"Of course, that's assuming I can even get over the damn thing," John said aloud. He was used to having someone to talk with and found that the sound of his own voice helped fill the silence.
At least a little bit. It wasn't the same, but it was the best he had.
One last look around, and he was off. It was only a short walk to the wall. John snagged a few pieces of fruit from the nearby trees on his way. Having some extra food couldn't hurt. He returned to the same spot he had just left, near where the water poured out of the wall. There was a route up, he was sure of it. It was only a matter of finding the right finger and toe holds.
John stood there staring at the obstacle for what felt like an eternity. The finger holes and cracks were so small. How was he supposed to get up there? From this angle, it seemed impossible.
But he was determined to try. What else did he have? What was holding him back?
Nothing.
At last he stepped forward. There was a small crack in the rock a few inches above his head. He slid his fingers into it. It was barely large enough to admit the tips of each digit. Using that slim hold for leverage, John pulled himself upward. His bare feet had trouble finding purchase on the stone face but, at last, he found a toehold large enough to support his weight.
That let him reach higher with his right hand. At first he thought there was nothing to grab, but his questing fingers finally found a small knob of rock jutting out from the cliff. He grabbed on for all he was worth and managed to hoist himself up another foot, scrabbling with his free leg to find a spot to cling to.
John climbed for an endless amount of time. His arms were burning from the intensity of the effort. His fingers were numb from supporting so much weight. His right toes had been scraped raw against the rock once when he almost fell. Exhausted, he looked up but couldn't judge the distance to the top. How high had he come?
He glanced down again and closed his eyes in despair. He'd only climbed about twice his own height. There was at least twice that distance still to go. All that work and that was everything he'd managed to achieve?
John's fingers trembled to maintain his hold. He wasn't going to be able to make it. He had climbed about as far he could, and it would be better to descend than to fall.
“Ahhh!” he yelled his frustration at the rock face.
With agonizing effort, John lowered himself back to the tiny ledge his foot had just vacated. He shifted his hands, intuitively maintaining three points of contact with the wall. His arms were screaming with the effort. Ever so slowly, he lowered himself another step.
Then his foot slipped. The fingerholds were too small to support his body, especially with his arms as tired as they were. Still, he tried to cling to the wall, holding on with everything he had. His foot scrabbled for purchase against the rough stone. Futile. He couldn't find anything to support his weight.
John fell. Like his childhood tumble from the tree, the fall seemed to take a very long time. He struggled to keep his feet aimed toward the ground as he dropped. He tried to cover his head, keep it from hitting the rocks. His elbow scraped against the wall, slicing it open and drawing blood.
The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed feet first, his right ankle taking most of the impact and turning. Searing agony fired up his leg. John couldn't support his weight and collapsed to the ground.
He lay there moaning through gritted teeth. His questing fingers met tender skin already beginning to swell. He didn't think anything was broken, but the injury was going to make it hard to walk for a while.
Not that it mattered. It was pretty clear the climb was impossible. He had tried and failed.
"Besides, I have everything I need here," John said. "Shelter, water, and all the food I need. Why risk all of that for some daydream about what might be?"
What if he'd climbed a little bit higher before his limbs gave out? Or if he'd tumbled and hit his head instead of his feet? He could have been killed. There wouldn't even be anyone left to dig his grave and bury him. No one to mourn his passing. He was the last.
I owe it to them to live. I don’t know why, but I do, he reasoned.
No, he was done with adventuring. This was his home. It was good enough for his parents, so it would be good enough for him.
Three
Experiment 42 log:
Four days have passed since subject's remaining parent was euthanized. Subject was vocal at first, speaking to himself, but this has become reduced over the last two day and night cycles. After one failed attempt at escape, the subject has returned to ordinary daily activities. He continues to eat and drink but intake has diminished by twenty-five percent and exercise levels have been reduced, as well.
Some of that might be due to injuries sustained during the escape attempt, but repair nanites were introduced to the subject's system while he slept, and the injury should be nearly healed by this time. It is possible the subject is beginning to fail due to isolation. Subject species is known to live in communities in the wild. Hypothesis: removing a single animal of this species from contact with its own kind may be detrimental to its health.
"Felizian, I think you're losing objectivity."
The being stopped adding his thoughts to the input terminal in front of him and turned to the speaker. He used the few seconds to collect his thoughts. The idea was preposterous, of course. He was a scientist. Objectivity was at the core of his being. But if he protested too vehemently, his partner would simply take it as evidence that his theory was correct.
Did he know about my intervention? Felizian thought he’d covered his tracks well enough, deleting all of the relevant recordings in time. He didn’t understand why he’d felt a need to directly stop their subject from ending its life. Until he did, he wanted to keep that bit of information to himself.
