by Oliver Higgs
“We’re not looking for trouble,” I tell the boy. They may have cleared the zombies for us but that doesn’t make them friendly.
“Us neither. Wanna come down and talk?” the boy asks.
I consult Echo. We have a wordless conversation. Her eyes are wary. We got lucky with Wade. The boy seems friendly, but out here who really knows? There’s no good reason to expose ourselves to unnecessary risks.
“Nah. I think we’re good up here, thanks,” I say.
“All right, kryptonite. Starbucks, let’s go,” the boy yells.
The robot emerges from the building. They start down the street. The boy looks up as they’re leaving and says, “Good hunting!”
The world’s a strange place–the apparent randomness of Fate, the way little things can make a big difference. If he hadn’t used that one simple phrase, who knows how many things would’ve changed? “Good hunting” was what I used to say to Crispin and Berkley whenever they came with me to ruins outside Farmington. The ruins were a great adventure as a child. Every new find was a treasure, whether we could trade it or not. I never had a robotic guardian or a big wagon to carry stuff in; still, the phrase makes me see something of myself in the boy. I call down after them.
“Wait! Do you know anything about Haven?”
They stop and look back.
“Heard the name before. Someplace north of Apolis, I think,” says the boy.
The fear turns to intensity in Echo’s big blue eyes.
“We’ll come down and talk a bit, if it’s okay with you,” I say.
The boy and robot consult one another.
“Fine with us,” says the boy.
We emerge from the building slowly, warily, weapons lowered. The robot has stowed his sickles on some kind of magnetic back-plate. He stands just ahead of the boy, protectively, prepared to shield him if need be. We introduce ourselves.
“I’m Jarvis. This is Starbucks,” the boy says.
“Well met,” Starbucks says. It’s an odd name, another moniker from the World Before. People in Farmington believed in the power of old names too. We had a Honda, Sony, Exxon and Visa–all of which, I’m told, were powerful titles from the days before the Fall. In Farmington, they were thought to bring luck and prosperity. Guess that disproves that theory.
Up close, Starbucks’ is enormous and intimidating. His eyes are black spheres, but the rest of his face is a semi-malleable metallic membrane, capable of molding itself into human-like expressions. That’s pretty standard for sentient robots. Roboticists learned early on that people need a lot of visual queues related to a robot’s internal state, just as they do for other humans. It’s the only way to establish an amount of trust and predictability.
I want to ask what model neural embryo he’s outfitted with, but it’s probably inappropriate to inquire about the quality of someone’s brain just after you meet them. I’m wondering why he’s wearing the armor too, since the roamers are really no threat to a bloodless organism, but what I ask is:
“Where’s Apolis?”
Jarvis frowns.
“Northwest. You’ve never been there? That’s where we’re from. Where are you from?” he asks.
“Farmington.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s not really there anymore,” I say, shrugging.
“Oh. Tough luck, dude,” Jarvis laments. “I don’t like to fall too far behind the drone. Let’s walk and talk.”
Jarvis has travelled quite a distance, we learn–further than I ever went at his age. Then again, he has Starbucks to protect him. The robot has been attached to the boy’s family for like forty years, which is pretty old for a sentient robot. His body won’t rust, but even a Tritium-Three will wear down eventually, typically faster than a human brain.
Starbucks doesn’t talk much. The weird thing is: he breathes. His body integrates several biochemical components to help power internal electrical systems. He can stop for more than an hour if he needs to, but otherwise we’re always hearing the slow, perpetual rhythm of his exhale-inhale cycle.
Jarvis more than makes up for the talking. He tells us there are no good ruins left around Apolis. It’s clear he considers himself a veteran of the hunt. I know just how he feels too. Back in Farmington, I spent countless hours combing through forgotten places in the desert. I frequented crumbled houses and hidden holes no one else even knew existed.
Jarvis is enthusiastic and upbeat, eager to share his stories. I like the kid, but I have a vague inclination to provide some kind of warning or admonishment. I was like you, I want to say, and look what happened. Here lies the world: use at your own risk.
