Barren Cove

by Ariel S. Winter

  “Ah,” Kent said. “It is quite amazing, isn’t it?”

  It was disconcerting, and in that sense it was amazing. Was this a part of me? It would be. The coloring of my active hand matched the coloring of the inert hand it held, serving to emphasize their kinship. Despite our appearance of individuality, we were manufactured. I set the hand down.

  “Well, you must be eager to get to it,” Kent said.

  “Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t. Something about Clarke’s beliefs had shaken me—I had heard them before, of course, and seen the modified gangs of younger robots in the city—but seeing his anger the night before, his true rage, the conviction that all humans should be put in the ground for having kept us captive when we were superior to them, made me wonder if replacing the hand wasn’t in some way selling out. We weren’t limited to their corporeal form, so why emulate them? The thinking was logical, as out of control as Clarke seemed, but I couldn’t muster the anger.

  “I really am willing to help. I know quite a bit about these things. It comes with the territory of collecting archaic machines. They are always breaking down.”

  Had that been an insult? I started to unscrew the clamp from the end of my right arm. “I’m fine, really.” Once the clamp was removed, I set it down next to the hand on the table. It didn’t have the same emotional impact as the realistic hand beside it. Here was a metal tool sitting on this table. It had two prongs, screws at the hinges, and score marks at the ends. It was like anything that had been discarded. But the hand seemed significant to me. Which was what separated me from Clarke and his friends, that belief in its significance. I picked it up.

  “You shouldn’t feel unwelcome at the house,” Kent said. “Clarke is not around that much. And Mary and Beachstone do keep to themselves.”

  “Thank you for the invitation.” The part of the hand that attached to the wrist had a metal joint protruding from it, and there were wires to be connected.

  “Yes, solitude. There is that too. How I know of that.”

  I focused on the task at hand.

  “But it does get tiresome at times. There is the hope, sometimes, that there will be companionship.”

  “Is Beachstone never well enough to talk?” I said, attaching a wire from my arm to the hand. I couldn’t help but feel that Beachstone had the answers I was looking for. I could understand all the other members of the family—even Clarke, it seemed—and we all wanted the same thing, even if we had gone about discovering it in such different ways. We wanted to know why we should bother going on.

  But Beachstone didn’t have that luxury. He had to be able to give me an answer.

  “Oh, well enough is a matter of opinion, it seems,” Kent said. He readjusted his robe, although it hadn’t shifted. He looked out at the water.

  The hand, my hand, meshed with my system and I was able to move the fingers even though I hadn’t yet joined the hand to my wrist.

  “Quite amazing,” Kent said, looking at my hand now.

  I wondered if I had made a mistake, doing this in front of him. It seemed intimate and a bit shameful.

  “I know that I have the knowledge inside me to build such a hand,” Kent said. “I would have merely to access the files, assemble the parts, and I could construct a hand like that. And yet, this knowledge seems so foreign to me. It is almost as if it isn’t there.”

  “That’s why I ordered mine prefab.”

  “True. Very true.”

  I was having trouble connecting the hand to the wrist so that it clicked into place. My new fingers were flapping as I tried, as if they could somehow assist me.

  “You know, I lived in the city once, for a little while,” Kent said.

  I looked up at him. “Really?” I had not gotten to that information in Dean’s log.

  “Focus on your hand,” he said.

  I looked back at it, the fingers now waving uncontrollably.

  “Yes, for a little while,” he said. His voice was mournful. “The city—that big machine. I think that the city was really man’s greatest display of mechanical ingenuity, for isn’t it nothing more than a robot of its own, a living thing with millions of mechanical parts that move to and fro, each contributing to the larger thing? Yes, the city for me was like losing myself in humanity. Everyone was interconnected. And I was connected to all of them. It is no surprise, then, that I fell quite in love when I was there.

  “In the city there is almost an endless supply of junk shops, pawn shops, collectibles boutiques, small dusty places in which every imaginable surface is covered with the detritus of the past several centuries. There are glass-fronted counters and cabinets in which every shelf is filled with buttons, windup dolls, china, gas station glasses, souvenirs from defunct companies, low-­order robots even. I tell you this because although you’ve lived in the city you may never have been to any of these places. In certain parts of the city, there are streets full of them, in which every single storefront is identical, the windows yellowed, bicycles in the front window with marionettes astride them. And in other parts of the city these stores are hidden, in basements beneath restaurants, or in walk-up apartments. These stores are almost always empty, which is why you most likely have never come across them. Very few robots are interested in the past, for so much of the past is the human past, and we, after all, are the future. So lonely proprietors—some human, some robot—sit in their dust-filled junk shops waiting for customers to come and look. And I went and looked. I looked at all of them. I was in and out of the stores all day every day. I would find treasures in these stores, robots that nobody would use the word robot for anymore. Unfortunately, none of the treasures I acquired in those days made it back to Barren Cove with me, but I have the collection I have.

