The dream came at him fast. There was a rush of wind across his face and when he opened his eyes he was standing atop the rail car. It was speeding down the track at an unbelievable pace. 62 fell flat on his stomach and desperately searched for a handhold as the coach dove into a tunnel. The railway car bucked as it sped through the darkness, shuddering against its predetermined path.
62 forced his eyes open against the wind. He tried to make out the shapes whizzing by, but they were nothing but wavering blurs. The rail car hit a turn in the track, moving too fast and tilting on its wheels. 62 hung in the air for a moment, weightless as the car beneath him pulled away. Then the gravity shifted, the car pulled itself upright, and 62 slammed back down onto the cold steel.
“Stop!” 62 commanded. He pushed his will onto the train and nearly lost his grip when the brakes took hold. All at once the wheels locked. Careening metal slid against the track. The resulting screech rang in 62's ears.
He lay against the cold steel for a moment, catching his breath. As he exhaled, the air in front of him condensed. The metal beneath him felt even colder. Goosebumps prickled along his skin as the temperature dropped. 62 forced himself up off of the roof of the freezing transport unit. He crept carefully, teeth chattering as he peered toward the edge.
62 concentrated. Rung by rung, a thin metal ladder appeared and attached itself to the side of the car. But each time a new rung appeared, the floor below the track dropped another foot. 62 pushed the ladder down to meet the receding floor. The faster the rungs assembled, the more quickly the floor dropped away. Soon he was staring down into a chasm. The steel ladder rungs glinted with the reflection of the overhead lights for a few dozen feet but faded into the darkness of the pit below.
62 took a deep, chattering breath. He swung his legs over the edge of the ladder and began his descent.
As he dropped into the dark, the air became even colder. The cold made it difficult to get a good grip on the ladder. His joints seemed to freeze around the metal rungs and he had to focus hard to flex each finger open and closed. His bare feet were so cold that they burned.
62 looked down, hoping to find the bottom. The darkness of the hole seemed to extend on forever. He considered this for a moment, then pressed his eyes closed. He released his hold on the ladder and pushed away from its safety.
Falling in dreams had been terrifying the first few times he'd done it. Fear was a symptom of being a new dreamer. One who didn't have control of his own imagination. But once 71 taught 62 how to manipulate his body against the rushing air, to glide on the imagined currents and weave through the atmosphere of his mind, the sensation became less frightening. Over the many cycles since 62's first flight, moving through the air had even become enjoyable.
62 flitted through the darkness now. He couldn't see where the wall was, so he stretched his arms and legs out wide. His fingertips didn't touch anything, and his toes only found purchase on the drag of rushing air. He imagined his clothes expanding as they flapped in the air, weaving together to create a web of cloth and string. As threads wove themselves beyond his limbs, the newly-formed pillow of fabric caught the air and held it. Soon 62 was gliding through the air on wings formed from his imagination.
He imagined a place to land. He wanted the area to be flat, soft and well lit. After a moment's concentration such a place appeared in the distance. Light illuminated the landing target from a spotlight hovering in the air. The light faded into the darkness to either side of the new landing pad. Below appeared a pile of giant blankets. 62 shifted his weight against the air and aimed for the soft pile. The stack of blankets grew before 62's eyes, reaching out into the air to meet him.
Despite trying to slow his descent, 62 crashed into the landing pad with great force. He tumbled hard, ripping his thin wings. His limbs caught in the folds and creases of the blankets. When he finally stopped, his whole body was tied in knots. He struggled against the grip of the soft fabric that now enveloped him, but the twisted fibers only gripped his flailing limbs tighter.
“Help!” 62 cried out. His voice was muffled by the cushion of fabric pressed against his face. He refocused, and imagined that he had the loudest voice that ever was. He dreamed that his lungs expanded and became so full of air that his chest puffed out wide when he inhaled. Then he let loose a “Help!” that boomed from his small body. The force of it made the air shiver and the ground below him quake.
