After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1)

by Mark R. Healy

  “That’s the whole reason for the Displacers. Our memories are safely stored here,” I tapped my head. “When the planet starts supporting organic life again, we’ll be able to end the cryosleep. We’ll transfer back. The human race survives.”

  “Not the human race,” Max said deliberately. “One guy. You. That doesn’t resurrect a species.”

  “Yeah, I’m just one guy,” I admitted. “But we have embryos. Frozen embryos, kept in storage. Plants and animals, insects. Hundreds of species.” I paused. “Human, too.”

  “What the fuck?” Max said, sitting up intently. “Are you serious?”

  I shrugged awkwardly. “The company we worked for kept a huge bank of embryos for biotech research. The human ones were strictly black market. It was a closely-guarded secret.”

  “Lucky you guys weren’t shut down.”

  “We would have been, had the law found out.” I considered the irony of it. “Funny that, now, it might be the thing that ensures the survival of the human race.”

  “I guess so,” he said. I could tell I was starting to get through to him. “How many other species do you have in the freezer?”

  “Well, obviously, the company didn’t have everything in storage. Most species will be lost forever. But we have a start. We have the tools to bring back some of what was lost.”

  “Sounds like a long shot,” he said, dubious.

  “Of course it’s a long shot.” I waved the torch for emphasis. “A huge long shot, but the only shot we had.”

  He shifted his weight and the wheelbarrow creaked. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then, huh.”

  “I’d hardly say that. Taking a stab in the dark more like it.”

  “The final ingredient in this little recipe of yours would be an army of clanks to do all the rebuilding work for you.” He smirked sourly. “How many of us do you think are out there, apart from Marauders?”

  “Clanks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I saw a few early in the Winter. Most were in pretty bad shape. They’re thinning out now. Many are in hiding thanks to the Marauders, I guess.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he said dejectedly. “A few broken machines. That's all that's left of us.”

  “Well, who knows? Maybe there’s a few out there found each other, like we did, and they’re making good.”

  “Making good? What the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled. “What’s there to make good of?”

  “I don’t know, uh... a community.” I raised my hand in contemplation. “Maybe they’re out there rebuilding right now.”

  “To what end? What happens after they rebuild? Their cores run dry eventually. There’s no future for them. They know that as well as you and I.”

  “They can still have a place in the world, Max. So can you.”

  “Bullshit,” he bristled. “A place? No, I don’t think I ever had a place in this world. They went to an effort, such an effort to make us just like a human in every way. Down to the last detail. They made us look like people. They made us sound like people. They made us fear, and hate and love like people. But they never treated us like people. Hell no, just look at the war. We were thrown in there like landfill. They didn’t care if we lived or died. They didn’t care if we made it back in one piece. Maybe in a financial sense, but that's it. In fact, they expected us to die. Were we mourned? Were we remembered? Were our names written on plaques and memorials, to remember our sacrifice?”

  I averted my eyes and muttered, “No.”

  “No. They weren’t. We were forgotten. Just like we are now, cut adrift and forsaken.” He shook his head. “I never had a place in this world. I was just a tool for those who did.”

  I stood in the middle of the road, unable to respond.

  “Listen,” he said in a more measured tone, raising his hands placatingly, “it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. But don’t try to put stupid ideas in my head, okay? I know the score. I know what’s in front of me, and I know what I left behind.” He looked about. “You better take me back. It’s getting dark out here. I don’t want you stumbling around and dumping me out of this thing on my head.” He reached out to take the torch from me.

  I smiled sadly. “I’ll take it slow.”

  I pivoted the wheelbarrow and started back where we had come, following the narrow path I’d cleared earlier.

  He turned and looked back at me. “Oh, and tomorrow, make sure you bring the Corvette.”

  9

  I hefted the stone in my hand. It was a good weight. A good shape. I tossed it again, testing the balance of it, ran my thumb over the contours and tiny grooves. I looked up and gauged my target. Then I let fly.

  The stone bounced once, twice, three, four times. Then with a final splash it sank beneath the murk.

  “Best one yet,” Max remarked. He sat in the barrow further up the bank, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Now are you gonna take me or what?”

  “Plenty of time, Max,” I said casually. “Plenty of time.”

  “Plenty of time for what? Working on my suntan?”

  I pretended to chew over that thought. “You do look a little pasty.”

  “Hey, I can tell when someone’s stalling,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “And you’re stalling.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, clambering up the embankment and away from the river. I dusted off my hands and took hold of the barrow. “I’ll take you.”

  We started along the broad concrete path again. It wound its way alongside the river, in places cracked and brittle, but, with no buildings nearby, for the most part clear of debris. Lining the other side of the path were the husks of dead trees, willows, Max had said. They were fractured and disintegrating now, just stumps, but they must have been a beautiful sight while alive, adorning the edge of the river parkland with their long tendril-like branches undulating in the breeze.

  I pictured an early morning scene here of the old times. Joggers huffing past, a woman pushing a pram, an old couple sitting on a bench, a yoga class stretching under the trees, cars banked up as commuters travelled to work, pigeons pecking at seeds in the grass.

