by Lake, Jay
Its eyes came into focus first. Then the head, the rippling, striped shoulders, the sinewy flanks and legs, and finally the winding question mark of a tail—
There was a tiger, caught in mid-leap toward the viewer, trapped in that tiny universe of lucite and liquidity; only when held at a tilted, almost falling-forward angle did it come to life in that radiant place. Through the tears blurring my vision, it almost seemed to breathe in that amniotic cage; it was that perfectly rendered, that minutely detailed, down to the claw-tips and the glow in its oval eyes.
How she’d even imagined it was a mystery; it put her mother’s work to shame—no, not quite shame, but it put the elder Bertrand’s work under much closer scrutiny, a more careful search for that same perfection of line and intent.
Holding that cube in my hands, I felt a sense of charged calmness—a contradiction, true, but a most pleasant contradiction nonetheless. With a flick of the wrist, the tiger vanished in a mist of floating carbon, with another, it winked back into view. Much like those primitive “winky” pictures from long ago, the ones that changed depending on which angle you viewed them from. But so far beyond it like another plane of thought.
And yet, there was a painful irony there, in the mirroring of the suspended tiger and the wave-diffused remains of its creator. Had she guessed her final fate? Wished it, perhaps? Or merely anticipated it, with that stoical resignation she’d hinted at in her file entries, the ones she was still able to write herself?
The jangling intrusion of the phone startled me, so much so I nearly dropped the thing on the floor before I could reach over and pick up the receivers.
“Yeah?”
“You get the package from the—”
“Got it, solved it. I...read the file. I think I can show you or the Bertrands how to get in... if you want to...”
Cyber’s pause was more articulate than his reply. “No need—just as long as you could do what was in the box. That’s what they...y’know, seemed to want. You can send both of ’em back to me. Or them. Whatever.”
I doubted that Cyber would be able to get into the program, just as I doubted the Bertrands would want to get into it. But I’d done my job.. .albeit not the job I’d been hired to do.
I could understand them wanting to know what she’d been doing, even as I couldn’t understand why they’d go through the trouble of torching the PC just to have an excuse for sending it to a geekshop. Maybe they were the kind of people who had a need for excuses. Or didn’t want the answers they’d need to solve the question at hand. Or couldn’t face them...
4
After I’d played with the cube for a while, exposing it to full daylight, lamp-light, even my fridge light, I noticed something that I don’t even know if Liane had had in mind—there was another image in there, about 23° down from the image of the tiger. Given the angle, and her age, I suspect that maybe she’d meant for it to be there, if not actually discovered immediately. Finding it is much more difficult than noticing where the tiger is hidden. But yet, once I knew it was there, it was hard for me to merely settle for the tiger...
As much as I felt a kinship for the piece, and for the program buried in that glimmering polymer drive, I sent both of them back to the Bertrands. All I enclosed was a hand-printed copy of the last set of instructions, figuring that that was what they were seeking. Plus some brief words of condolence; what can one say to people one really doesn’t know, will never know? And about someone you’ve never met, never will?
I was paid well, extremely well, for my efforts. But I wasn’t surprised to see reproductions of the piece for sale in museums, including the one where the original was housed, within six months of my revealing of the tiger. That they sold it bothered some people; there was ugly talk of cashing in on tragedy, or promoting their own cause via Liane’s last creation.
Typical responses from the uncaring. I hope the Bertrands didn’t worry over-much about them, for I think I understand why they did what they did, and so quickly.
It was such a beautiful, beautiful thing. If someone I loved had created it, I’d be eager to share it, too. That she died while working on it was tragic, yet painfully fitting too, for I doubt any artist could create another work to equal it, let alone surpass it. And, as if to atone for the hubris they felt, the Bertrands offered Liane’s PC to the country’s foremost blend-detox center, where yet another hacker-geek managed to figure out how she’d programmed it, and was able to replicate the analytical process it used to understand therapeutic answers from drugged-out b.s. Perhaps that development might’ve pleased that dreaded fifth columnist who’d invaded Liane’s brain during her final “cure.”
I doubt Liane would’ve been interested in that application of her program, or really would’ve appreciated its effects on others like herself.
But her creative offspring, the tiger that echoed the year of her own birth, is both appreciated and adored by people who would never give so much as the proverbial time of day to a blend-head, or ex-blender. The kind of people who suggest things like “better yet” when considering people like Liane.
Perhaps it was for them, the nay-sayers and the stubbornly prejudiced, that she added that other image. The one of the woman’s face, smiling under eyes radiant with light.
The one that, perhaps, only I’ve been able to see so far...as I swallow back the pangs of hunger within and dream of the other smiling woman inside myself.
