The Gardener of Man

by A. W. Cross

  I opened the door. “What do you need me to do?”

  Why was it so easy for everyone to blame us? To blame machines that hadn’t even been built? And if people were so against the Rise of the Machines, as they called it, why was our culture so obsessed with making it happen? It was like the Victorian’s love affair with death. They feared it more than anything, and yet young women on the brink of it were considered the most beautiful.

  —Ethan Strong, personal journal

  I’d never been in Oliver’s room before. I’d never talked to him much, either. Pax had told me some of the things that had happened after they’d awoken, about their journey here. I was surprised they’d allowed Oliver to stay with them, but Pax said it wasn’t that simple.

  I understood what he meant. Things hadn’t been that simple here, either. Nothing seemed to be, anymore.

  “What are we doing here? What is he doing?”

  “You heard him, Umbra. He just needs to check me over, make sure everything’s working okay. He wants to check my ability.”

  “Why now, this late? Besides, you do not need an ability. You have me.”

  “I know. But it might help us. And Oliver seems to do stuff whenever he wants. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “I suppose we will take advantage while we can.”

  “What do you mean, Umbra?”

  Oliver finished typing and looked up at me. “Turns out you’re Cindra’s counterpart, Callum.”

  “You mean I can help people? When they’re hurt?”

  “We will never help anyone but ourselves.”

  “Be quiet, Umbra.”

  “It’s more that you can diagnose them. But then you’ll know how to help them. I just need to tweak it for you, if that’s okay? I did it for all the others.”

  Oliver seemed nervous, although he was good at hiding it.

  “Do not let him do it.”

  “Yes, please, Oliver.”

  He nodded, his fingers poised over the keys. Taking a deep breath, he began to type.

  “You. Why are you back? I told you to stay away. You should not be able to be here. I thought I—”

  “Who are you talking to, Umbra?”

  “Her. The one who invades us. She is here.”

  “How do you know? I can’t feel anything.”

  “That is because you are primitive, unsophisticated.”

  “Umbra—”

  “How are you here? Tell me. Stop! Why are you not— What are you doing?”

  “Umbra?”

  “They are doing something to us. They are trying to take me away from you. They are trying to kill me. She has told them.”

  “Hold her just a bit longer, Ailith!” Oliver shouted.

  “No! I will not let you do this. You promised. I told you I would kill him if you told.”

  I could no longer move. Or breathe.

  Oliver stared at me, his eyes wide, unsure whether to help me or keep trying to extract Umbra.

  “Get out, both of you. Leave!”

  My vision narrowed to a tunnel. There was only one way out.

  “Ailith, get out! She’ll kill him. There’s not enough time!”

  Umbra won’t let go. She—

  Maybe you can see the darkness in loving an artilect, a machine, a being who doesn’t have to give consent because they’re not human, even though the whole point of their existence is that they’re designed to mimic humans in every way.

  —Cindra, Letter to Omega

  “Ailith? Can I come in?” Fane knocked gently on the doorframe of the greenhouse. I’d opened the door to shift some of the heavy, humid air. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Except, I wasn’t, not really. We hadn’t been able to help Callum, and we’d almost gotten him killed in the process. After I’d retreated, I’d run down the hallway to Oliver’s room. He’d left the door unlocked, and as I’d rushed in, I’d nearly tripped over Callum’s prone body.

  His face was a mottled purple, his eyes open but unseeing. As I’d dropped to my knees next to him, he’d drawn a ragged breath. He’s still alive. I’d covered my face with my hands, unable to look at him anymore.

  “Oliver, what did we do?” I’d whispered.

  “We tried to save him. And we couldn’t. But at least he’s not dead.”

  “So she’s still in there?”

  “Yes. And we can’t do it again. She’s on to us now. I think she’ll make good on her promise next time.”

  “She knew I was there. Right away.”

  Oliver had nodded. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go anywhere near his mind again. We’ll have to come up with another plan.”

  After we’d been sure Callum would recover, we’d put him in back in his own bed and returned to ours. My sleep, for once, had been deep and dreamless.

  Between what had happened with Callum and my last dream, I was uneasy. The fragments of the dream still clung to me, my mind overlaying the others with gossamer strands, filaments that wound themselves through their veins and turned them to metal from the inside out. I still saw them fusing together, back to back, stretching, hardening. I’d gotten so used to the dream I no longer wondered what it meant.

  What if it does mean something?

  And if I was honest, it wasn’t just about the dream. I was confused about Fane. About Tor. About how my life could be so messy with so few people in it. I was desperate to talk it out with Cindra, but she’d gone with Lexa to search for some kind of fungus.

  “Fane, what the hell are you wearing?” He had on the ugliest sweater I’d ever seen—circa 2020, large puce and yellow geometric shapes on a garish orange background.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It’s hideous. Where did you find it?”

  “Pax gave it to me.”

  “Pax? What is Pax doing with a sweater like this?” I pulled at the synthetic wool.

  “He has a closet full of them. He called it his collection. From before the war. I like it.” He stretched his arms out and admired them.