“What's the magic word?” A familiar voice whispered.
“Chobham.”
62 felt strong fingers grasp his hand. As the fingers touched his skin, the blankets loosened their hold. The hand pulled 62 from his tomb. The light was blinding at first. 62 rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. A few long blinks and he was able to focus on the area forming around him.
The blankets turned brown and brittle below his feet. As they degraded, shoots of poa pratensis sprung up from between them. The air lost its filtered metallic tang. 62 breathed deep and his lungs were filled with fresh, clean air. The light above him expanded.
“You've been busy,” 71 smiled. The Man let go of 62's hand, only to wrap himself around 62 in a tight embrace.
“I've been stupid.” When 62 thought about his dislocated shoulder, it lost the numb mask of his imagination and throbbed with a pain that was incredibly real.
71 smiled. “We often learn our best lessons when we cease being intelligent.”
“I prefer to learn my lessons in class.” 62 rubbed his shoulder. He imagined the pain fading away. It melted beneath his fingertips and the shoulder became whole and useful again.
“Ah,” 71 mused. He began a slow walk through the poa pratensis. “Those are the words of a follower. You, 62, were not programmed to follow.”
“I follow you.” 62 proved his point by skipping a few steps to catch up with his teacher.
“Hardly.” 71's laughter bounced through the dream like a song. “You only pay attention to me long enough to glean whatever lesson you deem to be useful at the time. Then you go off to find some sort of trouble and a new lesson to learn.”
62 sighed. “I don't like trouble. I want to be a good Boy.”
71 winked. “It doesn't matter if you like trouble or not. It appears that trouble likes you.”
62 was reminded of his conversation with the new doctor who set his shoulder back in place. “Do other Boys have medical records?”
“Of course. Everyone has a record. From the time that they are animated, there is a record of their growth.” 71 wrapped his arm around 62's shoulders and squeezed. “But I doubt that many have the opportunity to visit medical labs later in life, if that is what you are asking about.”
“Do you think it will be mad?” 62 looked to his teacher, worried.
“Will what be mad?”
“The Head Machine. Will it be mad that I had to be seen by a doctor again?” 62 thought briefly about his first visit to the doctor. He shuddered and pushed the recollection away before the terrifying memory materialized in his dream.
“Oh, yes. Of course all those in power will be disappointed. Adaline has invested a great deal in you.” 71 stopped and turned to face the Boy. “Adaline invests a great deal into all of us. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to create us. To feed and care for us.”
Anxiety gripped 62's voice as he spoke. “How many times do you think I can go to the doctor before the Head Machine decides I'm not worth it?”
“I don't know.” 71 answered. “Let’s do our best to not find that out.”
62 nodded. The two brothers walked for a while in silence. 62 thought about how anxious he'd been when the PTS discovered the fake readings that his chip was producing. He'd been surprised when Trainer helped to send him to a medical center outside of the training facility. Then, he'd been so scared that someone was going to hurt him when 42 appeared in the tunnels to upgrade him. 62 stopped walking.
“What's a bluebird?”
A breath caught in 71's chest. “Where did you hear that term?”<
br />
“42 said that a little bluebird told him that the power was going out and that I needed his help. I haven't ever seen a Machine called a bluebird. What is it?”
“That blasted Man can't keep anything to himself, can he? He wasn’t supposed to involve outsiders in this. Oh well.” 71 gave a resigned sigh and closed his eyes. He balled one of his hands into a fist. He reached it out in front of him, then extended his index finger as if he was pointing to something.
62 looked at the point on the horizon where 71 was pointing. He couldn't see anything other than the long blades of poa pratensis bending with the breeze. He'd just turned back to ask his teacher what he was pointing at when a small Machine fluttered out of the air and landed on 71's extended finger. 71 opened his eyes and smiled at the thing. He whistled a quick tune. The Machine puffed its chest, then returned the song in a series of chirps and whistles.