Better to think carefully before making a response. Their experiment was entering a fascinating phase, and although there were many pens and many human animals contained within the carefully designed enclosures, Felizian couldn't help but feel this particular specimen was entering a critical phase in its progress. But that sense was based on logic and observation, not a loss of objectivity. He decided to turn the statement around by asking a question.
"What makes you think so, Kantrobil?" Felizian asked.
Kantrobil stepped closer and peered at the display. "Detrimental to its health? We just killed its mother. Why are you even concerned about the health of this animal?"
"I'm not, except in that it impacts our experiments. The more data we collect, the better. But it is useful to observe how it reacts to various stimuli and record those results," Felizian said. "Do you deny my observations?"
Felizian flicked his ear and the screen changed to show a view from within the pen. The animal in question was laying down beside the waterway. His injured foot was in the water. This was a smart reaction; the cool water would reduce swelling. But there shouldn't be any remaining swelling at this point. The nanites reported that the injury was 97% repaired.
Which meant that the animal continued with the behavior even after the injury no longer pained him. Why? It was a curious thing that this human would continue with a well-thought-out strategy even after it was no longer useful. Felizian wondered if the animal would exhibit the same behaviors under other stimuli. If they could…
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. That could wait. There were more pressing matters. He wasn't sure, but he was beginning to believe the experiment itself might be in jeopardy.
"It is laying about a lot," Kantrobil observed.
"Food intake is down. Activity and exercise levels are reduced from what we have baselined as normal levels," Felizian said, flicking an ear to bring up tables documenting the data as he recited his arguments. "I think we have a problem."
"If it dies, we have others," Kantrobil said, tipping his head.
"True. But few are at this stage of the experiment. It would be a shame to lose one so far advanced, would it not?" Felizian said.
"You might be right. I suggest we work to inspire it into action," Kantrobil said.
"Test it against various stimuli to see if we can engender a response of increased activity?" Felizian said. He didn’t know. The relief he felt was mixed with a strange emotion—shame.
"Precisely. Did you note that when we euthanized the mother, the response was rapid and strong?"
Felizian certainly had. "But it was also short-lived."
"Perhaps it is time to increase the intensity of the adversity," Kantrobil mused.
"What did you have in mind?" Felizian asked.
"Wash away what he has and see how he copes," Kantrobil said.
Felizian's ears flicked with thought. It was a method. He thought Kantrobil's idea was crude, but they clearly needed something to rouse the animal from its inactivity. Otherwise, it would fade and die. The idea of killing these animals didn't bother him overmuch, but he didn't want them to suffer, and this one seemed to still be in pain. From loneliness, perhaps? Which suggested another possible stimulus.
"Your plan is sound. I have another idea. He's exhibited curiosity. Perhaps we can rouse him by inciting that response again," Felizian said. There were many ways to accomplish that, but he could think of one which might be particularly effective if he was correct about the animal showing isolation anxiety.
"What are you thinking to do? Kantrobil asked.
"I had in mind to allow it to become aware that there were other beings outside of its pen," Felizian said. They had prevented such contact, blocking even awareness that there were other pens. His intervention had likely jeopardized that, but if they went about introducing the idea intentionally it would mitigate any damage he’d done. Felizian set about defending his idea. "I know this would be a deviation from our previous efforts, but I feel the situation warrants it—"
"No need to go on. I agree. Let's try your idea first. Frankly, I am curious how it will respond to this. As you say, if it is being harmed by the isolation, then the results might be interesting," Kantrobil said, surprising Felizian with his immediate assent. "Anything would be better than watching it slowly fade. Looking at the data, I suspect it will be dead within the month if it continues failing at this rate."
"Excellent. I will make the preparations immediately," Felizian said.
Four
John woke from his bed of rushes and climbed slowly to his feet, blinking away the last of his sleep. His eyes felt gritty, his mind fogged. Nothing he did seemed to clear his head these days. It was his sleep, or lack of it, anyway. Rest came poorly, and late, no matter what he tried.
Three steps brought him to the frame of the front door to his parents' hut. He looked up at the lines marked in the mantle and grimaced before adding a sixth notch with his sharp rock. Six days. That's how many he had been alone in this place. That's how many times the sun had risen on him without hearing another word from a single living thing.
"A little peace and quiet can be a good thing, but I think this is approaching ridiculous," John said. He had been quiet for too long and found comfort in hearing a voice again, even if it was only his. There was no one to hear the sound of his voice but himself. He knew that. But speaking broke the silence that was otherwise ever-present. The only other sounds were the wind whisking the forest leaves or the babbling of the river as the water rushed over small stones in its bed.
John stepped outside into bright sunlight. Judging from the position of the sun in the sky, he'd slept for several hours past dawn. That was unusual for him. When his mother was alive, they would both be up with the sun.
