by P. F. White
“I'm guessing you aren't looking for me to say a security guard,” he teased.
“Actually that is exactly what I am. It's what I was made to be though. It's my purpose. Just like Allyn and Steve and-”
“Made? As in manufactured? Come off it John, I know you are weird, but I doubt you are a robo-”
“I'm not?”
Hank shut up. He stared at the other man for a few moments. He honestly didn't know. It was a possibility he figured but as far as he knew: robotics weren't even close to developing something as complicated as the guard before him. Finally he just asked:
“Are you?”
“I'm not actually.”
John shrugged and added: “Though I am pretty close. You could make the argument that I'm so close it doesn't really matter that the term is technically incorrect.”
John took another drink of the soda, then held it out in his hand.
“Watch the soda.”
“Is this a magic trick or-”
John's hand suddenly flowed up and all around the soda can. The movement hurt Hanks eyes in a way. It seemed as though he was grasping at the very idea of the colors that made up Johns hand. He couldn't make out shapes, it wasn't solid, but it wasn't liquid. It simply changed and in such a fashion that there was no analog he could identify. Within moment's the hand had become some sort of kaleidoscopic mess before forming again without any trace of can.
“Taa-daa!” said John Smith. Hank responded by taking the magnum out of his back pocket and pointing it at the guard.
“Well if I knew you were going to do that I wouldn't have bothered,” said John with pretend hurt. He looked at the gun and then frowned at Hank. “I actually thought we were past that by now.”
“Cut the crap. What are you?”
“As a greater man than I once said: I'm complicated.”
Hank clicked back the hammer on the revolver.
“Not to me. Try again.”
John sighed.
“Remember the shredder?”
“That was like five minutes ago.”
“Remember how it made you feel?”
“Bad.”
“Quite. More than that though: it altered your perception of reality at a fundamental level. You knew that the space you were perceiving, and by extension interacting with, couldn't exist and yet there it was. Every part of you was being pulled in two directions at once. You were, in fact, partway between reality and non-reality. Or rather: your mind was. It's all the same thing though. You held for a few moments some greater understanding about the nature of the canvas upon which the universe has been drawn. I know that sounds like poetic bullshit, but I always have a hard time getting these concepts across in human language. Your perceptions, and thus building blocks within your language, are simply not analogous. It becomes difficult to describe with accuracy in the same way that it is difficult to paint with a cloud.”
Hank put one hand to his head. It ached now for some reason. He closed one eye, his hand shook.
“Are you okay?” asked John, “I don't want to cause you any-”
“I'm fine,” growled Hank. He put both hands back on the gun, “Keep talking.”
“Very well. Just, let me know if you are going to do anything like faint or shoot me in the head okay? I would rather be prepared.”
“You could survive a magnum round to the head?”
John shrugged.
“I'm not sure. I've never done it. Probably though. Honestly I wouldn't want to try. Can we skip that?”
Hank couldn't help but laugh.
“Probably.”
He sighed.
“I don't really think you mean me or my family any harm.”
“I don't. No one here does,” said John.
Hank just waved that away.
“You would say that regardless. There would be no reason to pretend otherwise. Talk about what's happening in my head. Why do I still feel like I have ants with jackhammers crawling around it?”
John frowned and looked concerned, but he answered the question: “That's just a side effect of being exposed to a greater degree of the universe, or rather the greater universe that this universe is written upon. I can cause some fairly severe physical symptoms, but it's nothing that doesn't get easier with time. With time you can even, for example, perceive the bigger shredder we keep for breaking down inorganic matter. This one shreds atoms you see and it goes on for a length you couldn't possibly believe.”
Hank lowered the gun. He suddenly felt small and weak. His head hurt a little and he put one hand to it again. His stomach lurched.
“I don't- I don't know if I can.”
“Shhh,” said John Smith. He pointed at Hank's soda and said: “Drink your drink. You will feel a little better. It's amazing what a little sugar and caffeine can do.”
Hank did as he was told. The soda tasted fresh, cold, and real. Surprisingly, he did feel a little better for it.
“I don't understand,” he said.
“No,” replied John, “You really don't. You see: drinking the beverage involves about a million little reality based interactions that your, well I don't want to say soul as that still seems like rubbish to me, but some part of you takes strength in. Your brain sends electrical signals to muscles. Gravity acts upon the liquid. Your heart beats and your muscles move to accommodate the motion. Your stomach accepts the liquid. The can's atoms stay roughly in alignment according to their own rules.”
