Barren Cove

by Ariel S. Winter

  “Dean,” I said out loud, “do you know why the family decided to rent the cabana?”

  “Family expenses have grown with Mr. Beachstone the way he is,” Dean said.

  I tried moving my new arm; it didn’t respond. “Sick,” I said. A message informed me that I had to reboot my system before the new hardware would be fully integrated. “I have to reboot now, Dean,” I said. “We’ll talk when I awake.”

  “You’ll need the password, sir,” Dean said.

  “For what?”

  “My log.”

  The family must back up to the house computer when they reboot; it would be well protected. I looked at the lifeless humanoid hand resting at my side. I thought of Clarke rattling his fingers. “I’m shutting down now.” I rebooted.

  It took half an hour. When I came back online, the new hardware was immediately at my disposal. I used it to pick up the stump of my old arm, and fitted it in the Styrofoam mold in which my new arm had arrived. There was something aesthetically pleasing about the way the shoulder fit snugly in the Styrofoam, but the arm then tapered off into a metal pole, the rest of the arm suggested by the empty mold. I wiggled all of my fingers in the manner that Clarke had done, but the simul-skin coating made the action silent, human. I raised my left arm and considered the clamp. “Robo,” as Clarke had said. I went to Dean’s console.

  “Congratulations, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you, Dean.” I used my new hand to file through some menus on the console’s touch screen. I then took one of my memory chips and inserted it into the console and began running one of my decryption programs. An asterisk and a dash alternated at a rate of once every millisecond as the program searched for the first character in the password.

  I went out onto the beach as the decryption program worked. The rain had pounded the sand hard and flat. The waves were still strong, but not dangerous. I walked into the water, allowing my new hand to trail in the waves. I’d have to place a complaint about my missing hand with Lifetime Mechanics, and then, once I was fully repaired, I could swim. When asked by my friends why I would even want to swim, I’d found that I had no answer, and I tried to explain that it was just because there was no answer that I wanted to swim. Such a repetitive, mechanical endeavor seemed so . . . human. Perhaps Clarke and the pink-haired girl and all the others were right—I was outdated. More so than Kapec, because he was at least utilitarian. My very logic was outdated. I shouldn’t have been replacing my hardware, but rather erasing my memory and starting from scratch. But then, robots didn’t want recycled hardware anymore. They wanted to build their offspring from scratch. And I was criticized for being a human lover, for not embracing my robot self, when they were emulating humans in the ultimate biological form—procreating.

  But if here in Barren Cove there was still a human . . .

  Message from Dean: “Password accepted.”

  I returned to the cabana. Wet sand clung to my feet. I went to the console. It asked, “Download to memory, or open file?”

  I opened the file.

  3.

  KENT WATCHED THE human child from the shadows of the cabana. The boy stood at the edge of the water, staring out at the ocean. Each wave covered the boy’s feet, foaming around his ankles, but he didn’t move. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Kent had come to the beach to be alone. But even here, the boy got in the way. Kent didn’t understand his sister’s fascination with the human, or his father’s obsession—they had been just fine on their own. Beachstone squatted down, sitting in the water and examining something beneath him. He sat. Kent watched.

  No, Kent could hardly believe the accepted history that humans built the robots, that they had ruled the world, and Beachstone didn’t help in convincing him. If Father was right that Beachstone was about the same age as Kent and Mary, one look made it apparent who should be the masters. He and his sister were the size of adult humans, and with more knowledge. All he saw in Beachstone was an inferior creature that could be crushed with ease. Humans died so easily. That was why there were so few of them left. It was entirely plausible that something might happen to Beachstone on the beach right now, and that he might not return to Barren Cove alive. Like with the birds Kent liked to dissect, there was so little that separated human life from death.

  Kent stood and walked down the beach. “What are you doing?” he said.

  Beachstone stood and threw a shell into the approaching wave. It disappeared in the churning water.

