The Sky Inside

by Clare B. Dunkle

  Martin watched the seconds depart, scuffing his feet on the floor to provide a distraction. Across his screen paraded an endless succession of sentences to diagram, math problems to solve, science questions to answer, spelling errors to correct. When he daydreamed, the handheld beeped at him, and his teacher came over to shake him. By the end of the day, rigor mortis had set in, and his brain held no thoughts at all.

  “It’s your birthday,” Cassie reminded him on the way home. “What present do you think you’ll get?”

  “I dunno,” Martin said vaguely. He was still coming back to life.

  “What do you want to get?” pursued Cassie, not for the first or even the tenth time that week.

  “I dunno,” Martin said again. “I guess Mom could give me back my jeans.”

  Cassie hooted. “Those old things! Everyone could see your underwear! I can’t believe Mom had to sneak them out from under your pillow.”

  “I knew she was after them,” Martin muttered. “They were just the way I like them.”

  “Oh, come on, what do you want?”

  “Nothing, I guess.” Martin was thirteen now, he reminded himself, not some dumb little kid anymore. Toys were for kids, and the things he was mildly interested in, like David’s bug, he knew his parents wouldn’t give him. But the sorts of things his father and mother gave to each other—puzzles, hobby kits, clothes, grown-up junk—he couldn’t imagine ever wanting.

  “You can’t want nothing,” insisted Cassie. She took his hand and tugged on it as she skipped and hopped in excitement. “There are so many things you don’t have. Fun things! Pretty things too! I wish it were my birthday.”

  “That’s just kid stuff, Cass,” he said. “If you were old like me, you’d understand.” And he stiffened his arm so she could hop higher.

  Martin and Cassie reached the park. Crates and bags teetered in wobbly piles on the sidewalk in front of their house, and their father stood in the middle of the chaos outside their open garage.

  Dad was comfortable-looking and a little soft, like his favorite recliner chair, with a cheerful face and a patch of long grizzled hairs that he carefully combed over his bald spot. Something was wrong today, though, Martin could tell. Dad’s hairs were disarranged, and his movements were impatient. Maybe he and Mom had had a fight.

  “You’re home early,” Martin said. “What’s up?”

  “I got the trash shipments out the door ahead of schedule,” Dad said. “And the new scooter came in today. I thought I’d try it out.”

  Martin spotted Dad’s new scooter leaning against the house behind a stack of Young Scientist in the Kitchen kits. Dad had been talking about his scooter for the last two weeks. He should look happier about its arrival.

  “I can’t even squeeze it in here.” Dad gestured hopelessly toward the garage. “I don’t know why they didn’t make these things with more storage space!”

  “We could move the volleyball stuff,” Martin suggested. “We never play. Or we could throw out Mom’s old weights.” Balancing several boxes of Cassie’s baby clothes on top of the foosball table, they wedged the scooter in at last.

  They burst into the dining room from the garage. Mom was there, hurrying from cooker to table. Mom always hurried, every movement decisive and efficient. She drank those hideous no-dye-added energy drinks all day, and they obviously worked.

  “It’s the birthday boy!” she cried, and Martin was subjected to a smothering hug and kiss. “I tried out my new cake-decorating module today. The frosting is ‘a mystery flavor that will keep your company guessing for hours.’ You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

  As they ate their dinner and the enigmatic birthday cake, Martin kept an eye on his father. Dad didn’t eat much, which was unusual. He didn’t say much either, but that was typical. Cassie monopolized the conversation as always, telling them about her day.

  “We finished Peter Pan,” she said. “I thought it was well written, with vivid characterizations, even if the setting was a bit fantastical. Peter is a lawyer working for an agency that investigates companies for tax evasion. He takes on Captain Hook, CEO of the Jolly Roger shipping line, for failing to report stolen merchandise. With the help of the Lost Boys Accounting Firm, they finally get Captain Hook dead to rights.” She paused long enough to take a drink of milk.

