THE MAN
When Evan Collins woke up, he found four plastic bottles of water, six cans of tuna fish, a can opener, and the first-aid kit from his boat on the sand beside him. He had splinted his leg with the velcro splint from the first-aid kit. He had eaten a can of tuna fish and drunk a one-quart bottle of water. Then he had dragged himself into the shade and taken two of the painkillers, which helped with the pain but left him groggy and disoriented.
He had fallen asleep in the shade. When he woke, the giant roach was back.
Evan drank from one of the bottles of water and blinked at the creature. It was a machine, he realized now. Its carapace was burnished steel. He could see the neat mechanical joints of its legs. On its burnished steel carapace, he could see the stenciled words: “Atlantis Mining and Salvage.”
Of course: It made sense now. It was a robot designed for work underwater. A human being was operating the mechanical roach by remote control. He’d seen descriptions of such systems at the engineering department’s annual open house.
“You work for Atlantis Mining,” he said. “You’ve told them that I’m here.”
The roach didn’t say anything. Evan pictured the man operating the mechano: a gruff, no-nonsense, working-class guy, like the kind of guy who works on oil rigs. Matter of fact.
“When is the rescue party coming?” Evan asked.
“I don’t know,” said the roach. “Do you want a coconut?”
Evan blinked at the roach. “A coconut? Yes, but …”
The roach turned away and walked deeper into the grove of coconut palms. It picked up a coconut, returned to Evan’s side, pierced the nut, and dropped it beside Evan.
“Thank you.” Evan took a long drink of coconut milk.
“You’re welcome,” said the roach.
Evan studied the roach, wishing he could see the face of the man behind the mechanism. This man was his only link to the outside world. He still hadn’t said anything about Atlantis Mining and their reaction to Evan’s predicament. “What did your supervisor say when you told him I was here?” Evan asked.
“I don’t have a supervisor,” said the roach.
“Okay,” Evan said slowly. He felt dizzy and a little feverish, and the conversation wasn’t helping. “But you did tell someone that I’m here, didn’t you?”
“No,” said the roach. Then, after a pause. “I’m going to talk to Dr. Rhodes. Do you want me to tell him?”
The flat, mechanical voice provided no clue about the feelings of the person behind it. “Yes.” Evan struggled not to raise his voice. “When will you talk with him?”
“Tonight.”
“That’s good,” Evan said. “Will you tell him that my leg is broken and that I need medical help?” He looked at the bottles of water and cans of food. One and a half bottles of water and five cans of tuna remained. They wouldn’t last long.
“Yes. Do you want another coconut?” asked the roach.
Evan stared at the expressionless metal face, the multifaceted eyes. Evan Collins was an anthropologist on sabbatical, studying ritual welcoming orations of Oceania and determining how they varied among the various island groups—a fine excuse to spend a year sailing across the South Pacific. As an anthropologist, he prided himself on his ability to read people. But there was no way to read this person. Another coconut? No, what he needed was a rescue party. To get this person to provide that, he needed more information. “You know,” he said slowly, “I never introduced myself. My name is Evan. Evan Collins. What’s your name?”
“Annie,” said the roach.
That stopped Evan. He revised his mental image of the person running the mechano. Not a working-class guy. A woman.
“Annie,” Evan said. “That’s a nice name. How long have you worked for Atlantis Mining?”
“Thirty-two days,” the roach said.
Again, Evan Collins revised his assessment of the person behind the roach. A new employee, a woman—someone in a position of powerlessness. “So tell me,” Evan said. “Who is Dr. Rhodes?”
The roach took a step back. “I don’t want to answer questions,” the roach said.
“Then I won’t ask questions,” Evan said quickly. Annie was his only contact with the world. He didn’t want to drive her away. “You can ask me questions if you want.”
“I don’t want to ask questions,” said the roach. “I want you to tell me a story.”
THE MECHANO
Evan Collins had so many questions. He kept asking and asking and asking.
My mother used to tell me bedtime stories. Whenever my mother bothered me with too many questions or requests, I’d ask her to tell me a story. I collect stories, just like I collect rocks.
“What kind of story?” Evan Collins asked me.
I thought about stories that my mother liked to tell. “Cinderella,” I said.
“You want me to tell you the story of Cinderella?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, and I wondered if he knew the story. Then he started. “Once upon a time,” he said.
Once upon a time … yes, that was how fairy tales began. Once upon a time, Cinderella’s mother died and her father married again. Cinderella had a wicked stepmother and two stepsisters.
In my mind, I pictured a chart that showed me all the people in the story as the man mentioned them. The father and mother and Cinderella formed a triangle, all connected by solid lines. The stepmother and her two daughters formed another triangle. The stepmother was connected to the father by a solid line. Mental pictures like this helped me sort out relationships that otherwise didn’t make sense.
Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters made her do all the work around the house—and at night she slept on a cot in the kitchen. The man said that this made Cinderella very sad.
I thought about Cinderella on her cot in the kitchen, and I wasn’t so sure he was right. During the day, the house would be noisy and confusing with all those people talking and laughing. At night, it would be dark and lonely in the kitchen—very nice. If being called Cinderella was the price of being left alone, it seemed like a small one.