  “It was in one of these stores that I found my greatest treasure: a robot, not on display, but there for the same reasons I was. He was an order-six robot, human in appearance, and he was holding up a twelve-inch windup metal replica of the robot from the twentieth-century television show Lost in Space. He started to do the voice, ‘Danger, Will Robinson,’ but I finished it for him, and he turned, and he held up the toy as if to say, have you ever seen anything more glorious? And I hadn’t. We shopped the rest of the day together. And the next day. And the day after that. His name was Michael. He shared my passion for pre-robotics-age robots . . . toys, I mean.

  “It was not long before we were sharing a small two-­bedroom apartment in an old building that had once been a hotel and had long ago lost its luster. Our combined collection, which continued to grow, made the apartment seem dark and not unlike the shops in which we spent our days. We discussed the relics that we dreamed of finding while sifting through the treasures before us. Some days Michael would go off on his own, claiming he needed time alone, and on those days I shopped by myself, finding that it no longer had the same kind of satisfaction it had with Michael beside me, but also knowing that if I didn’t grant him some freedom, he would no doubt leave and never return. After all, hadn’t I left Barren Cove for just that kind of freedom?

  “But it became apparent that Michael’s interest in our collection took a very different manifestation from my own. For I did then, and still do now, take appreciation in an earlier time’s vision of myself, reveling in the particular idiosyncrasies of each individual toy. A toy that was meant to be a windup toy, for me was just a windup toy, but Michael, on the other hand, used the shells of these toys to ‘create new life,’ as he used to say. He wanted to turn them into higher-order robots, so that our apartment included many little robots with limited consciousness. These robots could do very little of value, except, I found, for one particular thing, and that was to wait on Jennifer when she began to come around to the apartment. Jennifer was Michael’s owner. She was human, and it sickened me that he considered himself owned by her. It was so old-fashioned. It was disgusting. I have nothing against humans, and I relish their culture,
but Michael was not something to be owned. Besides, he was mine.

  “But from then on, I had to share him. In fact, I had been sharing him all along, for on the days that Michael had refused to join me he had spent them with Jennifer. Jennifer seemed indifferent to my presence, and in fact began to treat me as though I belonged to her as well. She delighted in Michael’s little creations and was angry, as was Michael, that I refused to allow some of my more prized acquisitions to be altered in any way.

  “There are many good memories that come from that time when the three of us would scour the various collectibles stores together, when Jennifer would bring to light some toy that we had missed and we would crowd around her, the three of us like the three wise men above the savior in her hand. But much of that time was agony for me, because I knew I no longer had Michael’s attention all to myself and had discovered that I never had. I considered returning to Barren Cove, to make him jealous through missing me, but I was afraid that he would merely forget me, and that instead of the reunion I imagined on the beach, I would be alone with the few toys that I had managed to save from their Dr. Moreau machinations. So instead, I stumbled on the solution of bringing Barren Cove to me. I sent away for my sister. I can’t say I was surprised when Beachstone arrived as well.

  “And then we were five. And five, despite it occurring naturally as the number of fingers on each of our hands—excuse the reference—is an awkward number. Because, after all, isn’t the thumb always somewhat excluded from the other members of the group? Yes, in the humans’ minds, the thumb had a dominant position. Its separation was in fact what separated them from the rest of the animal kingdom; it granted them their superiority, and so they passed it down to us. The thumb is quite powerful. But it is also lonely. And so, I found myself the outsider in the little family of my own creation. Mary and Michael, Beachstone and Jennifer, they were all thick with one another from the beginning. I had succeeded too well in bringing Barren Cove to me. I learned then that there was no running from your problems, because they were always with you and not easily shaken.

  “We fell into a new routine. We added a nightlife to our days of shopping. There were still bars in those days that served both humans and robots, alcohol for the one and numbers for the other. These places were dark, and there were few questions asked. The waitresses brought what was ordered and didn’t look at who consumed what. After all, I looked just as human as Beachstone, Mary just as human as Jennifer, Michael as human as all of us. There always seemed to be a great deal of trading places in those dark bars. I found myself at one time beside my sister, at another time beside Michael, and the others no doubt traded places as well. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel as though my position at any given moment was an accident, because it was quite clear that Beachstone and Jennifer had an interest in each other that far surpassed any interest I could hope to elicit in either one, which would have been fine by me. I didn’t care for Beachstone in those days, and I will admit that I don’t care for him much now. And since Jennifer to me was an obstacle, the fact that they were willing to occupy each other suited me fine. Let their own kind stick together was what I thought. But much to my dismay, Mary and Michael seemed to have an interest in each other with almost the same degree of passion. And so, I was left with my numbers, which I could only hope would make me unaware of what was going on around me at any given time.

  “I must have had quite a lot of numbers the night of the first incident, because I don’t remember it with any clarity. We had stayed out until the bar closed, stumbling home at two in the morning. The city, despite its reputation, was quite asleep. The streets were relatively empty. The buildings were dark. We made it into the apartment. Some of the toys had been left on, and they greeted us at the door. I must have kicked one of the toys, because before I knew it Michael had pinned me against the wall. Jennifer was between us somehow, trying to pull Michael back, but he was furious. I had never seen him quite so passionate in any way, let alone angry, and even through the haze of the numbers, I was frightened. He showed no compunction over opening little metal toys and giving them enough awareness to realize they had meaningless existences—what would he feel about cutting open me, whom he had seemingly discarded for Mary? I wanted to strike back, and I tried to.