He smiled broadly.
“These processes are really too numerous to name, but they matter to us for some reason. Every one of these rules- and even the ones we don't even know matter to us. They are the very basis of our reality. When you encountered the shredder, you encountered something fundamentally not real and your body rejected it as hard as it could. That creation, like a lot of things in this building, follow rules that only apply in some small regard to this tiny section of the universe. Most of these pieces have been adapted for use by us, but some, like the shredder, simply can't be fully adapted. They just don't fit. So we stick them away from where people can have interactions with them. We house them safely, and make use them.”
Hank shook his head.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Exactly. What about you? You said you were something like the shredder or a robot or-”
“Sort of. See...damn. This is going to be rather involved I'm afraid. What I am has no ready analog here, but I will do my best. I'm basically a block of proto-matter without a lot of coherent defined properties. One of the few stable properties I have- that is automatic, I mean, and not controlled by my mind- is that I can program my own properties at will. Every one of those rules I mentioned? To some extent I have to keep them in mind and mimic them if I want them to apply to me. If I stop, say I go to sleep or lose focus? I will most likely cease to be. I might explode or turn into a statue if I'm lucky, but it's far more likely that I will simply leave this portion of the universe with a few odd elements, atoms mostly, and scatter similar remains in a dozen other places. Not something I want to do.”
He waved away the explanation and stood up.
“Damn. That isn't right either actually. I mean: yeah it's right but...well It's not entirely accurate.”
Hank took another sip of his soda and tried to relax. It was surprisingly hard to do when faced with someone, or something that might now have an explanation he could understand. He leaned back in his chair anyway.
“Well that's a start at least. So you aren't a robot? I really did kinda think you were a robot. That explanation was just too pat.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better I'm actually quite similar to a robot. There are parts of me that were programmed by humans. Most of what I am: I made myself, of course, but the basics ideas that allow me to interact with you? Things like verbal communication, ideas, even basic interactions like nouns and verbs? Well, that was given to me just like your parents gave you your genes. Most of the
other stuff I had to figure out. You would be surprised how many of the fundamentals of your little corner of the universe are unexplainable by human science. I had to, for example, work out gravity, light, heat, electromagnetic fields-”
“I think I get the picture. So you started with ideas? That seems...odd.”
“Not really,” John shrugged. He seemed to like to shrug, Hank realized. “Ideas like social interaction, societies, ethics, history and the like...those are actually way better realized by humans than things like sub-atomic location and the interaction of basic particles. Before the scientists here came along I wasn't much of anything. I was so basic that, well, there isn't really a comparison here. Even hydrogen atoms have stable properties. I had to learn about them!”
“Like how a robot is programmed?”
“More like how a child does. I had to experiment, grow, develop-”
“Sure...and the best thing they could think to use you for was a security guard?”
John laughed.
“Well, who else would you trust to keep this place safe?
Hank laughed at that. They both did. Eventually he put away his gun.
“God, it's good to get all this off my chest actually,” said John “I really didn't like keeping you in the dark and-”
“Who else knows?”
“About what?”
“You. This. All of this.”
“Well that's a tough question to answer. The other guards are all the same as me of course. We had to be if we are going to protect this place and serve our mission. I know it seems a little silly, but that is part of the point. If we were supermen overlords you guys might rebel or we might become totalitarian assholes. As security guards we mostly just make sure everyone is okay.”
Hank nodded.
“That...actually does make sense...”
“And as far as who here really knows what's going on with this office, well, anyone who has reached the 'executive' level of clearance knows pretty much the whole story, but there are only about five of them here in this tower. A lot of the others know bits and pieces. Obviously, the researchers know the most but, eh, it's a pretty secretive place really. Part of that is by design because the company has had a long history of things here accidentally breaking people's minds. If they don't know then they can't have their mind snap from the knowledge. It's a little crude but it works.”
Hank nodded thoughtfully.
“And you are okay with that?”
John was caught off his guard with that question.
“What do you mean?”
“All the secrets. You are okay with the majority not knowing what is going on? Even something as basic as where they live and how it all operates?”
“Did the majority know how they live and how it all operates back there?” he gestured at some of the cameras showing the outside. It was still as covered in fog as always.
