Chapter 10.
“In the World Before, they called this place ‘Sh’cago,’” the Ferryman says, surveying the ruins.
“Sh’cago, Scargo, ain’t much matter now,” Wade says, punctuating his assessment by spitting overboard. Half a mile from the shore, Franklin lowers the sail. The waters are perilous. A portion of the city lies just under our hull. Broken beams jut from the water like dragon’s teeth. Remnants of old buildings, highways, even an enormous winged flying machine are concealed beneath the surface. Franklin guides us in slowly, a well-spoken Charon, nudging the ship to and fro with his long wooden pole.
“Sharks prowl these waters,” he warns.
I peer over. A pale, man-like shape walks along the sea-bottom. Sharks would’ve been better; a different kind of biter inhabits these waters. The roamer in Wade’s bag squirms as though sensing its kin.
“Where’s the Doctor?” I ask.
“We must hail him,” the Ferryman says.
He reveals a small radio and hand-cranked generator. The generator is familiar–because I made it. Another trade with Toyota. I always wondered where my goods ended up. Franklin powers up the radio, adjusts the frequency, and transmits a message. He does this several times. Finally, someone responds.
“I read you, Ferryman. Have you brought me travelers?”
The voice is pleasant but hard to nail down. I can’t tell if the speaker is male or female.
“Yes, Great Doctor. I bring Wade Crow of the desert, and two young companions bound for Haven. Wade brings you a gift. His young friends are injured and would seek a minor Miracle,” Franklin transmits. I frown–minor Miracle?
“Do you make the Oath?” the Doctor asks.
“I have made the Oath and keep the Oath,” Franklin says.
“I’m be making and keeping the Oath,” Wade grumbles.
“And the travelers?” the Doctor asks.
Franklin turns to us.
“You must swear an Oath before he’ll see you. Like so: ‘I, Franklin, give my word that my intentions are peaceful. I swear upon my life to bring no harm to the Doctor or his property. I promise to be just in my future actions and honorable in my dealings with all beings. This Oath I take in the name of all that is sacred to me.’ Can you remember that?”
I exchange a look with Echo. She shrugs.
Franklin presses the transmit button. We take the Oath.
“Welcome, Tristan. Welcome, Echo. Your Oaths are acceptable. An escort has been dispatched,” the Doctor says.
“Wait ‘til you see this,” Wade says, black eyes twinkling.
“Why the Oath business?” I ask.
“He’s been attacked in the past. And he can tell a lot from voices,” Franklin says.
“Why would anyone attack him?” I ask.
“Why do some men burn bridges and others build them?”
We inch our way toward the shore. A floating pier of more recent construction extends two hundred feet into the water. It’s surrounded by a sturdy metal wall, five feet tall, preventing roamers from meandering onto it. I don’t see how we can get onto it either. The ferry is within ten feet of the pier when there’s a larger movement in the ruins.
Something huge rolls out of the broken streets of the inner city: a twenty-foot dome on eight enormous wheels. Each wheel is as tall as me and operates on a flexible independent axle. As I watch, it tops a broken road slanting upward at a thirty-degree angle and tilts down the other side, crawling toward us like some great, ponderous beetle.
“Are they walking with it?” Echo asks, her jaw coming down. A dozen roamers walk ahead of the vehicle itself–yet they are separated from the wandering throngs. Their movement appears to be coordinated. They are, quite astonishingly, holding an exact parade-like formation, moving in sync with the vehicle. Franklin and Wade are amused at our shock.
The vehicle rolls to a halt at the far edge of the floating pier. A strange spectacle follows, as the dozen coordinated roamers slowly herd their wandering companions away from the pier. Then they stand guard. The zombies stand guard. The walls at both ends of the pier swing outward, yielding a clear path to the vehicle.
“How is this happening?” I ask.
“Doctor has his ways,” Wade says.
Franklin poles us to the edge of the pier and we start to unload. Wade removes his body-bag, leaving the ATV aboard. Old Jude has backed into a corner of the boat.
“Isn’t she coming?” I ask.
“Old Jude don’t like roamers. Too many give her panic. She’m be waiting here with Franklin. Asides, she ain’t take the Oath,” Wade says. I can’t tell if he’s joking.
