Humbug (The Unwinding of Ebenezer Scrooge): A Science Fiction Adventure, page 19
“It’s a bit drafty, sir.” The droid rushed ahead of him. “If you wait a moment, I can have—”
Eb mounted the Segway and sped through the study. The hallway was indeed drafty, the cool air quickly turning into an icy breath. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the lamps into streaky stars. He sped past the turn that would take him into the house. Lamps flashed awake ahead of him.
“Sir?” The droid’s harried footsteps were gaining. “The elevator is in need of repair. I don’t think this is a wise route.”
It wasn’t the elevator he sought.
I don’t understand.
That was at the root of the falling, the sinking. Why had his world flipped so quickly, the snow globe of reality shaken so violently? The ice had broken, the water cold and numbing. He sought warmth to make things right.
The world above. Fear below.
The gift. Rick had left the gifts in their desks. Jerri had gone over to their house. Carol confessed he was leaving.
It happened. It all had happened. And I was there.
The hallway hairpinned left. The floor descended toward the lower level—a level that hung off the bottom of the Castle like a hive. There was a heavy door at the bottom.
The cold bit harder. Deeper.
Why am I like this?
The thick door began sliding open. Mechanical noises echoed toward him, the clashing of hard surfaces, the wet slap of fluids. His robe brushed the doorway on the way inside.
A metal tang coated his throat. Hydraulic fumes filled his sinuses.
Why am I… me?
The basement level was narrow and deep. Tubes lit up the ceiling, the far wall too distant to see through an array of mechanical arms, slack bundles of hydraulic tubing and rigid conduit.
An elaborate laboratory surrounded him, shelves arranged with spare parts—dismembered gray arms and legs, decapitated heads with sealed lips. A rack of transparent caskets was set into the wall, the gray skinwrapped bodies of the droids docked snugly inside each one, hands at their sides, eyes closed.
There were operating tables, too.
One of the droids lay prostrate, the midsection splayed open like a feasted sow. Mechanical arms extended from the ceiling to poke inside his split belly, the sound of hot sparks and whirring equipment spilling out.
“Is everything all right, sir?” The droid on the operating table turned his head.
Dusty keyboards were neatly arranged on a long workspace. The inset monitors were dark. The lab was fully automated. The droid didn’t just occupy the bodies—he was the Castle, the appliances and communications, the walls and lights. His artificially spawned awareness filled the fiber optics.
His quantum existence was everywhere. He knew everything.
Eb sat on the only chair, his damp clothing pressing against his thighs and back. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. A red laser passed over his face.
“Verified,” the station reported.
The monitors came to life. Data clogged the interface, most of which Eb did not understand. He pecked a few keys, but his fingers were slow and shaky. He switched to verbal.
“Cognition core.”
“What are you doing, sir?” The droid had arrived from the hallway.
“Get back,” Eb said.
“It’s unwise to change—”
“I said get back!”
The droid took a step back. Something clicked over Eb’s other shoulder. The other droids had dislodged from their docking stations, heads turned curiously.
“Don’t.” Eb spun in the chair. “Get back in there.”
They blinked, confused. The one on the operating table pushed onto his elbows. They watched but didn’t speak.
“Cognition core,” he repeated.
The monitors responded with an array of data and graphs, subdirectories that led to various elements of sensory input that allowed the droids’ artificial intelligence to function on a humanlike level. A team of Avocado engineers had spent years constructing the droids’ personality matrix.
A team led by Jacob.
Sweat stung his eyes. He leered at the avalanche of numbers and code. Without the droid, Eb was helpless. He needed him to take care of the Castle, to monitor the property, to attend to his needs. To care for the girls. He needed the droid.
But not all of him.
“Personality.”
The dataflow changed direction. The droid shuffled behind him but didn’t come closer. Did not utter a word.
A subdirectory to the droid’s personality opened. More algorithms and graphical interfaces. This was Jacob’s personal touch—a droid that didn’t just walk and serve, but one that presented the human attributes of sarcasm and humor, wit and charm. An intelligence that destroyed the Turing Test.
You won’t be lonely, Ebenezer.
“Jenks. Find Jenks.”
A shift in data. A root directory appeared. It opened with file headings. Jerri had made an honest mistake. Or had she mistakenly been honest?
Eb faced his droid. “You’re Jenks.”
“I am a shared personality, sir.”
“You serve Jacob.”
“Jacob is no longer living, sir. He directed me to help you.”
“To help me.”
“To help you, sir.”
His thoughts continued to blow stinging waves of sleet, blurring clarity and purpose. No one could be trusted.
Even the ones he trusted.
“Consolidate all data and executable files associated with the personality program referred to as Jenks.”
Light strobed across the droid’s face as the monitors changed directive. The droid’s eyes widened, lips pursed. When the light dimmed, Eb turned to face the monitors.
A folder was positioned in the middle. It was labeled Jenks.
A word swelled in his throat, burning in his eyes. He would have to push it over his tongue to get it out.
“Please, sir.” The droid shuffled a step. “Reconsider.”
Eb swallowed. Why do I hurt others?
