by Pat Murphy
Shortly after school began, he started work on a prosthetic hand for his science fair project. He had originally planned on constructing a six-legged walking machine, and he had been doing research into robotics for months. With Ms. Bruner in mind, however, he shifted the emphasis of his research, reasoning that she would best appreciate the interface between body and machine.
For weeks he did research into artificial joints and prosthetic devices, reading journal articles that he obtained through his father’s home computer. Using his father’s access codes, he tapped into a bulletin board for robotics researchers and orchestrated a continuing discussion of possibilities for the human/machine interface.
In his home workshop, he worked for long hours on the mechanical parts. He could have opted for silicon/plastic joints, but he preferred working with metal, machining tiny parts that fit neatly together. He liked the look of the metal and the cool feel of it in his hand.
Using his father’s credit card, he ordered sensors that would pick up the EMG signals of his muscles and relay them to the prosthetic hand. The science fair came and went, and his project was not done, but he continued working, dreaming of Ms. Bruner’s reaction when he showed her the completed hand.
The completed project was elegant: a third hand that strapped neatly onto the side of The Machine’s arm. Electrical signals from the muscles in his abdomen controlled the hand’s movements. He practiced yoga for hours, regulating his breathing and learning the careful muscular control necessary for dexterity. He could rotate the hand at the wrist, make the thumb and index finger come together in a pinch, grasp something strongly by wrapping his fingers around it. When he flexed the fingers, the joints made gentle clicking sounds that reminded him of the clockwork toys his mother had given him.
On the last day of the school year, he brought the hand to school, carefully packaged in a cardboard box. He did not want to show it in front of the other students, so he kept it hidden in his locker for most of the day. But he could not help smiling to himself whenever he thought of it.
“You seem awfully cheerful today,” Ms. Bruner said. He was scrubbing down one of the lab tables, helping with the last day’s cleanup. “Looking forward to summer vacation?”
“I have something to show you,” he said quickly. “After school, OK?”
She frowned, then nodded. “All right. I suppose.”
For the rest of the afternoon, he worried about that frown. But he reassured himself with the knowledge that she would be excited about the hand. He would demonstrate how he could write with it, comb his hair with it. She would be thrilled.
After his last class, he collected the box from his locker. The hallways were filled with kids emptying their lockers and noisily discussing their summer plans. For once, no one had time to bother or bully him. He walked through the corridors, carrying his box proudly beneath his arm.
The science wing was almost deserted. Outside her room the hallway was quiet. He hesitated by her door, anticipating his triumph. From inside, he heard her voice. She was talking to Mr. Pearce, the calculus teacher. He waited for a moment, reluctant to share his creation with anyone but her.
“I’d love to go out for a drink, but I told the Monroe kid that I’d take a look at something he wanted to show me. He said he’d stop by after school.”
A low rumble from Mr. Pearce. The Machine had never liked Mr. Pearce much: he had confiscated some really great designs for a burrowing machine and had torn them up in front of the whole class.
“Yeah, you’re right there.” Ms. Bruner’s clear voice carried well. “He’s a weird one. He’s always smiling at me in this really peculiar way. I’d guess that he’ll grow up to be either a mass murderer or a genius like his dad.”
The Machine froze, clutching the box. Mr. Pearce was saying something.
“A crush on me?” Ms. Bruner’s laughter chilled him. “Jesus, I hope not. Thank God the school year’s finally over. He won’t be in my class next year.”
A chair scraped across the floor and The Machine jumped. “Sure,” Ms. Bruner was saying. “Let’s go. I can’t wait around all day.”
The Machine escaped into another corridor before they stepped from the room. His father was waiting in the car in front of the school. When he asked what was in the box, The Machine shook his head. “Just some stuff,” he said.
That summer, the Plague came. His father came down with the first symptoms while he was at work. His co-workers took him to the hospital and The Machine talked to his doctor on the phone.
The doctor spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. “We’ll do what we can,” he said. “No, I don’t think you’d better come and see him. You sound healthy. Try to stay that way.”
The next day, when The Machine tried to call the hospital, the telephone was busy. He set his telephone to redial the hospital’s number every five minutes, but the line was always busy. He wandered the quiet house and watched the television news. “The following hospitals have beds available,” his local newscasters advised him. The woman co-anchor looked pale.
The next day, the hospital line was still busy. The woman coanchor was gone, replaced by another woman. The Machine tried to call other numbers: he called Dr. Ward and got an answering machine.
“Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
“Dr. Ward, this is Jonathan Monroe.” He hesitated, not sure what to say. “My father’s in the hospital and I don’t know what to do. Could you call me right away?”
Dr. Ward never called back.
The TV news announced that the President had declared a state of emergency. That was just before he died of the Plague. The Vice President took office, then fell ill with the Plague. “The police are advising citizens to stay at home,” his local newscasters told him. “Remain calm.”
He remained calm. He stayed at home, pacing through the empty rooms. The satellite dish pulled in stations from all over the world. On the news, The Machine watched riots in the streets of downtown New York, Washington, Tokyo, Paris. On the sixth day, the telephone finally got a clear line to the hospital. At the other end, the telephone rang and rang but no one answered.