  “I don’t know if I was successful. Beachstone pulled Jennifer away. Mary must have done the same with Michael. My system overloaded, and when I rebooted it was morning. Michael and I gave each other quite a wide berth for the next few days, and I knew then that he would indeed kill me if he were given the chance. I was surprised to find that I might be willing to kill him in return.

  “Everything was all right for a while, then. We returned to our normal condition. Michael and I even went shopping on our own, and one of my favorite memories from that brief respite is of a time Michael and I had reached opposite ends of a store and then turned to show each other a button that we had each found that showed a boxy robot taller than the buildings in the city, breathing fire, and knocking buildings down. We had found the same pin. We bought them both, and that is one thing I still have in my collection today. But despite our seemingly renewed love, Michael had managed yet again to have a secret life besides the one I was part of. It turned out I was to be an uncle.

  “Beachstone and Jennifer might very well have had their own plans of a similar nature, for they grew secretive at this time as well. And while I thought that Michael and my relationship had been repaired, in fact, I was more than ever the odd man out.

  “It was midafternoon on a Tuesday. The weather was impeccable, and even in the city the slivers of clear sky visible through the buildings made anything seem possible. It made it hard to imagine then, as it does now, that anything negative could possibly take place, not just at that moment, but ever. Dark and evil things should take place on dark and evil days. But I was not that fortunate. I had gone out on my own early in the day. When I returned home, I found that the good mood the weather had put me in was not unique. Beachstone, Jennifer, Mary, and Michael were celebrating. Their cause, it seemed, was a new robot whom I had never seen before. ‘Come and join us,’ Michael said. ‘Meet your nephew, Clarke.’ And with that he put his arm around Mary’s waist. Well, you can imagine that this was the final straw for me. I had wanted nothing more than a world of my own, and yet again I had been forced out, my happiness stolen by my own family, my love rejected and abused. I attacked. It surprises me even now to say so, but I did.

  “I rushed toward Michael first, but he was entwined with Mary, and so my attack ended up being on both of them. Beachstone was not going to let that stand, of course, and so by the time I had reached them, he was between us. I pushed him aside, cutting him, and attacked Michael, who was surprised by the assault and unprepared. I was able to turn off his systems before he could respond, and I proceeded to beat his inert body as everyone else tried to pull me off him. When you love somebody, you would rather they no longer exist than exist for someone else.

  “The fight became confused. There were too many of us involved. In the end, Beachstone was badly injured; he’s never fully recovered. Michael was dead, and Jennifer disappeared. I never saw her again. Mary brought us all back to Barren Cove and devoted herself to Beachstone. He was always sick now; he needed her constant care. It gave her something to do. Clarke and I were left to roam. I have my collection. He has his eccentricities. And Barren Cove protects us all from the memories by making them seem distant, making us numb.”

  I had managed to attach my hand as he spoke. The repair was flawless. I moved the fingers absentmindedly, reveling in the sound they made as they tapped against the tabletop. Kent had focused on a point out at sea, and he kept his gaze fixed on whatever was there that he saw. He seemed emptied by his confession. Gone were the normally flamboyant gestures, the amusement in his cheeks; even the affectation of his speech had disappeared to some degree. He was deflated by the emotion of the memories. Despite his claims that Barren Co
ve numbed him, he had needed to talk, and the pain was still raw.

  “You fixed it,” Kent said, indicating my hand.

  I held up the hand and moved all my fingers. “I did.”

  “Do you feel whole again?”

  I was taken aback by the question. Did I? “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  Kent stood up. “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Have you ever tried to find them?” I said, just before he stepped out onto the sand. “Michael and Jennifer?”

  “My dear, I told you. Michael is dead. Spare parts won’t make someone whole again. I try to reassemble my lost collection. That is something.”

  “Mary wants you, Master Kent,” Dean said over the intercom.

  “She is always in a panic these days,” Kent said. “Beachstone is, after all, quite sick. That is why you are here.” And with that he stepped out of the cabana and out of sight.

  I considered for a moment trying to fit Kent’s story in to what I knew already. “Dean?” I said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How long did Kent live in the city?”

  “Ten years, sir.”

  I said nothing.

  “Should I continue, sir?” Dean asked. I nodded, and she resumed her narration.

  11.

  KENT COULD SEE Kapec mowing the lawn that unnaturally covered the acres around Barren Cove, just as he had before Kent left for the city. The poor bastard, Kent thought, a constant struggle to tend, to keep alive, to make bow to his will these bioforms—the grass, the bushes, the flowers—so that they match a long-ago plan: living art, aesthetic living. He can never leave. And who comes out to see it? Yet there she is, the same Barren Cove I left, and I have Kapec to thank for that. Kent rode his yellow motorcycle up to the robot on the lawn mower. He shut off the engine; Kapec did the same; and the two robots sat astride engines, facing each other.