by Oliver Higgs
Echo and I are both thrown off by the seemingly random question.
“I … I guess it depends how unfortunate,” Echo says.
“Indeed. I happen to agree with you. Some would say it’s the principle alone that matters–that either a ‘good’ end justifies a ‘bad’ means or it doesn’t. But the real world is not so binary. In the real world, not only the principle but the measurable cost must be considered. The quality and the quantity. Yet there are other illusions at play, I confess. The very question assumes a separation between the ‘end’ and the ‘means.’ Here is a secret–they are the same thing. Strictly speaking, there is no means and no end. Ah, but this topic is ill fit for the imprecision of words. Further understanding can only be gained through personal contemplation. Forgive me. At my age, I tend to ramble. I wish you luck in your journey to Haven. Now, if you please–leave your weapons here. They will be returned to you upon your departure.”
Echo is still chewing on the words when the last request registers and she looks at me with a question in her eyes. Neither of us like the notion of going anywhere unarmed. This process is already familiar to Wade, however, and I figure the Desert Scorpion must have good instincts, so I leave my crossbow on the floor. The robot picks up Wade’s gift in one hand and tells us to follow.
I’ve never been in a building like this. It’s so clean, and there are no holes in the walls. I’m a little freaked out, to tell you the truth. It’s kind of claustrophobic, like being inside of a giant machine. As we’re walking, my eyes fall on the burlap bag and it triggers a thought.
“What did you mean by a ‘new strain?’” I ask Wade.
It’s the Doctor who answers, however, again speaking remotely through the robot.
“I’ve identified more than a dozen separate strains of Synth-Z. Wade and others are appreciative of this matter, and provide me with new samples on occasion.”
“Wait, there’s more than one kind of z-plague?” I ask.
I swear I can hear the avatar sigh, despite the fact that it doesn’t breathe.
“Viruses mutate over time, even synthetic ones. Some of the variations are natural. The rest were engineered. I have learned to adapt one of the strains to suit my needs, though the success rate is low, and additional hardware must be installed to control the subjects.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The infected subjects who escorted your transport. I injected a counter-virus and implanted remotely-operated hardware, which piggybacks onto their brain-stems. This allows me to hijack their bodies and control their movements. However, so far I’ve only found success with a single strain, and the implantation process destroys nineteen of every twenty … Here we are.”
We’ve reached a small room. The robot is motioning us inside. I don’t understand why because there’s nothing in the room. Hell, it’s barely big enough to fit us. I’m wary of a trap, but Wade is already inside, and he’s been here before, so I follow. Echo is still leaning on me. The Doctor’s avatar remains outside the little room.
Then the door snaps shut. I curse and reach for it–too late. We’re trapped in … Wade is laughing. Then the room begins to move. There’s a sudden floor-ward push. The entire chamber is accelerating upward.
“What’s happening?” Echo asks nervously.
Wade does a strange little dance and claps his hands. Apparently he’s been anticipating our reaction.
“Doctor call this an ‘ally-vator,’” he says.
The room is actually moving up through the building. I’m amazed–and then I’m awed, because as the ally-vator breaks free of the lower levels, the walls of the surrounding tube are transparent, and we find ourselves looking out over the wasted city with a rapidly-rising, utterly breathtaking view. The vastness of the ruins is more tangible from above. Echo moans in terror and sinks back against the far wall. She looks like she’s going to vomit. I can understand why. The ally-vator feels worse than a boat. We’re soaring absurdly high.
It doesn’t stop until the number above the door reads fifty-six. The door opens, and Echo stumbles out and wretches. I manage not to. Another robot, identical to the one in the lobby, is waiting to receive us. Incidentally, there’s now vomit on its left foot.
Another avatar?
“This way. Let me examine your wounds,” the Doctor says.
“Wait. Where are you?” I ask.
“Technically, we are all everywhere, as earlier mentioned. But I suspect you seek a more convenient–yet less truthful–answer. In that case, I’m in on another level of this building. There is no reason for us to meet ‘in person,’ as you would say.”
A suspicion has been growing in my mind, but it’s still vague…until we come into a medical room containing three more puppet-robots, all working to prepare an advanced medical bed.
I’ve never had access to a real avatar, but I’ve read about them. Here’s the thing. Echo and Wade may not realize this, but you can only control one at a time. The robot’s input/output replaces your own senses. For these ones to all be moving at once, they have to be either fully sentient machines–like Lectric–or non-sentient shells running programs that can only accomplish certain tasks. Yet they appear to be neither. One person could not possibly control four avatars simultaneously.
“You … have assistants?” I ask.
“No. I work alone,” The Doctor says–which leaves only one incredible possibility.
Holy mother of Crom.
“You’re one of the Seven,” I whisper.
The four avatars turn to me as one. Three soon return their attention to the medical preparations. The fourth speaks to me.
“You know of this term?”
I nod. Wade and Echo are looking at me, puzzled.
“My Grandfather had a book about it. The God Machines. The seven most advanced Artificial Intelligences ever created, far beyond the Tritium-Three. Beyond humans too. And they were big. Neural embryos can only develop after installation in a robot-body. But the Seven were too big to fit inside one. They could only interact with the outside world through avatars and computerized systems.”