  “Did you come here much, back in the day?” I asked.

  “Sure, came here a lot.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Jogging, usually,” Max said in a matter-of-fact way.

  “You did what?” I snorted.

  “Jogging.”

  “But... you’re a synthetic.”

  “Can’t synthetics go jogging?” he said.

  “Well, there’s nothing stopping you, I guess. But it doesn’t achieve much. It’s not like you’re going to burn off calories.”

  “It was a squad thing,” Max explained. “Camaraderie. My squad consisted of both humans and clanks. So if one of us was going out for a run, we’d all go. It was the done thing around here. It didn’t matter that I could run for hours on end, or that I could do five thousand push-ups without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t how easy or hard it was, it was just that we do it as a unit. We were in it together.”

  “Were you close with the men in your squad?”

  He looked out across the river wistfully. “Yeah, I was. Formed some great friendships with humans and clanks alike. We all would have gladly died for one another. In that group, I don’t think anyone thought of another as a machine or a person. We weren’t defined in those terms. We were all just soldiers. We were there for each other. It was the politicians, the commanders, the higher-ups. They’re the ones who saw clanks as a commodity more than anything else.”

  “Well, those guys who once pulled the strings are dead now. And you’re still alive.”

  “Yeah. Lucky bastards.” He pointed to a street that veered its way south of the river. “Head down there. That’s Fitzgibbon Avenue. I remember that one. Go that way.”

  I steered him off the walkway, through the dirt and then bounced him over the curb. We crossed the street and headed down Fitzgibbon. The avenue was filled
with the remnants of gaudy sculptures and a modern, ornate style of architecture. I stopped and pulled something shiny out of the dirt. Blowing off the dust, the white glint of what appeared to be diamonds flashed in the sunlight. There must have been hundreds of stones in the necklace: square cut in the centre, round and teardrop shaped lower down. I dangled it below one hand and let it turn gently, flashing brilliantly even through the grime.

  “Real, do you think?” I said.

  “Maybe. Looks like you struck it rich, Brant.”

  I scooped it up in my palm and tossed it away. It landed with a puff of dust and disappeared again from view.

  “Not really my style.”

  Ahead, Fitzgibbon Avenue wound lazily along, the resting place of stylish cafes and boutiques for the rich. A place undoubtedly abundant with worthless treasures. Ahead, rising from the earth like a gigantic rusted spear was the towering bulk of Ol’ Trembler.

  “There she is,” Max pointed out. “Dead ahead.”

  “I told you, I’m not going close to that thing. I can’t risk it.”

  “I know. A deal’s a deal. We’ll stop when you say ‘stop’.”

  The closer we got, the more impressive it became. That slight tilt only seemed to heighten its mystique, as if it wasn’t just a building, but some massive artwork, an erection to match the great pyramids of Egypt. The hexagonal honeycomb shapes that rippled across the exterior, at a distance a modest scale, now seemed huge and imposing. Architectural marvels. I felt a moment of remorse that it was not long for this world. This amazing monument to man’s technology would soon be rubble.

  I stopped in its shadows, a few hundred metres away. Far enough to take evasive action if the worst happened.

  “Wow,” was all I could say.

  “Beautiful, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t wait to see her go.”

  “It’ll be a shame,” I said solemnly.

  “Pfft,” Max said, his voice full of scorn. “Like hell. One step closer to the end, that’s all it’ll be.”

  “So what was the purpose of it?”

  “Residential. Lots and lots of rich people lived there. Restaurants, cafes. One of those elevated swimming pools with a glass bottom up on about the hundredth floor. You know the kind.” He raised his hand and swept it before him as he remembered. “The outside was completely covered in glass. Like this bluish-greenish honeycomb glass that changed in colour depending on which angle you viewed it from. You could see it from the hills as you drove into the city at night, lit up like a great shimmering sceptre. Course, they never let me in there. I wasn’t near rich or famous enough to get in.”

  I could see streak marks on the rusted steel hexagons where rain had sluiced down for decades. The beauty, the majesty that Max described was long gone, but scale of the place was still breathtaking in a way.

  “So, we’re here,” I said. “We’ve done it. Are you happy now?”

  “We’re not going closer?” He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

  “Uh, nooo,” I drawled. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Well, let me sit here for a while at least, huh?”

  I sighed. “All right, Max. I can give you that.”

  He crawled down out of the wheelbarrow and made his way over to a bench on the sidewalk. It creaked as he hauled himself up onto it and then he sat back to enjoy his view of Ol’ Trembler.

  I spent the next couple of hours searching the stores along the street, not finding anything much of practical value. At one time the women’s fashion accessories, jewellery, and fine imported coffee would have been worth a small fortune. Now it held no more virtue than the rubble out on the street.

  I turned my attention to locating some decent kindling and gathered it together in a pile on the street near Max. By the time I was done the day was fading, the shadow of Ol’ Trembler stretching out across the landscape like a great arm.

  “Whatcha doin’ there?” Max said.

  “Thought I’d make a campfire. I haven’t done it in a while.”