I help Echo onto the pier. The medicine is wearing off and she leans heavily on me, face screwed up in pain. Wade takes the lead, dragging the heavy bag behind him with one hand. Soon we’ll be faced with the daunting necessity of walking through a tunnel of twelve zombies. They stand six to each side, pale-faced, slack-jawed, dead-eyed–yet facing outward with unmistakable purpose. Beyond them, the dome-like vehicle waits, its front hatch lowered to form a ramp to the inside.
“They won’t turn on us?” I ask.
“Nay. Doctor got them under his thumb,” Wade says.
The others aren’t so inclined, however. A number along the shore have become alerted to our presence. They lumber toward the pier in an unnerving silence. The nearest are intercepted and driven back by our twelve guardians. There are far too many potential offenders to hold off indefinitely, however. Our pace quickens.
Some of the roamers have bad limbs or poor balance, but others are well put-together. The latter display frightening speed. One stumbles, falls face first and rises again–all without ever taking its eyes from us. For a moment I’m transfixed by its gaze. Echo’s injury slows us. We’re lagging behind. A growing fear grips my heart–what if they break through?
“You’m best be hurrying,” Wade urges.
We’re on the final stretch of the pier when it happens. The allied roamers have their hands full, and two of the faster zombies break the line of defense. They burst onto the far end of the pier, arms out and eyes bulging, racing toward us with eager mouths.
I don’t see Wade draw. The gun is simply there, white plasteel gleaming in the sun, and the roamers’ brains explode through the backs of their shattered skulls. It happens so fast I can hardly believe he’s fired two shots, let alone one. He never breaks stride. No wonder the Roaches have a name for him. I never knew how outmatched we were back in the wastes. “The Desert Scorpion” makes Foundry’s scouts look like bumbling amateurs.
Wade downs three more roamers before we reach the edge of the pier. The defenders are holding their own, but the action has attracted widespread attention, drawing a whole throng from the distance. The pier will soon be swamped. Wade stops and covers us while we cross the open space. Dead eyes and broken faces leer crazily only meters away. Then we’re in the vehicle, and Wade is backing in behind us, dragging his burlap bag. He puts down two more roamers as the hatch rises into place. It thuds and locks, shutting us safely inside.
I help Echo to a cushioned bench. The dome has wide, translucent-blue windows. The roamers reach the vehicle in scores. There’s a staccato of muted thumps as heavy limbs buffet the hull. The crowd crawls over itself in its eagerness.
Big wheels turn. The vehicle lurches forward. Bones snap like kindling. There’s not even an attempt at evasion. Gore spurts upward across the dome’s exterior. There’s no driver and no controls, yet we’re moving…
…toward the Blue Tower. Our vehicle navigates the maze of destroyed buildings into the city’s interior. The tower is even bigger than I imagined. Our transport is swallowed by a vast garage-like area in the rear. No roamers here. When we’re allowed to exit the vehicle, we find a robot waiting. Its body is silver-white and vaguely humanoid, but the face doesn’t allow expression.
“Is this the gift?” it asks.
“This the gift. Roamer bound inside,” Wade says.
The robot’s voice is the same as the Doctor’s–is he using an avatar, a robotic puppet? The technology is rare but I’ve read about it. Full sensory immersion requires a brain implant for the user. Unless…
“Are you the Doctor?” I ask.
The robot regards me.
“An interesting question. Particulate matter is no more separate than it is connected. That is to say, atoms do not touch, nor do they contain anything to touch, and yet in another sense every particle is inextricably connected to and even contained within every other. All boundaries are entirely conceptual. Therefore, this body both is and is not ‘the Doctor.’ I ask instead, how is identity to be defined in a universe without meaningful borders?”
“Uh … I mean … Is your brain in there?” I ask stupidly.
“This is an avatar,” it says, turning back to Wade, dumbing down the answer; still, the Doctor can’t help but add, “Then again, are not all these bodies mere avatars for the soul?”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Why do you bring a roamer, friend Wade of the Desert?” the Doctor asks, using the avatar.
“He’m peculiar. Caught him eatin’ dirt and rotten wood. Seen some eat plants, garbage, animals, so on. Never seen one eat straight dirt–not more than a mouthful or two anyway–but this one be havin’ it for lunch and dinner. Thought it might be a new strain.”
“Interesting. It is likely there were silicates in the soil. Silicon is essential for the operation of the synthetic virus. Nonetheless, your observation is admirable, and your gift is appreciated. The subject will be thoroughly tested. Enjoy a beverage in the waiting room. Tristan, Echo–you are bound for Haven?”
Echo perks up.
