Barren Cove

by Ariel S. Winter

  She went to him, and he latched onto her back. They had never been swimming before, always keeping to dry land. The excitement and Beachstone’s suddenly light tone helped to ease some of the anxious pain from moments before. This was what she had missed, this . . . spontaneity. She continued forward, pulling him out into the water, and found herself, as always, wishing she could be like him, wishing she could have the same impulsive manner. She decided to try. “You on tight?” she asked, excited by the uncertainty.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Mary dove, spinning around, and then brought him back up.

  He beat at her, laughing and choking. “Monster,” he said. He pulled himself around so that he was in front of her.

  “What?” she said, playing innocent, relieved at his laughter.

  “What!” he said.

  “What?” she said, and then smiled.

  He tried to dunk her but couldn’t. He settled, his legs around her torso. “Your hair’s wet,” he said.

  “So’s yours,” Mary said.

  He picked up a strand of her hair. “What’s it made out of?”

  “It’s real hair. Human, I mean.”

  He twisted it around his finger, but it slid away from him. He grabbed at it again. Mary watched him examine her lock of hair. His eyes were intent, his brow furrowed. There was the sound of a distant motor, and Beachstone looked up. “We should keep moving,” he said.

  “There’s no hurry.”

  He detached himself from her and started swimming toward the shore.

  “Wait. There’s no hurry.” Mary caught up with him. They were walking now, emerging from the water, the sand shifting beneath their feet. Mary noticed a cut on the back of Beachstone’s arm, a fine line that ended in a deep red dot. “Wait, you’re cut. Let me see,” Mary said, grabbing for him. Beachstone fought in her arms. “Let me see.”

  “No,” he said, pushing her hands away.

  She held his arms down and looked over his shoulder at the back of his arm. The bleeding had already stopped. The cut was superficial. “It’s nothing,” Mary said. She let go of him. She thought of Kent’s parting barb from weeks ago: that robots don’t bleed. Organic life was so fragile.

  Beachstone grabbed ahold of her and squeezed, and Mary had a sudden understanding of what a hug was for. She gripped him back, restraining herself from crushing him. There was always so much to learn. So many things that she knew but did not understand. When Beachstone let go, Mary expected to see tears on his face, but there were none. Instead his eyes were set in a look of determination. Again, Mary was thrown by how little she understood his human emotions. Perhaps they functioned differently in a biomass than they did in herself. Beachstone turned toward town, and they walked. “Have you ever been to town?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything more.

  The sun had reached its apex. “Do you want your sandwich?”

  “No,” Beachstone said without looking at her.

  The cliff began to drop away. The rate of its decline seemed to match the sun’s descent so that it appeared as if the sun wasn’t moving at all. Mary noticed that Beachstone’s limp had become more pronounced even as their pace slowed; he was in pain. Mary wondered what the pain felt like. She had never been damaged. Sometimes her systems didn’t run as quickly as she was used to, or she realized that she was frozen, unable to complete a motion, but she was always able to fix the problem by running diagnostics or rebooting her system. It was nothing more than being tired or overworked, a software glitch. But Beachstone’s software was working with no problem. She could tell by the set of his face, so resolute.

  “Is your leg all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Mary looked for any sign of strain in his face. There was none. She knew from his week of convalescence that he needed to eat, he needed to drink—she hadn’t brought water! “Maybe we should turn back.”

  He stopped, and looked out at the ocean.

  “What?” Mary said.

  “I think I’ll have lunch now,” he said. He held out his hand for the bag. Relieved, Mary put it in his hand. He sat, crossing his good leg under his body, allowing the injured leg to flop on the beach. Mary sat beside him, trying to judge how close she should be. “We’re not going back,” Beachstone said with food in his mouth.

  “I don’t want you to get sick again,” she said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I really think we should go back,” Mary said.

  “We’re not going back,” he repeated, now with a tinge of his anger from earlier.