  “And here’s me without marshmallows.” Max swung down off the bench and crawled over as the first flames licked at the tinder. The evening breeze was beginning to pick up again and he leaned across with his hands outstretched to offer the burgeoning fire some protection.

  “There we go,” I said as it began to crackle. “Beautiful.”

  We had a good healthy fire going by the time darkness set in, and I stretched my hands out to bask in the warmth. The receptors in my synthetic skin could detect heat and cold, just as they were sensitive to pain and injuries. I’d felt the cold of the Winter many times in those bleak days. For a clank, a drop in temperature represented no immediate danger to wellbeing. The ability to detect heat and cold was merely a trait used to mimic the sensory perception of a human. A clank could theoretically be submitted to sub-zero temperatures for days on end with no ill effects. At some point the sensors would become numb and temporarily shut down. Still, I enjoyed the sensation of the fire’s warmth on my hands. It gave me a small sense of comfort.

  The aroma of the wood fire too was stirring. It was a smell that I associated with camping and being with family from the days when I’d been human. It spoke to me of ghost stories, of hot mugs of cocoa, of embers dying in the early hours of the morning as children slept nestled in laps and adults talked and laughed, of canoeing in the lake, and huddling in sleeping bags.

  I pulled the photograph from my pocket. Smiling sadly, I traced my finger around the tattered edges.

  “That lab of yours, with the cryotanks,” Max said from across the fire. “I sure hope it wasn’t destroyed by air raids or Marauders.”

  “So do I. We reinforced it as best we could. Given the timeframe, anyway.”

  “Won’t matter if it took a direct hit,” Max said.

  “No, but there was only so much we could do. It was sealed after the displacement to prevent contamination. Hopefully it’s still the way we left it.”

  “What I don’t get though, is how are you powering the place?” Max said, hunching forward. “Wouldn’t it have run out of juice by now?”

  “No. The two cryotanks are the only things running in the lab. When you get down to it, it’s a small power budget. The cells we installed are rated to provide low level power for a long time. A bit like these.” I tapped my chest.

  “And you’re so confident in all of this,” he waved his hand about airily, “that you’re happy to wander across the country and leave it sitting there unprotected.”

  I flicked the photograph idly in my hand. Over the river, the crescent moon hung above the horizon, a refulgent yellow-red.

  “It’s not unprotected. Arsha is there. And besides, I told you. I’m protecting it by leading the Marauders away from it.”

  “This Arsha... is she your girlfriend or something?”

  “No, we’re just colleagues, fellow scientists. There were never plans for us to bear children of our own. Our job is to raise the embryos held in cryostorage, nothing more.”

  His eyes dropped to the photograph. “So uh... are you gonna tell me about that?”

  I lowered my gaze and held the picture in both hands. The firelight danced across it, warm and golden. I got up and edged around the fire, handing the photograph carefully to Max. Showing equal care, he gently took it from me and looked upon it. For a long time he said nothing. He just stared, his milky eyes betraying no emotion. Finally he held it up for me to take.

  “Yours?” he said.

  “Yeah.” I took it back from him and held it up again. The boy beamed back at me, his sandy hair tousled and a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. They were clear and blue as sapphires. “His name is Zade.”

  “What happened?” he said softly.

  “He was lost to the Summer,” I said simply. “Like all the rest.” I’d memorized every part of this photograph over the years. Every tuft of hair. Every curve of his smile. Even the freckles on his pale che
eks were as familiar to me as the stars in the night sky to sailors of old. I had no need to hold it in my hand to recall it in minute detail. But still I felt the need to do so. It was like the only piece of him left, the only thing that wasn’t buried in memories from another life. To look upon it made me feel human again, if only for a while.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with surprising genuineness.

  “Thank you, Max.” I smiled sadly. “We all lost so much.”

  “It’s real, isn’t it,” he marvelled. “You really were human.”

  I nodded. “I really was.” I placed the photograph back in my pocket.

  “Do you mind if we stay here tonight? I’d like to see the sun come up on Ol’ Trembler.” A kind of sadness seemed to have come over him. Some of his bravado had been lost.

  “Of course. I’ll see if I can gather some more wood for the fire.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure, Max.” I paused and watched his half human, half machine face in the firelight. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively. “I’m okay.”

  “All right then. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Brant,” he said. I turned to look back at him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. You have to understand, I’m just a broken old machine. I uh....”

  “Max, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. And you’re not a broken machine.”

  He smiled wanly and stared in the direction of Ol’ Trembler, but offered no reply.

  “Max, why don’t you come with me?”

  It was a casual way to make such a momentous proposal.

  With one hand on the wheelbarrow as he prepared to climb in, Max suddenly stopped and turned to face me, scowling in the yellowish light of morning.

  “What?” he said quizzically.

  “Come with me. When I leave.” I toyed with a handful of pebbles and tossed them idly one by one at the dying embers of the fire. It was a paper-thin attempt to appear relaxed. I’d been waiting to bring this up for some time, but couldn’t find a way to naturally slip it into a conversation. I figured now was as good a time as any.