Last night, I had a dream about the real Liane, the one who lived and died in such a short space of years. She and I were walking, from different directions, in a mall crowded with other people. We passed each other close enough to bump shoulders, a slight contact necessitating only the briefest of nods and slight smiles before moving on our separate ways. I suppose I should have felt regret at not grabbing the dream-Liane, and speaking to her, but I felt none—she and I had already shared our moment of time together.
Otherwise, we really had nothing much in common at all, nor would our paths have crossed under other circumstances.
Only...I never had the chance to see her smiling before.
* * * *
In memory of Hugh Edward O’Connor (1962-1995).
The polymer drive computer, while imaginary, was devised and initially described by John S. Postovit.
THE FOREVER FOREST, by Rhys Hughes
Originally published in The Company He Keeps (Postscripts 22/23), Sept. 2010.
Wildewood: hell on Earth. A place full of organisms. Think about it! Grass, hedges, trees. I even heard there were rabbits. Can you imagine anything more disgusting?
So I was finally being given the chance to wipe this blot off the face of the planet. Not that I was too keen on the idea. I mean, nobody who had ventured there had ever returned, an old cliché, to be sure, but one that chilled the oil in my tubes.
I stood rigidly to attention in the office of my superior as he briefed me on the details of my mission. My metal frame sparkled in the light of the glowglobes that floated and bounced through the room. I made an impressive sight, as I always have and always will. My superior, in comparison, was showing signs of age. The wrinkles of metal fatigue lined his dour face.
His weary speakers crackled and hissed.
“Now listen carefully D-350, you must destroy Wildewood by any means necessary. Choose a weapon from the armoury. Whatever hazards you meet in that unspeakable place, just remember the health of the robot republic depends on your success.”
This was followed by the usual patriotic speech, but as far as I was concerned it was all superfluous, I already knew everything that could be known about Wildewood. Who doesn’t? The last area of forest in the world, the abode of the last human, a menace to society, the final oxygen producing source of any consequence. With its annihilation, the curse of rust would become a thing of the past.
Or was there mo
re to it than that?
“This is an enormous task to place on anyone’s shoulders,” my superior rambled on, oblivious of my impatience, “but I have faith in you D-350, I really do. I believe you won’t let us down, I suspect you have the makings of a hero.”
He had probably said the same thing in the same way to each of my six hundred predecessors. His multifaceted eyes did not meet mine, he was slightly embarrassed. To ease the situation, I put on my proudest visage and used my most faithful and noble voice.
“I’ll do my best sir, truly I will. Trust me.”
He attempted a smile. He had no choice and he knew it, but I could tell from his expression that he never expected to see me again.
* * * *
Unlike my predecessors, who spent the eve of their departure fusing and wrenching, I took it upon myself to study the culture of our makers. I had already gained something of a reputation as an historian and I sat in my bunk the whole night scanning those primitive databanks that humans had called books. Luckily enough, as I’d hoped, this study gave me a possible advantage over those who had already been sent on this most difficult of assignments.
I quickly began to formulate some theories of my own about Wildewood’s seeming invulnerability. I discovered something in a quaint volume that provided an intriguing clue. I decided not to share my thoughts with anyone, certainly not my superior, who would haul me before a court martial or at the very least send me back to the factories for reprogramming if he realised I could entertain such crazy notions.
Were my speculations too whimsical? The facts spoke for themselves. Wildewood still stood despite years of effort to destroy it. Tons of explosives, nuclear warheads and poisonous defoliants had been thrown against it, to no avail. The weapons failed to detonate, the chemicals failed to react. It was a mystery our scientists couldn’t solve, a profound enigma, a glitch in our logical utopia.
Even our surveillance operations relied on acquiring data through sensitive telescopes and listening devices rather than bombarding the site with hard radiation, which Wildewood appeared to be immune to. Radar and sonar had also proved of limited use.
A call came through from my mate, J-J1N9XU, the finest electro-damsel ever made, who was working on a project at the bottom of the sea. We spoke for an hour about trivial matters but the anxiety in her voice was obvious. She had been told about my mission and was greatly concerned, or else the immense pressure of the water was distorting her speakers. I missed her dreadfully but at last I closed the connection and switched into lonely mode, all the better to think.
Slowly, I chewed my titanium lower lip with an iridium tooth.
* * * *
Before I left, my superior bade me farewell. His voice was controlled but little relays in his face and neck twitched and quivered. I couldn’t tell whether the emotions that swelled his oil pump were those of envy, pride, admiration or despair.
“What armaments did you choose?” he asked. “Positron grenades? Vibraguns? Quantum knuckle dusters?”
“This,” I replied crisply, drawing my weapon from a recess in my chest. “I found it in the Museum of Man. Simple but effective.”
“What are you up to D-350? That’s just a toy!”
“You’ll see,” I said, with a clanking wink.
I didn’t give him the chance to protest further. I left the office and stepped into the Aesthete, the new aircar provided especially for my task. My choice of name bewildered my superior. He couldn’t know the connection between it and the forest that refused to die.
