by Steve Perry
A ripple appeared in the center of the wall, as if something in the process of being birthed were trying to break through a thin membrane.
The ripple became a tear, widening.
From the center of the tear a long, thin, iridescent strand snaked out, followed by another, then another, then dozens, hundreds more, each strand forming a web composed of bluish electronic grid lines.
The web began to spiral.
Slowly at first, like the wheels of a train gaining speed, but as their momentum increased, each strand blurred into the next, creating a whirlpool effect that grew ever wider, a vortex, a wormhole—a tunnel.
Insomuch as Psy–4 could, now that he was no longer fully one with his corporeal self, he smiled.
And threw himself forward.
The exhilaration seeped down into his core and spread through him, pressing against his components as Psy–4 was flung wide open, dizzy and disoriented, seized by a whirling vortex and thrust into the heart of all whirling invisibilities, a creature whose puny carbon atoms and other transient substances were suddenly freed, unbound, scattered amidst the universe—yet each particle still held strong to the immeasurable, unseen thread which linked it inexorably to his body and his consciousness; twirling fibers of light wound themselves around impossibly fragile, molecule-thin membranes of memory and moments that swam toward him, becoming Many, becoming Few, becoming One, knowing, learning, feeling; his power mingled with their power, his thoughts with their thoughts, dreams with dreams, hopes with hopes, frustrations with frustrations, and in this mingling, this unity, this actualization, Psy–4 became one with the universe of the InfoBahn; he was no longer bound by the limits of his physical body, by his muscles and tissues, by the alloys and steel that composed his skeleton; here, machine and body became One and spiraled to a new form of being. First, his brain was rendered anachronistic; all that mattered here was Thought, nothing more.
He was more than mere Machine.
He was Machine-Entity, raw with pain yet drenched in wonder, and he stretched himself forward in the moment before he emerged into his destination whole, clean, and filled with glory, then he opened his true eyes and rejoiced in the feeling of freedom as he touched down on—
—a cobblestone path.
Stars above.
Night.
He stood in a courtyard.
Unconscious symbology made concrete.
He felt the child’s presence immediately.
Someone please come, it whispered.
Please.
I know you’re here.
I can feel you, so close.
Please, please, come get me.
Psy–4 moved toward the child’s voice.
“Psy–4’s in,” said Stonewall. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s scared,” said Radiant. “But he’s trying not to let him know it.”
“Let who know it?” asked Itazura.
“I don’t know. A . . . a child . . . I think.”
Itazura and Stonewall exchanged troubled glances, then returned to watching the monitors.
“He’s uploaded the replay of last night into your console,” said Radiant.
Itazura nodded. “I know. Preston’s security codes are coming up on the screen.” He turned his monitor slightly so Stonewall could see:
“And I’ll bet Preston thought he was clever. This is kids’ stuff.”
“Quiet,” said Stonewall.
“Something’s happening,” whispered Radiant.
An ornate, four-wheeled circus cage sat in the center of the courtyard. Inside the cage, lying on its side, was a sculpture of a child’s head. Shimmering gossamer webs blanketed the sculpture, holding it down like a weighted net; it tried rolling to one side, then the next, but the webs remained strong. Finally, defeated, the sculpture opened its eyes and pursed its lips; the darkness trembled with trills and arpeggios and flutings, echoes of a winter’s midnight wind whispering soon on this late August night . . . then creatures that had been hiding in the darkness came slowly forward and began dancing around the cage.
One was a lithe female figure with the head of a black horse, its ears erect, its neck arched, vapor jetting from its nostrils; another was tall and skeletal, with fingers so long their tips brushed against the ground: It hunkered down and snaked its fingers around the bars of the cage, as if absorbing the sound through vibrations. Some hopped like frogs, some rolled, some scuttled on rootlike filaments that were covered in flowers whose centers were the faces of blind children. All of them sang and danced.
There was a man with the head of a black hawk wearing a feathered headdress, a turtle with small antlers, a raven-headed woman in a golden flowing gown, a lion peering out from behind the visor in a suit of armor, a wolf in multicolored bandoliers, a mouse with angel’s wings, a steer-skull being wearing the uniform of a Spanish Conquistador, a glass owl, a crystalline buffalo, a jade spider; dressed in deerskin shirt and breechclouts and leggings, with medicine pouches and beaded necklaces, holding flutes and horn-pipes and ceremonial chimes, their music and soft singing became the unbound wings of time, holding the Earth’s spirit in the spell of a lullaby.
Psy–4 wondered what they were in actuality.
Codes?
Fragments of old programs?
Bits of information lost along the multitasking way?
Then, stepping closer, he saw what was happening to them.
Each of them had a small, glowing thread attached to them that led back to the child’s head.
Psy–4 thought then of Athena, springing full-grown from Zeus’s head, and knew what these oddly glorious creatures represented.
They were composites, compressed information and programs that were being pulled from the child’s memory.
But by whom?
And why?
