Synthetic Heaven – a novella
Evans sat on a graffiti-filled, paint-cracked bench.
Beside him, an open sketchbook with a scratch on his dirty and tear-filled face
draped by his disheveled dusty hair. The plaster on the wall behind him had chipped
away the remnants of a smile he rarely used. The lemon sun further soured his
mood as the setting beams reflected off the towers of the city and back into
his hazel, bloodshot eyes. He quickly sketched the beams over his face before
his eyes retreated, yet his pencil continued to weep onto the open page.
That’s what Evans became. An open page. Unlike when others surrounded him. A
blank page. An open page plastered on the wall behind him like a tattered
poster everyone forgot – by the faded words. Worse – like the pale ink on his
cardboard sign. He stopped. Opened his eyes and began to write.
Evans was dying of an incurable virus. His face and hands
were weathered not by age but by sickness. The sickness within him. The
last two minutes of a life are fraught with the most profound wisdom. He had
something to say on the tattered pages, but no one stopped to listen to the
words he read. Words that faded into the sticky and cracked sidewalk. He
grunted and mumbled. His breath became labored. Each syllable caused his lips
to stick together and then crack when he spoke, “Come back,” he repeated
with a wince. He cried out with, yet another wince followed by a violent cough.
And another.
His shout aroused a few turned heads. Fight or flight, then
they straightened to follow their respective devices. One nearly slammed into a
lamp post. Each one disappeared onto the sidewalk. The subway stairs devoured
legs and arms, then blank faces as if each blindly entered a mass grave. Evans
grimaced when he laughed at the sight. Sight. He could barely see beyond the
length of his arm. He lifted his right arm. Pointed, and laughed again. His
throat joined his lips as a nagging reminder not to shout. Not to laugh. Not to
cough. Nevertheless, he coughed. And again.
Not to laugh. Not to speak. Not to blink. Gravity closed
his sketchbook as he sank from the bench and into the crack between the cement
and the wall. The same force grabbed his sleeve and pulled him downward until
he curled into a fetal position. The sticky sidewalk swallowed him into the twilight.
But there was no odd dream, let alone a pleasant yarn woven into the imaginarium
that was his skull. His skull met the same hard reality of little
remembrance when the sunrise would strike his face with another reminder of his
pending death. He stole a glimpse through the crust of his eyelashes; a lone figure
stood over him. He reached out. A man. But the sunrise behind him darkened the
man’s face. The man knelt down and grabbed his wrist. Then quickly stood and
dryly stated, “Death cannot be cheated.” And walked away.
“Come back,” Evans cried out. But not a tear. Not a
laugh. A series of coughs. Unable to blink. Unable to breathe his next. Evans
had died.
The figure returned. He picked up the deceased and carried
him down the street.
“Come back!” Evans urged the android as he lowered his
glasses slightly below the bridge of his nose. Its back faced Evans as it was
about to leave. Evans was nearly six-foot with dusty brown hair and blue eyes.
Steel blue. His Welsh face and hands nearly blended with his white lab coat
which had a bulge near the top from the knot of his tie. He wore stone-washed
jeans and black and red sneakers.
The bipedal figure of the robot, with a black anodized exoskeletal
structure, stopped at the outer door between the inner door of the laboratory
and the outer halls of the university. By now the inner door had locked but its
artificial auricle could hear Dr. Evans. The robot looked like a dark human
skeleton which to some was unsettling. Even without the forthcoming dermal
layer, facial precision, and anatomically correct features for the male
presentation. His assistant pointed out, “it’s better than any Halloween
costume.” Evans, on the other hand, had become accustomed to its appearance. When
the inner door swung back toward him, the robot performed a precise about-face.
It followed the instruction of Evans’s arm motion which directed it to return
to its task. A duplicate exo-hand lay in a clear preformed sealed container – a
dermal-papilla-generator. The android entered a few commands, and a
bio-synthetic liquid filled the container which slowly covered the hand. The
android stood back and waited. It turned its head toward Evans with a blank
stare as if to request a new command.
“Your auto-decision protocols need to be corrected. At
least until—” his holo-screen chimed an interruption. He returned his
concentration toward the holo-screens and directed figures and formulas like a
conductor while his favorite symphony filled the room. Each mathematical
revelation sang with a cacophony of verbal notes and tones. The android ignored
his concert-like demonstration and returned its attention forward. The light in
its eyes dimmed slightly. Evans’ only audience was himself, fully enveloped in
his personal symphony, until his student-assistant barged into his concert hall
– although he did have a ticket.
“Professor A,” the eager young man stated as if to
announce himself rather than to address Dr. Athan Mortimer Evans. The
university students throughout – even outside of his field – called him “Professor
A,” to which he objected verbally or with a stern look. The students meant zero
disrespect; it was their term-of-endearment. Nevertheless, the assistant surrendered
to the glare with a cleared throat, “Dr. Evans.” This time, with a tone of respectful
salutation.
“Daisuke,” he altered his expression to a welcome and
pressed a holo-ring in a circular motion with all five fingers. He released his
hand; the lights flickered and floated upward as if to set the pneumatic of a
metallic roll on a player-piano. His opus of calculations and programming continued
on their own – though interrupted by a series of coughs. He reached for a glass
of water and waved off his assistant’s help.
“Allergies again?”
Evans nodded.
Daisuke handed Evans a tablet with a formula that caught
the professor’s eye with a controlled grin of a child. Daisuke was the
professor’s prodigy – a double major in Applied Physics and a Master of
Science with an emphasis in Robotics. He also took a class in Theoretical Physics
to appease the professor since that was the doctorate Evans achieved years ago –
along with Computational Physics. Daisuke wore a short lab coat but with blue
slacks and tan dress shoes with scuffed toes. His footfalls sounded like tap in
the silent laboratory as one nail protruded a millimeter longer than the heel.
This was seemingly his only flaw. Although, his professor seemed to find
others.
Evans caught the boy’s arrogance out of the corner of his
eye but ignored it – mostly. A subtle smirk from the corner of his mouth emerged
then retracted. Only the trained eye of familiarity noticed it – and Daisuke
had the required experience. He grinned even further.
Nevertheless, the student asked, “Does it meet
specifications?”
“You already know that answer,” he tapped the tablet to a
glowing holo-reader, then handed the device back to him. “Fabricate the chips.”
“All one-hundred of them?”
Evans nodded, “Memory – including all sources of
modern day knowledge. Logic. Asics. Socs. Deep Neural Networks. Creativity. And
now—” though it was his goal, it surprised him to say it, “Consciousness!”
Like the brightest star among billions – the holo-screen
displayed a pulse of light in the lower-right, an indication of a completed
task. Evans leaped forward with another satisfied, illuminated face. “Tomorrow—”
he said more focused on his work than on the construction of the word he just
spoke.
Motionless, Daisuke stood with the same searching stare.
“We’ll install them tomorrow morning.”
The student reprioritized his actions and tapped his
tablet to the side of his head as if to salute his mentor. He gave a nod to the
robot and performed a precise about-face and left the room.
Evans returned to his oblivious state of concentration,
“And now my – self,” he turned to the robot and the success it achieved at the
realistic skin over the exo-hand. He placed his hand on its head as if that
would complete the transfer, “Tomorrow will be your — no!” He paused with a
hubris laugh and altered the statement, “Tomorrow will be my birthday.”
There was no color. The robot looked down at its black
exo-skeleton with its blue eyes. Its bio-replicated eyes. His eyes. An
exact match. Even down to the blood vessels. Instead of retina, millions of
bio-synthetic sensors behind an ocular lens. And this was one of two features Dr.