  “My favorite character was Tinkerbell,” she continued. “Tinkerbell works in advertising, so she can do magic. Captain Hook tried to make Peter Pan lose his job, so Tinkerbell ran a thirty-second spot on television about how great Peter was. That saved him, but then she was going to get fired. But then she said she thought she could keep her job if enough little children believed in advertising, and Peter Pan asked us to clap our hands if we did. And we clapped, and then she just got a verbal warning from her supervisor, and her biggest account was renewed for two more years.”

  “Reading Peter Pan in first grade!” said Mom, shaking her head. “And that’s not what happened to Tinkerbell when I read it.”

  “What happened to your Tinkerbell, Mommy?” asked Cassie.

  Mom shot her a stern glance. “Don’t ask questions!”

  This looked like the start of one of Mom’s lectures, and those generally ended with Cassie running off in tears. Martin decided it was time for a diversion. “Great cake, Mom,” he said. “I think it’s banana. Anyway, something like that.”

  “My birthday boy!” Mom smiled at him. “You certainly are quiet tonight—you haven’t said a word about presents. Not so long ago, you would have been begging to open your gift before the morning vote. Cassie, go get it for me.” His sister trotted from the room.

  Okay, this is the big moment, Martin told himself. Remember to look excited. Then a large object struck him in the chest, knocking his chair to the ground. Something heavy proceeded to dance on him. He gave it a shove and got a look at it. A big golden-coated collie was attacking him in a frenzy of affection, licking his face and yelping ecstatically.

  Martin became aware of the sound of his own voice adding to the din. “STOP DOING THAT RIGHT NOW!”

  The dog stopped whining and wriggling. Ears forward, it considered him. Then it flopped over onto its back and lay with its paws in the air, inviting him to rub its white tummy.

  “‘The Alldog,’” read Cassie from the side of a big cardboard box. “‘Large or small, sleek or fuzzy—all the dogs you ever wanted rolled into one. Contents: one Alldog, owner’s manual, and reset chip. Runs on two Everlite long-life rechargeable batteries. Batteries not included.’”

  “He’s all yours, son,” Dad said, helping Martin to his feet. “They had us send in your photo and a dirty sock and programmed him right at the factory.”

  The collie, unable to contain itself any longer, flipped right side up and began swimming forward on its belly. When its nose rested on Martin’s sneaker, it toppled sideways and began running in place. Its warm brown eyes never left his face for a second.

  “‘The Alldog,’” Cassie continued reading, “‘is the perfect pet and particularly good with children. Do not place your Alldog in a strong magnetic field. Some assembly required.’”

  This is just great, thought Martin. Here I am, thirteen years old, and Mom and Dad give me a dog. A dog! Everybody knows dogs are for little kids.

  He thanked his parents for the degrading toy and took himself off to his bedroom. He was used to Cassie tagging along and invading his privacy. This time, the dog tagged along too. Martin turned on his light, tossed his school stuff onto the bed, turned on his plasma lamp, turned off the light so that the plasma lamp would show up better, and sank into his beanbag chair to consider his misfortune. The collie tried to join him in the beanbag, forcing him to retreat to his desk chair instead.

  Since the plasma lamp didn’t illuminate anything, but only brought an odd green and purple glow to the room, Cassie turned on the light again before she plopped down on his bed. “You aren’t allowed in my room,” Martin pointed out, but he was only observing formalities. At the
moment, he wanted an audience.

  “You don’t like your birthday present,” accused Cassie, tossing the Alldog box onto his pillow. The collie’s ears lifted, and it raised its head from Martin’s knee to fix him with a look of concern.

  “I don’t want some stupid toy,” he said. “That thing’s not real. Heck, it’s not even a dog. It’s just a circuit board attached to a big wad of silver Jell-O. Here, I’ll show you. Give me that reset chip.” And he got up to poke around in the box. The dog let out a sharp yelp and dove under the bed. By the time Martin had the chip, he couldn’t find his pet.

  “I don’t see where it could have gone,” he said, rummaging under the bed. “There’s no room down here for something that big.” After several fruitless minutes, he tried a different technique. “Dog, come!” he commanded, imitating his mother. “And I mean right now!”

