Chapter 6 - A Night Out With Friends
"I think it looks splendid, Ernie. Perhaps it's rude for a robot to appraise his own work, but I think that glass eye looks wonderful in your face."
As always. Oliver's work proves impeccable. I hardly feel the eye as it fills my left socket. Oliver tells me the eye even tracks side to side in synch with my remaining, right eye. I was foolish to have been reluctant to wear it. With Oliver's help, setting the eye into its socket wasn't unpleasant at all.
"Do you think she'll notice it?"
Two of Oliver's hands rise to softly grip my head, holding my face as a third hand produces a light which helps the robot regard how well the glass orb sits in its socket. "I can visually discern no difference between the eyes, Ernie. I cannot, however, vouch for the priestess' observational skills. Are you feeling any discomfort or irritation?"
"None at all. It feels perfect."
I don't think I've ever looked so hard, for so long, at my reflection in the mirror. The priestess has granted me another opportunity for rendezvous, and I'm sure that the Moon Pendant of Lehmur I gifted her in my online game has earned me another chance for a meeting. My plans are no secret to Oliver, who continues to hover constantly at my side, peeking over my shoulder whenever I type an in-game missive to the priestess, vigilantly checking my blood pressure and supervising my diet, removing any of the obstacles waiting in my path as my steps adjust to my impeded vision. Oliver's even fallen into the habit of humming at my bedside, claiming the noise increases the likelihood of my dreams being pleasant. If Oliver possesses any objection to my midnight meeting at the estate's fencing, the robot keeps it to himself. The idea has popped into my head that Oliver, at the behest of Dr. Zito, might be using me as bait to lure out the identities of those who seek my company in my video game. Yet I refuse to quiver in my room and miss another chance of meeting the priestess on account of my worries regarding a robot's intentions. So I try to convince myself that Oliver's interest remains clinical, that the robot demands to accompany me in my midnight escapade to insure he can administer any first aid I might need should I trip and break a bone during my excursion.
A pair of Oliver's hands pat my shoulder. "How does the coat fit?"
I smile in the mirror. "The coat. The pants. The shoes. It all fits like a glove, Oliver. I can't belief how well you've tailored them. I thought these pieces of Dr. Zito's clothes were going to cover me like curtains."
"Only a matter of mathematics and geometry, Ernie. It wasn't so hard once I calculated where to best cut and fold."
"Well, it's magic. So much better than the pajamas you usually force me to wear."
"The pajamas help me access you in case there is an emergency."
"You mean those pajamas peal off real quick in case you need to take the scalpel to me."
"Your description does not need to sound so cruel, Ernie."
I shake the fear, and the anger, from my mind. I refuse to ruin my excitement by further brooding upon the purpose for which Dr. Zito has created me.
"Are you sure the doctor won't miss these clothes?"
Oliver shakes his head. "It is highly unlikely the doctor is aware he owns them. He has not entered the wardrobe from which I took these clothes for eleven years."
"You keep a record of that?"
"I keep a record of everything."
Oliver and I roll out of my bedroom after I give my figure a last glance in the mirror. The mansion's halls are dimly lit. Oliver's treads fold and bend as the robot, with one of his six hands supporting my back in case I trip, navigates the stairs. I don't fear Dr. Zito suddenly appearing from around a corner. The doctor sleeps in the far wing of the mansion, his dreams no doubt soaked in expensive bourbon. Oliver is the only thing in the estate likely to try to keep me from my rendezvous, and the robot appears content to extend a hand to settle any of the lamps I bump against as I slowly shuffle through the dark.
The estate remains dark as we exit the mansion and move across the lawn. Oliver has apparently shut off the motion-detection lighting that border the stone pathways so that we may continue in shadow. I realize that on the few occasions when I escaped my room to run across the lawn that I had failed to notice any of the trees, or the pond, or the intricate craftsmanship of the gazebo. I wonder why Oliver has never taken me outside to feed bread to the pond's ducks, or to simply watch a thunderstorm gather in the sky.
"I detect the heat signatures of three individuals on the other side of the fence a few meters ahead of us, Ernie."
Oliver's whisper booms in the quiet, and for the first time since I received the priestess' message, I pause and wonder if my course of action is wise.
"The priestess told me she would come alone."
"That may be, Ernie, but there are three individuals standing on the other side of the fence."