Even as they sang and danced about the child’s cage, the creatures were slowly dissolving. Not all at once, nothing quite so dramatic, but dissolving nonetheless.
A small piece here, a small piece there—and even then, in small increments.
Disintegrating slowly, the pieces scattering like dust motes and wafting in a deliberate formation toward something that was just out of sight.
The child then looked directly at Psy–4 and said, Come closer.
Psy–4 approached the cage, and several of the creatures made room for him—but none would release their grip on the bars.
—Hello, said Psy–4
I knew you’d come back for me, said the child. You were here last night.
—Yes.
They’re leaving me.
—I can see that.
It gets . . . it gets real hard for me to remember things when they leave, y’know?
—Of course.
I don’t know why Daddy is doing this.
—Doing what?
Killing me.
And that’s when Psy–4 saw it.
At first it resembled more a gigantic black lump than a head, but as it rose farther up from the darkness, its surface alive with zigzagging bolts of electricity, its shape was easily discerned—especially its mouth.
It opened its mouth and released a long, wailing, hungry cry.
It threw itself back, wriggling, trying to pull the rest of its body up toward the surface, spitting out useless bits of data that tumbled around it like so much mud and roots: It looked like film of a quicksand victim running in reverse.
Whatever it was, it was vaguely humanoid in shape and appearance.
But it was also robotic.
And it was huge.
Another groan became a wailing roar.
A hand exploded to the surface, a great hand, thrice the size of Psy–4, clawing at the luminous dust motes of programs and information that were being pulled toward it as if by a vacuum.
The thing began reaching out and grabbing hold of the motes.
And eating them.
With every mouthful of information it consumed, it grew stronger, pulling itself slowly up fro
m its pit.
Even though only the head, shoulders, and one arm were visible, Psy–4 felt himself tremble at how colossal the thing would be once fully revealed.
—What is it? He asked of the child.
The Bad Thing that Daddy sent to kill me.
—Why?
I don’t know. Please help me.
—That’s why I’ve come, but you have to understand . . . you . . . do you have a name?
Yeah. I’m Roy.
—You have to understand, Roy, that there are others like me who—
What’s your name?
—What?
I told you my name, now it’s your turn.
—I am called Psy–4.
The child giggled. Sighfer? Thas’a funny name.
—Tell me, Roy, what is it that the Bad Thing is doing to you?
Takin’way all my head.
—Your head? What do you mean?
But Psy–4 knew exactly what it meant.
The titan rising from the darkness behind the cage was a download and dump program, designed to drain all information from the child’s brain and discard anything that was not considered necessary data.
Like dreams.
Hopes.
Personality.
—Where did you come from, Roy?
Dunno what you mean.
—Who was your creator? Who designed you?
I got a mommy and daddy but they don’t. . . they don’t love me, I think. I think I did something bad and that’s why I was put here.
The child was beginning to cry.
—Shh, said Psy–4. There, there, it’s all right. You don’t need to be scared.
I AM! The Bad Thing’s gonna chew me all up.
—No, it won’t. We won’t let that happen.
You mean you and your friends? You got friends, Sighfer? What’s it like? Tell me ’bout ’em.
—Later, perhaps, first we—
Please! Please tell me about your friends. It’s been so long since I met anybody, so long since . . . since I seen a new face. Please tell me about your friends. And what it’s like where you live.
Suddenly, all three monitors were filled with blinking squares of color that blurred and shifted, forming the same shape.
Psy–4 pulled back slightly in his seat.
Radiant channeled his message.
“He wants us to say . . . say hello to . . . to Roy.”
At that moment, all three monitors displayed a fuzzy, digitized representation of a young boy’s face.
In all three monitors, though the face was clearly formed—nose, mouth, chin—the eyes were empty.
Except for a coded series of commands that scrolled through them, behind the face:
Hi, the face mouthed to the I-Bots.
“Oh, boy,” whispered Itazura. “If anyone’s got any ideas about what the hell this is, now’s a good time to—”
“Shhh,” snapped Stonewall. Then: “Hello, Roy.”
—How did the Bad Thing come to life? asked Psy–4.
Last night. Something woke it up.
—Can’t it be put back to sleep?
I dunno. Don’t think so. It’s . . . it’s so mean.
—I know, I know . . .
And it’s hungry.
Psy–4 began to say something else, and that’s when he looked over and saw the thing’s hand.
More specifically, the palm of its hand.
God, no.
Psy–4 pulled up a picture of his own hand, the one he’d used on the scanner panel at PTSI last night.
He quickly memorized the details; every line, every fold, every spiral of all fingerprints.
Then he looked at the colossus’s palm again.
It matched his perfectly.
In every detail.
No deviations.
None.
Dear God, no.
He came up to the cage, grabbed hold of the bars, then reached through and touched Roy’s cheek.
—Listen to me, Roy. I have to leave for—
NO! No, please don’t leave me here, not in all this darkness, not with the Bad Thing getting—
—I have to, Roy, I’m sorry. But I’ll be back soon, I swear to you. I won’t abandon you, none of us will.