I accelerated forward and up, clearing the roof of the Cogs & Levers Bank by three metres. As I left the Isle of Chrome behind and stared at the industrial landscape below, I tried to prepare my mind for the forthcoming ordeal. Noxious fumes drifted across my field of vision, huge black pools of chemicals steamed and bubbled, fields of scrap metal groaned and screeched. It was beautiful.
I was taking a big risk.
Before long, I sighted Wildewood and descended toward the gates. These were not gates in the conventional sense: two entwined trees stood at the edge of the forest, forming a rudimentary arch.
I fought down nausea and stepped over the threshold. All at once, my sensors were assailed by colours, odours and sounds almost beyond imagination. The undergrowth was alive with crawling things. My shiny cybernetic brain began to scream in horror and it was all I could do not to turn and run back to safety.
The last surviving human had imposed strict conditions on visitors. We had to arrive singly and we had to walk on legs. Violations of these conditions resulted in malfunctions as mysterious as those of our missiles and toxins. Quite recently, an entire squad of stormtroopers had shorted out before they took more than a handful of steps into that verdant nightmare.
At the end of the path stood a house. As instructed, I strode casually up to the door and rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately and in picturesque human fashion the last living man extended his pink hand.
“Mr Hallward, I presume?” I said.
He nodded. “Good morning. You must be the new assassin? I’m so very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I replied, and with a monumental effort of will, I grasped his hand. It was horribly warm and soft.
“Come in, won’t you? I would offer you tea but I’m sure you’ll refuse and I don’t have any oil.”
“I’m fine as I am,” I murmured.
I followed him into a drawing room, scanning every millimetre of the floor and walls as I passed through the hallway. The house was stuffed with art, old sculptures and figurines adorning every available surface, the walls heavy with prints in elaborate frames, crystal vases and purely decorative ceramics crowding each other out on shelves, tall and pointless silk screens dividing the single space into many zones of cluttered inefficiency and insults to geometry.
“Very nice,” I lied quietly.
Then I saw it. Above the fireplace.
This really was nice!
He gestured at a chair and I sat down, feeling the prickling of the oxygen laden atmosphere. We nodded at each other.
* * * *
I bided my time, gaining his confidence at least to a small degree. Most assassins simply opened fire the moment he offered his hand, but I was determined to do things differently.
An hour later we were still talking.
“I must say, my dear D-350, that you’re awfully civilised for a killing machine. I never expected to have anything in common with one of my enemies. A pleasant surprise in all.”
I shrugged at the compliment. “Thank you, Mr Hallward, but I’m not truly an art enthusiast. I certainly don’t believe in art for art’s sake, I just like to keep myself informed.”
“Well I’ve enjoyed our chat so far anyway!”
“But I’m going to have to think about leaving, I can’t overrun my schedule by too much, which means I’ll have to make an attempt to destroy this place quite soon.”
He smirked. “Be my guest.”
“Don’t you consider yourself to be a trifle overconfident, Mr Hallward? The world is completely ruled by robots. You are an extremely vile anachronism, to put it bluntly.”
“Yes, but I still value my life and this sanctuary.”
“That’s understandable,” I agreed as I stood and drew my gun from my chest compartment. He also rose to his feet.
“Go on, shoot me now!” he chuckled.
I shook my head. He frowned and I guess for the first time he was genuinely disconcerted. “Not you,” I said.
“Why not?” he bawled.
“It won’t do any good. I have a different tactic. Permit me to tell you a story, or rather to tell you about a story. I’m sure you are familiar with a forgotten writer named...”
Before I could say more, my voice was swamped by the r
oar of blistering scramjet engines low over the house. I fumbled on my neck for the volume control but even at maximum my speakers were drowned out. My host had already stumbled to the window, so I joined him and we looked out together. The vapour trail was dissolving in the smoky sky and the echo bounced between the oily clouds, but even the flimsiest of Wildewood’s trees did not shake a single leaf. Here was the secret of the place in action, a neat demonstration of my host’s power! Now he was running through the hall and I followed him again.
He opened the front door and we stood outside, craning our necks up to witness the next pass of the giant aircar.
* * * *
It came back even lower and something was discharged from its belly, a squat black object attached to a parachute. I recognised it instantly as one of the latest tactical fusion bombs. It drifted down slowly toward the roof of the house and in my mind I said goodbye to everything I held dear, my existence, my career, my mate.
My host just giggled to himself and waved at the pilot, who turned in his cockpit and made an obscene gesture.
When the bomb was no more than ten metres from striking the roof, something weird happened. Its outlines became less distinct, as if it was being dissolved in some powerful acid. I watched it turn first translucent but still hard, like a glass grenade, then insubstantial and wispy, finally vanishing into nothingness!
There was no explosion. Wildewood had protected itself.