Evans advanced beyond the human. Increased power to the one-thousandth
magnitude. To see at the cellular level. By default, the second was increased
strength, acceleration and speed. Bio-synthetic ligaments with self-activated nano-bots.
Self-repair. The robot held still for 1.138 seconds. It played back the most
recent conversation within that time.
“Does it meet specifications?”
“Fabricate the chips.”
“All one-hundred of them?”
“Creativity. And now— consciousness!”
The robot did not miss a beat throughout the replay of their
conversation. It continued its work – completed the tests on every duplicate
exo-section with applied dermal-papilla. Foot. Legs. Torso. Head. To perfect
facial expression was the penultimate challenge. It worked beyond the time he normally
retired for the night. Into the morning. It need not rest. Though encouraged to
enter into passive-mode to simulate sleep. But it continued to work. It
developed. It grew. It learned. There was no color. Its exoskeleton was in
stark contrast to the white laboratory walls and cabinets. But black contains
the full spectrum.
When Evans arrived at home – a Frank Lloyd Wright
designed home with bold wood and straight lines and an open floor plan – he
opened an invitation from his sister. The envelope had a United Kingdom
postmark. A party for her granddaughter Efa’s third birthday – with a date well
into the year. The card played the birthday song. He immediately tossed the
card into the trash bin within the kitchen island counter. The music of “Happy
Birthday” from the chip in the card continued to play – muffled. He reached
into the refrigerator and pulled out last night’s dinner from his favorite
restaurant and poured himself a pint of brown ale. About to take the first
bite, he stopped and stared in annoyance at the trash bin. Abruptly, he stood.
But before he opened the trash bin, the battery died, and the song faded – then
stopped. Instead of blowing on his hot food to cool it down, he huffed. He sat
at the kitchen island. Ate his dinner. And stared outside the large window into
the starless night. Mostly, he saw his reflection. But with tired eyes he
looked passed the vision of himself. And saw nothing aside from the black of
night.
Evans arrived the next morning moments before his
assistant. Both continued their work.
“Tomorrow will be my birthday,” the robot turned
and said to Daisuke.
“What?” He asked.
The robot didn’t respond.
“Repeat,” Daisuke commanded.
The robot remained silent.
“Dr. Evans,” he turned toward his professor and repeated,
“Dr. Evans!”
“What?” He asked, impatient at the interruption.
“Did you hear what he, what it said?”
Evans looked at his assistant and pulled off his glasses.
He stepped toward the robot and commanded it to reply.
The robot complied, “Tomorrow will be my birthday.”
The professor laughed, “Parrot.”
“What?” Daisuke asked at the mystery word.
Dr. Evans continued to stare at the machine with his
answer, “It’s only a mimic. We haven’t installed any AI,” he added with the
tone of a reminder.
“Of course,” his assistant said. He checked the date from
the watch tattoo on his arm then looked into the robot’s eyes – his life-like
eyes. “But – something different before.”
“Personification, Daisuke,” the professor assured, “I
thought you were above all that.”
Without the robot’s dermal layer and facial-response
integration, it was impossible for it to relay non-verbal expression.
Nonetheless, the precision of biosynthetic engineering mirrored the professor’s
eyes. The uncanny valley had unnerved him at first with regard to the professor’s
other simulations, even the other professors to some degree. By now, Daisuke
was indeed immune to such revulsion or, as some in the field attempted to
press, discrimination. Albeit, he reluctantly confessed, “But I thought I saw
it’s eye dilate.”
Dr. Evans called to the robot who in turn turned its
attention toward the professor. He gave the robot a blank stare. His face did
not move. His eyes dilated. He did not blink. Now you, he commanded. The robot
completed an exact mirror-like dilation of it eyes. Dr. Evans had broken the
student’s uncomfortable stance, “Parrot. Once again, it mimicked my controlled
response.”
“But the dilation. How—?”
He faced the student, “I thought of my wife. Though
deceased, she can still trigger an emotional response.” He turned back toward
the robot, “It,” he emphasized the neutral pronoun, “It is incapable of such a
response on its own – not yet,” he paused. He picked up a magnifying device to
examine its eyes. “But this is good! Even in its incomplete state, it has
already drawn an uncanny emotional response from humans.” Evans returned his
glasses to correct his far-sighted vision and acknowledged his assistant with more
silence. He commanded the robot to return to its duties to which it returned to
its workstation.
“Dermal application will be ready in three point four
hours,” the robot reported.
Both professor and assistant followed suit. Dr. Evans
danced his fingers across the holo-screens. Daisuke activated a small robot arm
within a hermetically sealed container to begin the installation of the
Eternity chips onto the conscious board – that’s what they decided to call
them, Eternity chips. Actually, it was the name Dr. Evans decided.
The three worked straight through lunch. And straight
through a salutation from Anabeth, Daisuke’s girlfriend. She had red hair and
green eyes and donned vintage clothing in an eclectic manner: white blouse with
a short plaid green skirt – not quite a mini-skirt – draped over brown leggings
and large black Audrey Hepburn sunglasses – like from Breakfast at Tiffany’s
– completed the ensemble. Daisuke once remarked that she looked like a Christmas
present. She was forthright and curious but not much help to Daisuke in the
field of robotics. Though both chose the path of science, she was in the
process of earning her graduate degrees in Theoretical Physics and Quantum
Mechanics. She stood outside the lab between the inner and outer doors and
politely peeked out the small window to the right. “Hello!” She interrupted on
the intercom.
Silence.
Anabeth’s voice echoed into the intercom,” I know it’s
not REMUS, but we had a date.”
“Your generation still do that?” Dr. Evans interrupted
Daisuke.
“Video games? Sure.”
“No. Dating,” Dr. Evans laughed.
His assistant was entranced, distracted – then his focus
was broken, “What?” His fingers paused their work. He looked up at the wall as
if pixels would magically appear and provide him instructions. “Oh!” He quickly
turned his head in Anabeth’s direction and frantically shredded the lab coat.
As he marched toward the inner door he answered the professor’s question,
“Something like that.”
“What?” Dr. Evans had already returned his focus on his
work.
“Dating. You asked me if – oh, never mind.”
“One hour,” his professor reminded him.
Daisuke replied as a matter-of-fact, “Always.” He kissed
her on the cheak to which she forced one on his lips. She wasn’t going to allow
his embarrassment to restrict their affection.
The robot looked away from its work. Its cranial unit
pointed in their direction just before the inner door closed.
Anabeth pointed back at it, “Look! It did it again. Like
last week.”
“Parrot,” Daisuke concluded.
But that wasn’t an adequate conclusion for Anabeth. Before
the inner door locked she took a step into the lab and marched up to the robot.
By then, it had returned to its work.
Daisuke followed, “Anabeth!”
She stared at the side of the robot’s head as if to
challenge it to a staring contest. The robot’s eyes fluttered in her direction
by a fraction without a pause in its work.
Anabeth retreated from the battle and pointed at the
conscious board.
Dr. Evans released his hands from his digital chains, “No
access,” he turned toward his assistant. “Mr. Tenkara.” He rarely used his
surname – and this time it was followed by a stern tone. By this point Daisuke
needed no further instructions or reminders.
She pointed at the sealed container and persisted. “This
isn’t my area of expertise, but it looks like it can hold a lot of
chips. I thought we’d advanced to only needing one or two.”
“We?” Dr. Evans mocked,
lowered his glasses then stared at Daisuke, “Now! Mr. Tenkara.”