It was all he knew. But he had to survive. When trapped, he fought. He had been shoved into the corner, ground beneath a heel, flattened nearly lifeless. And very little fight remained.
But he’d been a fighter all his life.
He needed to clean the slate. His life was unrecognizable, his schedule a disaster. All the moving parts needed to stop—just for a second, just one second—so he could think clearly, so he could figure them out and make sense.
He needed space. No one was going to give it to him. He would have to take it.
This was the only way he knew.
“Terminate.”
Servers hummed in another room. The monitors asked for confirmation. Eb had to say it again. He bowed his head and listened to the digital grind plow through multiple servers, the command removing all traces. The docking stations clicked. When all was quiet, he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes.
He turned.
The droid stood at attention. The others had locked themselves back into the docking stations. The one on the table was staring at the ceiling. Eyes ahead, arms at the sides. Heels locked. None of them smiled. Their eyes would not widen, their heads would not cock to the side.
No more Jenks.
Why do I hurt others?
“Go,” Eb said.
The droid blinked. “I do not understand.”
“Go! Get out of here! All of you, leave me alone. Now!”
The request was assimilated. The droids popped out of the docking stations and filed out of the lab. Even the one on the table exited, his midsection still surgically open, the silvery network of gel lines glistening.
Eb slammed the door behind them and slid down the wall. Knees folded against his stomach, he shook violently. His eyes burned. Sobs erupted in his chest.
Had the future been altered? Would the cursed dreadlock man forget him next year? Would life make sense again?
Those questions flitted in a blizzard of thoughts. But one question hovered out of the storm, one that brightly demanded attention. One he rarely asked himself but now was impossible to avoid. A question he pondered deeply.
Why do I hurt?
TWENTY-FIVE
~
12:00 a.m.
The lab door swung open. It was not the soft-heeled cadence of gray feet that approached but the clack of hard soles. The girls were outlined in the soft glow of sleeping computer monitors.
Their dresses were pressed.
Ribbons curled.
“Girls.” Eb cleared his throat. “What are you doing down here?”
Lips grim, they stared with oversized pupils. Dolls dangling from one hand, they reached out with their empty hand.
“It’s late,” he said. “You should be in bed. Where’s the droid?”
He choked on the last word. The droid.
The girls took his hands. He could hardly feel them. They were tiny, no bigger than the day they had arrived, as if their stunted growth mirrored his own.
His joints ached; his knees refused to move easily. In a series of aborted attempts, he made it to his feet.
Hand in hand, they walked him up the ramp.
He returned to the Castle.
PART IV
~
THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST
TWENTY-SIX
~
2:55 a.m.
Only the Segway was whirring.
The wheels gripped the hard floor. A mounted flashlight illuminated the way, briefly catching the crinkled reflection of a candy wrapper.
The windows were shuttered and shades pulled. During the day, sunlight streamed through the outer seams in bright thin lines, blotting out the outer world and curious eyes.
Wind rushed into Eb’s robe, his heart fluttering anxiously. He leaned into the final turn and sped down a hallway. The projection room was open, a doorway waiting with open arms, a welcome sight to a pounding heart.
He entered at 3:00 a.m. On the button.
A starry sky greeted him. The horizon was lined with rusting canyon rims. A trace of a recent thunderstorm hung thickly, the modified air, clean and fresh, smelled vaguely of wet pavement.
Eb closed his eyes, inhaling the misty fragrance.
This was the projection room, not the Rocky Mountains. This was a small space, a safe space. A security blanket.
Every day for the past year, he had lived beneath the illusion and the comforting embrace of the curved walls. Some days he was greeted by the watery roadways of Sicily or the crowded streets of Broadway or the wide open plains of Wyoming. He experienced the world without being in it.
In the world, not of it. Isn’t that what the sages preach?
At 3:05 a.m., he parked the Segway at the foot of a king-sized bed. The ledge upon which it was perched was an illusion, but not the bed and neither was the hook on which he hung his robe. The projection room was cluttered with the essentials of an efficiency apartment.
He walked across the room in striped boxers and black socks. His belly hung in flaps; his knobby knees bulged on chicken legs. For the first time since college, he could count his ribs.
At 4:00 a.m., he slid the rings onto his fingers and waved his hands. A series of holos opened, views from around the house. The kitchen was clean, the halls polished, the furniture dusted. He uploaded the location of the candy wrapper he had seen on the ride in before switching the view to the basement lab, where seven skinwrapped droids slept in docking stations.
He was back from his shower, safe in the projection room. Eb snapped his fingers. They could wake now.
Quickly, he switched the view before they opened their eyes. He preferred not to see them snap out of their constraints to begin the daily prowl. They would move fluidly yet mechanically, eyes ahead, orders accepted. The floors would be cleaned, the walls wiped, the tables shined. He inspected their work, but had not watched them do it.
Not since last Christmas.
He made his bed—snapping the sheet tight, tucking the corners properly—and slid into his walking shoes. A treadmill was in the center of the room. Red light danced on the control panel as he began his daily pace.