“This is the furthest southeast we’ve ever been,” Jarvis tells us. “We came close to this area last time, but we were already loaded up on goods, and anyway we didn’t have the drone with us to lure out the roamers. I just knew we had to come back though–this place is a goldmine! Check this out.”
He rummages through the wagon.
“Jarvis,” Starbucks warns. He has just lopped the head off a lingering zombie, but it’s us he’s warning Jarvis about: they don’t know us well enough to flout prized goods. Ignoring him, Jarvis pulls out a large copper coin, dated 1847. His face is ecstatic.
“It’s even older than the Fall!” he says. “I’ve got a collection of these at home. They’re really hard to find. If you’ve got any, I’ll trade you for ‘em. Oh–and look at this. My uncle made it from another one.”
He pulls up his sleeve to show us a unique watch. The face of the watch is another copper coin, dated 1852. I just smile and nod, albeit a little sadly, because again I feel the warning–you won’t be allowed to keep these things. The world will take them from you.
Possession is an illusion. All things are only borrowed.
The words pop into my head, and they’re deeper than expected. Come to think of it, even the mass of our bodies is borrowed from food and drink, to be given back to the Earth one day. I can’t say why, but the idea is vaguely comforting.
“That’s enough,” Starbucks says, frowning, taking a step toward the boy.
“Relax, Starbucks. They’re okay,” Jarvis says.
“No, he’s right. You should be careful with this stuff. Don’t show people,” I say.
Jarvis scowls stubbornly.
We continue following the drone, talking. We explore a few more houses along the way and score more than I expect: new clothes, leather belts, toy cars, a nice hand-axe, some old books, and a second pack in which to carry everything. Echo also finds some fancy women’s clothing and a pair of shockingly red high-heeled shoes.
“That’s ridiculous. How could anyone walk in those?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe–maybe we can trade them,” she says, stuffing them in her pack–but she had a smile on her face before I spoke. Trading them isn’t her first priority.
Soon after that, I find my own favorite prizes in the basement of a workshop: a spool of copper wire, resistors, tiny LED’s, two ancient circuit boards. I’m reminded poignantly of my grandfather’s store. I miss tinkering. Everything gets arranged carefully in my pack.
Near dusk, Starbucks calls a halt. Jarvis fetches a big controller from the wagon and fiddles with it. A few blocks away, the music dies. We hurry west together.
“What about the drone?” I ask.
“It’ll come,” Jarvis says.
“Won’t the roamers follow?” Echo asks.
“Nah. It’s programmed to make a wide, fast circle. It’ll shake the dead-heads.”
“Seems risky,” Echo mutters.
“Don’t worry, Starbucks won’t let any get us. Will you, Starbucks?”
“Only you,” says Starbucks without a trace of humor.
The conversation brings something else to mind.
“Why do you wear the armor?” I ask.
The two of them look at me.
“I mean, they can’t really hurt you,” I elaborate.
“No more than they can hurt yo
u,” Starbucks says.
“Relax, Star,” Jarvis says. “Look, a lot of people think it’s just a rumor, but roamers can hurt robots. Starbucks is a little sensitive about misinformation where his, uh, species is concerned.”
“Hurt? How?” I ask doubtfully.
“Bloody waterbags,” Starbucks mutters, ignoring the question.
“Two ways, really,” Jarvis explains. “First, their teeth are hard enough to penetrate most tactile layers, which all sentient bots are covered with, else they’d have very limited feeling. Tactile layers are never as hard as normal metal, and a lot of robots can’t regenerate the material, so they end up numb wherever they get bit, maybe for good. How would you like to lose all feeling in your arm? Not fun, right? Second–this is where the rumors come in–zombies can infect robots. I don’t care what you’ve heard, we’ve seen it happen. It’s the truth.”