62 had never seen anything like it before. It had long, slender panels that wove together to form its exterior. The panels weren't hard or rigid though. Instead, they flexed and danced with the movement of their host. The little thing looked so warm and soft that 62 had to fight an inexplicable urge to reach out to touch it. It stood on two spindly legs and had two large black eyes on either side of its small head. Something sharp extended out from between the eyes; it opened and closed when the thing made the whistling sounds. Its head and back were a light blue color, with a large white patch extending from somewhere underneath. The white seemed to turn to rust under the thing’s head.
“This little creature is Sialia Sialis. Otherwise known as the Eastern Bluebird.” 71 brought the hand that the bluebird used as a perch close to his face. “I learned about them long ago. There was a story about a Man who had many troubles in his life. He met a bluebird and it told him how to solve them.”
“What's it made of?” 62 peered closer. The bluebird moved in rapid, controlled bursts of movement and seemed to be in motion even while standing still.
“Flesh and blood like you and me.” 71 extended his other hand out to the bird, stroking its belly. The creature chirped in response. 71 extended a hidden panel on the thing and spread it out toward 62. “These are called feathers. They cover the entire body, and when the bird extends its wings, they allow it enough lift to fly.”
“I can fly.” 62 noted as he reached out to touch the offered feathers.
“The bird is an ingenious design. You and I can fly in our dreams because we can control what happens within our own imagination. But in reality, our bodies are heavy and cumbersome. If you tried to jump off of a desk and fly when you are awake, you would fall to the ground. But a bluebird has no imagination. The way its body is designed, if it existed, in theory it would still be able to fly.”
“What would be the point of that?” The bird's body was warm against 62's fingers. It pressed into him as he caressed it, seeming to enjoy the attention.
“That is one of the great mysteries of my imagination.” 71 answered. “Perhaps there is no point, other than to make me tell foolish stories.”
62 smiled up at his teacher. “They might be foolish, but at least they're fun.”
CHAPTER 16
WHEN 62 OPENED HIS eyes, he was greeted by the PTS unit standing over him. The Machine's face glowed with flashes of yellow and green. The illumination of the glazed features sent a chill down 62's spine. He inched away from it until his back pressed against the wall beside his bed.
The PTS dimmed and a face projected onto the smooth head. “Hello. It's good to see you.”
“What are you doing?” 62 tried to shake the uneasy feeling creeping through his bones. He rubbed his bad arm and the tendons pulsed painfully. The attention of the PTS made goosebumps on his arm that stood so high that he could feel them through the bandages.
“I ran a series of diagnostic tests. A requirement for any Boy who has left training for repair. All functions appear normal. A surprising result.”
“You were expecting to find a problem?” 62's voice shook when he asked the question.
“Prior to your accident I perceived a potential abnormality. An irregularity in your data chip.” The PTS unit's face went blank. It was as if the Machine was pausing to choose its words and didn't want to give its thoughts away by showing an expression. “It appears that when you took your fall, the delay in your reporting software was corrected.”
“Who knew that dislocating a shoulder could be so helpful.” 62 shot a sarcastic smile at the PTS.
“Indeed. It appears the gremlins have been knocked right out of you.” The PTS nodded.
62 got up from his bed and it disappeared into the wall. “What's a gremlin?”
The PTS displayed a smile and made a tittering noise that sounded almost like a giggle. “Gremlins are a fictitious race. A myth. Programmers use the term for unexplained anomalies in software applications. The phrase spawns from the frustration that they experience trying to locate minute problems in complex programming. It is as if these beings, gremlins, are inside of the Machine overwriting code.”
“Do you know a lot about programming?”
“I am a Machine.” The PTS turned away from the Boy and stared out of the open doorway with what could almost be interpreted as resignation. “Programming is all I have.”
“Are these gremlin things common?” 62's fingers unconsciously rubbed the fresh scar on his neck. When he realized what he was doing, he pretended to stretch the muscles stiffening in his back instead.
