“Ah,” said the elemental. “You had rickets? A softening of the bones. Your back is straight. I didn’t see a trace of fracture or fibrocartilage callus. Perhaps you should secure yourself now, young master. Let’s roll. I haven’t been out in a while.”
Crospinal thumbed the safety belt, felt the ends curl around his waist, sniffing each other out before melding. Fox had a similar belt, emerging from a similar cache, but the halves never did find each other and Crospinal had to hold on to them. Bear’s unit was shot altogether. Until now, Crospinal had not realized what a functional safety belt should do. He felt snug, despite the fact that the elemental he sat upon was as crazy and dysfunctional as the station he’d found it in.
“We’ll cut across.” Motioning with its head, the machine started to walk. “I don’t see any traffic, but the main controller is faint today. You can never be too careful. Keep your eyes open.”
“All right,” said Crospinal, looking about, not sure for what.
When the elemental moved quicker, he had to lean forward, wondering what could possibly be expected. He scanned overhead but only mists curled in on themselves, waiting for instructions to erode, or build.
Soon they were racing across the open floor. Crospinal didn’t think much about anything except hanging on. How different the world was from what he had expected, from what father had told him. He had to hunker lower still. He was not afraid of falling, merely wanting to make himself as aerodynamic as possible, to go even faster, to move away. A shield expanded before his face, as he’d expected, cutting the wind, though Crospinal had actually started to like the feeling of air against his cheeks, his lips, and even flowing into his mouth, when he opened it. He didn’t care what went inside his body, not for this moment, not at this speed. Ahead was nothing but open expanse. This exhilaration paled any he had ever felt.
Details of the great wall behind him were already obscured by distance and by the optical trick of the slow, curving base. He looked back, to locate the station, the doorway opening set above the carbon tubes, but could not see much for the galloping and awkwardness.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, facing forward once more—
Was there a change on the horizon, a jagged line of low forms? He squinted, but whatever he thought he had seen was gone.
“Yes?”
“About you. And Fox.” Crospinal would lecture his caretakers for hours. “Fox stood on two feet. Not really feet, but those clawed tools, like you have, with tiny balls at the end. We went to the garden together a lot, mostly with another elemental I called Bear.”
“You named machines?”
“Father wasn’t happy about it. I named them after characters in an escape he showed me when I was little. They were characters in the haptic. Father didn’t like them very much. The real ones, that is. The elementals. He didn’t trust them, but they were all he had, except for phantoms, so he couldn’t refuse their help. Right after I gave them names, they took off.”
Loping along, the machine scanned Crospinal yet again, a crude push he felt in his chest, rising up inside, like gorge; he nearly fell from the saddle but said nothing: the intrusion meant the machine could not understand him, and was looking for answers.
“Do you know them?”
“Uprights,” said the elemental finally, “were recalled, long ago. They had lousy gyroscopes. Small wonder you asked about my cognition. Say, young master, would you care to name me?”
Crospinal frowned, alert. “No,” he said.
The machine was travelling over a series of soft tiles, pads of its feet coming down soundlessly against the composite; the ride was so smooth that Crospinal had to remind himself of the velocity, so he would not tumble. He had accused Fox of stupidity as they walked back together after an outing. Fox would look down with those crimson eyes. Sometimes Crospinal danced, gimp-legged, around the elemental, despite the pain, and sang songs meant to annoy. Sometimes he threw debris at it. He did not mention these details now.
“We have some distance yet to travel, young master. Perhaps you could relate a story? I quite like stories.”
But Crospinal remained suspicious. “Father pulled me from his womb, in the pen. He raised me there. Now he’s dead, the pen’s gone, and I’m out here.”
The shield relayed, whispered breath into his ears, the response:
“I dare say there’s more to your history than that. But if you don’t want to share, that’s okay. You have traces of cardiopelgic solution in your blood and enough pharmacology to drop a small elephant. Maybe you should just rest.”
“Drop a what?”
“You’re tired, and under duress.”
Somewhat absurdly, Crospinal found himself wishing he had taken the uniform from the dispenser back in the sustenance station, instead of leaving it behind to rot. Now, he could actually feel air against his bare skin, because the fabric he wore was threadbare. (Change uniform! The dispensers have come for you, Crospie. Clean up, let the wasp cut your hair. . . .) Splits in the nylon at the elbows and knees. No scales of neoprene at all down the front of each leg. The mitts and boots were thin, vulnerable. And the collar seemed broken altogether. He felt shabby, at a disadvantage. He imagined all the microbes he’d swallowed spreading into his circulatory system, heading to his organs, to break them down.
Pressing the newly minted outfit to his face, Crospinal had forgotten what fresh uniforms looked and smelled like. How hard would it have been to renew uniforms whenever father asked? Why was wearing the same failing uniform every day, and letting his hair grow, so important? For that matter, why had straying from the pen, exploring recesses and consoles beyond father’s range, become so urgent? All he really wanted was to be content. Searching alone in the outlying halls, losing himself in the dream cabinets, falling in love with a manifestation.