My expression is a mixture of doubt and confusion. The first part I get. Lectric had a softer tactile layer too for sensory purposes. Tactile layers are essential. But how could a robot catch a virus when …
“They have no blood. No offense,” I add, glancing at Starbucks.
“True. But Synth-Z ain’t a normal virus. Here’s what people don’t understand: there’s more than one kind of plague. Way back in the World Before, somebody made Synth-Z. Since then, somebody changed it. If Star wasn’t wearing armor, most of these dead-heads could only numb him. But a few could kill him or drive him crazy.”
“Nanobots,” Starbucks says, looking out into the ruins.
I turn an inquiring gaze on him. He sighs and elaborates.
“Synth-Z is a nano-virus. It’s also a hybrid organism, part carbon, part silicon. In humans, it kills most of the brain, alters the muscular structure, reinforces the bones, changes the whole body’s biochemistry. In robots, like Jarvis said, mostly it does nothing. But there’s at least one strain that works differently. When a zombie bites, it secretes the virus through its saliva. In my case, that could mean a nanobot infection in my tactile layer. Tactile information is relayed to the neural embryo. If it’s the R-strain, the virus will feed garbage data in through the tactile pathways. Which leads to hallucinations. From there, if the corruption spreads, it only gets worse–hyper-aggression, loss of reason, personality collapse, death.”
There’s nothing we can really say to that. The revelation is astonishing. I’ve never heard of this.
We stop two miles later, well outside the ghost-town. Starbucks has to kill three more roamers along the way. We’re at a dip between two hills, and we’ve come to a social cusp.
“We’ve got all we can carry. We’re gonna head west in the morning,” Jarvis says. “You guys … You wanna stick with us until we hit Apolis?”
“Jarvis, we don’t want to trouble these people,” Starbucks says.
Echo and I share a searching look.
“I thought Apolis was north,” I say.
“North, north-west. We’re going west to Hapsburg first,” Jarvis says.
“We want to get north of the z-line. How can we do that?” Echo asks.
“Apolis. It’s the best place to cross. But if you’re going that way, you’d better come with us anyway. You don’t want to take the straight northwestern route.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Raiders. They’re camped in a big forest between the Missipy River and the z-line, a few days from here. That’s why we’re going west first. We’ll turn north at Hapsburg. It’s safer.”
Echo and I share another look.
“We don’t want to trouble you …” she says, looking sideways at Starbucks.
The big robot’s rhythmic breathing is interrupted by a sigh.
“Jarvis is right. If that’s your goal, you need to go through Apolis. You’d better come with us.”
He’s still wary, however. If anything, his distrust comes as a relief. Jarvis’s childish enthusiasm makes him fun to talk to, but such things can’t keep you safe. Soon the aerial drone comes whirring in, honing in on Jarvis’s controller. They stow it on top of the pile in the wagon.
Starbucks takes first watch. I’m still wary of some hidden betrayal myself, so I barely drift off before paranoia wakes me again. I relieve Starbucks when the time comes, but even when he “sleeps,” he sits up staring in our direction. His breathing slows and he goes into some kind of low-power mode, yet he has no lids over his glassy black eyes, and I have a feeling he can still monitor us on some level.
We make it through the night together and nobody wakes up dead.
In the morning, we stray west from the z-line, heading toward a place called Hapsburg.
Chapter 12.
It’s a relief to leave the z-line. We’re still watchful for roamers, but we see fewer and fewer along the way. Whenever we do, Starbucks lops off another head. Jarvis is good at setting snares. He has some food stored in the wagon, but he’s been supplementing their supplies with small game along the way. The traps aren’t electronic, but it’s one more thing that reminds me of myself at that age.
It’s a five day walk to Hapsburg.
On the second day, we cross a stream. The water is cool and refreshing. I don’t have to desalinate it either. Echo sits apart on the bank and checks her wounds. Her pants are tight around the ankles, so to examine her calf she has to pull them down instead of up. There’s not even a scar to mark where the mine hit her, though that’s not what catches my attention. She’s got underwear from the Doctor’s medical supplies, so it’s not like she’s showing everything, but the sunlight on her bare legs takes me by surprise. They seem much longer all of a sudden and altogether stunning.
