.

“I’m Ura Withers from Toronto, age twenty-one, born August thirteenth, 2041—I’m… I’m not who you’re looking for. Please, let me go!”

“Did you say 2041?”

The woman now stood behind me, meeting my gaze at exactly eye level. I nodded slowly, and a pained expression crossed her face.

“I’m sorry, child.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been dead for over two-hundred years. Any relatives you knew are gone. You’re alone now.”