“I knew you’d like it.” Joule beamed. “I was thinking after supper we might catch a movie at the picture house. I could watch Singing in the Rain for all eternity, though Dragnet’s probably more your style.”
“That Joe Friday is a hep cat for sure. But as nice as that sounds, I think I’d prefer to stay in and read.”
Joule pouted. “Well, I guess we have had a busy day. If you’d like, I could charge up one of the portable readers. They offer direct access to the over thirty-two million titles I downloaded straight from the Library of Congress.”
“Only thirty-two million?” Robinson teased. “Actually, I kind of like the way a real book feels in my hands. Plus, they have that smell that reminds me of every library I’ve ever been to.”
“That smell is actually cellulose decay. It stems from papermakers using groundwood pulp in lieu of linen or cotton. It contains a compound called lignin, which breaks down into acids and makes the paper brittle.”
“Good to know,” Robinson chuckled. “You mind if I take a slice of this pie?”
The Sweethome Library was just on the other side of Asimov Park, where you could recline on fake grass and even get a tan under the UV lights. On holidays like the Fourth of July, Joule said she could even put on a fireworks show. Robinson had no clue what that meant, but it sounded intriguing.
The library held over twenty thousand books in tall stacks called accordion shelving. With the turning of a wheel, you could expand the stacks and delve between them. It had taken Robinson two days to learn how to use the system and another day to find what he was looking for. Joule had told him the reading area of the library afforded him privacy—there were no cameras there either—but he preferred to read in his bed.
When Robinson returned to his apartment, he stripped down to his boxers and ribbed tank top and propped up a couple pillows before snapping open his satchel to retrieve his first book. He’d turned the pages for fifteen minutes when he finally heard the lights in the hall shut down.
To play it safe, Robinson waited another quarter hour before making his way to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, then as quietly as possible, forced himself to vomit in the toilet. He should have recognized that Joule had been drugging him sooner, but the stress of Friday’s situation had blinded him. It was only after passing out each night and waking up groggy the next that he realized something was wrong. If confronted, Joule would have surely said she did it for his benefit—to help him sleep through these troubling times. But like all things she did, it was simply another exercise in control.
The most difficult part of Robinson’s performance was pretending he enjoyed Joule’s attention. Instead, all he felt was rage. But after scouring the library for books on computer systems, he’d stumbled across one that seemed to illuminate his plight. It was an old title called Artificial Intelligence: A Modern Approach. It gave him an understanding of the program’s inner thought patterns and a few theories of where things might have gone wrong. He wasn’t sure if Joule had been corrupted over the years or if she’d achieved that watershed singularity that gave her sentience. All he knew was that he had to stop her before Friday’s condition declined past the point of no return.
One of Robinson’s biggest worries was Joule’s ability to measure deception. Even in the earliest days of civilization, humans had devised physiological methods to discern truth from lies. Every lie created an autonomic response in the human body. Raised blood pressure, respiration, capillary dilation, and muscle movement. Computers had taken those traits and expanded upon them tenfold. Voice stress analysis. Functional magnetic resonance imaging. Cognitive chronometry. Electroencephalography. The list went on and on. Robinson knew he’d never be able to overcome them all, so he decided his best path was to focus his mind on something positive every time a delicate subject arose. In these cases, he remembered moments with Friday. Their early training sessions in Washington, DC. Their nights below the stars on the rooftop of the Lincoln Memorial. Their escape from the Bone Flayers’ base. Their defeat of Arga’Zul. He could only hope these memories were enough to contain the storm inside him.
After Robinson exited the bathroom, he grabbed his satchel and pulled out the stitching strip he’d taken from the gymnasium. He tore it into two long cords, tying them together until it measured three meters long. Then he padded softly to the back of the room and tied one end of it to the leg of a table before tucking it into the recesses of the carpet that ran along the wall. He trailed the final end under the sheets and into the bed.