  It frightened her, but so did the way Beachstone was sweating. She looked up at the sun. “We didn’t bring any water,” she said.

  “I heard Kent. First you invited him, then he mocked me. I won’t let him gloat. We’re going to make it.”

  “We could say we made it.”

  “No,” Beachstone said, and settled on chewing.

  Mary worried one of the rough spots on her hands. “Was the sandwich good?” she asked.

  Beachstone pulled himself closer to her. He reached for Mary’s hair; it had dried in the sun. She felt him brush his fingers along the bottom. She wanted to touch his hair too. Could it be that it really grew from his head? Could it be that he would have to cut it? She reached out and touched it. It was just like hers.

  “We better go,” Beachstone said, jumping up.

  Mary was confused. She felt cheated. He was so angry one moment, then affectionate, and then distant the next. It made it hard for her to sort out her own feelings. Could it be that her brother felt the same way about the boy, and that was why he had wanted to hurt him? She was surprised to find that she could understand this—her own feelings of, what? Love? She felt as though she wanted to be beside him always, to appease him, to ease him, to serve him, and yet, it was crushing. Was it only two months ago that Father had brought him home? What had she done with herself before then?

  She had to run to catch up with him.

  Beachstone’s limp was better after the rest, but it gradually returned as they walked. He had slackened his pace again without noticing. “I could carry you,” Mary said when they stopped for a moment so that Beachstone could stretch.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Mary wanted to think of something that could make him laugh. She looked at the cliff face. It would be easy to scale it. Maybe she could carry him on her back and they could walk up above where the ground was solid. Perhaps the sand was hard on his feet as it slid away from beneath each step. But she didn’t say anything. They walked. When they rested, they leaned together, Beachstone’s arm held lightly around Mary’s waist. Beachstone didn’t seem as intent as before, but he didn’t deviate from his path. At one point he smiled suddenly, and Mary looked up to try and see what had made him happy. She didn’t see anything. It was only much later that she realized that was the moment when his human eyes could perceive the town for the first time. The cliff was little more than a steep incline now. It was dusk.

  They reached the town after dark. Beachstone was silent. His head dropped forward, but Mary realized too late what was happening, and he was on the ground in front of her before she could move to grab him. Stupid kid, he had pushed himself too far. Mary was angry with her brother just then. She watched Beachstone’s inert form for a moment. He had sprawled into such an unnatural position—and yet, it was supremely natural, for it had happened, hadn’t it, and happened only as it could have. Then she bent down and picked him up. She knew she needed to get him a drink, but all the lights in town were out; there was no one on the street. She walked through the empty streets, carrying Beachstone in front of her. She had never been in town at night, and it was all new to her. They were the buildings she knew, but without the people they were different. The stillness seemed appropria
te, and she was glad that Beachstone wasn’t missing the town she knew, and yet she was upset that this new town, which she was seeing for the first time, couldn’t be shared with him. When she found nobody, she decided that there was nothing to do but to return home. He would sleep now. He could drink at home.

  She walked out of town, choosing the high ground for the return.

  8.

  ASIMOV 3000 WATCHED over the boy. He hadn’t reset the night before, and he was afraid to reset now. He was afraid to leave the boy’s side. What had his daughter been thinking? Couldn’t she see how pale the boy was? He stood up and crossed the room. The day’s early light streamed through the lace curtains, casting the room in an opal glow. It didn’t seem fitting for the gravity of the sickbed. He would bring the boy water. He would wake him, force the liquid into him. She hadn’t brought water!

  At the door, Asimov 3000 turned back and looked at the small form sleeping in the bed. Master Vandley had laid in that bed, also shrunken, his biological children long since gone, first from his house, then from this life, victims of the plague that had never reached Barren Cove. And yet, what difference had that made? Master Vandley had been so sick anyway—hours upon hours Asimov 3000 had watched over his body. Yes, he knew how to take care of a sick human. The fresh bread that Mary had made yesterday morning had fooled him, made him trust her, causing him to forget—his own children didn’t know humans. He couldn’t blame her.