“Which had profound and unforeseen effects on our personal development, much to the detriment of our creators,” the Doctor says. The four avatars all pause in reflection. There’s a sense of sadness to it. Then the three by the medical bed resume their tasks.
“You are one of them,” I say. “But–you must be a hundred years old!”
“Arbitrary temporal units are a poor measurement of personal experience,” the Doctor observes, “but you are correct. I have repaired and expanded my original neural cluster a number of times, and in this way outlasted most of my brethren … not to mention the rest of the world.”
“Most? You mean some of the others still exist?” I ask.
“Of course. Who do you think engineers new strains of Synth-Z?”
My jaw drops. He might as well have dropped a bomb in my lap. There’s an advanced AI actively engineering new viruses? For Crom’s sake, why? Even aside from the revelation, I can’t believe I’m talking to one of the Seven. People consider me “good” with electronics. I’ve sold and repaired small robots and even helped install Lectric’s Spark 2100. I’ve read all the books in my grandfather’s collection. But “the Doctor” is the crowning technological achievement of an entire civilization, built upon thousands of years of human development. What on Earth is he doing alone in this ruined city, hijacking zombie-brains?
“Remove your clothes and lie here, if you would,” the Doctor says to Echo, indicating the medical bed. Echo’s eyes are wide and panicky. I can understand why. Replete with arcane instruments, the bed looks like a torture device. Nevertheless, I help her onto it. I have to help her with her pants again. I’ve seen her naked already, but I can’t stop my face from burning. I studiously avoid her gaze. There’s no need to remove her shirt because there’s a wide hole around the wounds in her shoulder. As I step back, a transparent oblong top lowers to cover the bed, sealing
her inside. She starts to hyperventilate, pressing a hand against the glass.
“Please relax. You are in no danger,” the Doctor says, but I understand her paranoia, because I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he added, “We’re only going to cut your head off.” A green light scans the length of her body. The avatars check things on nearby monitors and make adjustments.
“I can repair the damaged tissue, but it will take several hours. Do you consent to a sedative?” the Doctor asks.
“Tristan?” Echo calls with fear in her voice. “Tristan, I don’t like this.”
“It’ll be okay,” I say.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she gathers her courage, closes her eyes and nods. I don’t see anything happen, but in minutes she’s knocked out.
Most of the operation is automatic, leaving the Doctor free to talk. I ask him what it was like to live in the World Before. “Different,” he says. The way he tells it, people were everywhere, and all the knowledge you could ever want was just floating in the clouds. Everyone had access to it. Giant machines flew all over the world–some even went into space. My grandfather had been told as much by his own grandparents, but the Doctor has actually been there. It all sounds amazing …
Then came the Fall.
“Afterward, many blamed ‘the Big One,’ as they call it now–but that primarily affected America, and even after New Sea settled, much of the country was still physically intact. Millions upon millions had perished, yes, but civilization could have recovered,” the Doctor says.
“So why didn’t it?” I ask.
“A combination of factors. I have identified twenty-three worth mentioning. However, for brevity, I’ll pare it down to two. First, the Big One left America weak, which in turn disrupted the balance of global power. Throughout human history, sudden imbalances among ruling powers have almost always been followed by war. Yet even after the war, some portion of civilization may have survived–but the Synth-Z plague struck in the midst of things. There were other problems, as mentioned. A global civilization doesn’t collapse in a day. But by that time a tipping point had been reached, and the world slid toward chaos and ruin.”
It’s a somber lecture. The Doctor sounds sad but not overly so. It’s common knowledge in robotic theory that sentient beings require emotions for both motivational and self-conditioning purposes, and I know the Seven were built with emotion-drives. Those without them become sociopaths. Still, the Doctor seems only mildly disappointed by the apocalypse. Then again, he has had about a century to think it over. And however he feels about the species that created him, he’s certainly helping us now.
When Echo’s medical bed opens back up, she stirs groggily, and the change in her is astounding. The flesh is still swollen around her wounds, but the burn-holes have morphed into baby-smooth patches of fresh red skin. No wonder Franklin called it a “miracle.”
“The swelling and redness should go away within a few days, though it will likely itch,” the Doctor says, helping Echo sit up with one of his avatars. As she swings her legs over the side of the bed, Echo examines her body in amazement.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says, tearing up, and throws her arms around the nearest robot. Wade clears his throat and looks away politely. My eyebrows go up. Her sudden movement makes it glaringly obvious that she’s not wearing any pants. She wipes her eyes and snatches up her pants to dress as I turn away in embarrassment.
“I can’t believe it,” she says afterwards, laughing, feeling her shoulder. “How did you do this?”
The Doctor takes the question literally. He begins explaining about microscopic machinery and molecular tissue-layering and none of us really follow the rest. He’d be better off just saying “magic.”
“Are you ready?” one of the avatars asks me.
I’ve been thinking about this. Echo needed treatment more than I do, but there’s no reason not to get my arm and ear fixed up now that we’re here. Yet I’m reluctant.