Then the prince decided to have a party and invite all noblewomen of the kingdom. The people in fairy tales were always having parties. The people in fairy tales were neurotypical, that was for sure. NTs were so social—always getting together and talking. NTs seemed to spend most of their time worrying about and establishing their social hierarchy.
That was what elementary school had been all about. It had taken me a while to figure it out, but all those games in the playground were really about who was boss.
I didn’t care who was boss, and I didn’t want to play those games. So I sat by myself and looked at the rocks that made up the wall at the edge of the playground. It was an old wall filled with interesting rocks of many different colors. Some had flecks of mica in them. I had started a rock collection, and I liked thinking about how the rocks in the wall would fit in my collection.
So I thought that Cinderella wouldn’t want to go to the party—but the man said she did. She couldn’t go because she didn’t have the right clothes to wear.
I didn’t see why she couldn’t go to the party because of her clothes. It was one of those NT rules that didn’t make any sense. NTs wanted everyone to look and act the same.
In school, the teacher kept trying to make me go play with the others, even when I explained that I wanted to examine the rocks. She wanted me to act like the rest of the kids and play their games. NTs thought that everyone should act the same way, everyone should fit in.
I was relieved when a doctor finally figured out that I was not neurotypical. All the doctors put their own names on my condition. Highfunctioning autism, one doctor called it. Asperger’s syndrome, said another. Another one said I was PDD, which stands for Pervasive Developmental Disorders. The first doctor said that wasn’t really a diagnosis, it was just a label.
Whatever the doctors called it, they agreed I was not normal; I was not
NT. They explained to my mother and father that my brain was different from the brains of most people. My behavior was not the result of a mental condition. It was a neurological difference.
My tendency to focus on certain things—like the rocks in my collection—was one result of this condition. The doctors said I was perseverative—tending to fixate on one thing to the exclusion of all else.
NTs thought paying close attention to rocks was perseverative. But paying close attention to other people all the time, the way they did, was just fine. That didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t see what was wrong with paying attention to rocks. But I was glad that the doctors recognized what I had known for a long time. I was different. My mother cried when the doctors told her about all this. I don’t know why.
So Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters went to the party, leaving her at home. Then Cinderella’s fairy godmother showed up. I put her on my mental chart with a line that connected her to Cinderella.
The fairy godmother was definitely NT. She waved a magic wand, and Cinderella was dressed in a golden gown with glass slippers. The fairy godmother wanted to make sure Cinderella fit in—and at the same time that she was better than everyone else. The fairy godmother was concerned about Cinderella’s position in the social hierarchy, and that’s very NT.
The fairy godmother told Cinderella that she had to leave the party before midnight—a simple enough rule. So much more direct than most of the rules that NTs followed. It was good that the fairy godmother told Cinderella the rule. NTs usually didn’t talk about the rules they all followed. They just did certain things and then told me I was wrong when I did something else.
So Cinderella went to the party, then ran away at midnight and lost one of her glass slippers. Then the prince found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her foot and said he would marry her. And the man said that Cinderella was happy. I remembered my mother had said the same thing when she told me the story of Cinderella. But I thought about the quiet kitchen, about Cinderella’s cot where she could be alone, and I didn’t think Evan Collins was right about that.
“Why is she happy?” I asked.
“Because the prince loves her. Because she is going to be a princess.”
Those were NT answers. She was happy because of a relationship with another person and a new position in a hierarchy. If Cinderella were NT, she would be happy. But I didn’t think she was NT. And if she weren’t NT, she wouldn’t be happy there. The prince would want her to go to parties and wear fancy clothes. She would rather stay in the quiet kitchen. That was what I thought.
“I don’t think she is happy,” I said. Then I turned away. I had to go talk to Dr. Rhodes.
I hurried away, crossing the sand to the recharging hut, a low-lying metal structure just large enough to shelter the mechano. Solar cells on the roof of the hut converted sunlight to electrical energy, which is stored in batteries inside the hut. Each night, I returned to my meat body and let the mechano recharge.
I backed the mechano into the hut, maneuvering it carefully so that two prongs of the charging unit slid into the sockets on the mechano’s body. Then, reluctantly, I returned to my meat body, asleep in its sensory deprivation tank.
I did not like my meat body. When I was in the mechano, I could filter my sensory inputs. When the light was too bright, I could decrease the sensitivity of my visual receptors and decrease its intensity. When a sound was too loud, I could temporarily disable the audio receptors.
My meat body was so much more limited. As I let my consciousness return to the meat, I heard the steady hum of the pump that circulated the fluid in my tank. Dr. Rhodes told me that it was the quietest pump on the market, but it sounded so loud, so very loud I could feel its vibrations in my bones.
I floated in a tiny sea. The water that supported my body was saturated with magnesium sutfate—it was five times denser than seawater, and its temperature was exactly the same as my body. An intravenous drip provided my body with the nutrition it needed; a catheter drained away the urine.
Each night, I slept here while the mechano recharged. I could, if I wanted, leave the sensory tank and go to the exercise room or the cafeteria, but I usually stayed in my tank.