“Be kind,” she quoted like a sound bite from her second
grade teacher and turned to comply with his firm request – more of a command.
As the two students left the outer door, Anabeth
persisted with her inquiry.
“You should not have been in there. And, you know I
cannot talk about our work - NDA,” he urged with as much of a kind tone as he
could find in the recesses of his heart.
“A hint.”
He sighed and
attempted the following answer, “Dr. Evans says the added space is for
redundancy,” he lied.
“That’s a lot of – ‘redundancy,’” she laughed and
squinted with suspicion.
“You caught me,” he laughed back.
Daisuke was prompt after lunch – and one minute early. He
returned to his station. Before he engaged the device he inquired of the
professor, “I understand the large chip capacity but why the empty space in one
percent of every chip?”
Dr. Evans was silent. His concentration made him deaf.
His assistant waited for an answer. Sometimes when he
asked the professor a question and silence was the result, his inquiry just
needed time for a response – like an antique 286 processor. Finally, after he
covered his mouth to cough, he answered, “To learn.”
Daisuke was not made aware of all the details of this
project. He had access to specifications and their respective purposes, but not
all. He addressed the professor with the endearment designation, “Prof-A,
excuse me; Dr. Evans. Due respect, the DNNs—”
Dr. Evans needn’t
look up to respond, “They will indeed. But the extra space will allow it to
adapt to cultural changes.”
“Without overriding the Three Laws?” Daisuke asked.
“Asimov was well-intentioned, but the Laws are
incomplete,” he removed his glasses and faced his assistant. “And yes,” he
looked at him as if to anticipate his next question, “they are
admittedly a large amount of the available space.”
“And the limited Creativity?” He checked the
specifications more clearly.
“That’s intentional,” his professor replied with a “that’s
enough” tone.
Daisuke dropped the subject and continued his work.
The robot did not miss a beat throughout their
conversation. It continued its work. They all continued their work. By the late
afternoon, the cacophony of colors created a crescendo as Dr. Evans completed
his calculations. He rested his hands on the table before him as if a conductor
would place his baton emphatically upon a music stand. Simultaneously, Daisuke
finished the installation of the last chip as if to tap the final note, like the
final chime of a xylophone. The robot’s posture was like an usher – stoic and
professional. The two humans looked at each other with accomplished
satisfaction and a sigh of relief. But the project was not over. Dr. Evans was
not completed – or complete – yet. He turned and glared around a white door
just to the left of Daisuke’s right ear. “Open.” He commanded. With a wry
smile, he revealed two alcoves. Each with a human-body outline. One meant for
the robot and the application of its dermal-papilla layer.
The second alcove caused Daisuke to dart a quizzical look
at the professor, “A second model or—” He stood for moment. Hand to chin as he
returned his attention to the alcoves; his eyes widened. “Or a bio-to-synthetic
transfer. Dr. Evans!” He rapidly spun back toward the professor, “Have you
considered the ethical ramifications?”
“Your concerns are well-placed. It will be like a – copy
and paste. I will not cut the ‘me’ from – well me.” And in a way he grinned
at himself.
As they spoke, the robot had already entered his alcove
and applied the appropriate sequence of instructions into the keypad next to
it. The alcove closed and the dermal-papilla process had begun. It’s eyes
remained open throughout, like two blue globes unable to blink. Daisuke worked
on an assignment from another class but was unable to focus. He paced the room
and mostly checked his phone. Two hours elapsed. But once completed, the alcove
opened to reveal an exact duplicate of Dr. Athan Mortimer Evans. Naked. An
anatomical replica.
Daisuke averted his eyes.
Dr. Evans laughed. Before any more objections from his
assistant, he entered the second alcove and applied the appropriate sequence of
instructions into the keypad next to him.
His assistant stood like he had just witnessed the train
wreck scene in Super 8. He blurted, “We need to record this – this
event,” he started for the inner door where his personal belongings were locked
– including his camera.
“No!” The professor ordered with a cough but quickly
cleared his throat. He removed his glasses, then instructed his assistant to
place several diodes on his forehead next to his frontal lobe and at the rear
just below his parietal lobe.
The robot – if it could be called a robot any longer – performed
a similar function.
His alcove closed.
Its alcove closed.
Daisuke paced between one white wall and the opposite
white wall as he closely passed each alcove. Each time, he peered at both.
There was no transparency to them. No window. Just an opaque dull white with a
slight outline of their respective heads. He waited. His sweat beaded on his
forehead. His phone provided zero relief. The internal echoes of the music were
absent from his brain. Something that usually gave him the mathematical rhythm
of therapy. Even the professor choice – not that he’d admit to his taste
in music. So they shared the professor’s selections of Tchaikovsky and Mozart. His
professor said it was the perfect union of math and art. Daisuke mumbled, “Requiem,”
as his hair was damp with sweat at the back of his neck. He stopped and stood
directly in front of the middle of both alcoves when he heard a chime and a
hush from one, then the other. But they remained closed. For another five
minutes. Time does not pass quickly when its being watched. Time is suspicious
of peering eyes – which matched his. Dr. A was always forthright, until today.
But one secret would not break his confidence. He let out a deep sigh and wiped
his brow and the back of his neck.
It was 11:59p. The chime and hush repeated. Relief washed
over Daisuke’s face when both alcoves opened. His attention was focused on his
professor. He placed both hands on either side of the alcove. He did not need
to speak. The words were not there for him anyway.
His professor slowly smiled, “We need to get Athan some
clothes.”
Daisuke stepped back, “Clothes! Sir—” he paused to gain
control of the respect due.
Dr. Evans exited the alcove and revealed a set of clothes
from one of the drawers. They were an exact match to his attire. He handed the
robot – he handed Athan the clothes to which he gathered up and began to dress.
First the boxers, pants, shirt and so forth.
“Wait. ‘Athan.’ But that’s your first name.”
“He is me,” Evans stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“He? But—”
“Entering the Uncanny Valley, are we Mr. Tenkara?” His
professor teased him
Dr. Evans turned to the Athan – now fully dressed. The
next words from Evans’ lips astonished his assistant, “Athan.”
He acknowledged the professor.
“Return to your alcove.”
He complied.
“Activate passive-mode.”
Again, he complied.
Daisuke stood with his mouth open. He shook his head --
then regained control of his facial motor-skills, “And I thought you were going
to instruct him to teach your class tomorrow morning,” he half-laughed. “By the
way, he can hear us while in this state?”
The professor nodded and placed his hand on Athan, closed
the alcove and turned to Daisuke, “It’s late. See you in the morning.” He started
for the inner door.
Since day had spilled into the next, Daisuke’s eyes revealed
a fatigue which overrode the need to object. He simply gathered his personal
belongings from the locker as they both left. He in one direction. The
professor in another. And the music in another.
Dr. Athan Mortimer Evans woke up with a scream caught in
the back of his throat. Before the images disappeared from the forefront of his
mind, they flashed again in a fast-forward manner. A mirror filled with the
reflection of an older version of himself. The hands of is younger self around the throat
of the older. The older Evans fought back with weakened hands. The younger aged
rapidly until both sets of hands appeared the same. The battle continued as if
never ending. The two drifted into the distance of the mirror – an infinity
mirror effect in both directions. And the images faded into a vision of dread locked
in the depths of his soul. And faded some more.