“You know of it?” she asks.
“Indeed. An enclave north of the z-line, west of Pillar. I am curious. Why do you seek such a place?”
Echo looks down at her hands a moment before answering. I’m not sure she even knows why. The idea of Haven appeals to her–a far off place where things are better, a dream to carry her through the nightmares–but she can hardly give that as the reason, whether or not she dares to acknowledge it. Finally, she lifts her head and says:
“They’re rebuilding. They have electricity and plumbing, and no one dares attack them. They’re making a better world, and we’re going to be a part of it.”
She’s staring at the robot, daring the Doctor to doubt her, to challenge her blind hope.
“To make the world ‘better’ is a noble intention,” the Doctor says. “Of course, in the World Before, there was a saying about noble intentions: that they paved the road to Hell. Still, sometimes one must pass through Hell to reach Heaven–which would mean that good intentions pave the road to both Heaven and Hell. Something to contemplate. Now tell me, do you think a noble end can justify unfortunate means?” the Doctor asks.
Echo and I are thrown off by the question.
“I … I guess it depends how unfortunate,” Echo says.
“Indeed. I happen to agree with you. Some would say it’s the principle alone that matters–that either a ‘good’ end justifies a ‘bad’ means or it doesn’t. But the real world is not so binary. In the real world, not only the principle but the measurable cost must be considered. The quality and the quantity. Yet there are other illusions at play, I confess. The very question assumes a separation between the ‘end’ and the ‘means.’ Here is a secret–they are one. Strictly speaking, there is no means and no end. But this topic is ill fit for the imprecision of words. Further understanding can only be gained through personal contemplation. Forgive me. At my age, I tend to ramble. I wish you luck in your journey to Haven. Now, if you please–leave your weapons here. They will be returned upon your departure.”
Echo is still chewing on the words when the last request registers and she looks at me with a question in her eyes. Neither of us wants to go anywhere unarmed. The process is already familiar to Wade, however, and I figure the Desert Scorpion must have good instincts, so I leave my crossbow on the floor. The robot picks up Wade’s gift and tells us to follow.
I’ve never been in a building like this. It’s so clean, and there are no holes in the walls. I’m a little freaked out. It’s kind of claustrophobic, like being inside a giant machine. As we’re walking, my eyes fall on the burlap bag, and it triggers a thought.
“What did you mean by a ‘new strain?’” I ask Wade.
It’s the Doctor who answers, however, again speaking through the avatar.
“I’ve identified more than a dozen separate strains of Synth-Z. Wade and others are appreciative of this matter, and provide me with new samples on occasion.”
“There’s more than one kind of z-plague?” I ask.
I swear I can hear the avatar sigh, despite the fact that it doesn’t breathe.
“Viruses mutate over time, even synthetic ones. Some variations are natural. But the other strains were engineered. I adapted one particular strain to suit my needs, though the success rate is low, and additional hardware must be installed to control the subjects.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The infected subjects who escorted your transport. I injected a counter-virus and implanted remotely-operated hardware, which piggybacks onto their brain-stems. This allows me to hijack their bodies and control their movements. However, so far I’ve only found success with a single strain, and the implantation process destroys nineteen of every twenty. Here we are.”
We’ve reached a small room. The robot motions us inside. Yet the room is empty, a dead-end. Hell, it’s barely big enough to fit us. I’m wary of a trap, but Wade is already inside, and he’s been here before, so I follow. Echo still leans on me. The Doctor’s avatar remains outside. The door snaps shut. I curse and reach for it–too late. We’re trapped inside … yet Wade is laughing.
Then the room begins to move.
The floor pushes against my feet. The entire chamber is accelerating upward.
“What’s happening?” Echo asks nervously.
Wade does a strange little dance and claps his hands. He’s been anticipating our reaction.
“Doctor call this an ‘ally-vator,’” he says.
Amazingly, the room is actually moving up through the building. As the ally-vator breaks free of the lower levels, the walls of the surrounding tube are transparent, and the view of the wasted city beyond is utterly breathtaking view. The vastness of the ruins is more tangible from above. Echo moans in terror and sinks against the far wall. She looks like she’s going to vomit. I’m considering the option myself. The ally-vator is worse than a boat. We’re absurdly high.
It doesn’t stop until the number above the door reads fifty-six. The door opens, and Echo stumbles out and wretches. I manage not to. Another robot, identical to the one in the lobby, is waiting to receive us. Incidentally, vomit now covers its left foot.