Crospinal had made choices to spite father, or teach him some inexplicable lesson, for no reason other than giving Crospinal life, and raising him best he could. Crospinal felt more than a pang of remorse. As if he could talk himself into a justification of his past reactions and, through hindsight, dubious decisions, he would tell a story.
“The garden filled what we called the flora lab, behind harmer’s corner. Nutrient tiles lined the floor. The uprights, as you called them, said very little, mostly complaints. They used to charge together, dormant side by side in a cupboard just outside opal centre, but they couldn’t stand the sight of each other, not when they were awake. They were always together and they were grumpy and they’d been together forever. They followed me. They made sure I didn’t get any scrapes or tangle myself in root masses. They wanted to keep me in one piece. If I went wading in the pool—which was a round clearing with water in it, deep as my ankles—”
“A reservoir. Solution. And where we charge is not a cupboard, nor do trees grow from nutrient tiles.”
“Do you want a story or not?”
“I do.”
“Then stop interrupting.”
“Sorry.”
“In the centre of the garden, Fox and Bear were right there, at the edge, going slowly around, staring at me. I was in the water. Though they were real, like me and you, trees didn’t get hurt when they went by. Fox and Bear could avoid branches. I tried to see how they did it. I used to just crash through them. They would crumble all around me.
“Fox had eyes just like you.
“If I ever climbed anything—though that was pretty hard to do, with my bad knees—they were there, ready to catch me. I tested them so many times, falling backward from a baseboard slope, or even that time, lying face down in the pool, processor whining, shield bubbling. They caught me each time before I had the chance to hit the floor or swallow water. When they scanned me, it was rough. Either to see if I’d done damage, or to punish me for taking a chance.
“Father never asked them to help. He never told them what to do. They appeared one day, and then I . . . Then
they vanished.”
The elemental made a grunting sound. That line of forms on the horizon must have been an illusion, for they had reappeared, though neither closer, nor clearer.
“After my caretakers left, I was alone, pretty much, except for the dogs and ghosts. And my dad. Whenever I went back to the garden, to lie on the nutrient tiles, it wasn’t the same. I spent a lot of time there. I left behind a lot of damaged trees. At least, I spent a lot of time there until I started to go even farther, and farther, where apparitions couldn’t follow and father couldn’t see me. That’s when I found the dream cabinets.”
“Hard to believe. This must have been a long time ago.”
“There were seven. Some were empty, some were full.”
“One might even have been the one your passenger sailed in.”
“What? My dad? He wasn’t even aware of them. They were outside his range.” Crospinal was becoming increasingly convinced his words and stories were being taken as fabrications, that the machine was somehow mocking him again; he felt his frustration return, and he regretted that he had volunteered anything. He said, “Okay, I don’t want to talk about my dad. I’ve told you I only want to talk about the garden and the elementals, because you asked, and you’re one yourself. I was trying to be nice. Fox and Bear would just listen. They never interrupted or told me I was wrong or made me think about stuff. So stop.”
“I’m only trying to help, young master. To understand the situation more clearly. To learn.”
“Well, don’t interrupt anymore.”
“As you wish.”
“Dogs had a hard time.” Crospinal sat high in the saddle. He felt the power in his new legs, the angle of his limbs, his spine, optimal. “Solid details broke up their lumens. Father could only really see what was going on from the far entrance.”
“Are you talking about the garden again?”
“Of course I am.”
“The dogs were projections. You know that? Your passenger had found a strong gate and could project.”
“No shit,” said Crospinal. “Now will you let me speak? I won’t ask you again.”
Yet the elemental would not:
“When a passenger connects, they’re fed racetams. Either prami or oxi. He didn’t sleep much, did he? Never recharged?”
“We don’t have batteries, stupid. He was human, like me.”
“Every living thing has a battery of some form. Everything must charge.”
“I want you to listen. Could you? Stop talking. Just stop. What I’m starting to think is that he didn’t watch me, not all the time, even when he could, and that he might even have appreciated the times when I wasn’t around. Maybe even encouraged it. Me leaving him alone. Me leaving the pen. He might have wanted me to.”
“That’s only natural, young master. Even though your passenger was misguided, he had your best interests at heart. He wanted you to become independent. He needed you to be. You were growing up; he was getting older. Someone needed to carry the torch.”
“That’s exactly what he used to say.”
“They all say that.”
“But don’t call him misguided. You never met him.”
“All humans are misguided. Whether stored in the hub, as a runner, or sailing here, inside a dream. If a man can survive the trip through the hole, and being woken on the other side, and stay sane enough to find a place, he can linger here, for a brief turn, hooked up to the old network, but he’ll never reconcile this existence.”
“You know a lot about humans,” Crospinal said, trying to use sarcasm but unsure of its effectiveness. “What’ll be left of father when time passes? Can you answer that? I’m the only one with memories of him.”
“I think it’s fair to say,” replied the elemental, “that the passenger who converted you was not who you think he was. I sincerely don’t want to offend, young master—because I detect your defensiveness—but you were not pulled from a womb. Like all passengers, the man that tried to educate and form you was many things: a slave, an addict, a madman. And absolutely, irretrievably, lost. He was not your father. He stole you.”