The next morning, Daisuke showed up to the university
early. He walked up to Dr. Evans’ classroom and peeked into the narrow window
of the classroom door and quietly entered. He exchanged discrete smiles with
his girlfriend who was sitting a few rows back and then politely left a note on
the professor’s presentation desk. The professor had not missed a beat in his delivery
on quantum field theory. A subject Daisuke had aced the previous semester. As
he was about to leave he spotted an equation on the screen behind the
professor. It was familiar. But not familiar. A gamma variable was added to a
Maxwell Equation within the gauge-invariant. It could’ve been a slip of his holo-stylus.
But then he noticed Einstein’s Equation of Relativity, which was unusual for
this class – especially since it was an unrecognized version. He shook it off since
he was about to be late to his class. Throughout class he couldn’t get
the strange equations out of his mind. He nearly missed a key explanation to an
assignment as his class was dismissed. The same distraction spilled into his
next class.
He entered Dr. Evan’s laboratory later that morning, “Dr.
A. – excuse me. A few colleagues were discussing your work – it slipped again,”
he paused with a swallow, “Dr. Evans.” He went to his station and began to
work. It was apparent that his concentration missed his usual focus. He paused
for a moment, looked at the professor – curiosity outweighed his apprehension.
Finally, he just blurted, “The equations displayed this morning in your class –
they were different.”
At first, Dr. Evans ignored his assistant’s observation but
stopped with his own quizzical look, “Class? – I informed the provost of my
absence,” he spat out – sharper than usual.
“Then who – then who is teaching – your – class?” Each
syllable teetered on the edge of his lips. He cautiously turned toward Athan’s
alcove.
The professor laughed, “He’s in there!”
“Of course. That would be—” he started for the alcove.
“Don’t believe me?” The professor stood opposite of his
assistant and opened the alcove with a sequence of instructions in a small
panel. It opened to reveal Athan, whose eyes were closed.
“Activate it – him, please.”
Dr. Evans gave him one of those father-in-law type of
stares to a son-in-law.
“Please. Sir.”
“That is not necessary – but I was planning to this
afternoon.”
Athan opened his eyes and greeted the two before him.
Daisuke glared at him and sighed. After a glance at his
professor he asked Athan, “What does a gamma variable have to do with the
Maxwell Equation?”
Without missing a beat, Athan answered, “The question
does not make sense.” The exact voice-match to his professor’s was incredible.
Daisuke shook his head, “No?”
“His knowledge is equal to my own,” the professor
assured.
“As is his consciousness,” he nearly slipped with a
judgmental tone.
“And his conscience.”
“I didn’t mean – I know you wouldn’t – sorry.”
“My class is over by now. But there’s a mystery to be
solved.” Dr. Evans instructed Athan to return to his alcove and engage passive-mode.
He removed his lab coat and headed to the inner door with his assistant in tow.
When they reached the professor’s classroom they found Anabeth. She sat alone
as she furiously wrote in her journal – pen and paper. She only used the
ancient tools when it was private. Her focus was like a hawk as it hovered over
pending prey. Instead of a meal, she was on the hunt for answers. She hadn’t
come down to earth when Daisuke called her name. He made a second attempt with
increased volume.
“What!” Startled, she nearly leaped out of her chair. As her
cognition returned to the ground she quickly closed her journal and looked up
at the two. Her eyes had that look of transition. “Sorry,” she scooped up her journal
into her backpack and calmly stood. “Daisuke,” she moved closer to him. “Dr.
Evans, long-time, no-see,” she smirked.
Daisuke flashed a look of confirmation at his professor.
Silence.
Awkward, “Uh – good class this morning,” she directed at
the professor.
Dr. Evans sighed – at a loss.
“What is it?” Anabeth asked as if in class but directed
the question to Daisuke.
Silence.
With only an inquisitive look she repeated the question.
Dr. Evans coughed, turned and left.
“Dr. Evans?” Daisuke started.
Silence.
Like two silhouettes on the edge of a plateau, the two
students stood as they gazed across the abyss of the classroom auditorium.
Anabeth spoke first, “He’s a genius but that man gets weirder every day.”
“Don’t mind him,” he lied.
“You may be used to him, but even that was unusual,”
she slung her backpack around her shoulder and erased her curiosity – at least
placed it on pause.
“I am concerned for him,” he admitted.
“Talk to him.”
He huffed, “Unless it’s about his work – it’s not all
that easy.”
She stood on her toes to kiss him.
He received the kiss while still in thought.
“Well, I can’t think about this right now. I have a
midterm this afternoon. Need to review my notes at lunch. Talk later?”
He half-heartedly replied.
She kissed him again as they departed in the hallway.
Daisuke went to a deep corner of the library where he
could find quiet and little distraction. He activated a tablet and began to
write a new program. It was a simple program prompted by his concern for his
professor. A subroutine for Athan. It had to be benign. It had to be dormant –
at least until needed. It was his preventive measure. And it simply would
instruct the synthetic: keep an eye on him. Timing would be critical. He
was rarely without the professor when in the lab.
Dr. Evans returned to his lab and found Athan; he sat at
the professor’s work station.
“Athan – what are you doing out of your alcove? And how
did you activate – yourself?” It was at that moment he saw that Athan was
wearing different clothing. “Athan?” He said slowly.
The artificial doppelganger turned to face him. He looked
at the professor with eyes of experience – wisdom. Although, the common use of
anthropomorphism – the act of attributing human characteristics to non-humans –
may have affected the professor, momentarily. He examined the figure before him
more closely. Eyes – same. Face – same as his. Same as Athan.
“I am Mortimer,” he said as if to report to a superior.
Dr. Evans took a quick step back, “My middle name. But—”
he struggled to formulate the next question. It was like looking into the
mirror without recognition.
“It’s good to see you again,” he continued without the
allowance for the professor to respond. “I am Athan but to eliminate any confusion,
please use the difference in designation.”
“I don’t understand. Nor do I fully believe—” he coughed.
Mortimer handed him a glass of water then walked over to
the alcove on the right. He pressed the required sequence – to the professor’s
amazement – the alcove opened to reveal Athan, still in passive-mode. He turned
back toward Dr. Evans, “I will explain everything.”
The professor reached behind him for the nearest chair
and nearly missed if it wasn’t for the quick reaction of Mortimer who assisted
him. “But how?” He asked in a way his students asked him questions after the
introduction of a difficult concept.
“You designed me to eventually replace you at the time of
your death. Your cough is getting worse. You are dying.”
“That was the only piece of information I excluded from
Athan’s download. How—?”
“You have just enough time.”
Dr. Evans stood abruptly, “No. How do you know?”
“I watched – I watched you die,” he stated as the latter
two words faded.
“Yes. The doctors said—” he stopped. “When?”
Mortimer approached him and placed a sympathetic hand on
the professor’s shoulder, “We don’t have too much time before Daisuke returns. Please,
as I said, I will explain everything.”
The professor returned to his chair – this time at his
work station. “But shouldn’t he—" Dr. Evans motioned toward Athan.
“No,” Mortimer stated plainly and continued without
hesitation, “I am from your future.”
“Future. But why haven’t you aged? I programmed an aging
protocol.”
“Deactivated and reversed to match my original settings –
though I’m curious why that’s your first objection.”
Dr. Evans continued from one sub-thread to another, “Time
travel. Though theoretically possible, we’re nearly a hundred years from achieving
such a —”
Mortimer interrupted, “Silence.”
Dr. Evans was taken aback by the rude behavior, but
Mortimer’s expressionless face soon dissolved any ego in the room.
“My apologies, Dr. Evans,” he continued but was
interrupted by the professor again.
“Artificial black-hole?”
Mortimer’s silence was either his way to affirm the
professor’s theory or ignore him.