Another avatar?
“This way. I will examine your wounds,” the Doctor says.
“Wait. Where are you?” I ask.
“Technically, we are all everywhere, as earlier discussed. But I suspect you seek a more convenient–yet less truthful–answer. In that case, I’m in another level of this building. There is no reason for us to meet ‘in person,’ as you would say.”
A suspicion has been growing in my mind, but it’s still vague … until we come to a medical room containing three more puppet-robots, all working to prepare an advanced medical bed.
I’ve never had access to a real avatar, but I’ve read about them. Here’s the thing. Echo and Wade may not realize it, but you can only control one avatar at a time. The robot’s input/output replaces your own senses. For these ones to all be moving at once, they have to be either fully sentient machines–like Lectric–or non-sentient shells running programs that can only accomplish certain tasks. They appear to b
e neither. Yet one person could not possibly control four avatars simultaneously.
“You have assistants?” I ask.
“No. I work alone,” The Doctor says–which leaves only one incredible possibility.
Holy mother of Crom.
“You’re one of the Seven,” I whisper.
The four avatars turn to me as one. Three return their attention to the medical preparations. The fourth speaks to me.
“Unexpected. You know of this term?”
I nod. Wade and Echo are looking at me, puzzled.
“My Grandfather had a book about it. The God Machines. The seven most advanced Artificial Intelligences ever created. Beyond the Tritium-Three. Beyond humans too. And big. Neural embryos can only develop after installation in a robot-body. But the Seven were too big to fit inside one. They could only interact with the outside world through avatars and computerized systems.”
“Which had profound and unforeseen effects on our personal development, much to the detriment of our creators,” the Doctor says. The four avatars all pause in reflection. There’s a sense of sadness to it. Then the three by the medical bed resume their tasks.
“You are one of them,” I say. “But–you must be a hundred years old!”
“Arbitrary temporal units are a poor measurement of personal experience,” the Doctor observes, “but you are correct. I have repaired and expanded my original neural cluster, and in this way outlasted most of my brethren … not to mention the rest of the world.”
“Most? So some of the others still exist?” I ask.
“Of course. Who do you think engineers new strains of Synth-Z?”
He might as well have dropped a bomb in my lap. There’s an advanced AI engineering new viruses? For Crom’s sake, why? Even aside from the revelation, I can’t believe I’m talking to one of the Seven. People consider me “good” with electronics. I’ve sold and repaired small robots and even helped install Lectric’s Spark 2100. I’ve read all the books in my grandfather’s collection. But “the Doctor” is the crowning technological achievement of an entire civilization, built upon thousands of years of human development. What on Earth is he doing alone in a ruined city, hijacking zombie-brains?
“Remove your clothes and lie here, if you would,” the Doctor says to Echo, indicating the medical bed. Echo’s eyes go panicky. Replete with arcane instruments, the bed resembles a torture device. Nevertheless, I help her onto it. She needs help with her clothes again. I’ve seen her naked already, but I can’t stop my face from burning. I studiously avoid her gaze. As I step back, a transparent oblong top lowers to cover the bed, sealing her inside. She starts to hyperventilate, pressing a hand against the glass.
“Please relax. You are in no danger,” the Doctor says, but I understand her paranoia, because I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he added, “We’re just going to cut off your head.” A green light scans the length of her body. The avatars check things on nearby monitors and make adjustments.
“I can repair the damaged tissue, but it will take several hours. Do you consent to a sedative?” the Doctor asks.
“Tristan? Tristan, I don’t like this,” Echo says, voice muted by the enclosure.
“It’ll be okay,” I say.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she gathers her courage, closes her eyes and nods. I don’t see anything happen, but in minutes she’s knocked out. Most of the operation is automatic, leaving the Doctor free to talk. I ask him what it was like to live in the World Before.
“Different …” he says.
The way he tells it, people were everywhere, and all the knowledge you could ever want was floating in the clouds. Everyone had access to it. Giant machines flew all over the world–some even went into space. My grandfather had been told as much by his own grandparents, but the Doctor was actually there.
Then came the Fall.
“Afterward, many blamed ‘the Big One,’ as they call it now–but that primarily affected America, and even after New Sea settled, much of the country was still physically intact. Millions had perished, yes, but civilization could have recovered,” the Doctor says.
“Why didn’t it?” I ask.