The PTS's face dropped. A flash of red sparked across its face so quickly that 62 almost missed it. Its eyes settled into bright orange rings. “No. The anomaly is not common. Those who complain about it are usually incompetent.”
62 felt his pulse race and told himself to remain calm. It was a losing battle as his memory replayed his encounter with 42 on the tram. He wondered if 42 had made a mistake with the programming of his chip. If he had, 62 wasn't sure that he'd be able to save either his friend or himself from the Machines.
The PTS's holographic mouth turned back up into a smile and its eyes flitted green. “It appears that either your fall or the recent power failure caused your data to reset. All clear now. Perhaps the chip needed a reboot.”
62 shrugged and let loose the breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. “I don't know about programming, but it sounds like it's a good thing those gremlins corrected themselves. One way or another.”
“Don't sell yourself short.” The PTS took a step back to give 62 room to remove the tunic that the medical group had dressed him in. When the Boy gave up trying to get the clothes past the attached sling binding his arm, the Machine gently assisted in undoing the straps. “You tested quite high in the aptitudes required for programming. It is likely that were you placed in a programming function, you would do quite well. But then, you tested well in every subject. That’s a rarity in your kind.”
62's face was so close to the Machine that his breath fogged the glossy skin that encased the hologram. If 62 were this close to another human the moment would be almost intimate. 62 became aware of the cold fingers helping to pull the fresh shirt across his skin. The grip of slender metal hands smoothing the fabric draped over his back made him feel utterly alone.
“My kind?” 62 backed away from the PTS and adjusted the sleeve under his newly strapped arm. The Machine had dressed him perfectly. The adjustments that 62 made to the fabric didn't improve anything aside from making him feel less helpless. “There, that's better.”
“I'm sorry,” the PTS tilted his head. “By 'your kind' I simply meant animated Boys. They are statistically proficient in a small range of tasks. But your C.A.T. results were impressive across all possible cognitive tasks. The adaptability of your mind is a rarity.”
62's skin prickled on the back of his neck. He already felt like he stood out from his brothers in so many ways. But hearing a Machine comment about the scarcity of Boys like him sounded almost like a threat. “Are you suggesting that I’m an anomaly? I’m as good
a Boy as any of them.”
The PTS raised its arms and waved the palms of its hands in practiced surrender. “Oh, no. Please do not misunderstand. It is a wonderful thing to care for a Boy with such an even aptitude. I imagine the Head Machine has great plans for you.”
“The Head Machine? What do you think it will do with someone like me?”
The PTS's eyes flickered orange, then settled back to green. “The Head Machine will ensure that you serve Adaline in the greatest capacity. You will do great things for us, Boy 1124562.”
The Machine placed a reassuring hand on 62's good shoulder. The friendly gesture bore a weight greater than the Boy had ever felt before.
CHAPTER 17
BY 62'S SECOND CYCLE of mandated rest, he was so bored that he couldn't stay still. He pressed his face longingly against the glass of the closed door and watched his brothers prepare for training. They pulled on their slim-fitting training gear while 62 remained in his tunic; warm, comfortable and cradling the arm that was strapped to his body.
When the last Boy left the pod, 62 kicked the door in frustration. The door rattled on its track and before 62 could get the clamoring metal to quiet, the PTS unit peered in the window.
“Boy 1124562, are you all right?” The Machine's voice was quiet behind the glass.
62 made a show of bending over to rub his foot. “Yes. Just slipped.”
The Machine nodded, then opened the door. 62 fidgeted as the PTS leaned over to scan his foot. “There is a slight inflammation under the skin, but I estimate you will be repaired to satisfactory levels in less than ten minutes.” The PTS pushed a smile onto its face.
“Thanks for looking at it.” 62’s bed was locked into place in anticipation of a full cycle of rest. He hobbled over and slumped down on it. “I'll count down the minutes until it heals.”
“Do you require any assistance?” The PTS was all programming and wires, but it sounded anxious to help. 62 wondered if Machines ever got bored.
The Adaline Series Bundle 1 Page 25