Crospinal was furious. His cheeks had become hot. Furious at the belligerent elemental, yes, but also a portion of his anger directed toward himself, for talking too much, and toward father, who had abandoned him, who left him in this position, where he had to defend everything about his life and what he knew. He could not abide by his own rage nor stop it stewing.
“The ganglia have been dug out of your ulnae and median nerves. He had skills, your passenger. Ganglia make runners runners. There are two sorts of people in this world, young master, and you are neither.”
“Father,” Crospinal said, too loudly for his own liking, “was a nice man. That’s all. A bit sad at times, and disappointed, but nice. I don’t care what you say. Or the stupid stations. I think you’re all rude.”
For the next few moments, they continued in an awkward, prickly silence. At least, it was for Crospinal. How could this machine have made him feel this way? Was he that tired? When had he last slept? The bounding remained effortless and the massive chamber went on and on under the invisible ceiling. Before much longer, though, the elemental’s pace slowed, and Crospinal, brooding, bounced lighter in the saddle.
“Now father’s dead,” he spat, lips brushing the shield, though he wasn’t sure if he’d said this for his own sake or for that of the machine.
Regardless, the response came immediately, whispered directly into Crospinal’s auditory channels:
“Left alone, runners might be aware of loss, though not acutely, and you have a will to survive, which means you fear the cessation of life, whether you know it or not. Most runners are no more evolved than those animals the passengers conjure—the bird, and that opportunistic muroid, the rat. A passenger can, at least, conceptualize, try to figure out why. Not so much the runners. You’re in the middle. Well, there’s no monopoly on thanatophobia, young master. Even machines, as you call us, struggle at times to understand our role and our reason. What occurs when either of us ceases to exist, young master, whenever it happens, cannot, by definition, be processed.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Crospinal, though that wasn’t entirely true.
“Unless you’re like that station back there, hooked into a network, you’re given one personality, like a hand of cards in those haptics of the old days you watch, and you carry it around. But you can’t trade cards, or fold, or add useful cards to your hand. Some are good, others terrible. All you can do is just look at your cards different ways, and shuffle them around, until they’re worn out. When your battery dies for the last time, and won’t hold even the tiniest charge, there’s nothing left. Nothing.”
“Endtime,” said Crospinal, letting go of the straps with his left hand, gesturing at the empty bay about them. “I know about that. But you get to live for a thousand years, and you don’t get sick, or rot from the inside out.”
“Listen, young master. If I don’t charge, or I can’t find a charger, I die a small death. I can be inert, at the mercy of anyone who finds me. And if my interface suffers a collapse, or if I’m crushed in an accident, or blown out a lock, then everything I’ve managed to hang on to and everything I’ve stored will vanish with me. There are many voices in these walls. Are prototypes and other designs watching over me? The pressure and movement of your body, young master, refreshes me somewhat, generates energy, and direction, but generally I lose more than I gain. I can die a big death, just like you. A final death. You see, me and you are not so different, young master. I’m sorry about the loss of your passenger.”
Crospinal did not believe the machine. It was making up parallels to either mock him or ingratiate. Ahead, the dark line on the horizon seemed to have suddenly drawn nearer; narrowing his eyes, Crospinal realized with some degree of shock that he was looking at the approaching border of a garden so large a hundred pens would be lost within.
“We’re going through that?”
“We are, young master. As you requested. Crew cabins are on the far side. There’ll be people there. Crew. Maybe a lost runner or two, sniffing around. The cabins are the last stop on the supply train, or the first stop, depending which way you’re travelling, so there’s often crew. We’ll be leaving what’s called the perimeter, young master. You understand that? Another jurisdiction, beyond the bay. Should take about three hours to get across but there’s a narrow neck we’ll take to save time, through the garden, though the growth has extended since I last came here. The floorplan’s changed.”
Approaching the trees, they slowed. Crows burst up from the floor, startling both of them. Raucous, incongruent, the birds were like fragments torn loose from Crospinal’s dream. Traces of crumbled nutrient tile, dead seeds, and anemic roots marked the first line of growth. The bird, and the mammal. The opportunistic muroid. . . .
The elemental’s titanium feet and shins were dusted with fine pollen. Crospinal’s head spun with words. Trees could not find purchase beyond the distinct border of the nutrient tiles. Father had told him, like everything else, what the dark, fertile mixture was called, but it seemed to Crospinal that father’s instructions and terms and lessons meant little out here; Crospinal’s confidence was shaken, though he would defend father again and again if he had to.
Watching the crows fly off, until they were no longer in sight, the elemental said, “All right, young master. Here we are. Garden’s edge. Let’s go. Elbows in. Keep your knees tight against me.”
“Wait.” Crospinal felt further twinges of anxiety. He took a sip, held the siphon tube between his teeth. “One second.”
Farther in, trees grew taller and taller. The monstrous growths were identical to those in the garden of his memories: one spindly trunk atop a broad root nest, with narrow, delicate leaves, each crusted with a photosensitive sheen. Here, at the border, some trees were hardly higher than a hand’s span, sitting on a fist-sized ball of roots, but deeper into the garden, other trees must have had trunks as thick around as his waist. How large must their root mass be? To walk among those giants he would again feel miniature.
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