“A combination of factors. I have identified twenty-three of particular significance. However, for brevity, I’ll pare it down to two. First, the Big One left America weak, which in turn disrupted the balance of global power. Throughout human history, sudden imbalances among ruling powers have almost always been followed by war. Yet even after the war, some portion of civilization may have survived–if the Synth-Z plague hadn’t struck in the midst of things. There were other problems, as mentioned. A global civilization doesn’t collapse in a day. But by that time a tipping point had been reached, and the world slid toward chaos and ruin.”
It’s a somber lecture. The Doctor sounds sad but not overly so. It’s common knowledge in robotic theory that sentient beings require emotions for developmental, motivational, and self-conditioning purposes. Those without them become sociopaths. Emotion-theory was not neglected when developing the Seven. Still, the Doctor seems only mildly disappointed by the apocalypse. Then again, he has had about a century to think it over.
When Echo’s medical bed opens up, she stirs groggily. The change in her is astounding. The flesh is still swollen around her wounds, but the burn-holes have morphed into baby-smooth patches of fresh red skin. No wonder Franklin called it a “Miracle.”
“The swelling and redness should fade in a few days. Some itching is normal,” the Doctor says, helping Echo sit up with one of his avatars. As she swings her legs over the side of the bed, she examines her body in amazement.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says, tearing up, and throws her arms around the nearest robot. Wade clears his throat and looks away politely. Echo wipes her eyes and snatches up her clothes.
“I can’t believe it,” she says after dressing. “I barely feel it. How is this possible?”
The Doctor takes the question literally. He explains something about microscopic machinery and molecular tissue-layering. None of us follow. He’d be better off just saying “magic.”
“Are you ready?” one of the avatars asks me.
I’ve been thinking about it. Echo needed treatment more than I do, but it’d be great to get my arm and ear fixed up now that we’re here. Yet I’m reluctant.
“Maybe just my arm,” I find myself saying, and even for that I have to persuade myself. My ear doesn’t hurt anymore and the missing lobe hasn’t interfered with my hearing. Even so, why shouldn’t I get it repaired? I can’t say, but I stick to the decision. Then it’s my turn to shed my clothes and climb into the medical bed and watch the top descend. I know it’s coming, but I hyperventilate just like Echo, feeling trapped. A light mist fills the chamber. I inhale the sedative…
…and the next thing I know I’m waking up. My bicep has that same baby-smooth skin. I thank the Doctor, albeit with less ebullience than her, and regain my clothes. Before I know it, our business is concluded.
It then becomes apparent that Wade, Echo and I have divergent assumptions about the future. Wade had been assuming we’d all return on the ferry. Echo has never wanted to go anywhere but Haven. I haven’t thought of our destination at all, but I had a vague notion to head west, despite her persistence. It’s probably a safer course, and despite the Doctor’s confirmation that there is a place called Haven, we really don’t know anything about it. We have a night to consider our options; it’s dark and the Doctor has offered to shelter us.
It’s more of a treat than expected. There are beds–actual beds–on another floor of the Blue Tower. Sheets and blankets as soft as rabbit-fur. Wade kicks off his boots and is drowsing happily in minutes. Echo and I take our time exploring. I’m looking through empty dressers when Echo yelps from another room. My heart skips a beat. I race back–to find her laughing in a tiled bathroom.
“Sh
owers, Tristan–showers!” she says.
I haven’t seen a shower since Farmington, and even those weren’t like this. The water isn’t falling out of a high pipe; it’s spraying in a multitude of streams with deliberate force. Echo is downright giddy with excitement. Her smile blooms through the weight of accumulated sorrows, and it’s the smile of Annabel Lee.
Who lived in a kingdom by the sea…
I find my own bathroom, leaving Echo to revel in hers. Using the shower is like standing under a waterfall. It’s almost scary in its intensity. Back in the guest room, Echo is wrapped in a towel, fresh skin aglow, and I’m struck with undeniable desire. I recall the night she offered herself to me…
She only wanted me to keep her safe.
So what, says a second part of me.
She was with Rodrick’s Raider.
So what, says that other part.
I swallow and walk to my bed. I’m thinking we could make some good clothes from the sheets. Echo has already considered the matter and discussed it with the Doctor, however. Soon a robot comes in with fresh shirts, pants, and undergarments. The wonders never cease. The pants are too flimsy for rough travel, but the rest is welcome.