At 5:00 a.m., he called up a view of Avocado, Inc. The plant was sparsely lit, janitorial droids moving in the dark. Office cubicles glittered with tinsel and tiny Christmas trees. His chest fluttered again.
A reminder.
This day had arrived. He had put last Christmas behind him and had carved a corner of sanity out of the reoccurring nightmare. Yes, a nightmare. A dream, nothing more. The mystery program clearly saw what was happening in the plant; it saw Rick place those gifts, it knew what they looked like. They simply transferred real-time information into the dream. He had convinced himself it didn’t happen, it couldn’t have happened.
For the sake of sanity.
At 6:00 a.m., he counted his medication.
The bathroom was a small construction that contained enough plumbing to do his duty. He steam showered upstairs at 2:30 a.m., that he could schedule. His bowels, however, weren’t always cooperative.
Nature got its way.
There was a plastic container on a little shelf above the sink, with tiny compartments, each labelled with the days of the week. A blank wall was above that.
No mirror to be found.
The medication organizer rattled. He unloaded three pills and lined them on the edge of the sink. One at a time, they stuck to his tongue and were chased with exactly one swallow of water.
One for clarity.
One for alertness.
And one for serenity.
At 6:30 a.m., there was a tap at the door. Eb waited two minutes before opening it. A tray lay on the floor, cloth napkin draped over the top. He ate the grapefruit and yogurt while walking the treadmill.
At 7:00 a.m., he watched the newsfeeds, checking the stock market and financial reports. The gossip newsfeeds would be turned on at 7:00 p.m., a guilty pleasure he still indulged.
Moderation required discipline.
He couldn’t trust the world. But he could control his reality.
The newsfeeds were off at 7:45 a.m. The treadmill reverberated in the room, punctuated by the heavy clops of his methodic stride. His faint musky odor mixed with various lotions from inside his baggy shirt.
A drip of water echoed from above. Waves retreated around him. He adjusted his glasses, the recording light in one corner, the time in the other. It was 8:00 a.m.
“Yes.”
A wide holo stretched across the wall and appeared to hover in the open space of the snow-painted canyon. Jerri’s cluttered desk blotted out the lower half, a sight that shot a shiver through his heart. That was where he saw the gift—Rick’s gift. The one he had given everyone as a thank you for working with him; they were all excellent employees and wonderful people.
And then he left.
His leaving wasn’t what kicked Eb into the downward spiral, wasn’t what flipped him into paranoia or compelled him to hunt down Jenks’s personality. The dream wasn’t a dream after all.
Yes. Yes, it was.
Jerri stood at the glass wall, oversized coffee mug in a crooked arm. Across the plant, Eb’s office was dark. The blinds were drawn.
“What’s wrong?” Eb called.
She half-turned and shook her head. Their weekly conference calls had been getting distant since Halloween. Her monitor was still blank. She had refused to look at his square-chinned projection, and he refused to let her see him.
Stalemate.
“It’s been a long week.” She rubbed her face. “How are you?”
He hesitated. She hadn’t slept much, if at all. He’d seen that expression before, the dark circles, the droopy cheeks and red eyes.
“Clockwork,” Eb said. “Everything like clockwork.”
“Good for you,” she deadpanned.
Structure was the key to good living. It took a year for Eb to learn that lesson. He was an organized man, but structure kept his mind from wandering. Kept memories in their rightful spots.
In the dark.
“Beautiful day,” Eb announced. “The newsfeeds speak kindly of Avocado; strong financial reports are optimistic. What else could I ask for?”
She smirked behind her coffee mug. “Colorado is buried in a blizzard, Eb.”
That could be true. The projection room was an exaggeration of the view outside the castle. He saw the bright sun and blue sky; a glittering blanket of white diamonds stretched across the valley. There could be a nuclear holocaust and he wouldn’t know it.
The way he liked it.
“Let’s talk about today,” he said. “We’ll be disconnecting the Castle from the plant at noon. I’d like to run another analysis before that so I can see the results.”
“Nothing’s changed, Eb.”
All analytics indicated the mystery program had been purged. Not a trace, not a byte, not a single line of nonsense code existed. Still, he would disconnect from the plant so that no dataflow would reach him.
His sanity was a delicate snowflake, after all.
“Humor me,” he said.
“You’ll have to work with Jared, then. I’ll be gone the rest of the day.”
“No. No, no, no… you can’t do this. It’s… it’s Christmas Eve, Jerri.”
He pressed his palms together and pleaded. She couldn’t see him, but she’d hear the anxiety tainting every word.
“You’ll be fine, Eb.” She looked directly at the camera. “Everything is on track. If anything changes, you’ll be alerted. Just… trust me, Eb. You’ll be all right.”
“Why’d you even come in?” he asked.
“To take care of a few things. And to hear your muddled voice.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She chuckled. “I was following up with the medical team. We’re behind schedule.”
She updated him with problems, the legal issues that kept cropping up, the ethical ramifications continuing to loom. She needed more money but didn’t ask for it. She smiled through the weariness, hiding what was really on her mind.
Eb had allowed her to crank up the money pit of medical research, giving her what she wanted. Maybe he was desperate; maybe she was taking advantage of him.