“No,” said Hank. He considered his response. There were a million ways he could react right now. In some part of his mind: he went through all of them. There was a part of him that wanted to yell and scream. Another part wanted to run, or to lead a rebellion against the inhuman monster before him. Part of him was disoriented by everything. Still: the greatest part of him was curious, and more than that: it was engaged.
Here was easily the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him. Like it or not: he knew he was a part of this. He wanted to be a good part. The thought came suddenly, but it also seemed right. Survival, he knew, often required some rather unorthodox thinking, and even more unorthodox ethical parameters. No two survival situations are the same, and each gives a unique problem to be solved. Beyond survival comes the next step: thriving...but that is really just an extension of the strategy that allowed for survival in the first place. When a society became too complicated- too separated from the mechanisms that had allowed it to get there in the first place it began to break down. It started to decay from the inside out. It was exactly what he had taught in his class. To make a better world: imagine it beginning anew. What lessons could be learned there, from the harshest of times, that can be carried on to everything that followed?
So, with this in mind, he eventually spoke. His voice was clear and strong because he had said these words- or very similar ones- before.
“The difference, I think, is that I was under the impression we wanted to build something better than what was out there. That means stretching beyond the 'normal' because 'normal' inevitably has a lot of outmoded behavior buried inside of it. We need a better foundation or we are- at best- going to end up exactly where we were.”
John Smith looked wary now. He could sense a change in the man before him, but he didn't know yet what to make of it.
“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.
“It is obvious to me now that, somehow, you or your masters knew that this apocalypse was going to happen. You planned it and that must mean you have a reason for humanity's survival. I want to make sure, here and now, that both of us are in agreement that this reason is a good one.”
John Smith raised his eyebrows. He couldn't refute that logic and, in truth, he had grown quite respectful of this man in the short time he knew him.
“Okay,” John said, “What exactly do you mean?”
Hank leaned forward. His cold eyes gleamed and he folded his hands. It would begin here, he knew that now. Here is how he would change the nature of the world.
# # #
“Oh my- how- how did-” Claire laughed again. In the short time since gravity had been restored to her, and the ability to see herself had returned, she hadn't really stopped laughing. Sven looked at her with a knowing smile, his own joy at the experience was lessened by use but it was always still there. He didn't know if you could get used to such a thing, not really. Here, before him, was this girl- this wonderful and brilliant girl who was so filled with it. Life seemed to simply burst from her. He knew his age made her- well, a lot would call it sick. He was unsure himself, but...
He leaned down and kissed her, passionately.
Oh, she thought, so that's it then.
She kissed him back. She pressed her body against his as the door to the chamber opened silently. They broke off only when it was open enough to go through. She led him like a lost puppy, desperately seeking somewhere to get-
Oh shit.
Claire dropped Sven's hand and turned to him.
“Okay cut the crap,” she said. Her voice contained so much menace and cold fury that it shocked even her. “Where is he?” She was growling. She didn't even know she could growl.
Sven looked legitimately confused. He then glanced at the stroller and swore loudly in Swedish. His hands flew up to his face. He almost looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
“Calm down!” shouted Claire. She pulled his head to look into her eyes, “Swear to me you didn't have anything-”
“For the love of Christ!” he shouted, “I didn't do anything! It has to- No. It cannot-”
“Make sense goddamnit!” shouted Claire. Sven shook his head, and real fear came over him in a sudden wave. He looked suddenly like a lost little boy. A boy afraid of something beyond all reason.
“They took him...” his voice was almost too low to hear, “It had to be them...It- it HAD to...”
Claire found herself growling like an animal. Real snarling sounds coming from the back of her throat. The noise was frightening, even to her.
“Who took him?” she said through gritted teeth.
Sven just shook his head.
“I- I didn't...I didn't believe...”
“WHO TOOK MY BROTHER!” screamed Claire. Her voice was so loud that you could no doubt hear it everywhere on the floor. She didn't care.
Sven just shook his head again.
“The...them,” was all he said. He swallowed: “The people who live in the walls.”
# # #
“So what you are saying, basically, is that your company found some way to...engineer
unreality?” said Adriana.
They had moved off of the bench now and were standing and staring off of the top of the tower. It might have been her imagination, but Adriana swore that the fog was starting to dissipate this high up. Not a lot, but still enough to notice. At least she hoped it was. She could see the clouds clearly now, and the sunshine. In the distance she could almost make out shapes that might be buildings as well, but it was too early to really be sure. For some reason this gave her hope.