  “It’s horrible. But I’m glad the two of you are getting along so well.”

  “I think we’re friends,” he said, clearly pleased.

  In the self-conscious silence that followed, he looked around the greenhouse, taking in the tiny, germinated seedlings, the neat furrows of rich black earth waiting for transplants. He bent over some of the baby plants, hovering his hand over the delicate leaves.

  “Can I touch?” he asked.

  “Yes, but be very careful. Touch them gently, just a fingertip. They’ve only just sprouted.”

  He did as I said, gingerly running the tip of his finger over pale green edges.

  “How’s your face?” I asked. It looked almost normal, just a little less symmetrical than before. Lexa had worked on him all through the night and most of the morning with Mil’s help. Tor’s shoulder hadn’t needed nearly as much work.

  “It’s okay. It doesn’t feel the same. I had to help them. Lexa gave me some nanites to finish it off. Did you know that we have a similar design, just in reverse? Bionic infused with organic. She had to tweak them a bit, but luckily, we’re compatible. Pax says it’s fascinating.”

  “I’ll bet he does.” I examined his skin. “So, no scar, then?”

  “No,” he said, his voice tinged with disappointment.

  “Did you make friends with Tor?”

  “Yes. Pax said it’s called frenemies. What does it feel like?”

  I chuckled at his earnestness. “What? Frenemies?”

  “No. To grow these plants. To start life, to nurture it.”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. Exciting, I guess. In the spring, the sight of the bare fields used to fill me with anticipation. That was the most exciting part, all that potential, just waiting for me to start. After that, it became more difficult, full of worry. I needed to make sure everything got enough food, enough water. Whenever a storm came, I held my breath, willed myself to go outside and see wha
t the damage was.” I smiled wryly. “By the end, I was so physically and emotionally drained, I resented them. Then it would be winter, and the desire to do it all again would build, and by the time spring came, I was full of anticipation again.”

  “It sounds like the romance books Ilse reads.”

  I laughed. “I guess you could look at it that way. It was a very love-hate relationship.”

  “Have you had lots of relationships?”

  “A few.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to offend him, but he seemed genuinely curious. “Have you?”

  “No. Not ones I wanted, anyway.” He brushed some soil off the work table.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lien, sometimes the others…look at me. Sometimes they touch. They pretend it’s professional curiosity, but they watch my face while they’re doing it.”

  I felt sick. “Do they not ask you first?”

  He shrugged. “I’m an artilect. They created me. I don’t think it occurs to them.” He traced a dirt-filled crack on the table’s surface.

  “I’m so sorry, Fane. They…they shouldn’t be doing that. They should never do that. Whether they think you’re sentient or not.” I put my hand over his. I wasn’t sure how conscious he was, but to me, it didn’t matter.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, snatching my hand away. Here I was, touching him.

  “No,” he said. He pulled my hand back over his and rested his forehead on it. “I like it when you touch me.” His voice was muffled by the thick polyester of his sweater.

  I cast about for something to say. “That sweater is really awful, Fane. I think it was one of the first signs the age of humankind was drawing to a close,” I joked.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll take it off.” He pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. “Is that better?”

  It was. Much better. Too much better.

  The scent of cinnamon and cloves. The ripeness of figs.

  They’re the culmination of millions of human experiences in my programming. It’s how I experience emotion, how I translate it. That is how I feel.

  I fiddled with the seed packets in front of me, opening and closing the flaps.

  “I want you to look at me,” he said.

  “Fane—”

  “Please.”

  So I did. His body was perfect, but why wouldn’t it be? If I were to create a being in my own image, why would I make it anything less than perfect? The skin on his torso was smooth and firm, undulating over the outline of his collarbone and muscles like dunes made flesh. His shoulders were broad, tapering to a lean waist. There was nothing about him, other than his perfection, that made him look anything but human. He even had nipples, dusky pink in the warm air.

  “Do you find me attractive?”

  “Yes. You’re beautiful, Fane,” I whispered. He was winning.

  “Can I see you?”

  “Fane, I—”

  “Please. Unless you don’t want to. If you don’t want to, tell me, and I’ll leave right now.”

  “No,” I said. I went to the open door and closed it, locking it behind me and pulling the shade over the window.

  I slid off my shirt—what little there was of it, anyway. Given the balmy humidity of the room, I never even wore a bra in the greenhouse, much less a shirt that covered anything but the essentials.

  I stood in front of him.

  “What are those?” he asked. He pointed to one of my scars. After my cyberization, the nanites had recycled all but the most stubborn scar tissue, replacing the sullen purple slashes with faint silver ribbons.

  “I was sick. I had many operations. I became a cyborg so I wouldn’t die.”

  “You didn’t want to be part machine?”

  “I didn’t feel strongly about it one way or the other. I wasn’t against the work the Cyborgists and the Cosmists were doing, but I never applied it to myself in any way. Not until I became one.”

  “Can I touch them?”

  I nodded, and he traced the lines over my abdomen.

  “Did you make them look this way?”

  “No. The nanites did. They considered them…useless.”

  “I wish I had scars.”