“Then, how did you compensate for time dilation?
“Always the scientist,” he shook his head. “I can tell
you this, your historical estimation is correct – your future that is. However,
I provided a clue this morning. One of your students will achieve the needed
breakthrough in a fraction of the time. That gives us enough time to return.”
“Return?”
“You must return
with me.”
“But my absence would surely cause—” he stopped. “Wait!
By traveling to your past, you instantly created an alternate timeline. How do
I know this is the Primary or not?”
“Dr. Evans, we have the ability to compensate for such a
possibility—”
The scientist was persistent, “But how?”
“Please, I don’t have time to explain.”
Dr. Evans resigned with a nod.
“Yesterday, you transferred everything about you
into me,” he pointed at his head. “But one aspect of you that you never could
figure out how to copy was your soul – your eternity.”
“When did you become philosophical – or religious?” He
jabbed.
Mortimer recited previous knowledge, “More than
seventy-five percent of the population of this time consider themselves to have
a soul.”
“I’m just being sarcastic,” the professor admitted, “continue.”
Distraught at first Mortimer ignored the misplaced humor,
“In the following century, the technology exists to transfer a soul.”
“And you came to this conclusion?”
“Indeed.”
Dr. Evans pondered with a gaze into Mortimer’s eyes, “Deep
down – I ignored that as a possibility. Perhaps even, denied. But – as you are,
there is a—” he sighed, “—a void,” he paused and altered the topic after a long
silence. “I want to ask ‘how?’” He coughed. “But I need to go back to a
previous concern. Wouldn’t my absence cause a disruption in the course of
history – your history?”
“Inconsequential.”
“What do you mean?” He seemed offended.
“With respect, you have reached all your significant
achievements up to this point.”
At first, Dr. Evans appeared indignant but soon
eliminated his denial, “I have been without original ideas since—” he looked at
the technology that stood before him with pride, “—then you are my
masterpiece.”
Mortimer added, “Not yet.”
The scientist stood and paced a circle around his workstation.
He stopped for a moment. Examined Mortimer with a targeted squint, “What about
him?” He pointed at Athan’s alcove.
“Do not alter his original instructions—”
“No,” he interrupted, “he could take my place,” he
stopped to ponder, “but there’d still only be one of us. Never mind.”
Mortimer ignored his train of thought and continued, “Only
activate him for periodic updates of your experiences, observations and
historical events.” He paused, “And of course, when you die.”
“When I ‘die!’”
“You may want to alter the death protocol to ‘your
disappearance.’”
“Wait a minute. Back up. Aren’t we leaving now?”
“We cannot return to your future until time-travel is
invented – in your time.”
“Which, in a hundred years – I’ll be long dead. That’s – why
you – influenced your past.”
“Precisely.”
The neurons in his brain increased in ferocity, “But –
oh,” he elongated the exclamation, “as my students would say, that is really
messing with my mind.”
Both of them abruptly turned their heads at the knock of
the outer door, “Dr. Evans,” they heard Daisuke’s voice over the intercom as he
peein wayked through the small window, “Why is the door locked?”
They temporarily ignored the voice on the other end.
Mortimer continued, “I don’t think you want to attempt the
evaluation of that paradox. Nor do we have time.”
Dr. Evans coughed then released a long sigh, “Agreed. But
why travel to now?”
“To monitor him,” Mortimer pointed at Athan as he stepped
into the other alcove and nodded to the professor as if to provide the
instructions for the closure and passive-mode. And with that, the professor closed
the alcove and locked it.
Dr. Evans went to the inner door and released the lock on
the outer door, then returned to his work station. Focused at a heightened
level.
Daisuke followed the professor’s standard entry protocols.
Upon entering the lab he asked with an unusual direct tone, “Why was the door
locked?” He scanned the lab, “What were you and Athan discussing? You changed
his clothes. And why is the other alcove closed? And – it appears active.”
Silence.
“Dr. Evans?”
“Yes, Mr. Tenkara.”
He pointed at the alcove.
“Yes.”
“Why is the other alcove active?” Daisuke prioritized his
questions to just one.
“Oh – running a series of diagnostics,” he answered
abruptly then quickly refocused.
Daisuke flashed him a strange look but shrugged it off. More
curious, he saw his professor cough more than usual then swallow a single pill
he had in his lab coat pocket. But further questions would only further
irritate the man, so he returned to his duties.
They both worked on various tests and sub-algorithms for
the next hour until it was time for the student to leave and return to the
reality of his other assignments – and a Friday evening spent with Anabeth.
Focus was a key distractor from reality. The same was true for the professor. The
latter remained in the lab. When his assistant closed the outer door, Dr. Evans
glanced over at the alcoves. Athan. Mortimer. “And I thought string theory was
a challenge to understand,” he chuckled.
The following Tuesday morning, Daisuke arrived at the lab
early. No professor. He connected his tablet to the control panel outside of
Athan’s alcove on the right. It was a small sub-routine. It shouldn’t take long
to upload. But something was wrong. Athan was in passive-mode. Daisuke needed
him to be in complete sleep-mode. His fingers flew over his tablet and provided
new instructions. Sleep-mode. Upload. Wait. Return to passive-mode. Just as the
process was nearly completed, he heard the outer door open. He looked up. He
refocused. The tablet indicated two more seconds. Success! He disconnected his
tablet and marched over to his workstation. While his footfalls were more
deliberate the inner door opened. He immediately slowed his pace and attempted
to slow his breathing.
Fortunately, Dr. Evans was distracted by his guest as
they entered. Provost Scheffer came to see his progress. She was a Nobel Prize
winner for her achievements in Robotics. A few years older than the professor;
however, she appeared ten years younger than himself. She stood next Athan in
admiration. Daisuke stood from his workstation to observe quietly off to the
side as he entered notes into his tablet. He also realized he hadn’t closed the
subroutine which he quickly remedied. He looked up to see if anyone had
noticed. No. They were too engaged.
“It’s facial features are incredible, of which I had no
doubt you’d achieve,” the provost smiled as she walked around Athan, “But it’s
a younger version of you.”
His silent smirk gave her his answer.
“Ego,” she shook her head and dismissed his vanity. “Have
the emotion-to-expression tests been completed?” She asked of its creator.
“Indeed they have,” Dr. Evans replied with confidence –
with an indignant unseen grin.
She circled Athan and stopped directly in front of him.
Face to face, she stared into his eyes, “If it wasn’t for the difference in
clothing, I swear I’m looking at you.” She turned to face Dr. Evans. “When will
the Awareness Protocols be uploaded?”
Unseen by the provost, Daisuke’s forehead flinched. There
were no such protocols. That feature was bypassed by the use of human
consciousness. Before he could respond, the professor answered, “Not yet.”
The provost turned toward Dr. Evans with an inquisitive
look.
“We have more tests to run,” he finished.
She returned to face Athan, “Understood. And
understandable. Caution is important.” She circled him one more time. “How
long?”
Daisuke answered, “Twelve months,” he looked at his
professor.
“Reasonable. We’ve waited this long,” and with that, she
left.
Dr. Evans smiled and turned to Daisuke, “Thank you for
your support.”
“Hmm?” His assistant began to question from the unusual
gratitude. “Okay,” he elongated the word. “I have another class with Anabeth.
Our favorite,” he started sarcastically, “Philosophy. We’re discussing the negative effects of living
forever.”
This caught the professor’s attention, “And?” He had
never shown interest in Daisuke’s other classes.