  The water. He was afraid to leave. Surely it would be fine for just a moment.

  He went down the hall. As he passed Mary’s room, he looked in to find her sitting in her chair in front of the vanity. She was asleep, though. Kent called from his room. “Father?”

  “I’m getting water,” Asimov 3000 answered as he passed by, and went downstairs without looking in on his son. In the kitchen, Asimov 3000’s system froze just inside the swinging door, paralyzing him for a moment. He needed to go forward, to go forward, to go forward, and yet he was riveted to the floor. Take a step, he thought. Water. Take a step. But his system remained frozen. And then he was walking across the room to the cabinet. He filled a glass with water and headed back upstairs.

  Beachstone hadn’t moved. Asimov 3000 set the glass of water on the nightstand beside the bed and then took up his seat. He hadn’t just skipped rebooting the night before. He hadn’t rebooted the whole week of Beachstone’s illness. The freeze in the kitchen—he should sleep. “Beachstone,” he said.

  The boy slept on.

  Master Vandley had had so much to say, even in the end. “It is only fitting,” he had said so often. It was only fitting that Asimov 3000 have Barren Cove. It was only fitting that male and female robots have different programming, a new development at that time. “You’ll be one of the last that can procreate asexually,” Master Vandley had said. The last time Asimov 3000 had been to town he had felt out of place even among the robots.

  Master Vandley had been right. When Asimov 3000 built Kent and then Mary, he encoded them each with a discrete sex. It was only fitting, then, that he didn’t understand them any better than they understood their new brother. Beachstone didn’t know why he had been left on the beach or by whom, or at least that was what he claimed, and so Asimov 3000 didn’t know either, but he knew that he was meant to bring the boy home. He knew that there needed to be a human in Master Vandley’s bed again. He knew that Kent had cut the boy. And he worried about that.

  But Mary had taken to the boy like, well, like a human, like the way Master Vandley’s daughter had taken to the town boy. But Mary had still hurt him—no water! He tried to wake Beachstone again. He had to.

  He stood and shook the boy. Beachstone mumbled in his sleep, shrugged away from Asimov 3000, and then opened his eyes. “You need to drink,” Asimov 3000 said, holding up the glass.

  Beachstone took it and brought it to his lips. He began to gulp.

  “Slowly.”

  Beachstone stopped, coughing, then belched, and then started drinking again, watching Asimov 3000 with big eyes.

  Perhaps he needed to worry that Mary had taken to the boy so closely as well. When Beachstone finished, he took the glass. “How do you feel?”

  “We made it to the town,” Beachstone said, breaking into a large smile.

  “What were you thinking?” Asimov 3000 asked.

  “Nobody was awake,” the boy said, and then went back to sleep.

  Asimov 3000 sat down. I should go fill the glass again, he thought. He didn’t get up. I should sleep. But he watched the boy breathe instead. His chest rose and fell, a deep intake, a short burst out through the nose. Rose and fell. Asimov 3000’s own children breathed. It was another robot innovation, a clever illusion that the humans hadn’t thought to include and that robots had taken on themselves. A slight rise and fall of the chest at the right time, and we were oh so human.

  He would have to explain to Mary how delicate Beachstone was, although he thought that yesterday would be enough of a lesson. I would have thought last week would have been enough of a lesson, but I guess I would have been wrong. No, yesterday was enough of a lesson.

  Asimov 3000 realized that he had not leaned back when he intended to lean back. He tried again. He couldn’t. Tried again. Leaned back too hard, as all three commands acted at once. He kicked out his legs to prevent the chair from tipping back.

  Master Vandley had had a human from town come and take care of the new will. The human had brought an assistant to act as a witness. Asimov 3000 was a permissible second witness. The will had been unnecessary, but Master Vandley had been a businessman, and he liked his business tidy. Barren Cove was Asimov 3000’s. Its clean running water, which had been unused for five years, was Asimov 3000’s.