He lay there for several hours and grew drowsy. The vomiting hadn’t flushed all the drugs out of his system. Just when it seemed like he might nod off for good, he heard a muffled sound in the far corner of the room—a minute, metallic squeak followed by something moving across the carpet.
Robinson remained perfectly still and took deep breathes to mimic sleep. As a gentle hum approached his bed, he fought the instinct to open his eyes. After a tinkle of china, the hum began to recede. Only when the sound ebbed away did he pull the cord in his hand tight.
He waited, heart galloping in the dark. After a minute, he slipped out of bed, making sure to keep the cord taught as he followed it to the back wall where he saw the string had done the trick—it had kept the hidden hatch in the wall from closing.
Joule had insisted all along that there was no surveillance equipment inside his room, and Robinson had come to believe her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have access. What piqued his curiosity was the day he’d hopped out of bed and stepped in his leftovers. He’d cleaned his feet and left the room but hadn’t noticed if the plate was gone when he returned. There were other minor things. Garments moved on the floor. His book satchel laying open each morning. Eventually, he put it all together and discovered the secret panel.
It led to a service tunnel three feet by three feet that trailed off into the bowels of Sweethome. Dim lights hovered outside each room and included a dim readout that read: Housing Section/Room 4-01, Power Consumption 1%. The tunnel was warm and difficult to move in. Robinson hit his head several times before he got a feel for things.
At the end of the hall was a kind of elevator the AWBs used. He eased himself down to the lower level, and the maze was even more complex. It took him an hour to work out how the grids worked. He eventually found the readout for the Dining Room, Power Consumption 2% and smelled tuna casserole as he passed.
He was pushing on when he heard a nearby elevator descending. He scrambled back into the shadows and waited.
The AWB didn’t look like he expected it to. He imagined a humanoid creature made of metal, but instead it was a boxy white composite on treads with small metallic arms and a singular eye that roved atop the housing unit. This one carried a tray of dishes. Robinson waited until it turned west and disappeared.
Robinson let out the air he’d been holding and took a deep breath. He didn’t know how many AWBs Joule had at her disposable or if they were armed, but he couldn’t afford to be seen by one. His plan was to get a better understanding of Sweethome’s layouts and, if possible, discover where its main server room was hidden. In this maze, it seemed like an even taller order now. He was about to turn back when he saw three AWBs glide down a far tunnel in slow succession. He moved in for a closer look.
The tunnel had grown warmer the farther west he went, which made Robinson suspect he was nearing the superconductors. Soon his shirt was soaked.
He crawled carefully toward the end of the corridor where he’d seen the AWBs disappear. There, a readout read: Infirmary, Power Consumption 6%. Robinson knew it was a mistake, but he decided he couldn’t come this close to Friday and not try and see her. He slipped into the elevator shaft and climbed.
From behind the hidden gate, Robinson saw a faint light and heard the machines ticking off Friday’s vitals. He was thrilled to discover the gate was positioned directly underneath the room’s camera. Unlocking the panel as carefully as possible, he slipped out.
Friday hadn�
��t moved from the bed, but now she had a breather mask and a feeding tube running up her nose. In all the time Robinson knew Friday, she never looked so vulnerable. He felt the old rage stir in him and blood quickly started pounding in his ears. It sounded like the surf back home when they struck the cliffs beneath the Western Gate. He knew that anger could overtake him if he let it, so he breathed deep and reined it in.
Robinson hated leaving Friday again, but he’d already risked so much to see her. He took one last look at her before lifting the hidden gate and returning to the tunnel. Almost immediately he saw a glow of something approaching in the elevator shaft. He looked around in a panic. With no other access doors nearby, he scrambled deeper into the tunnel, hoping he would go unseen. To his surprise, he found a narrow inlet hidden there. He moved further along until he came across yet another readout. This one said: Section U – STA/BA1. Power consumption: 38%.
38%? That was an astronomical amount of power.