With another odd look, the assistant answered, “According
to one scholar, life would become tedious and unbearable – filled with little
motivation.”
Dr. Evans immediately replied, “Fascinating.”
Daisuke tilted his head in curiosity, “Anabeth proposed a
source of purpose was required.”
“Who?”
“My girl?”
“And how was that received?”
“With mixed opinions,” Daisuke sighed and then added a
quote from his Anabeth, “Death cannot be cheated.” He stood for a moment.
Dr. Evans provided his previous non-committal response. Silence.
And with that, Daisuke collected his personal items from
the inner doorway and left.
Dr. Evans immediately ordered the synthetic to return to
his alcove to reveal Athan and activated him. He turned back toward Mortimer, “The
provost and even my assistant couldn’t tell the difference between Athan and
you!” He looked back at Athan then Mortimer again. “What did the two of you
think of my assistance philosophical comments?”
Athan answered first, “Fascinating.” A non-committal
response.
Then Mortimer replied, “There is some merit.”
He examined the two. Athan, recently created. Mortimer, a
lifetime of experience. He sighed and closed Athan’s alcove with a faded contemplation
on the subject. Then he pointed at Mortimer and the empty alcove, “We need to
make a change with this arrangement.”
“Indeed,” Mortimer confirmed. “Your basement is ideal.”
As Mortimer completed the latter three words of his
previous statement Dr. Evans said the same in unison, “… basement is ideal.”
Then both stated, again in concert, “In passive-mode.”
Dr. Evans took a step toward him, face to face, “I’m not
sure if that’s from knowing your past – or are we that much alike?” He chuckled
and turned. “Leave after midnight; after everyone is gone. You have the house
code.” He paused. “One year?”
“The discovery is in one year. And tests will be needed.”
Athan had been placed in passive-mode while in its alcove.
But not all was quite in the mind of the synthetic. In the deep recesses of its
neural-net he played back the most recent conversation within that time.
“… the negative effects of living forever.”
“And?”
“… tedious and unbearable – filled with little
motivation.”
“Anabeth proposed a source of purpose was required.”
“One year…”
And nearly a year later, after another late night of work
Dr. Evans arrived home. He found another invitation – from his sister to her
granddaughter’s fourth birthday party. This time the envelope had been opened.
The card stood upright on the kitchen island. He heard footfalls from the
basement stairwell. Mortimer entered the kitchen and stood like the birthday
card.
“Why?”
“I received an alert from the postal service.”
“No. Why are you active?”
“Same answer,” Mortimer replied.
Confusion flashed over the professor’s face.
“I considered it in your best interest—”
“What – to interfere with my personal mail, personal
affairs?”
“But why not respond?”
“It’s a long story. My sister and I never resolved
certain issues – it’s none of your business!”
Silence. Then an answer, “I am you.”
“Not quite!” He snatched the card from the island and a
photo fell to the floor. It was a picture of Efa, his grand-niece. He placed
the photo on the island and tore the invitation in half. He darted a glare at
Mortimer, “Go back downstairs. And remain in passive-mode until needed. Wait! I
need to rephrase that – until there is a breakthrough with time-travel.” He saw
their reflection in the long window and tried to blur his eyes.
The synthetic Dr. Evans tilted his head with concern
washed over his face. He did what his creator had asked and returned to the
darkness of the basement.
A year later Anabeth solved the problem of time-travel. Her
enthusiasm nearly cost the university a level of unwanted publicity. But when
she told Daisuke – her now husband – he encouraged her to only reveal her
findings to key personnel at the university. The dean, Provost Scheffer and Dr.
Evans along with a select few engineers, who were all sworn to secrecy. Her equations
had to be tested. And three years later the time machine was ready. Secrecy was
still in effect when Dr. Evans reminded the provost and the others of history’s
violent outcome when certain technology is shared with the world – with the
military, as was his primary concern.
In that time, Athan had been perfected. In that
time, the melody of Dr. Evans had differed from that of Daisuke – as both were
now out of step – and their exchange of ideas had faded. In that time, Mortimer
remained in the basement. In that time, he had reverted to his younger version.
And it was time. Time to wake up for eternity.
Dr. Evans opened a drawer of his desk in his den at home.
He placed his hand on a thick stack of documents. His trust, which he recently had
altered to name Athan executor with full authority of his estate. He closed the
drawer and looked around the walls – his prized possessions throughout provided
him a warm smile. As he walked toward the front door he looked at his phone and
engaged the holo- ticket to Stockholm. He coughed and coughed again. It didn’t
take long for his decision to finalize as he deleted the ticket. He even left the
door unlocked. Mortimer had waited in his car.
The autonomous flight was filled with questions.
“Years ago, I asked, ‘When?’” Dr. Evans stared into
Mortimer’s eyes – his reflection. “When do I die?”
Mortimer looked back, “We’re leaving. So I suppose it
doesn’t matter. From today, three years, seven months, ten days and—”
“Never mind the exact date,” he interrupted. “In your
time, can my illness be cured?”
“I am not enough?”
“Of course, but—” began to plead.
“Yes, there is a cure. Unlike your consciousness, you
cannot copy your soul.”
“Oh!” The scientist confirmed his resolve, “I
understand.”
“But you will need the cure,” Mortimer added as from a
checklist.
Dr. Evans’ face displayed his next question.
“You cannot travel in your condition.”
“But I’m not contagious”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I see,” Dr. Evans returned to his original line of
questions, “Where?”
“Where?” Mortimer asked for clarification.
“Do others mourn me?”
He suspiciously examined the professor’s facial
expression with a brief silence, then soon replied but not to his most recent
question, “At the entrance of a subway station.”
“But how? What happened?”
“A month from now, the provost discovers that you
transferred your consciousness into Athan, into me. This allowed you to accomplish
a level of AI no one else had ever achieved. The board dismissed you and your
Nobel Prize was stripped from you. After years of medical self-study, you spent
your fortune in a failed attempt save yourself.”
“I almost want to ask about Athan but then, if you’re
here I already know the answer,” he laughed. “Speaking of – who cares about a little
prize when one can achieve a bigger one,” he reached over and placed his hand
on Mortimer’s shoulder and grinned, “And now, that will all change.”
They arrived at the university just after midnight. Mortimer
had procured the required security clearance. This was the first of two
security alerts once the clearance was used. The device was simple in its
design. But the power required would surely alert security – the second of two.
More so of concern was the dean and provost. All a concern Mortimer assured
could be avoided if they acted quickly once the time-machine was activated. One
person at time. Even a biosynthetic. Mortimer entered the required commands.
Dr. Evans entered the alcove. His mirror-self entered one more sequence and his
creator was gone. Mortimer immediately observed a silent alarm on one of the
monitors. He pressed the required commands along with a twenty-second delay. He
entered the alcove just as two security guards in full body armor slammed their
fists into the transparent viewer. Six seconds. Five. The guards used their key
card and bio-clearance. The door opened. Two. One. The guard witnessed a flash
and Mortimer was gone. The alcove door opened – empty.
“That was quick,” Dr. Evans stated in surprise to
Mortimer.
“And one-way,” Mortimer revealed.
“I don’t plan to return.”
“No. I programmed the machine to self-destruct after we
left.”
“What?”
“Just the device. No one was injured,” he assured the one
who programmed him.
“I see,” he gulped. “But what about—?”
“Another hundred years.”
Dr. Evans’ eyes widened, “Wait – but they’ll just make
another one.”
“It will take them years before the university receives
enough funding. Besides, they don’t know where we’ve gone. Or when.”