  A little cream-colored Chihuahua came crawling out from under the bed, whip tail curled between skinny legs. Its large ears lay against its round head like crumpled Kleenex, and tiny whimpers rose from it at every breath. Its enormous brown eyes practically held tears.

  “Oh, how cute!” Cassie cried, and it immediately hopped onto the bed to take shelter with her. “Poor baby! Look, you scared it.”

  Martin watched the abject creature hide itself in his sister’s arms. Then he flung the chip back into the box and reclaimed his beanbag chair. He felt even more annoyed for giving way to pity. David and Matt hadn’t. They had reset David’s cat.

  “I’m not scaring anything,” he grumbled. “Computer chips don’t have feelings.”

  The Chihuahua jumped down and came slinking over to him, trying to make friends. “You look ridiculous,” he told it. The little dog sat down in the middle of the floor, head hanging and sail-like ears splayed out sideways. It looked as if it had no friends left in the world.

  Meanwhile, Cassie was at the box again, pulling out several pieces of Styrofoam in search of the owner’s manual. Soon she was tapping buttons on it, bringing up the search screen.

  “I think they do have feelings,” she said. “Listen: ‘The Alldog was developed out of a research project to make tool bots seem friendly. This innovative toy begins with a basic tool bot computer module, layered with an artificial intelligence engine. The AI engine, instructed in canine behavior, is ready to explore its environment with you. It wants to be a good dog. Your responses, as well as day-to-day situations, provide a unique learning environment. As the AI engine seeks success and attempts to avoid failure, it becomes a true individual. No other dog in the world will be like yours.’”

  “That’s good,” Martin muttered. “Just look at the skinny little thing! Give me the—Whoa!”

  The Chihuahua was expanding rapidly, like a dog-shaped balloon. In a couple of seconds, a veritable monster lolled beside the beanbag, appearing to take up most of the bedroom. It stood up and towered over Martin.

  “Look out!” he cried.

  Cassie pressed keys and reviewed several pictures. “It’s an Irish wolfhound,” she told him. “That’s what I’m saying: this computer does have feelings—sort of. It knows you’re its master, and the AI part of it wants to succeed. Since you didn’t like it as a little dog, it made itself into a big dog.”

  The wolfhound gazed quizzically down at Martin, its long tail waving gently. “No!” Martin said in what he hoped was a firm, masterful voice. “Bad dog for getting bigger than I am!”

  The huge shape crumpled immediately, and the rough coat smoothed out to a satin gloss. In seconds, a trim, compact beagle stood where the massive wolfhound had been. It had a black back, a brown face, and four dazzling white feet. “Okay, that’s better,” Martin told it, and it danced with pleasure, its white-tipped tail slashing to and fro.

  “Jimmy taught us about these tool bot engines,” Cassie said. “They’re pretty smart, but they’re kind of simple at the same time. They have one or two big goals, and they dedicate all their resources to meeting those goals. We’re more complicated in what we want to do.”

  Martin watched as the beagle sprang about, trying to attract his attention. “So all this thing wants is for me to like it?”

  “‘Loyalty to the master,’” read Cassie from the owner’s manual, “‘is the single trait common to every type of dog.’ You’re the master. It’s programmed to want whatever you want.”

  “Sit!” Martin ordered the beagle, and it promptly obeyed. “Beg!

  Roll over! Up! Down! Play dead!” Silky ears flapping, the little animal performed flawlessly. “Find the square root of sixty-four!” The beagle hesitated for a second and then jumped onto the bed to tap the keys of Martin’s handheld.

  “Look at that,” Martin scoffed. “Real dogs don’t do math!” And he headed to the bathroom with his latest game cartridge to find a little peace and quiet.

  When he came back, Cassie was in her room. Supportive snatches of dialogue from her Tell Me About Your Day diary module drifted out from under her closed door. Martin turned and tiptoed down the hall. At this hour, his parents were usually discussing their day—or their children. Over the years, he had heard many things worth knowing. He stopped outside the living room, where a jewelry show was displaying the newest sparkles. Dad’s voice was barely audible against it.