It's difficult for me to recognize much detail concerning the shapes beyond the fence due to the low light, and I find myself thankful to hear Oliver's treads at my side. The figures beyond the fence appear to fidget and pace as we draw closer.
"Tell the robot to stop right there."
I blink at the deep, masculine voice that barks from the fence. The voice sounds nothing like the voice I imagined the priestess would own.
Oliver wastes no time in responding. "I will not leave Ernie's side. My duty is to accompany him and protect him. It is my duty to make sure Ernie is prepared for any emergency."
A second masculine voice growls. "The robot's probably already alerted the doctor."
"It's alright. We wouldn't still be standing out here in the dark if Oliver tripped any of the alarms."
My heart pounds. That is the voice I have imagined while spending so many hours traveling through the lands of my favorite, digital world with the priestess accompanying me. It's the priestess' voice, the voice that was with me when we hunted the child-eating tiger of the Lhankshaw village, when we scaled the peek of Mt. Treble, when we raided the diamond mines of the near-blind South Clerat gnoll-men. A heartbeat is all the time I need to know that the priestess has come to meet me.
The woman clicks on a flashlight, and just as I hoped, it's Ms. Saunders' face that smiles at me.
"I'm glad to see you, Ernie. I wan't sure you would make our rendezvous."
I wince as one of Ms. Saunders' companions shines his flashlight's beam into my eyes. "His face doesn't look hurt to me. Doesn't look like he's lost an eye. This might all be some kind of setup."
Oliver's treads roll in front of me. I have enough warning to catch a short breath a moment before Oliver's hands clasp my head and robotic fingers gently clasp my prosthetic eye. I hardly feel anything at all as Oliver pulls that orb from my eye socket and offers the bauble to the man's inspection. The man's fingers shake as he accepts the proof that I did indeed go beneath Oliver's scalpel.
The other man does not flinch, however, as he grabs my eye for inspection. "This eye alone is probably worth a mint in medical technology. I've never seen anything like it."
"You may keep it if you like it, Ms. Saunders," I offer. "Oliver can craft another eye for me. Honestly, the moon pendant was more difficult to acquire."
Ms. Saunders hesitates, as if gauging how she should reply.
"Oh, the Moon Pendant of Lehmur," the man to Ms. Saunders' left snickers. "He's talking about a treasure he sent to that character we created so we could reach him through that video game."
The other man's head snaps towards his companion. "Shut your mouth, Mack. You never know when you need to keep quiet."
"Both of you shut up for a moment," Ms. Saunders snarls.
A very uncomfortable feeling knots in my stomach. This is not the rendezvous to which I agreed. I agreed to meet only with the priestess. I knew nothing about these men who have arrived with Ms. Saunders. I wonder if Ms. Saunders even controlled that priestess' form while we explored so many digital worlds.
"Have you even seen the pendant I sent to you?"
Ms. Saunders' smile
returns. "I'm not any good at video games, Ernie. Jackson there played the game for me."
"So it was never you?" My legs feel weak. "It was always someone else? When we found the black obelisk buried in the Flamewind Desert? When we saved the City of Veils from the rising sea? When we gathered the shards needed to reassemble the Mercy Star? I never shared any of those moments in the game with you?"
"I'm just no good at those games," Ms. Saunders answers, "and I'm too busy to play them."
Jackson throws his smile at me. "But you're very good, Ernie. I didn't think anyone had the time to learn so much about that game."
I don't remember ever wishing that Oliver would extend one of his hands to my chest to count the rate of my heartbeat. The robot has never failed to take such a measurement in any moment of stress until now. My heart is pounding, and I worry that a defect might be making the organ race. Yet Oliver keeps his hands to himself, his telescopic eye twisting and whirling as it considers those who have come to the estate to meet me.
"Ernie, don't make the mistake of thinking I don't care about you because it wasn't me who spent all that time in the game with you," Ms. Saunders continues. "I want you to come with us. I want you to come with me. We're here to save you, Ernie."
Oliver doesn't respond. He remains silent and still. I hear the robot's internal fans spinning, and I hear his telescopic lens clicking. I wonder what Oliver senses through his wide, halo antenna.
"Where do you plan to take me?"
I'm surprised when Mack answers instead of Ms. Saunders. "We've got a great home waiting for you. We have all kinds of equipment to make sure you stay healthy."