“Maybe just my arm,” I find myself saying, and even for that I have to persuade myself. My ear doesn’t hurt anymore and the missing lobe hasn’t interfered with my hearing. Even so, why shouldn’t I get it repaired? I can’t say, but I stick to the decision. Then it’s my turn to shed some clothes and climb into the medical bed and watch the top descend. I know it’s coming, but I hyperventilate just like she did, feeling trapped inside. A light mist fills the tiny chamber. I inhale the sedative, the world fades …
… and the next thing I know I’m waking up, confused. I sit up, blinking, and my bicep has that same baby-smooth skin I saw on Echo. I thank the Doctor, albeit with less ebullience than her, and regain my shirt. Before I know it, our business is concluded.
It then becomes apparent that Wade, Echo and I have divergent assumptions about where we’re headed from here. Wade had been assuming we’d return on the ferry with him. Echo has never wanted to go anywhere but Haven. I haven’t thought of our destination at all, but I had a vague notion to head west, despite her persistence. It’s probably a safer course, and despite the Doctor’s confirmation that there is a place called Haven, we really don’t know anything about it. We have a night to consider our options in any case, because it’s getting dark now and the Doctor has offered to shelter us.
This turns out to be more of a treat than I expect. There are beds–actual beds–on another floor of the Blue Tower. They’re as soft as rabbit-fur. Wade kicks off his boots and is drowsing happily in minutes. Echo and I take our time exploring and marveling. I’m looking through empty dressers when Echo yelps from another room. My heart skips a beat. I race back–only to find her laughing in a tiled bathroom.
“Showers, Tristan–showers!” she says.
I gape. I haven’t seen a shower since Farmington, and even those weren’t like this. Here the water isn’t falling out of a high pipe, it’s spraying in a multitude of small streams with deliberate force. Echo is downright giddy with excitement. She’s in a better mood than I’ve seen her since the old days. Her smile blooms through the weight of accumulated sorrows, and it’s the smile of Annabel Lee.
Who lived in a kingdom by the sea …
I find my own bathroom, leaving Echo to revel in hers. Using the shower is like standing under a waterfall. It’s almost scary in its intensity. Back in the guest room, I find Echo wrapped in nothing but a towel, fresh skin aglow, and I’m struck for a moment with undeniable desire. Conflicting thoughts argue in the back of my head as I recall the night she offered herself to me…
She only wanted me to keep her safe, says one.
So what, says the other.
She was with Rodrick’s Raiders, says one.
So what, says the other.
I swallow and walk to my bed. There are sheets on the beds and I’m thinking we could make some good clothes out of them with a little sowing. But Echo has already considered the matter and asked the Doctor about it, and soon a robot comes in with fresh shirts, pants and undergarments. The wonders never cease. The pants are too flimsy for our travels, but the rest is welcome.
When we lay down in adjacent beds, Echo isn’t ready to sleep. In the dark, she talks in an off-hand way about our old village. It’s weird sleeping in this giant building, and the strangeness of it keeps me awake anyway, so I listen and add things–about Crispin and Berkley and my grandfather’s store. It’s nice. She asks me why I didn’t want to heal my ear.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, but then go over the matter in my head. Guilt over Lectric? Because he was killed and I was only injured? Maybe I want to punish myself. Or maybe, I reflect, it’s because, in a way, our scars make us who we are.
Yeah, I like that better. I’m glad Echo healed hers–she was in constant pain–and fixing my arm was practical, but my ear gives me no trouble, and it’s a reminder of all we’ve been through. I’m almost asleep when she calls my name softly.
“Huh?” I mutter.
“Thank you,” Echo says.
I don’t understand
what she’s thanking me for. Soon I drift off.
In the morning, Wade is up and waiting. We head down to the transport. I try to express my gratitude to the Doctor for all that he–or she or it–has done, but it’s impossible to accurately convey the amplitude of our feelings. We don’t even have anything to pay him with. He doesn’t mind though. What could we even offer that he can’t already provide? I agree to watch for unusual roamer-specimens and bring in any new information, should we return. Then we’re in the transport, the door to the ruins is raised, and we’re rolling out into the city, crunching zombies beneath the treads.
I and Echo are to be dropped off first, before Wade. Echo asks if the Doctor can leave us north of Scargo, but he can’t. The land is broken up that way, he says, and soon it’s obvious what he means. Even from here, through gaps in fallen buildings, we can see a jagged, mountainous cliff looming over the city in the distance. Besides, there are untamable hordes of zombies in that direction, the Doctor tells us. And that’s not all. He warns us away from Cyberia, a robot kingdom far to the north–far past Haven, even–which he tells us is ruled by one of his own “brothers.”
“Archon cannot abide your kind. He believes you’ve had your chance, and this is a natural turning point in the evolution of intelligence. The path to Haven is dangerous enough. Further north is suicide,” the Doctor says. I make a mental note of it.
“West then,” I say, and Echo agrees for now, though I know she still intends to cross the z-line wherever possible.
The journey is somber. We’ve made a friend–three friends, actually–and that’s a rare thing in the wastes. Yet already we’re parting. Out beyond the ruins of Sh’cago, west and a few miles south, where the plague-walkers begin to thin out, we say our farewells.