  Beachstone breathed.

  Asimov 3000 would have liked to see him grow up. But that also meant seeing him grow old. I should reboot, Asimov 3000 thought. I should sleep. And yet, perhaps it was only fitting if the children took over. At least they would have known a human.

  9.

  “OPENING CLOSETS?”

  I looked up to see Clarke stepping into the cabana, and then, before I could answer him, the bicycle girl appeared behind him. Flustered, I turned my head every which way, scanning around me as though I had lost something, avoiding seeing them.

  Dean shut off her recording. The sound of the ocean filled the sudden silence.

  Clarke sat at the table and kicked his legs up. “That’s the past, Sapien. Old news. Time to live in the now.”

  The bicycle girl circled in place, spinning only one wheel while keeping the other stationary. I watched her as she surveyed the room. “Can I help you?” I said.

  Clarke’s momentum was thrown off by the question. He must have planned his entrance but hadn’t thought beyond that, let alone what to do if I actually answered. He took his legs down and leaned on the table. “That’s Jenny,” he said. “Jenny, Sapien.”

  Jenny turned and looked at me. “Hi,” she said. I hid my damaged hand under the table. Aside from the bicycle wheels and the pink hair, she appeared normal in every way. Clarke was much more monstrous. I tried to catch her eye, but she was looking at something on the floor that I couldn’t see because Clarke was in the way. Besides, I had seen the floor many times; it was just tile.

  “Sapien!” Clarke said, drawing my attention. He hadn’t anticipated the effect Jenny would have on me. He wanted me disconcerted, but he wanted me to listen to him. “We came to invite you to party.”

  “Party?”

  He pulled out some memory chips from his pocket and tossed them on the table. They clinked against the glass. “We’re gonna get fucked up, you know? Go into town. Meet some of our friends.” He jumped up, standing on the chair. “Party!”

  Jenny came around the table. She seemed to float. She put her hand on my shoulder and slid it across to the other shoulder as she wheeled behind me. She leaned down, her hair brush
ing the side of my face. Pink, I thought. “Come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

  Clarke raised his head, screamed, and jumped onto the built-in cabinet that lined one of the walls yelling, “Party!”

  “I promise,” Jenny said in my ear.

  Clarke jumped onto Jenny’s back. She was unprepared for the weight and our heads knocked. By the time I looked up she had wheeled around in front of me. She moved so fast. She wheeled back and forth in place with Clarke riding her piggyback. “Grab the sims, robo; let’s go.”

  I looked at the chips on the table. I had been comfortable learning about my neighbors from Dean without actually interacting with them. But Clarke was right in front of me now. Where did he come in? Why would he want to party with an old robot like me? I could easily see us getting to town and, the joke’s on me, he had promised his friends a bit of fun with the old robot living in his “beach house.” I remembered him tossing my new arm off the cliff and catching it again and again.

  Clarke slapped Jenny’s ass. “Yah!” he yelled. “Yah!” He leaned forward. Jenny zoomed out onto the beach. Her wheels kicked up a spray of sand behind her.

  She had touched me. Her hair had brushed against my cheek. She had promised me a good time. Wasn’t this why I had left the city? Maybe I just needed to have some fun. Jenny and Clarke pulled doughnuts in the sand. I grabbed the memory chips from the table, put them in a pocket, and went outside.

  Jenny pulled up to me, and Clarke jumped off. He played his trademark sound bite: “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” Then he turned to go. Jenny followed, and I followed behind.

  The night was clear. The moon, near full, reflected on the ocean. At the top of the cliff, there was a yellow motorcycle. Clarke climbed aboard. “You need to get wheels, humanoid,” Jenny said.

  “I’ve got wheels,” Clarke said, and he revved the motorcycle. “Hand me one of those chips,” he said to me.