Robinson felt an overwhelming amount of excitement. There was only one thing that could command that much power: the server room. If he could unplug Joule, he could end all of this now.
The panel opened with some difficulty, but once inside, Robinson felt the freezing temperature and knew he’d guessed right. A doorway at the end of the hall beckoned with light. He made his way to it and entered the room.
Robinson was stunned. It wasn’t the server room after all, but a sprawling, cavernous room filled with giant steel vats, each marked with symbols that read: WARNING: liquid nitrogen. Gas spilled from a snake of pipes that littered the ceiling and floors. Robinson walked deeper into the room, shivering as his body temperature plummeted.
There must be thousands, he thought.
They carried on farther than he could see. He was confused. Why would Joule need liquid nitrogen in such vast amounts? He noticed each tank had a glass lens near the top with a readout just underneath it. He stepped on a pipe for a peek inside. He gasped in horror. Looking back at him from inside the tank was the face of a woman.
Robinson scaled another tank, wiping frost from the readout. It listed: Kleden, D. Male. Age 24. Insertion date: 2281. Virus/Neg. The next tank housed Woodrell, C. Female. Age 44. Insertion date: 2288. Virus/Neg. Then: Pool, S. Female. Age 11. Insertion date: 2291. Virus/Neg.
The names went on and on. Suddenly, it became so clear. Joule had lied about having no other charges. They had come from the start. The ones that paid for the sanctuary. More had come after. Two hundred years of survivors looking for sanctuary had stumbled upon Sweethome, praying it was their oasis, only to discover it was a nightmare. Maybe they’d lived here for a time. Maybe they’d been happy. Then, slowly, surely, they saw this town for what it was—a prison. And Joule its warden. Its supreme ruler. Had they all run afoul of her? Disappointed her? Or was this simply the endgame of her play?
Robinson felt nauseous. There was nothing more for him to do. He need to get back to his room before morning arrived. As he ran back toward the AWB gate, he passed a tank that was thirty percent warmer than the rest. Had he stopped to wipe the condensation off its window, he might found the face familiar. Had he stopped to check the readout, he would have surely recognized the name: Saah, V.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hello Emptiness
Robinson made it back to his room an hour before the wall screen lit with the picturesque glow of a sunrise. He hadn’t slept. He was grateful. Were their minds alive inside those frozen prisons? Robinson didn’t even want to think about that horror.
Joule greeted him that morning with the same quaint charm befitting of a representative of a place called Sweethome. Robinson did everything he could to keep up his front. He fought back the feelings of paranoia. She knows! He didn’t want to entertain what would happen if she confronted him.
And yet as the days passed, Joule showed him every courtesy, never wavering in her attempts to win his affections. She was quick to exercise with him in the gymnasium. Even quicker to give him private time with Friday. The food remained the highest quality. The music always catered to his moods. No topics of conversation were off-limits. No amount of silence could raise her ire. She was the perfect host.
And while Joule worked tirelessly to earn his favor, Robinson did everything he could to maintain her trust. They took in movies together and went to the soda fountain afterward to debate them over ice cream. They strolled down Main Street at night to look at the stars. His dance lessons continued—and his skill for countermoves grew ever stronger. It was a jubilant, maddening time.
If the days were filled with overt occurrences, the nights were filled with covert ones. Robinson continued to plunder the library for all the intelligence he could gather. There was little to no information on classified bases—their construction or operation—so he’d have to piece together the functioning matrix of Sweethome on his own. The quest to understand artificial intelligence only took him so far. Most books in the library outlined the study as if it were theoretical—always a few years to a few decades away from being realized. And those that did offer practical examples were as far removed from Joule’s capabilities as imaginable.
Robinson studied computer theory as it applied to major systems, yet without access to a terminal, there was no way to test his knowledge. He needed to find Joule’s control room, not only to try and shut down her system, but also to access any files she had on the City of Glass. And yet in the weeks and months he’d been trapped underground, he’d come no closer to finding it than when he first entered. He’d made a big show of exploring Sweethome under the pretense that when more survivors arrived, he might be her human ambassador. And although she acquiesced to his every request, the one place he looked for was always out of reach.
