Humbug (The Unwinding of Ebenezer Scrooge): A Science Fiction Adventure, page 20
Once again, Avocado was burning money faster than dry kindling.
Six months ago, a company released a groundbreaking discovery of artificial stem cells, the exact innovation Jacob had envisioned. Jerri reminded him of that. They were showing promise to rebuild failed organs or damaged limbs. Three-dimensional printers were already fabricating organic organs. The use of synthetic stem cells called biomites would enhance the replication process.
We need to catch up, Jerri said. It’s now or never.
It was 8:28 a.m. “Is that all?” Eb said.
She sat back, cradling the mug. No attempt to kill the connection, the pause stretched out. Those were the moments he considered inviting her to the Castle.
She would have to see him then. She wouldn’t recognize him if she did. And she wasn’t going to wear a blindfold, either.
“We need to talk, Eb.”
“Okay.” It was 8:29 a.m. “Tomorrow.”
She was nodding but not in agreement. Perhaps she recognized the strain in his voice. Or maybe it just wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have on Christmas Eve.
“Merry Christmas, Eb.”
“Yes. Okay.”
He didn’t like the way that ended, but it was 8:30 a.m. The meeting was over. A blank holo hung in space.
He wound the timeline back to a still frame of Jerri with her coffee. He stared at it until 8:35 a.m.—five minutes too long—wondering what she was thinking.
TWENTY-SEVEN
~
Another breakfast arrived at 9:00 a.m.
A marble countertop was between the treadmill and bed, a miniature version of what was in the kitchen. He centered the tray, placed the cloth napkin on his lap and smoothed out the wrinkles.
At 9:15 a.m., the projection room view shifted.
Pots and pans appeared over him. An industrial refrigerator was to the right with an apron hanging on the handle—an apron that was probably still warm. Natty and Addy sat at the island, their black shoes kicking the elevated stools.
“Good morning, girls.”
“Good morning, Uncle Scrooge.”
They grabbed their forks, the starter pistol having been fired, and stabbed the yellow pile of eggs. Natty was on the left, her green ribbon drooping over her forehead. Addy was on the right, the loops of her red ribbon tight and shiny. Their dolls lay on the counter. The girls would wipe down the counter when they were finished.
That was the deal.
A relationship was happening, a slow build that took a year. They ate meals together (sort of). They talked (kind of).
Eb cut his muffin in half. “Have you finished your chores?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have finished your studies?”
“No, sir.”
A fleck of buttered egg shot from Addy’s lips. She covered her mouth but only laughed harder. Natty joined her.
“Girls.”
It was best to nip the laughing fits before they started. No one was there to calm them down. Natty leaned over until their foreheads were touching. She whispered behind her hand. Addy stopped laughing, like a button had been pushed.
“Natty?” Eb dabbed his mouth. “What did you say?”
“I asked Addy to stop laughing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
They ate quietly again, the tom-tom of their shoes banging against the stools.
Eb would rewind the incident when breakfast ended. The secret language had vanished. Not a single cryptic syllable since last Christmas. They spoke impeccable English. But Eb still listened.
Another Christmas Eve had arrived, after all.
He sipped his spinach-infused smoothie and wiped the green mustache from his lip but not before the girls giggled at his silly face. This got them every time. Uncle Scrooge has a mustache. Shave it, they sometimes exclaimed. And he would wipe it with the napkin.
“What will you do today?” he asked.
“Color,” they said. “Play.”
Very few things escaped Eb’s paranoid eye, but it never occurred to him that the girls were eight years old. They had birthdays every year. He watched them blow out the candles, he counted the number of smoldering wicks, watched them open practical gifts like toothbrushes and washcloths. He knew their age.
But he didn’t notice they were still quite young.
If he wound back the memories to the day they arrived, he might notice very little had changed about them. But he never did; he just accepted what was presented to him.
A peripheral holo popped open as he finished the smoothie. A box truck was approaching the front gate. This was a live view, a bleak outlook of a blizzard-ravaged mountainside road that, despite being cleared that morning, was already drifting.
It was 9:33 a.m.
“What is that?”
“Hash browns,” the girls said.
“I’m not talking to you.” He looked at the ceiling, where the illusion of pots and pans dangled. “There is a truck at the front gate. Report.”
A droid marched into the foul weather, the exposed skinwrap gray and dull. Icy pellets bounced off his head. The gates began to swing open.
“What is happening?” Eb said. “Who is this?”
“A delivery.” The echoing voice was tinny and flat.
“What delivery?”
The box truck swung around and a very large man opened the back door. The droid stood back.
“A tree,” the voice said.
The girls threw up their hands and cheered, yellow chunks of egg falling on their laps.
“I didn’t approve,” Eb said.
A small holo lit in front of him, a document with his approval and date stamp. Last July. Those were the foggy days. He was still adjusting to a change in medication. It was before he confined himself to the projection room, before he established the schedule. The structure.
“I said they could have an ornament,” Eb said.
“That is the ornament.”