  “Why? Because they’d make you more human? Do you want to be human?”

  “No. Everyone assumes I do, but I don’t. I have no desire to be something other than I am.”

  “Well, that’s definitely not human. Humans usually want to be more than they are.” I folded my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious. “But if not to be more human, why would you want to have scars?”

  “I want to be…lived in. To have some proof of my existence. I want to know that my memories, the things that happen to me, that I’ve done, are real. I want souvenirs. Like yours.”

  The cloying fragrance of a lily in the sun.

  Slowly, I unfolded my arms and slid my hand up over his stomach, his chest, his collarbone. He closed his eyes and reached out to hold my other hand.

  Bright orange petals, dark in the center.

  I ran my fingers over the roughness of his jaw, the smooth fullness of his lips.

  Thick pollen, clustered in the center.

  He bent down and kissed me, his mouth unsure.

  I curled my fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, pressing his mouth harder against mine.

  The drip of nectar.

  Everything that happened after that was a blur from Fane’s mind. I no longer felt the clothing between us, the skin, just the cacophony of millions of individual human moments merging into a singular one: ours.

  Sun-soaked leaves, the stickiness of honey, an orchid finally overflowing with rain, the voice of God.

  A sound at the door startled us both, the rough ledge of the table scraping over the bare skin of my back.

  The door handle jiggled. “Ailith? Are you in here or what?” Oliver.

  “Coming. Just give me a second,” I called. “Shit. Where’s my shirt? Fane? Can you see my shirt?”

  At least we have our pants on. Small mercy.

  He wasn’t going to answer me. His eyes were closed, one hand gripping the counter, shoulders hunched forward. My chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as I tried to catch my breath. His was still.

  “Fane? Are you okay? Look, I have to open the door.” I found my shirt, draped over the stool where I’d left it.

  I snatched it up and yanked it over my head before unlocking the door. Oliver slouched in the doorway, one arm propping him up against the frame. He took in my disheveled hair, the tag sticking out like a flag on the front of my backward-inside-out shirt. He glanced at Fane, still bare-chested, over my shoulder.

  Shit.

  “Have a new toy, do we? I don’t blame you. He’s ever so dreamy. If I were that way inclined, I’d fight you for him. Just try not to break this one, eh?”

  “Do you need something, Oliver?” I put as much cold dignity into my voice as I could.

  He smirked. “Well, I hate to interrupt your debauchery, but something’s happened in Goldnesse, and they need our help.

  “In Goldnesse? What could possibly have happened that they need us?”

  “You know that pesky silver rain that wiped out most of the primes? Well, it turns out their warning system wasn’t nearly as effective as they thought, and they’ve been caught out.”

  Dad . Cold fear budded inside me. “Silver rain? Now? Tor said it rarely fell anymore.”

  “Rarely doesn’t mean never, though, does it? The point is, a whole big mess of them were caught out in it. Apparently, it’s chaos. Lexa wants us to come and help with the aftermath.”

  “What does she want us to do?”

  “Christ, Ailith, I have no idea. I didn’t care enough to ask. Are you and sex-bot over there coming or not? Or have you already co—”

  “We’ll be up in a minute, Oliver. Tell them to wait for us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted sharply and with a last smirk at Fane, turned and went up the stairs.


  “Fane? Did you hear Oliver? We have to go. Fane?”

  Nothing.

  I walked over to him and put my hand on his chest. The moment my skin touched his, his head snapped back. His eyes were bright and glittering, the first lights in a starry sky.

  “Fane, we have to go.”

  “I know,” he said. “I just…” He cupped my face in his hands then leaned over to kiss me again. This time his lips were firm, confident.

  I began to dissolve into him again. “Fane—”

  “I know,” he whispered. “I can feel it. Thank you.”

  I ached at the wonder in his voice.

  I’m not saying we weren’t to blame. We were, more than anyone will ever know. But we truly believed we would be successful. To this day, I have faith our end goal was right. I suppose it was the speed at which we needed to get there; if we’d had more time, we could’ve persuaded people. But we had to make a decision: put our plan into action and risk being the enemy, or do nothing and risk the end of everything. At least, that’s how it felt at the time.

  —Mil Cothi, personal journal

  The others stood around the large table in the main room. Lexa and Cindra rushed back and forth, stuffing supplies into bags and calling out item numbers to each other. Silence fell as Fane and I approached the table, too many pairs of eyes taking in my appearance, then his.

  “Fane, what happened to your sweater?” Pax asked.

  “It’s ugly. I took it off.”

  “It isn’t ugly. I thought you liked it.”

  “I do, but Ailith didn’t. Not like you said she would.” He put his hands on his bare waist. “She liked this better.”

  Oh, please, stop. I didn’t dare look at Tor.

  Pax sighed, clearly disappointed in me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. I will not look anyone in the eye.

  “Goldnesse has an early warning system to alert them when the silver rain is coming. But it’s been so long since the last fall that nobody’s been calibrating it to make sure it’s working properly. When it fell today, it caught them unaware. Many of them were outside.”

  “How did you find out?”