He felt lost. Out of habit more than hunger, he wandered over to a nearby tree and plucked a few fruits from a low-hanging branch. Breakfast, or would it be lunch, at this hour? Food in hand, he made his way over to the river. His limp was almost gone. The skin around his ankle remained a little tender, but John could put weight on it again.
He made his way to the sandy spot he'd staked out a few days ago next to the running water. It was peaceful and noisy at the same time. The stream brought him a sense of relaxation from the stress he could feel building in his gut. The beach afforded him a combination of sounds, too. Wind whipped through the trees and whistled around the tall reeds growing alongside the river. The water splashing over the stones provided a counterpoint to the rest, creating a melody of nature that provided him some comfort.
John had all the food he could eat and a perfectly good shelter. His ankle wasn't hurting as much anymore. The sun was shining, warm on his face and chest. The water was cool, and felt good on his feet. But something was still wrong. He couldn't get comfortable laying in the sand. It was like an itch he couldn't scratch, except that it wasn't. He wasn't itchy.
He was bored.
There wasn't anything he really needed to do. John tried closing his eyes, but he had just risen and despite not sleeping well, he wasn't tired. He stood, exasperated.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" John asked.
There was no answer, of course. There was no one to hear him. And no one to reply.
He pulled his feet from the water and stood up, looking around. There had to be something to do. He scanned the tree line around him, looking for something that might catch his interest, anything that would alleviate his boredom.
That's when he saw it. A pillar of smoke rose into the air from somewhere near the wall.
John hadn't seen smoke in a very long time. He had a vague memory of his father creating fire by rubbing two sticks together when he was younger. But his home was warm, and the apples, nuts, and other food didn't require cooking. After his father passed, he and his mother had not tried building a fire again.
He still remembered what it looked like, though. John could recall the flickering flames and the heat they provided. More than that, he recalled how his father's campfire had smoked, especially at first. It had created a tall tower of smoke, slowly rising into the sky to about the level of the treetops before it was dispersed by the breeze.
There was no question what he was looking at. Something was on fire. But what? And then there was the even better question—who had set something alight?
John started toward the wall. Aside from wanting to assuage his curiosity, he remembered how hot his father's fire had been. He'd almost burned himself and had been scolded for it. Fire was dangerous. His parents had kept a careful watch on it the entire time it had been lit. If there was fire loose in the forest… He had to be sure.
Long before he reached the wall, John realized that whatever was burning, it wasn't on his side. It was beyond the wall. Far beyond it, from what he could tell. He stared up at the impossible cliff, red-faced.
"Hello! Can anyone hear me?" John shouted. He reasoned that if someone had set a fire, perhaps they were close enough he might be able to talk to them. Other people! He wasn't alone!
Only people could make fire, and there was one on the other side of the wall. That meant there were people just on the other side of the wall. All he had to do was find a way to communicate with them.
But there was no response. Frustrated, John shouted again, with the same results. He marched back and forth along the wall, yelling as loud as he could. Surely someone would hear him?
There was no answer. Either there was no one on the other side at all, and the fire was some sort of accident, or there was someone and they couldn't hear him.
"Or they can hear me, but they won't answer," John said. The dark thought came unbidden. He didn't think that was likely. Why would someone hear him and ignore him? But the mere fact that it was possible infuriated him.
Darker thoughts invaded his mind more often, now that his mother was
n’t there to help him understand.
He found himself staring at the cliff again, searching the stone for handholds and footholds that might work. The last attempt had nearly been a disaster, but maybe there was a way?
Nothing obvious appeared to him. After all, he had stared at this same cliff face hundreds of times in the past. If there was an easy way to get up, he would've seen it long ago. The only footholds were tiny. The only cracks barely large enough to stick a single finger inside.
There were people over there. John knew it in his bones. He could feel it. After all, his parents had come from somewhere. They explained to him that he came from them, but never where they had come from. It just made sense there were other people somewhere beyond his world.
"Now I have proof, and I can't get to them," John said.
He shouted himself hoarse. To no avail.
There was only so long he could stand there, staring at the smoke, knowing there were people just out of reach. John had been alone too many days already. To be handed hope and have it ripped away. It was almost too much to bear.
John turned from the wall and went back to his spot by the river. When he reached his usual place, he lay down in the sand. He was careful to place himself so he could not see the pillar of smoke.
When he roused himself later in the afternoon to get more food, the smoke was gone. Part of him was afraid that seeing it had been some sort of strange daydream. The other part of him hoped it was.
Five
Felizian stared at the screen, willing the stupid animal to get up and do something. Virtually any sort of action would be enough to merit additional observation. The human had seen the smoke and reacted by rushing to the wall and making a commotion. At first, Felizian had been excited. Perhaps they were on to something with this after all! If they had found a tool they could use to motivate the human animal beyond its base instincts to seek food and shelter, then they might make great progress with their research.
The Human Experiment Page 2