The girls had been so good. So smart. He wanted to reward them despite his lifelong creed of not rewarding employees for behavior they were already being paid to do. He saw no logic in paying someone beyond what was already agreed upon. What use was a contract, then?
“Send it back,” Eb said.
“Unacceptable.”
The very large man jumped into the truck and started for the road before he could argue. Another droid joined the first one. Together, they dragged it toward the house.
“Leave it on the front porch.” Eb clutched the napkin, pulling it taut across his thighs. “And don’t decorate it.”
An image rose from the foggy past, stepping into the spotlight of his awareness. A tree on a front porch. Decorated. Lit.
He attempted to look away, to sweep it back to where he kept those memories forgotten—the dreadlock man and the children, the kitchen where Jerri and Carol discussed Rick leaving Avocado.
The stools tipped over. The girls ran toward the front door, the counter littered with eggs.
“Girls! Clean up! Come back, clean up.”
They arrived at the front door still celebrating. The droid opened the door, a gust of biting snow blowing across the foyer. They pressed their faces against the narrow windows, smudging the glass with lip marks. They would discuss this later.
Eb finished his muffin at 9:45 a.m. He returned the projection room’s view to the tranquil scene of a crystal mountaintop and quiet valleys.
He didn’t notice the girls whispering.
TWENTY-EIGHT
~
Water droplets woke him at 10:40 a.m.
Groggy, Eb pried the black band from his eyes. “Who is it?”
A holo hovered above his feet. A very young man was looking at him. His cheeks were acne scarred, the pockmarks rolling beneath flexing muscles as he viciously chewed gum. Long cabinets lined the wall behind him, the depths of IT.
“Hello?” Freddy said.
Eb fixed his glasses in place. “You were supposed to call at noon.”
“Sorry, Mr. Scrooge.”
“What is it?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
Eb paused. “Then what?”
“We’re going to initiate the disconnection in ten minutes.” He cleared his throat. “The, um, dataflow has started.”
“The what?”
“The dataflow, Mr. Scrooge.”
“The program… is back?” Eb sat up and pulled a blanket around him. He was suddenly chilled.
“It showed up about half an hour ago.” The gum snapped inside his left cheek. “As far as we can tell, something signaled the initiation from outside the plant. It appears to be dormant code that woke up and began a self-replicating cycle.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Nothing right now, Mr. Scrooge.”
“Well, what is it doing exactly? Is it juggling numbers or playing tic-tac-toe?”
“Redundant actions, Mr. Scrooge. We did identify similar code from last year, though.” He squinted at something on the desk.
“What is it?”
“More of that strange code. I can send it if you want, but I wouldn’t worry. It’s contained, Mr. Scrooge. We have it quarantined and we’re already analyzing it.” He cleared his throat. “We’re going to cut the connection to your castle.”
“If it’s nothing to worry about,” Eb said, “why are we breaking the connection early?”
“Just playing it safe, that’s all.”
The gum was getting murdered by his back molars. Freddy wasn’t confident, not like Kyle was. But even Kyle couldn’t handle the pressure and left Avocado last February. This guy and his team, they were supposed to be the best in Silicon Valley and even they didn’t know what the program was, where it came from or where it went.
If they did, Eb wouldn’t be staring at a face full of pimple scars.
“Don’t disconnect just yet,” Eb said. “I need to scrape the newsfeeds.”
“You haven’t been watching…” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The pitch of his voice went up. “You haven’t seen the newsfeeds yet today?”
“No. I do that in the evening.” He didn’t want to share his obsessive dedication to the schedule.
“Okay,” the kid said. “You’ll be in total isolation once we cut the cord. Castle Grayskull will be on lockdown.”
“Castle what?”
He swallowed. “Just the… sorry, sir. I was thinking of something else. Go ahead and scrape the feeds for later, just let me know when you’re ready.”
Eb went to the treadmill. He would walk until 11:30 a.m. to get back on track. His legs were already tired. He’d lost twenty minutes of his nap. When he stepped off, little jolts of energy twitched at the corners of his mouth. He sensed an oncoming train.
And he was tied to the tracks.
TWENTY-NINE
~
A marching band stomped through his head.
He had been dreaming of a plank. It was the width of a sidewalk but made of wood. Sky was all around, thick billowy clouds below. Occasionally, cotton candy would swirl over the edges, foggy fingers streaming in front of him. It seemed he’d been walking this board for a long time.
He shaded his eyes.
The end of the plank was buried in a storm cloud, bruised edges swirling at the perimeter, flashes of lightning in the belly. That was when the marching band woke him.
Or was it thunder?
Eb opened his eyes. Clouds were above him, but not from the dream. These were projected across the domed ceiling. He was clutching his mattress, sheets damp with sweat.
More thunder.
It was outside the door, footsteps pounding the floor.
His head was a sandbag. Arms molten lead. Legs steel beams.
The air was fluid, slightly sour. It took a long minute to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbery sensations returning to his face. He shuffled to the sink. A dose of cold water washed away a heavy layer of slumber and dripped from his chin.
The stomping parade passed outside the projection room again. He fixed his glasses.
9:00 p.m.