I’m not the only one who notices. Frozen in the middle of filling his canteen, Jarvis gapes at her openly with a total loss of self-awareness. He’s been struck dumb, as if he only just realized she was a girl. She’s belting her pants again when she happens to look up and sees us staring. Jarvis blinks and looks away, muttering something about canteens. I fumble deliberately with my boot for lack of anything better to do.
From that point on, Jarvis fawns over Echo. He talks a lot in my direction, but his eyes keep moving to her face, gauging her reactions. If she expresses an opinion, he instantly empathizes. All of her suggestions meet his immediate and enthusiastic support.
“Oh, that’s neat,” she says about one of his snares, and then he’s eager to tell her everything about them. He even teaches her how to make them–and this she really does appreciate. She starts setting them the next day and, on her third attempt, catches a small rabbit. She’s genuinely pleased.
“You have a fan,” I say quietly to her as Jarvis brings the rabbit to Starbucks for skinning.
“At least somebody appreciates me,” Echo says, fiddling with the snare in her hands.
“What do you mean?” I ask
She sighs heavily and shakes her head, like I’ve missed something obvious.
“You should say, ‘Hey, let’s go jump over that cliff,’ just to see what he says,” I suggest, smiling; then I imitate Jarvis’ answer for her: “‘Oh, we should totally do that. Let’s jump. That’s a good idea, Echo. Real good.’”
She’s not laughing, however. She looks up at me with one eyebrow raised and says, “Why don’t you go jump over a cliff.”
Then she walks away.
Clearly, she’s missed the point. I like Jarvis. I just thought it was funny. I turn to find Starbucks towering over me with the skinned rabbit.
“Humans,” he mutters in disgust, moving past me toward the dinner-fire.
Overall, our journey is a good one. The blue sky is bigger than it used to be, full of hidden potential. Echo has been smiling more lately, and we’re miles and miles from those dark days on the shores of New Sea.
Then we reach Hapsburg.
Hapsburg lies on the western bank of the Missipy River. This is the same river which used to flow through the ruins of my old city. I’ve seen the evidence on old maps, but much of the land was reshaped during the Fall
, pushing the river further west.
On the eastern bank lies Blackbridge, a small town full of merchants and fishermen. Despite the name, there’s no actual bridge. There was one, I’m told, but it’s gone now. There are, however, a number of boats willing to ferry people across the river. We barter with a ferryman for the trouble and soon land on the western bank, at the foot of Hapsburg.
Hapsburg is three times the size of its sister town. It’s surrounded by a spiked wooden fence, interspersed with towers supporting rifle-wielding sentries. A genuine forest lies beyond it, yielding an ample supply of wood. A timber-mill and a number of farms dot the surrounding countryside.
Starbucks is aggravated as we step off the ferry and head up the dirt path toward the town.
“He’s not a big fan of the Plastic People,” Jarvis explains.
“The what?” Echo asks.
“You’ll see. There’s one now.”
Two guards stand by the town’s entrance, each carrying a machine gun. They’re wearing chainmail hauberks over hooded cloth shirts. The one on the left looks different somehow.
What happened to his face?
His skin is too tight. Overly smooth. Fake. I try not to stare but I can’t help it. Then I realize–he’s not human. He’s a robot. Synthetic skin over rubbery flesh over mechanical insides. The closer I get, the more obvious it is. His eyes are slightly too wide. The eyebrows are colored in. He has no hair. His fingers are smooth cylindrical nubs. He’s like a rough approximation of a person.
The guards stop us long enough to examine our wagon, then wave us on. Our weapons are plainly visible, but apparently that’s acceptable here. I’m still trying not to stare. There’s something grotesque about this robot’s mimicry. The failed attempt to appear human is far more disturbing than, for example, Starbucks’ distinctly inhuman countenance.