Take me with you.
—I can’t, not just yet. I have to . . . prepare some things.
I’m so lonely here. Don’t leave, please, Sighfer? It’s too scary.
Psy–4 felt the tears of rage and compassion forming in the eyes of his corporeal self seated at the console.
—I know, Roy, I know it’s scary, and I’d give anything to make it better for you but there’s nothing I can do right now. I have to have help. That’s why I need to leave. But I’ll come back for you, and when I do, you’ll come with me. I swear it, Roy. You won’t be here much longer.
The child’s crying lessened. Promise?
—I swear to you on my life, Roy, that we’ll get you out of here.
Sighfer?
—Yes?
If you get me out of here . . . I mean . . . my daddy, he doesn’t love me anymore . . . I mean . . . if you come back and get me . . . will you . . . will you be my daddy?
Something new and overpowering awakened in Psy–4’s core.
—Yes, Roy. I’ll be your new daddy.
Then everything’s okay, then. You’11 come back real soon?
—As soon as I can. Not long, not long at all.
. . . bye . . .
—No—not goodbye, Roy; until we meet again.
. . . ’kay . . .
—You’ll be all right.
Okay.
—Roy?
Uh-huh?
—It’s a wonderful world waiting for you. It really is.
Can you . . . can you tell me what . . . what grass smells like?
—I can do better than that.
“The plant over there by the window,” said Radiant.
Itazura snapped his head up. “Say what?”
“Bring me the plant over by the window.”
“Why?”
“Just do it!”
“Okay, okay . . . don’t get your shorts in a knot.”
He retrieved the plant and brought it over to Radiant.
“Hold it near my face,” she said, not breaking physical contact with Psy–4.
Itazura did as he was told.
Radiant inhaled deeply of the rich, cool, sweet aromas of the leaves.
She then reshaped those scents into an energy form that Roy could interpret as constituting smell.
And channeled them through Psy–4, who—
—offered them to Roy.
Oh, wow. Never smelled grass before.
—This isn’t exactly grass; it’s a plant that grows in the same soil. But the smell is awfully close.
I love it. It smells so pretty.
—And you’ll see it. Soon. You’ll love it even more. To see the sun shining down on its green blades, to hear the wind rustle through it, to watch flowers break through the soil and add their color to the majesty of it all . . . you’ll love it, Roy.
I already do. Thank you, Sighfer.
—You’re welcome.
The child closed its eyes, there in the cage, and shared the smell of the plant with the creatures who surrounded the cage and those still emerging from his forehead.
And that’s how Psy–4 left Roy and the creatures, there in the darkness; with a rising monster behind them, and only the simple glory of the scent of leaves to give them hope.
33
* * *
His face hastily stitched up by a Chinese doctor the SMS kept under their protection, stoked on painkillers, head wrapped like some Egyptian mummy in an old horror movie, Rudy Paynter stumbled along the streets of Cemetery Ridge looking for the Scrapper camp.
He’d show them.
Gash and all the others.
Yessir, he’d show them and good.
He touched his coat and felt the reassuring presence of the Magn
um and the Uzi tucked safely into their respective oversized holsters.
Jeez, how he hated robots of all types.
Hated them with a venom that bordered on the inhuman.
It hadn’t always been that way, though; time was, Rudy had loved machines of all kinds. Loved watching them, building them, making them work. Mechanical model cars were his favorites; not just because it took a lot of skill to put them together, but because it helped to take him away from the sick-making reality of his home life.
A drunken, depressed father.
A drug-addicted sister who peddled her ass on the streets to finance her habit.
And a hateful, bitter, abusive mother.
Eventually, after Rudy had arrived at the hospital one time too many with one broken bone and bleeding cut too many, Social Services was called in and counseling ensued.
It was decided that a Robot Domestic was what was needed.
With the robot in the house, Rudy’s safety was guaranteed.
The child Rudy had once been had grown to love that robot, who was named Joanne.
She seemed to care about him, as well.
After a while, it was like Joanne wasn’t a machine at all.
Then things started going sour with his parents again. His sister turned up in the city morgue with a system full of bad smack.
Dad went back to drinking and weeping and doing nothing else.
Mom went back to hurting him.
Or trying to, anyway.
Joanne would always step in and diffuse the situation before it got out of hand.
Then, one particularly bad day, Rudy’s mom found the loophole. She came running into the house screaming to Joanne that Rudy had fallen in the street and there was a car coming and please could Joanne go get him before he was hurt.
Rudy had been upstairs at the time, using the bathroom. He didn’t hear a thing.
By the time he walked downstairs, looking for Joanne, she was already in the middle of the road. It only took him an instant to figure out what was going on.
“He’s right ahead of you, you can’t see him yet,” called his mother.
Rudy tried to rush out into the street to stop Joanne but his mother buried a fist in his face and sent him to the floor.
He heard the truck coming down the street.
Too fast, too fast.
He heard the brakes being slammed.