For a month he lived in his father’s house, eating canned and frozen food. After watching the riots on TV, he was afraid to leave. He did not know what he might find out in the world. He stayed in the house where the machines could take care of him. He trusted the machines, relied on the machines. The household computer woke him up each morning and advised him of his bedtime each night. The lights that illuminated the patio switched themselves on and off automatically. A machine washed the dishes and a machine washed the clothes. A cleaning robot, on loan from some lab at Stanford, constantly prowled the halls and rooms, sucking up dustballs and paper clips and bits of food. Sometimes he amused himself by scattering bits of torn paper on the rug for the robot to vacuum up. His personal computer—with its game programs and its teaching software—was his constant companion.
When his stores of canned food ran low, he cautiously ventured out and broke into a neighbor’s house. He was not surprised to find that no one was home. He raided the pantry shelves, taking enough canned food for another month. Over time, he worked his way from neighbor to neighbor. In some houses he found decaying bodies. The first time he found a corpse he was sick to his stomach, but he learned to ignore his repulsion, to hurry into a house, get the food, and run away again.
The decaying bodies helped him realize the truth. He was not human after all. That was why he had never fit in with his classmates: he was not like them. His body was whole and healthy, so how could he be human? The humans were dead.
He considered the matter. After much thought he came to realize that his father had constructed him, with the assistance of his mother. In retrospect it seemed obvious. His mother had avoided him because he was a defective machine: he had not lived up to her exacting specifications. It made perfect sense. He decided then that calling himself Jonathan Monroe was dishonest and inaccurate. He be
gan calling himself The Machine. His purpose, he decided, was to build other machines. He was surprised that it had taken him so long to realize it.
CHAPTER 4
WHEN MARY LAURENSON’S DAUGHTER was sixteen years old, her life changed. The changes began, it seemed to her, with a trip to the Woodland market.
She and her mother woke when the sky was still dark. Only a thin line of light at the horizon betrayed the coming day. Her mother loaded the mare with saddlebags that held almonds from the orchard, cured rabbit skins, and homemade apricot brandy. The young woman gathered up treasures she had scavenged from surrounding farmhouses: two pocketknives and a sharp buck knife, a set of socket wrenches, a pocketwatch that still kept time, a music box that played “Jingle Bells,” and an assortment of jewelry. She wore the jewelry: bangles on one wrist, a silver charm bracelet on the other, a gold wedding band, a dime store ring set with a bloodred garnet, a diamond engagement ring that caught the thin dawn light. The young woman rode bareback on the mare’s daughter, a yearling filly she called Young One for lack of a better name. They left Dog, their Golden Retriever, to guard the house.
It took about two hours to ride to Woodland. The road wound through farmland that had returned to meadow. Barbed wire fences that had once marked property boundaries had long since rusted away. Here and there the fenceposts remained, dark stumps jutting from the long grass. Wild cattle grazing in the meadows lifted their heads to watch the women pass.
Halfway to market, they spotted a three-wheeled bicycle parked in the shade of a walnut tree. Between the back wheels was a wide bin filled with canvas sacks. A sign hanging from the bin read “Books for Sale or Trade.”
A young man called out from the shade of the tree. “Hello there! Can you tell me how far it is to Woodland Market?”
Her mother reined to a stop. “Not so far. About an hour by horse.”
The young man grinned. He leaned back against the tree trunk, his hands locked behind his head. He was lean and well-tanned. “Any large hills on the way?”
“Not that I recall.” Her mother looked thoughtful. “What sort of books have you got there?”
“All kinds,” he said cheerfully. “History, politics, religion, philosophy. A few novels to keep things lively. And some practical books—how to build your own still, how to make a wind generator, cookbooks, first aid manuals. A little of everything.”
The young woman watched her mother frown. For a moment, her mother did not speak. The birds sang in the trees by the side of the road; insects droned in the grass.
“You’ve never been here before,” her mother said.
“Never before. This is my first trip out. I’ve come south from Seattle, trading along the way.”
“Your books on politics …” her mother began.
“Are you interested in politics?” the young man interrupted. “I have a broad assortment, from Marx to—”
“No,” her mother said abruptly. “It doesn’t pay to be interested in politics in this part of the country. I just wanted to advise you that General Miles’ men might find some of your books a bit controversial.”
“General Miles? You mean the fellow everyone calls ‘Fourstar.’”
Her mother shook her head quickly. “Around here, you’d best call him General Miles. He’s not fond of the nickname. The political climate here is …” She hesitated, then continued, “on the conservative side. You’d be wise to stash your more liberal books and return for them after your visit to the market.”
“Oh, nothing I have is very controversial. I’ve been very well received everywhere I’ve been so far.”
Her mother shook her head. “You may be surprised at what books the army considers controversial.”
The young man grinned at her. “I’ll take my chances.”
Her mother opened her mouth as if to say something more, then shrugged. “Hope to see you in Woodland,” she said. “Good luck.”
The young woman waved to the cyclist as they passed. “See you in Woodland.”