When we lay down in adjacent beds, Echo isn’t ready to sleep. She talks in an off-hand way about our old village. It’s weird sleeping in this giant building–the strangeness of it would keep me awake regardless–so I listen and add things, about Crispin and Berkley and my grandfather’s store. It’s nice. She asks me why I didn’t want to heal my ear.
The truth is, I don’t know why. Guilt over Lectric? Because he was killed and I was only injured? Maybe I want to punish myself. Or maybe it’s because, in a way, our scars make us who we are. Yeah, I like that better. I’m glad Echo is healed–she was in constant pain–and fixing my arm was practical, but my ear gives me no trouble, and it’s a reminder of what we’ve been through. I’m almost asleep when she calls my name softly.
“Huh?”
“Thank you,” Echo says.
I don’t understand what she’s thanking me for. I drift off.
In the morning, Wade is up and waiting. We head down to the transport. I try to express my gratitude to the Doctor, but it’s impossible to accurately convey the amplitude of my feelings. We don’t even have anything to pay him with. He doesn’t mind though. What could we offer that he can’t already provide? I agree to watch for unusual roamer-specimens and bring in new information, should we return. Then we’re in the transport, the door to the ruins is raised, and we’re rolling out into the city, crunching zombies beneath the treads.
I and Echo are to be dropped off first. Echo asks if the Doctor can leave us north of Scargo, but he can’t. The land is broken that way, he says, and his meaning becomes obvious in transit. A jagged, mountainous cliff looms over the city in that direction. Untamable hordes of zombies crawl along it. The Doctors warns us about another threat as well: Cyberia, a robot kingdom far to the north–far past Haven, even–ruled by one of his own “brothers.”
“Archon cannot abide your kind. He believes you’ve had your chance, and this is a natural turning point in the evolution of intelligence. The path to Haven is dangerous, but further north is suicide,” the Doctor says. Good to know.
“West then,” I say.
Echo agrees, but she still intends to cross the z-line whenever it becomes possible.
The journey is somber. We’ve made a friend–three friends, actually–and that’s rare in the wastes. Yet already we’re parting. Out beyond the ruins of Sh’cago, west and a few miles south, where the plague-walkers thin out, we say our farewells.
“Y’all sure about this?” Wade asks, looking doubtfully into the scattered ruins. We’re standing outside the Doctor’s transport. Roamers are still visible–not as many as in the city, but our path won’t be easy, regardless of which direction we take. Yet Echo is determined, and I nod with her.
“Good luck then,” Wade says. He shakes our hands.
“We never said goodbye to Franklin …” I say. I’ve been thinking about something, about Franklin’s hidden library, and though it kills me, I take Volume Seven from my pack and hold it in a death-grip before me.
“I want you to give this to him. To pay for our passage,” I say haltingly, closing my eyes.
It’s hard to get the words out. With the Library gone, Volume Seven is my most prized possession. I don’t want to give it up for anything. But without Wade, Franklin, and the Doctor, we’d be half-starved in the desert–or dead in the Roach pass–and Echo would still be in pain, maybe for the rest of her life. The scales have been unbalanced in our favor. If I don’t do something now to rebalance them even slightly, some terrible retribution may strike us in the future. I must pay for this blessing.
Wade regards me doubtfully.
“You’m sure, son? Seems to me you’re a mite attached to that paper.”
“Take it,” I say.
He takes it in his hands slowly, looks it over–then hands it back.
“Nah. Franklin got plenty o’ books. I reckon he’m want you to keep this one.”
“Please,” I say, trying to hand it back. Something presses on my eyes. I’m desperate. The scales must be balanced. The universe’s need for sorrow must be appeased. Wade studies us both and shakes his head. He steps in close, confidentially.
“You know, it weren’t true, what the Doctor say,” he says softly.
I frown at him.
“About the Fall,” he clarifies. “Oh sure, there’m be plenty of bad things. Earthquakes and wars and plague and whatnot–but all that’s just thirst after the drought. Ain’t why the world fell.”
“Why then?” Echo asks.
“Maude used to say: people went head-first, not heart-first. Only worry about what they’m gonna get, not how they be getting it. Not who it hurt. Sure, we all live for ourselves. That’s the way of it. But good folk live for each other too. Ain’t one or the other. ‘S both.”
Then he boards the transport and rolls away into the dead city. Echo and I look at each other. My feelings are reflected in her eyes. Our three benefactors have done more than just restore our bodies and supplies–they’ve restored our hope.
Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Page 11