  “I guess you really think you’re something, don’t you?” Kent said. Beachstone continued to stare out at sea. “You’re shit, you know that?” Kent said. He wanted the boy to look at him. “Father only brought you here because he felt sorry for you.”

  Beachstone looked at Kent. His pupils contracted; his eyes were steel. He started up the beach.

  “Hey, come back here,” Kent said. “Hey, come back; I’m just kidding. I’m just fooling around. You’re not going to tell anybody, are you?”

  Beachstone went into the cabana; Kent followed him. Beachstone went straight to the back room and closed the door. Kent had thought that humans were social creatures. Didn’t they need companionship? Didn’t they need to talk? Beachstone was less expressive than Kapec, and he predated complex emotions. The sound of water hitting water came from the back room, and Kent realized that Beachstone was urinating. He was fascinated despite himself. He had known what the bathrooms were for intellectually, but to see them used . . . He wished he had followed the boy so that he could witness it himself.

  “Beachstone?” he called.

  There was no answer. Kent had expected some of the humans from town to come looking for the boy almost as soon as he arrived, and so he had tried to have nothing to do with the human, because the human wasn’t going to be there long. But when a week passed and they didn’t come, Kent began to worry. His father and sister seemed to have reverted to slave robots, doting on the human’s every need. Kent hated him. He hated him for taking away his family. He hated him for being special. But perhaps he was approaching it the wrong way. Perhaps he needed to invite the boy as an ally. He went to the cabinet where he kept his dissecting gear and pulled out the case along with a bird that he had cut open and tacked to a board.

  Beachstone came out of the bathroom. Kent turned with the dead bird in hand, and the boy stopped and grimaced.

  “I wanted to show you this. I found him on the beach. He was dead already, and something had picked at him; that’s why there’s blood on his feathers here.” Kent set the board down on the table with the dissecting case next to it. Beachstone approached despite himself. “You see, that’s his heart, and those are his lungs.” Kent looked at Beachstone. “You’ve got those; that’s what makes you breathe.”

  “I know that,” Beachstone said.

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” At least he was talking, though. “You want to touch it?”

  Beachstone reached out a hand and went right for the heart. He pulled back at the first touch and then dove in with both hands. “It smells like shit.”

  Kent opened his dissecting case. “Mary did that one with me. Because I found it already dead.”

  “She’s got pretty hair,” Beachstone said.

  The comment renewed Kent’s anger. He didn’t have to make friends with this boy. He could kill him now. “Get up on the table,” he said.

  “Why?” Beachstone looked up at Kent, suspicious.

  “I want to do an experiment. Come on—it’ll be fun.”

  Beachstone put one foot on a chair, about to climb, when Kent reached below Beachstone’s armpits and began to raise him. “Let go of me!” Beachstone started to wiggle. “Let go!”

  “Okay, okay,” Kent said, letting go. Beachstone was sitting on the table. “Lie down.”

  “What are you going to do?” Beachstone said.

  “Just an experiment.” Kent reached ov
er and secured Beach­stone’s leg just below his shorts. Then he selected his sharpest scalpel from his dissecting kit. He moved fast, cutting into Beachstone’s leg just above the knee, too fast for Beachstone to even move. Blood welled up around the cut immediately, and Kent could feel all the muscles in Beachstone’s leg grow hard as the boy began to jerk away. Kent held him firmly though.

  “Kent!” Mary yelled from the cabana doorway.

  Beachstone knocked the dissecting box off the table, came up with another scalpel, and slashed across Kent’s arm, cutting the simul-skin to the endoskeleton, and then Mary was on Kent. Her momentum knocked Kent to the ground, and she was able to secure him there, having caught him unawares. “What are you doing?”

  “Just an experiment,” Kent said, looking up at his sister. Her hair cascaded down either side of her face, making a tunnel that joined their two faces together in privacy.

  “You were hurting him.”

  “Just an experiment.”

  “You can’t hurt him.”