  “I saw the first of them today, Tris,” he said. “Coming off the packet from Central.”

  “The first whats?” Mom asked absently. Your friends won’t know it’s not a zirconia, the television assured her.

  “You know! Just like last time. They’ll be everywhere in a few days. I wish we knew what happened to—” He gave a sigh. “I just hope nothing turns up.”

  “Walt, what are you talking about?”

  Martin heard the recliner creak as Dad shifted. “Inspection!” he hissed. “There, I said it. You had to make me say it!”

  “Oh dear!” murmured Mom.

  “Oh good, you mean,” Dad said morosely. “You know the walls have ears.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Martin awoke to the stirring strains of patriotic music. At precisely seven o’clock, every television in the suburb had turned itself on and begun playing the national anthem. By a quarter after seven, families were expected to gather in front of those televisions to take part in the daily vote. No problem was too small for them to consider. They were an intensely democratic people.

  “Those blue curtains look cheap, Walt,” Mom was arguing that morning as Martin stumbled into the living room. “It’s the Presidential Office. It should have dignity. He has to hold meetings in there.”

  “I like blue,” Dad murmured sleepily. He was wearing his brown bathrobe, and the long strands of hair that he combed over his bald spot were flopping to and fro. He stood by the television, waiting for the input signal to come on. Then he pulled the keypad out from its shelf below the big screen and typed in his vote. Once it registered, he stepped back with a yawn. “Your turn, Tris,” he said. “We’ll cancel each other out like we always do.”

  Mom stepped forward with the brisk air of a woman who had her duty to perform and two cups of coffee inside her frame to help her do it properly. The national anthem never caught her in bed. She had already taken her shower and gotten dressed.

  Voting finished, they waited to see the result. At seven thirty, the President came on-screen, handsome and serious, standing at a low podium in front of draped flags.

  “Thank you, fellow citizens, for taking time out of your busy day to keep this great country running at its best,” he said, looking so earnestly at them through the television screen that he seemed about to reach out and clasp their hands. “In entrusting these decisions to my people, I share with each of you the awesome burden of leadership. Your quick and caring response lets me know that I am not alone.”

  “He speaks so well,” Mom whispered. “And he dresses so well! No one else looks that good in a suit.”

  “The people have chosen the dark green curtains with the yellow flecks—”

  “Yes!”
cried Mom. “—and of course I bow to their will in this as in all else. Those of you who voted for the blue, take heart: your voice will prevail on another day. Be sure to watch this evening at six o’clock, when I present the problem for you to vote on tomorrow. Goodbye for now. As I guide our great nation, I will remember your faithful service.”

  The screen showed their flag waving proudly for a few sober seconds and then launched into a juice commercial: Grapefruit never tasted so good! Dismissed, they headed into the kitchen for breakfast.

  “I don’t understand voting,” Cassie said as she took out her favorite cereal. “You never vote about anything big.”

  “That’s good,” Dad said, reaching for the coffeepot. “That means there’s nothing big to worry about.”

  “But don’t you ever get to vote for anything bigger than curtains or holidays? Like the President. I want to know when we vote for him.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mom said, bringing dishes to the table. “Our President’s perfectly good. We won’t need to vote for a new one till this one wears out. Martin, no dogs in the kitchen.” The beagle, which had been glued to Martin’s side like an extra limb since he had awoken, reluctantly retreated to the doorway.

  “But who counts the votes?” asked Cassie. “We don’t even know.” She stirred her cereal to make the milk change color. Martin poked expertly at his, causing alternate pockets of orange and blue dye to pool into the milk. Clinging to a cup of black coffee, Dad watched them without enthusiasm.

  “Of course we know,” Mom answered testily. “A big computer does the counting, right there in the room with the President.”

  “But we don’t know that,” observed Cassie. “We never see numbers for how many voted each way. The President could just decide which curtains he liked best and then say anything that—”