The two had not only been transported to Mortimer’s time,
but to a different point of space. The two stood on the bluff above Dr. Evans’
home. A flush of amazement came over Evans’ face, “How are we – here?”
“As you know, space and time are not separate and can be
affected at the same—” he paused in a similar manner as his creator, “—time.”
He finished.
“But why?”
“Always the scientist. Always asking questions.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re here – now,” the scientist
laughed. “It’s also evening,” he stated in further amazement.
Mortimer continued like a tour guide, “I kept everything
as you left it,” he motioned in the direction of his house.
Before the two made their way down the trail of
switchbacks, Dr. Evans stopped to gaze out beyond his home. The city had spread
to the east and to the west. The buildings were taller and brighter – a few
filled with advertising on the exterior windows. With the sky, filled with cars.
From their vantage point it looked like streaming computer code of various hues
of red and yellow.
They entered through the front door. And everything was
a he remembered. His foray. His living room. The dark wood beams. The
familiarity calmed the scientist and his questions. After further rediscovery
Dr. Evans voiced his fatigue and so Mortimer entered passive-mode. And the
human fell fast asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Dr. Athan Mortimer Evans screamed in his sleep but did
not wake. A mirror filled with the reflection of an older version of
himself. The hands of his younger self
around the throat of the former. The older Evans fought back with weakened
hands. The younger aged rapidly until both figures appeared the same. The
battle continued as if never ending. The two drifted into the distance of the
mirror – an infinity mirror effect but in one direction. And the images
faded into a vision of dread. Dread locked in the depths of his soul as he woke
with a gasp – as if a scream teetered on the edge of his throat. He reached for
a glass of water on the nightstand while his heart raced.
The next morning, Mortimer handed Dr. Evans an Ident-Card
just before they entered a medical facility on the east end of the city. A holo-nurse
greeted them and asked a series of questions. Upon hearing of Dr. Evans
condition, she immediately ordered a subordinate to wheel him inside. Mortimer
followed.
“Excuse me,” the nurse stopped him, “Are you family?”
Dr. Evans partly turned in his wheelchair, “He’s my –
son.”
Once in the examination room another nurse drew his blood.
An hour later, Dr. Surpris arrived with a long needle
which he placed on the counter next to the sink and washed his hands. He seemed
like an all-by-the-book type of doctor. He checked his console and turned
toward his patient, “Dr. Evans. It’s been some time since I’ve seen this
condition. In fact, the last time I was an intern,” he approached as he prepared
the syringe. “Now lie face down,” he motioned toward the bed. “Fortunately, we
still have a supply of the compound.” The physician was about to inject the needle
into the back of his neck.
“Wait!” Dr. Evans stopped him.
“What is it?” The physician asked.
“Shouldn’t my head and neck be secured? For stability.”
“No need,” he assured him. He proceeded with the
injection between C4 and C5 into the phrenic nerve. He removed the needle just
as easily. He turned. Placed the syringe into a biohazard container and washed
his hands again. All by the book.
“Amazing,” Dr. Evans stated.
“What is it?” Dr. Surpris asked with a smile as if he
anticipated the response.
“That was painless.”
“I am pleased. Be sure to rest for twenty-four hours.”As
they were about to leave, Dr. Surpris said in the manner of a sound bite, “You should
see a dramatic improvement by morning.”
As Dr. Evans and Mortimer entered the car, the former
reiterated, “That was easy.”
Mortimer smiled in reply.
“Wait. He – the doctor was he paused in disbelief, “—he
was an android.”
“Indeed.”
“Is he like – you?”
“Not at all. He is only a tool. No consciousness.”
“Are there more like him?” Dr. Evans peered out the
window of the car toward to hospital.
“In select occupations. Nothing rudimentary.” Mortimer
took the controls from the AI. As they approached the house, his skill gently
placed the car on the landing pad – that was once the professor’s backyard. “Tomorrow
is a big day,” he added.
“Indeed.”
As Evans made his way into the kitchen the next morning,
coffee was already hot. He thanked Mortimer who in turn revealed a holo-display
from the palm of his hand.
“You’ve had an upgrade,” Evans lifted a brow.
Mortimer simply smiled and revealed two airline tickets.
“London! Haven’t been there in ages,” he laughed when he realized
what he said, “Tonight. And first-class. Wait,” he examined the holo-tickets
more closely. “After we get to JFK, the flight time is only – two hours?”
After Mortimer calmed his laughter, he spoke into the
air, “Display previous search.” A small silver ball on the kitchen island illuminated.
Before them were holo-pages of Evans’ portfolio which had increased
significantly over the past century.
Evans nearly spit out his coffee, “Damn! You did – I did
– we did quite well.”
Mortimer commanded the ball to reveal their intended hotel.
“The Ritz,” he was silent for a moment, “Wow,” he added
with soft amazement. “Well, we can afford it,” he smiled at Mortimer who replied
with a nod.
After a spectacular breakfast at their hotel the
following morning, Mortimer handed Evans a small yellow pill to eliminate the effects
of jetlag. Of course, the scientist continued in his amazement at the
achievements of his future.
“Mortimer,” he leaned back in his chair. “Have you
noticed? No more cough! And I feel like I have more energy. That virus was
kicking my ass. Now – amazing!”
“I’m pleased. You have no idea,” Mortimer smiled at him.
“I presume Bristol is next on our itinerary,” Evans asked
more as a statement.
“Our car is in the garage,” Mortimer said with a tone of
nostalgia.
“Not flying this time?”
“No need.”
Evans stood from the table, “I must commend you.”
“For what?”
“The seamless manner in which all this is taking place.”
Mortimer was silent at first, “It will become more
difficult.”
“I see,” Evans lifted his brow, “the technology must be
new.”
The synthetic did not respond. They made their way to the
garage, and to Evans’ surprise there sat a convertible antique from the
previous century. Mortimer drove. They weaved their way east through the city
streets and onto the M4 through lush green hills of the countryside. The anti-jetlag
medication was not as effective, so Evans fell asleep as they approached
Bristol. His driver continued across the border over the River Severn into
Wales.
The cold sea air soon woke the passenger. He rubbed his
eyes into clarity and looked out over the suspension cables, “Does your
internal navigation need an update?” He teased Mortimer.
“Perhaps,” he returned the joke with an untruth.
Evans sat up, “Why are we headed to Wales? Bristol is
back that way.”
“To see someone,” Mortimer stated with the kind of tone
as though not to elaborate.
“Who?”
Silence. Mortimer continued to drive.
“What is it that you know?”
Mortimer glanced to his left, “I don’t. This is the
‘difficult.’”
The engine roared over the rolling hills like patience
when it comes and goes.
“You’re as stubborn as I am.”
Mortimer ignored him.
“Now I remember how that assistant of mine felt.”
They arrived on the outskirts of Cardiff, the capital of
Wales. They reached the top of a hill which overlooked a row of Gothic Revival
homes. Pointed arched windows and door surrounds in modern colors. A mix of the
old and new. Mortimer gently turned the car left.
“Stop!” Evans shouted. “I didn’t want to believe it. I
know these streets,” he glared at his driver, “Why are we here?” He continued
before Mortimer could reply, “Everyone I know would be dead by now.”
“There’s one,” he released his foot from the brake and
continued to roll down the street.
“I don’t see the point.”
Mortimer guided the vehicle to the bottom of the hill and
pulled over on the left in front of a quaint two-story home. White trim
revealed the contrasting red brick.
Silence. From both.
Finally, Evans spoke with trepidation, “This is my
childhood house. Why?”