The young woman and her mother were just outside town when a group of men in khaki-colored fatigues hailed them and ordered them to stop. Two men held rifles; the third, a clipboard. “On your way to market?” the man with the clipboard asked, and the young woman’s mother nodded. “I have a few questions for you, ma’am. We’re gathering information on the flow of goods. Part of the General’s efforts to alleviate shortages. Please dismount.”
The young woman watched her mother. The older woman’s face was very still; her expression, unreadable. “I see,” she said calmly, and swung down from the mare. Reluctantly, the young woman followed. Passing the checkpoint was her least favorite part of going to market. She stood by Young One, close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from the animal.
The man consulted his list and began rattling off questions: “Your name? Your permanent address? What will you be trading? Quantity of each commodity? Number of people in your household?” Her mother answered the questions quickly, without hesitation.
One of the other men held Young One’s bridle and stroked the horse’s nose. The soldier’s face was mottled with acne and his hair was cut so short that the young woman could see his scalp. “What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head and said nothing. She did not like the checkpoint; the men and guns alarmed her.
“You going to be staying in Woodland? There’ll be a dance tonight—maybe I’ll see you there?”
The young woman shook her head again, trying to look as calm and aloof as her mother.
“You like to dance?” the soldier said awkwardly.
She stared over his head at the distant road.
“Not very friendly, are you?” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him glaring at her.
“Any weapons?” asked the man with the clipboard. The young woman held up her crossbow and her mother showed them her old rifle. Both were noted on the form.
“Now if you’ll open those saddlebags for me, we’ll be done.”
The man searched the saddlebags, pawing through the almonds, sniffing at the brandy, opening the socket wrench set. When he came to the buck knife he examined it carefully, pulling it from the leather sheath and testing the edge. “Nice piece,” he said.
The soldier holding Young One’s bridle broke in. “The army’s short on good knives, ain’t it, Sergeant?”
The sergeant nodded, not looking up from the blade. “That’s so, Private. Excellent knives like this are in short supply. But I’m sure these ladies are patriotic citizens.” He looked up. “I’m certain they’d be glad to make such a trivial donation to the cause.”
The young woman glared at him, but her mother spoke first. “Under the circumstances, Sergeant, I’d be glad to make a small contribution.”
The sergeant nodded and slipped the knife back into its sheath. “Very good,” he said. “Thank you for your time.” He held out the clipboard. “Sign here.”
Her mother signed and they mounted. The young woman jerked the reins from the grinning soldier and rode off. “Sorry,” her mother said when they were out of earshot of the checkpoint.
“It’s all right,” she said, but her voice was tight and angry.
The market was in the parking lot of an old supermarket. To provide shade, each merchant erected a fabric canopy on tall poles. The canopies of neighboring stalls overlapped to form a kind of tent, a vast expanse of multicolored fabric. When the wind blew, the tent billowed.
They tied their horses at the edge of the tent and went inside. When her mother stopped to barter with a kerosene trader, the young woman wandered away, strolling up and down the aisles, staring curiously at the people around her. Sunlight filtering through the cloth colored the scene below: a patch of red beneath a crimson-colored satin bedsheet, brilliant orange beneath a nylon tarp. The plush ridges of a pink chenille bedspread cast stripes of shadow across a tool-seller’s booth.
In the late morning heat, the market had a powerful aroma:
a combination of ripe fruits and vegetables, goat droppings, and roasting meat. The tent was a noisy place, filled with the bleating of frantic goats, the clucking of hens, the cries of merchants—“Salt, salt, good sea salt,” “Melons, fine melons”—and the constant haranguing of a preacher who read from his Bible at a dead run, never pausing for breath. And over all the commotion was the rustling of the tent in the wind, acres of restless cloth straining to fly away like an enormous kite.
There was a carnival atmosphere, a sense of great excitement that filled the young woman and made her want to fly away with the tent, soaring high above the valley. Everything was bright and alive and new—so many people, so many things. She stared at a black woman who carried a baby on her hip: she had never seen skin so dark and glossy. She stopped to watch the preacher, fascinated by the way his stiff beard jerked when he talked. At one stall, a man played a guitar while a group of people in drab clothing sang songs about God. The young woman lingered for a moment, but moved on when one of the singers called to her.
The stalls were filled with riches. She gaped at shelves crowded with metal buckets and pots and pans; she fingered a fine hunting knife in a booth selling tools; she admired glittering jewelry and wristwatches. People had come from as far away as Fresno and Modesto, bringing their wares to trade.
The smell of roasting meat drew her to a stall where a grimy round-eyed child carefully turned the carcass of a pig over a low fire. The child’s mother, a Hispanic woman with a scarlet scarf tied over her dark hair, accepted the garnet ring in exchange for a pork burrito.
From the far end of the tent came the scratchy sound of marching music played through a battery-powered loudspeaker. The young woman wandered in that direction. On the way, she passed a stall selling whiskey and hard cider. A drunken man was speaking loudly to a circle of other men. “Godless perverts, that’s what they are,” he was saying. “We have every right to go to San Francisco and take what we need. Every right.”