I thought about the man on the beach. I remembered that Evan Collins wanted me to tell Dr. Rhodes that he was on the beach. I sometimes had problems remembering things. Dr. Rhodes said I had a poor short-term working memory. But I remembered that I should tell Dr. Rhodes about Evan Collins and his broken leg.
I moved my hand to push the button that summoned an attendant. The water swirled against my skin, an unwelcome sensation. I heard a rattle and clank as the hatch in the side of the tank opened, letting in the light. I blinked against the glare as the attendant removed the electrodes from my head.
The attendant was a round-faced woman with dark hair. She talked to me as she removed the electrodes. “Do you remember me, Annie? My name is Kiri,” she said. She smiled at me, and I nodded, but I didn’t smile back. Already I was feeling overwhelmed.
I didn’t say anything as she helped me out of the tank and gave me a towel and a robe. I knew that she wanted me to wrap my meat body in the robe, but I did so reluctantly. The touch of the cloth against my skin was irritating. The cement floor was cold against my bare feet.
I came back to my meat body to talk to Dr. Rhodes, and it always felt strange. My body was heavy and awkward; my hands were clumsy as I pulled on the robe. Kiri gave me a glass of water. I was always thirsty when I came out of the tank.
On the island, I was strong. My mechano could crack coconuts in its mandibles. My mechano could walk beneath the waves.
In my meat body, I was a little girl—twelve years old and skinny. My mother was a librarian; my father was a computer programmer. He called me “the Little Professor.” I was part of an experimental program that Dr. Rhodes called a “therapeutic intervention.”
I would rather be in my mechano.
I could hear voices from the corridor: people laughing and talking, the sound of sneakered feet walking down the hall. People were going to the cafeteria, to the exercise room, to dorms where they would sleep in beds. The other people here worked for Atlantis Mining. They were not part of the experimental program. They were T.
Kiri led me down the hall.
“We are going the wrong way,” I told her when we turned left down a corridor. Dr. Rhodes’ office was to the right.
“We are going to a different room today,” she told me.
In the different room, the fluorescent lights were humming overhead. I could see them flickering. My father once told me that fluorescent lights flickered sixty times every second because the electric current changed directions sixty times a second. He said most people didn’t notice it. He could see the flicker, but it didn’t really bother him.
It bothered me.
I closed my eyes against the flickering of the lights, but I couldn’t shut out their noise. It filled the air like buzzing bees, like the school of bright fish that swam overhead when I was walking up from the depths to the beach.
I heard the sound of the doorknob turning and I opened my eyes to see Dr. Rhodes. He was a tall man with brown hair, and he always wears a white lab coat. “Hello, Annie,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, Dr. Rhodes,” I said. Dr. Rhodes had told me that it was appropriate to greet someone in the way that they greeted you. He smiled.
I closed my eyes. “I have something to tell you,” I said with my eyes closed. “On the beach, there’s …”
“Hold on there, Annie,” he said. “Why are your eyes closed?”
“The lights are bothering me,” I said. “They’re flickering and making a lot of noise.”
“Is there something you could do about that other than close your eyes?” he asked.
I nodded. I began to rock, a comforting activity that absorbed some of the energy from the sound of the lights. My right hand gripped my left arm. I squeezed my arm in
time with my rocking, and that helped, too.
“Do you want me to turn off the lights, Annie?” he asked. And suddenly the horrible buzzing sound was gone. The room was quiet except for the persistent whispering of the air conditioner. It sounded like tiny claws scratching against stone. “Open your eyes, Annie,” Dr. Rhodes said.
I opened my eyes. The only light in the room was light from the hall, spilling in through the open door and the window. That light flickered too, but it was dimmer, so it wasn’t as bad.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”
The whisper of the air conditioner shifted, getting louder. More claws, skittering over stone. It sounded the way the terrycloth robe felt against my skin. Scratching, scratching, scratching. For a moment, I forgot about what I had to tell him, distracted by the robe against my skin, by the noise of the air conditioner.
But I knew it was important to remember. As I rocked, I sorted through the details that I could tell Dr. Rhodes. It was difficult to choose the right one—they all seemed so important, and the air conditioner’s whispering made it hard to think. I pictured the man’s boat and the crack in its hull. I pictured the man on the beach, telling me about Cinderella. “Do you know the story of Cinderella?” I asked Dr. Rhodes. I was looking at my hands, concentrating on what I had to say.
“Yes, Annie, I know that story.”
“Well, on my island …”
“Can you look at me when you talk to me, Annie?” Dr. Rhodes said.
His voice was just loud enough to cut through the scratching of the air conditioner.
“I wanted to tell you that on my island …” I raised my voice to be sure he’d hear me over the noise. I did not look at him. I was concentrating on remembering.
“Look at me, Annie. Remember, we’re working on appropriate behavior.”
I looked at him.
“That’s good,” he said. “Making eye contact is appropriate behavior.”
I was looking at him and his lips were moving and that was so distracting that I couldn’t think of what to say. I looked down at my hands—then remembered I had to make eye contact so I looked back at him.
The Year's Best SF 22 # 2004 Page 2