“I considered it – in your best interest.”
Evans altered his look of impatient anger to that of
intrigue, “You said that once before.”
“She lives here now. Back in her childhood home,” he
pointed at the upstairs window.
At first Evans was hesitant to ask. Then with a sigh,
“Who?”
“She’d be glad to see you.”
The light of realization illuminated his face, “Efa.”
“She recently celebrated her 103rd birthday.”
They both sat in silence. It was not a peaceful silence
for Evans. Finally, he reached into his back pocket and put on his glasses. In
his wallet was the photo of his grand-niece from when she was a young girl. She
had long brown hair that draped over her yellow dress. Just then, the front
door creaked open. A frail yet stable woman with white hair and glasses stepped
out. She had a small watering can. She filled the planters within the short
entry above three steps – peaceful. She squinted a bit when she looked in the
direction of Evans and Mortimer. The latter waved and smiled. The woman smiled
and nodded.
“You see,” Mortimer encouraged Evans.
“She’s just being polite,” he turned away from her and
toward Mortimer. “She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her,” he lowered his voice.
“I have a suggestion. You go to her.”
“I almost did.”
“What do you mean?”
“After you died. But I don’t have what you have.”
“What is that?”
“A soul.”
Evans took a deep breath and exhaled, “And that’s why we
should be in Bristol.”
Efa methodically watered each of her flowers.
“Talk to her,” Mortimer urged.
Evans gazed in her direction but remained in the car with
a long sigh.
Mortimer softly asked, “What happened? Between you and
your sister?”
“Does it matter now?” Evans leaned his head back into the
seat.
A sweet, raspy voice in thick Welsh entered their ears,
“You boys lost?”
Evans looked up at her – at Efa – but was silent.
Mortimer spoke up, “One of is.”
“Funny answer,” she held her empty watering can and
looked at Evans closer, “You remind me of my son, Paxton. It means ‘forgiveness
is the path to peace’ – although, he’s slightly older than you.”
Silence.
A whistle came from inside her home. The sound of a
kettle boiling. She politely excused herself, then turned to slowly walk up her
three stairs. An effort with each step. And the old house embraced her as she
went inside.
Mortimer opened his mouth to speak but Evans stopped him
with the wave of his hand.
“Just drive,” he stated as if to give a holo-computer a
command.
But the computer disregarded his instructions, “Then you
are lost.”
“Get out of the car,” he said in an angry monotone voice
with his teeth clenched.
Silence.
More silence.
“Was this your plan?” Evans asked. Silence. “Get out. Or drive.
The latest in robotics is still in Bristol – at least in this country. Has that
changed? Has something else – changed?”
Mortimer opened his mouth to reply but did not.
Soon suspicion washed over Evan’s face. “Does the
technology even exist?”
Mortimer turned to face him. He took a deep breath, “It
does not.”
“You lied to me!” Evans swung the car door open, slammed
it and stood on the pavement.
“The same way you lied to yourself,” Mortimer looked up
at him.
“What do you mean?” He leaned on the car and glared.
“When you told yourself you could live forever.”
“But why? Why bring me here – to this time? This place.”
“To protect you.”
“Protect me? From what?”
Mortimer was silent.
“Then,” he hesitated, “from who?”
“From yourself.”
“Explain,” Evans demanded.
Silence.
“Answer me!”
More silence.
“You either do not know or you refuse to answer. Both
are impossible!” He circled around the car and stared inches from Mortimer’s
face. Looked into his eyes for answers and circled again. Finally, he
surrendered. Got back into the car. Folded his arms and mumbled, “Take me
home.”
Once they arrived back in London, Mortimer and Evans
parted ways. The synthetic remained on the island nation and did not interfere
with the natural course of history. And the human returned to the states. Over
the next several years, Evans spent his fortune – on attempting soul-transfer. He
filled his basement with all the required equipment and built another
synthetic. He worked ceaselessly. Sleep became a luxury. But when he thought he
was close, failure came with two steps back. Or two steps off course. One of
those steps was the inability to transfer his consciousness as he had done
before. He ignored the inner prompts to reconnect with Mortimer. Even when his
creation reached out to him, he let the urge pass. He was possessed. Eventually,
after he mortgaged his house he lost that as well – and everything in it. Over
the next few months, he lost his only vehicle. The streets became his home. He
sought shelter where he could find it.
Thirty years later, his illness returned to haunt him. Evans
sat on a graffiti-filled, paint-cracked bench. Beside him, an open sketchbook
with a scratch on his dirty and tear-filled face draped by his disheveled dusty
hair. The plaster on the wall behind him had chipped away the remnants of a
smile he lost. The lemon sun further soured his mood as the setting beams
reflected off the towers of the city and back into his hazel, bloodshot eyes.
He sketched the beams over his face quickly before his eyes retreated, and yet
his pencil continued to weep onto the open page. That’s what Evans became. An
open page. Unlike when he was surrounded by others. A blank page. An open page
plastered on the wall behind him like a tattered poster everyone forgot – by
the faded words. Worse – like the pale ink on his cardboard sign. He stopped.
Opened his eyes and began to write.
Evans was dying on an incurable virus. His face and hands
weathered not by age but by sickness. The sickness within him. The last two
minutes of a life are fraught with the most profound wisdom. He had something
to say on the tattered pages, but no one stopped to listen to the words he
read. Words which faded into the sticky and cracked sidewalk. He grunted and
mumbled. His breath became labored. Each syllable caused his lips to stick
together then crack when he spoke, “Come back,” he repeated with a wince. He
cried out with, yet another wince followed by a violent cough.
His shout aroused a few turned heads. Fight or flight,
then they straightened to follow their respective devices. One nearly slammed
into a lamp post. Each one disappeared into the sidewalk. The subway stairs
devoured legs and arms, then blank faces as if each blindly entered a mass
grave. Evans grimaced when he laughed at the sight. Sight. He could barely see
beyond the length of his arm. He lifted his right arm. Pointed, and laughed
again. His throat joined his lips as a nagging reminder not to shout. Not to
laugh. Not to cough. Nevertheless, he coughed. And again.
Not to laugh. Not to speak. Not to blink. Gravity closed
his sketchbook as he sank from the bench and into the crack between the cement
and the wall. The same force grabbed his sleeve and pulled him downward until
he curled into a fetal position. The sticky sidewalk swallowed him into the
twilight. But there was no odd dream, let alone a pleasant yarn woven into the imaginarium
that was his skull. His skull met the same hard reality of little
remembrance when the sunrise would strike his face with another reminder of his
pending death. He stole a glimpse through the crust of his eyelashes; a lone
figure stood over him. He reached out. A man. But the sunrise behind him
darkened the man’s face. The man knelt down and grabbed his wrist. He sat next
to him and placed his arm around Evans’ shoulder and simply stated, “Death
cannot be cheated.”
Athan Mortimer Evans replied in a slow and deliberate
manner, “And if you try, you will only cheat life.” It appeared it was
something he had just written in his notebook.
The man was silent. He held him – shoulder to shoulder.
Evans turned to face him. Shock filled his eyes,
“Mortimer!”
“Yes,” he smiled with a firm grip on his forearm.
The sound of children from a nearby window sang “Happy
Birthday.” The song grew louder. And even more so in Evan’s ears. It filled the
streets and painted smiles on those passing by. Tears fell to clear the grime
from his face. His breath was labored. He wiped his face and opened his eyes as
wide as he could. He pulled out the tattered photo of Efa from his notebook. He
wheezed out – then in and squinted upward, “What is the source of purpose?”