“Bobby,” Joule said one day.
“Yes?” Robinson said.
He was lying on the grass staring up at the clouds moving across the faux sky. The clouds were soft, but they looked so real. If Robinson allowed himself, he thought he could feel the change in heat as they passed in front of the sun.
“The time is approaching when a decision should be made about Friday and your child.”
Robinson swallowed but said nothing.
“By my calculations, this is the twenty-ninth week of the pregnancy. The child weighs just under three pounds and measures between seventeen and eighteen inches. Given the maturation of the vital organs and lung growth, the data suggests it has a seventy-eight percent chance of surviving a premature cesarean birth.”
“What about the virus?” Robinson asked. “Has it been infected?”
“The previous amniocentesis was negative. I’m loathe to perform another one for fear of damaging the uterus or amniotic sac. The ultrasound, however, reveals no apparent mutations.”
“And Friday?”
“Her condition continues to deteriorate. What would you like to do?”
Robinson felt himself unravelling all at once. His mouth had gone dry. He was unable to talk.
“What would you like me to do?” Joule reiterated.
Die. Explode. Vanish off the face of the earth.
“See outside,” Robinson said.
“Pardon?”.
“It must be fall, right? When we first entered the valley here, I remember thinking how green everything was. Even the mountain ranges looked hospitable. But I’ve always loved the fall. The turning of leaves. The colors of autumn. It was autumn when my mother first went away. Can you show it to me?”
Joule appeared to be debating his request. Then all at once the clouds above flickered and transitioned to a camera feed west of the airport outside.
It was fall. The leaves of golden aspens shimmered amidst the tall conifers. A herd of elk gathered for rutting season, the males’ bugling calls echoing through the hills. Tumbling creeks ran through willowy meadows as the animals began to forage for winter. Robinson knew these images would break Friday’s heart, and yet, he couldn’t turn away.
Finally, he said, “I’ll make m
y decision tomorrow.” He rose silently and headed for his room.
Since Robinson’s first foray into the maze of service tunnels, he’d gone back another half dozen times. Using pilfered pencil and paper, he’d managed to construct a general map of the place, but he’d still come no closer to tracking down the control room or server farm.
Caution had played a big part in Robinson’s movements to date. And although he’d avoided the high traffic areas, he’d still had to deal with the occasional AWB crossing his path. Despite the danger, he’d managed to stay undetected. He knew he was missing something. After all, he’d found the room with the tanks by mistake. He wondered if the control room was similarly hidden.
Robinson was about to climb into the shaft that led back to the infirmary when he realized something. All this time, he’d been avoiding the AWBs for fear of getting caught, when in fact they were the only things down here that knew the layout. The AWBs primary purpose was to keep Sweethome running. So, where did they go when they needed to recharge?
Robinson waited in the dark recesses until the AWBs set about their tasks. He began to see a pattern. Not where they went, but where they returned when each job was done. He realized they’d come from the northeast, an area he rarely explored because he knew it only led to Main Street. Acting on a hunch, he followed that route, passing the readouts that named the individual businesses.
He almost missed the tunnel because it was completely dark. Then he felt the heat. He tried to temper his optimism as he hustled in. It wound in several directions before finally coming to a gate, larger than any before. Inside he heard a loud humming and knew he’d found the right place. His hands groped around until he found the readout. His touch illuminated it. It read: Section A-1/CTRL. Power consumption: 29%.
He had done it. Now, he needed one more day to put his plan into motion.
At breakfast, Robinson told Joule wanted he wanted to do.
“Where I come from when someone is gravely ill, the family gathers around their death bed to read them letters. Typically, these note a favorite memory or fond reflection. It’s a rite meant to send your loved one off in a positive way.”
Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3) Page 18