  “You helped before.”

  “Those were birds; this is different.”

  “Why?”

  Mary’s eyes looked like Beachstone’s had on the beach: seething.

  “Let me up.”

  “You can’t hurt him. Father will deactivate you.”

  “Let me up, or I’ll get up.”

  Mary let go.

  Beachstone was still on the table, gripping his wound. Blood ran down the side of his leg and seeped out from between his fingers. He had remained silent through it all. He looked at Kent in defiance, refusing to give him the satisfaction of tears. Instead, a look of triumph crossed his face as he saw the sliced simul-skin on Kent’s arm. Kent realized this and said, “But we don’t bleed.” Then he rushed out of the cabana.

  Mary approached the table. “Let me see,” she said.

  Beachstone wouldn’t let go.

  “Let me see. I have to sew it up.”

  Beachstone opened his hands. The cut was deep, but it wasn’t long.

  “I’m impressed that you cut him back,” Mary said, digging through the spilled contents of the dissecting box and finding a needle and thread. She held the needle in the flame of a lighter from the kit. “He didn’t mean anything. He just likes to experiment.”

  “I’ll tell Asimov 3000.”

  “Don’t,” Mary said, stopping for a second. “Please don’t. He didn’t mean anything.”

  Beachstone grabbed at his leg, and tears sprang to his eyes.

  “Let me,” Mary said, pushing Beachstone’s hands away. She began to sew. Beachstone sucked air through his teeth. “It hurts,” Mary said in amazement. “I’m sorry, I just forgot about it hurting.”

  “It’s okay,” Beachstone managed. “Just finish.”

  “Kent just needs lots of attention,” Mary said as she worked. “He’s not used to having to share our attention with somebody else. He’s really harmless.” Even through the pain, Beachstone didn’t look as though he believed her. She realized his position and knew that what she was saying seemed thoughtless and insincere. She continued to sew in silence.

  4.

  SUNLIGHT FROM THE open window reflected on the dark mahogany dining room table, casting a white stripe down the center. Asimov 3000 dutifully waxed the wood once a year and dusted with a microfiber cloth once a week, so the table, which was never used, was as smooth as a mirror. Beachstone sat at the head of the table now. His collarbone was even with the tabletop, so he had to raise his arms at the shoulders in order to rest his hands on either side of the tablet sitting before him. Asimov 3000 had offered him a booster, but the boy refused, sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning forward to compensate for his height. The sun’s reflection shone across the tablet as well, and the elderly robot could not be certain that the boy could even see the screen.

  “Try again,” Asimov 3000 said from the seat to the boy’s left.

  Beachstone tapped the screen, and a cheery female voice said, “B, buh, B. The boy has the ball.”

  “B, buh, B,” Beachstone said after her.

  “Don’t just tap the screen for the answer,” Asimov 3000 said. “Try it yourself.”

  “B, buh, B,” Beachstone repeated.

  “Try the next one without tapping for the answer first,” Asimov 3000 said.

  Beachstone touched the arrow to advance, and an animated worm rode a wagon to the center of the screen. The letter W appeared in uppercase and lowercase above the picture. “M, mommy, M,” Beachstone said.

  “It looks similar to an M,” Asimov 3000 said, “but the M—”

  “Q, qua, Q.”

  “Don’t just guess,” Asimov 3000 said.

  Beachstone tapped the screen. The woman said, “W, wuh, W.” Then he hit the next arrow.

  How do I teach him patience? Asimov 3000 thought. The boy had identified all the letters and their sounds correctly only two days before. This was supposed to be review, and then they were going to work on sounding out three- and four-letter words. Asimov 3000 didn’t know if the boy was getting the answers wrong deliberately in defiance for having been forced to sit down and work, or if the boy’s biological mind was in some way lacking.

  Beachstone scratched at his thigh for the fifth time.

  “Is something bothering you there?” Asimov 3000 said. “Are you hurt?”