That wasn’t the plan. His early evening nap was supposed to end at 7:00 p.m, at which time he would eat a snack while he watched the newsfeeds. His empty stomach confirmed it.
Eb opened a holo as he changed into dry clothing. The hallway was empty. The droid must’ve retrieved the 6:00 p.m. tray when he overslept. He could use a shower, but it was still early. Best to wait until the girls were asleep.
Why aren’t they in their room?
“Girls?”
Holos dialed views through the Castle, following footsteps and cascading laughter.
“Girls, it’s time for bed.” He called to the sky, “Why aren’t they in bed?”
The droid didn’t answer. The entire schedule was off. Maybe the disconnection from Avocado was making a mess, but that didn’t make sense. The droid wasn’t connected to Avocado. He was integrated with the Castle.
The stampede passed outside the door.
Eb spun with surprise, but when he lit up a view, the hallway was empty. He jumped the view to the foyer and was distracted by a red glow around the front door.
The Christmas tree.
It was wrapped in lights that twinkled in rhythm to silent carols. Tinsel and ornaments were draped over the branches that swayed in a gusting wind. A few of the ornaments were nestled in the snow like decorative eggs. Another storm was approaching.
Below the lower branches, partially buried in a drift, the lights reflected off shiny paper.
A gift.
“Schedule,” he muttered. “Get back to the schedule.”
Eb brushed his teeth and washed his face. Clean, dry and refreshed, he went to the treadmill to step back into rhythm. There would be no sleeping until midnight had passed. This was a bad night to get off schedule, but it wasn’t impossible. It was only 9:45 p.m. Just stay the course, keep steady.
He fell into the rhythm of walking meditation.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The room projected a peaceful valley and majestic mountains. The air felt crackly. His skin was dry and itchy. He wanted to crawl out of his body and wash it down the drain.
A shower couldn’t come soon enough.
He pulled open a holo of the girls’ bedroom. Two lumps were beneath the comforter, their hair splayed on the pillows, foreheads together. Arms out. The droids must’ve corralled their late night run.
He sighed. So far, so good.
At 10:30 p.m., he pulled up the newsfeeds scraped from earlier in the day. Without a connection, the reports were slightly stale. The disconnection bothered him. On top of everything else, knowing he was cut off from the world was frightening. What if something happened? No one would hear him call for help.
The isolation was palpable, a thick blanket thrown over the Castle. The atmosphere was dense and stagnant, scratching his throat like wool.
He called up Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, 1st Movement, a piece that never failed. Though he knew nothing about conducting, his hands flitted sharply. He pretended there was a crowd behind him that was awestruck with his instinct for music.
When the air ceased to itch his throat, he sank into his beloved newsfeeds and no longer felt alone. The talking heads rattled off their stories. Their lips were moving, but the words were buried beneath Beethoven.
Christmas carolers sang at shopping malls.
Children cried on Santa’s lap.
People hustled into snow-driven homes, fires in the hearths, stockings flat and wanting.
It was 11:00 p.m. His hands stopped.
He was midway through Vivaldi’s Winter when the Castle appeared. It was a distant view from across the valley. It zoomed low to the ground, buzzing around trees and, temporarily, hiding in the hollow of large stones, eluding the patrolling drones.
Captivated, catatonic, Eb watched this one soar beneath the Castle and hover at the front door. The blinds were pulled tight. It attempted to peek through the seams, searching for a forgotten window or a crooked slat. It crossed over the top of the castle, almost colliding with the Skeye™ dome.
A shiver stiffened his legs. The Skeye™ dome.
Neglected, the miniature forest had dried up, the needles brown. Limbs barren.
The music continued.
The suspicions of a missing tycoon, the shuttered castle and absent leadership of Avocado, a company that seemed to be doing just fine without him. The rumors spanned all the way to last Christmas Eve, the last time he’d been seen in public, the last interview he did.
He’d fallen victim to Grinch syndrome.
He’d gone crazy.
Jerri had assured the media that he was doing just fine, that he was stepping back from the company to enjoy his life with the girls, that he was still involved with the company and valued his privacy. The world seemed to forget about him.
So why are they reporting it now?
He would expect it on the entertainment newsfeed, but not a legitimate newsfeed. Earlier footage replayed of the first drone intrusion—the Loch Ness moment in the exercise room. The view zoomed past the snowball fight and slowed. The music drowned out the reporters. Whatever they were discussing didn’t reach him.
Something was off.
The droids were packing snowballs and hurling them across the driveway, standing guard at the entrances of snow caves.
Where are the girls?
They were out there that day. Eb had seen them, their floppy stocking caps, the fuzzy balls, their cheerful laughter, snotty lips and cherub cheeks.
They weren’t hiding.
Before he could freeze the feed, Jerri’s face appeared between the talking heads. She was smiling, a touch of makeup softening her features. This was her headshot, the one they showed whenever they were reporting financials. Rick’s picture was next to it.
The Avocado logo between them.
Rick had left a year ago. He’d been out of the industry since then, sitting fat and happy with compensation from a non-compete clause.
Words crawled across the bottom.