"Equipment?" I don't like the sound of that. "You're not planning to take me to your home, Ms. Saunders?"
Ms. Saunders stutters. "I'm sorry, Ernie. I don't know what you think there might be between the two of us. I never gave any indication that I would bring you to my home."
"But there was the time we spent together in the game. We shared all those events."
"That was me, Ernie. It was never her." speaks Jackson.
Mack is squeezing my glass eye, and he keeps peaking down the road behind his shoulder. "We don't have time for this puppy love. He's nothing more than a clone. We have to decide how we want to play this."
Ms. Saunders extends a hand through the fence, but I hesitate to accept it.
"Come with us, Ernie. We'll take care of you. You'll be more than just a bag of parts. You'll be more than just replacement organs for a fat, uncaring doctor. We'll never harvest anything from you. You'll never have to give another piece of yourself to Dr. Zito. But we don't have time to stand any longer at this fence."
Mack's free hand falls into his jacket pocket, and when it comes back out, it grips a thick gun. "We can take care of the robot, Ernie. You don't have to worry about him stopping you."
Oliver still doesn't move.
"You will all be friends?" I ask. "You've come here because you care? You've come here to be family to me? No matter that I am just a clone?"
"Of course, Ernie." Ms. Saunders answers instantly, and that does nothing to ease my suspicion.
I turn to Oliver. That robot has never claimed I was anything more than a clone. Oliver has never spoken a false promise to me. That robot has never tried to soften the truth of my purpose. He has never denied that I was anything more than a closet of parts for an aging and obese doctor. Oliver has been my jailor more often than he has been my guardian. But in sum of all things, that robot has always been honest.
"Are they my friends, Oliver?"
The whirl of Oliver's internal fans silence before he answers. "They stand to earn billions of dollars by stealing and deciphering the secrets Dr. Zito employed in your creation, Ernie. Entire nations would give millions to know how Dr. Zito cloned the perfect, universal donor - whose organs would not be rejected by any immune system, whose bones mend so quickly, who never suffers infection. They come for you, Ernie, but they do not come as friends. They see you as just another clone, as just another commodity for sale and for trade. They think no more of you than does Dr. Zito."
Jackson hisses. "He's just a robot, Ernie."
"You can't rely on a robot, Ernie," Ms. Saunders adds, "not when we're talking about your life."
But to me, Oliver is much more than a machine. I have no doubt, or delusion, that Oliver will not in the end be the one who comes to harvest me so that Dr. Zito might live a year or decade longer after his heart explodes, or after cancer ruins his bone marrow. I can't explain why, but I think Oliver cares for me. I think Oliver will deliver me my death without any pain, that he will do all he can to soften my fear when the day for my harvest arrives. I doubt Ms. Saunders would make such a promise. She is not that priestess with whom I've shared so many wonderful adventures. That woman was only a dream of my imagination. I don't prefer Dr. Zito over her, but I cannot leave Oliver.
"I know who my friends are," I answer Ms. Saunders. "No matter if they are not real people."
Things happen so quickly that I hardly have time to wink. Jackson and Mack raise their guns towards Oliver the moment I turn my back on the fence. I hear spits of air, and the roar of guns. When I turn around, Ms. Saunders and her friends are collapsing onto the ground, the green plumes of Oliver's sleeping darts sticking out of their necks. Oliver faces me, his telescopic eye scanning me for any injury just as my remaining eye inspects him for any damage. There's a dent on my friend's plastic chest and a crack on the top of his head from the impacts of two bullets. All of the estate's lights come to life, and alarms shrill in the background.
"Are you alright, Oliver?"
"Nothing I can't easily repair. What's important is that none of the bullets bounced off of me to strike you, Ernie. Your pieces are not so easily mended."
Dr. Zito never stirs from his sleep as the police arrive to interview Oliver and view the robot's recording of the rendezvous. The police know that Oliver speaks for the doctor, and though the officers speak to Ms. Saunders and her companions, they don't take the time to speak with me. I am only a clone.
Oliver escorts me back into my room, and while I try to relax and sleep without the help of any of the robot's pills, I realize my night hasn't been a total loss. My priestess proved to be but a wisp of my imagination, but I'm now certain that I have a friend composed of sturdier plastic.
* * * * *
Brother Keepers Page 6