  Beachstone brought his hand back up on the table. He tapped the next arrow and read, “F, fuh, F.” He hit advance. “S, sss, S.” His eyes flicked up to see how this sudden success was being received.

  “Good,” Asimov 3000 said. “Again.”

  The boy got the next one and the one after that. So his mistakes had been willful. It reminded Asimov 3000 of Master Vandley’s children. Then, he would sit at the head of the table with the children to either side of him—except on the days Master Vandley took charge of the children’s lessons himself, of course—and sometimes the children would answer every question wrong for spite. But to get every question wrong, you had to know the right answers so as not to stumble upon them by accident.

  Beachstone scratched his thigh again, but Asimov 3000 refrained from comment. He had not been distracted by his student’s sudden improvement as the boy hoped, but if whatever Beachstone was hiding was important, it would come out. “Let’s try some reading,” he said. He took the tablet and navigated to the easy-reader section, then placed the tablet on the table in front of the boy.

  “ ‘The c-aaa-t,’ ” Beachstone sounded out, “ ‘is ff-aaa-t.’ ” He took a deep breath, sat up straighter, and resumed. “ ‘The c-at is saaad.’ ”

  “Good.”

  “ ‘The cat is aaa-lll-ss-ooo’— Alsoo?” Beachstone tapped the word, and the voice said, “Also.” “ ‘Also.’ Damn it.”

  “Don’t give up so easily.”

  “I should have known that.”

  “Beachstone,” Asimov 3000 said, and paused. The boy kept his eyes down. “You’re learning. Try again.”

  “ ‘Also cr-cr-yuh.’ ” He reached to touch the screen, but Asimov 3000’s hand darted out, blocking him.

  “Try—”

  Beachstone slid both hands under his teacher’s, pressing the whole screen. The recordings for the rest of the words on the page all played at once over each other in a jumble of sound.

  Asimov 3000 said nothing. They sat in silence for a moment, Beachstone with his head down.

  “Why do I have to learn this stuff anyway?” Beachstone said.

  “Why would you not want to learn to read?” Asimov 3000 said.

  “Everything can read itself out loud. Or a robot can just do it for me.”

  “What if you need to read a sign? Or the power is out?”

  “The power doesn’t go out,” Beachstone said.

  “The power has not gone out in thirty-two point six four year
s, but it can happen.”

  Beachstone reached out and tapped the tablet. The woman’s voice intoned, “Crying.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Beachstone said. “I’m never going to need to read.”

  Asimov 3000 tried to think of a response. The boy’s discouragement hurt. With Master Vandley’s children, there was never any question as to what purpose learning to read served. Master Vandley presented it as an absolute fact. But Asimov 3000 had to admit that it had been seventy-three years since he’d last had a child pupil, and perhaps things had changed. “Try again,” he said.

  Beachstone didn’t move.

  Asimov 3000 considered. “There was a time when humans could trust robots, as you are suggesting, rely on them. But now, if you don’t know how to read, you will never know who you can believe.”

  Beachstone’s face pulled tight.

  “You can’t trust anyone anymore, Beachstone.”

  “What about you?” the boy said.

  “Me, of course,” Asimov 3000 said, “and your brother and sister—”

  Beachstone flinched.

  “Mary and Kent,” Asimov 3000 corrected. “But you may not always wish to stay at Barren Cove.” Master Vandley’s children hadn’t.

  “I wish I could just upload reading into my brain like a robot,” Beachstone said, and scratched his leg. “I wish I could just be a robot.”

  “You are so much more than a robot. Without you, there would be no me.”

  “There was ‘you’ long before there was me,” Beachstone said.

  “Without people,” Asimov 3000 clarified.

  “You were doing fine without me,” Beachstone said.

  No, I wasn’t, Asimov 3000 thought. Mary and Kent had been consolation, but now there was purpose. “There is nothing more important than you,” Asimov 3000 said. “I am here for you.” He paused. “Okay?”