Mind Warp, page 9
‘Sir?’ says Mark.
‘I’d only had him a week when he did that to himself.’ Marston laughs and points at the scratch and dent on the robot’s head. ‘Fell off a hover-bike, didn’t you, Mark?’
‘I did, sir,’ says Mark amiably.
Marston sighs. ‘But he’s an old friend, Engineer . . .’ He frowns. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t,’ she says. ‘You can call me Delphine.’
Launch Year 27. Samuel Marston is fifty-three.
His cheeks have hollowed out and there are dark rings around his eyes. He’s hunched over a holo-screen in a cluttered study-room. Stacks of bio-samples lean against the walls. Info-disks, tech-pads and data files are strewn across the floor beside discarded clothes and half-finished bev snacks.
There’s a soft swooshing noise as a door slides open, and I have to smile as Mark waddles into the room on his stubby legs, liquid slopping from the small visiglass cup he’s holding. He’s so cute – just like the Ralph unit that saved my life back in the Outer Hull.
‘It is time for your medicine, sir,’ he says.
Marston rolls his eyes, but takes the cup and downs the thick white liquid in one gulp. Then he pats Mark on his dome-shaped head.
‘Thanks, old friend,’ he says.
The door slides open again, and Delphine strides into the room. She looks concerned.
‘You can’t go on like this, Sammy,’ she says. ‘Working all hours. I never get to see you.’
‘I know, but—’ Marston begins, climbing to his feet.
‘You said we’d work as a team,’ Delphine breaks in. ‘You promised . . .’
‘You don’t understand,’ Marston tells her. ‘I’m responsible for the safe running of the Biosphere—’
‘And look at this place,’ she goes on. ‘Everything’s moved on, yet you’re still living in Launch Year Zero.’
‘It’s all fine, Delphine,’ Marston tells her wearily. ‘Once I’ve worked my way through this latest batch—’
‘And as for that thing, it just about sums it all up,’ she says, rounding on the little robot. ‘I mean, look at it!’
‘How may I serve you?’ Mark asks her, his stumpy arms waving about.
Delphine rolls her eyes. ‘I’ve been saying for years you should get an upgrade. You’re mission commander, Sammy. You deserve—’
Marston slams a fist on his desk, sending a pile of info-discs clattering to the floor.
‘Stop nagging me!’ he says sharply. ‘I don’t need an upgraded robot. I’m happy with the way things are. I—’
‘But I’m not, Samuel,’ Delphine says. ‘I can’t live this way any longer – which is why I’ve taken a new post in the Mid Deck. Zone 3.’
Her pale eyes gleam. ‘It’s got to be better than being here every day, watching you destroy yourself.’
She falls still. Marston cannot meet her gaze.
‘If that’s the way you want it,’ he says calmly.
He sits back down and returns his attention to the graphs and formulae and data-streams on the holo-screen. Delphine watches him for a moment, then turns and heads from the room. Marston slumps back in his chair. He looks worse than ever.
Beside him, Mark sets down the pile of info-discs he has picked up from the floor.
‘Your work, sir,’ he says.
Marston looks at the little robot and smiles. ‘Ah, Mark,’ he says softly, ‘at least you understand me.’
Launch Year 29. Marston is fifty-five.
He’s standing beside a bed, and I’m surprised to see who’s lying in it. It’s Delphine. And she looks awful. Sweaty, feverish, her clammy skin as white as the bedcovers draped over her. Marston is holding one of her bony hands in his own.
‘I just can’t bear to think of you gone,’ he is saying. ‘Please reconsider, Delphine. I’m begging you . . .’
‘No, Sammy,’ she says, her voice weak but determined.
‘Oh, Delphine.’ He sounds desperate. ‘What can I say to make you change your mind?’
‘Nothing, Sammy,’ she tells him. Then she smiles. ‘You must let me go . . .’
And with that, she closes her eyes.
Marston bows his head. There are tears at the corners of his eyes.
‘I don’t want to live without you, Delphine,’ he says quietly. ‘If you won’t have yourself uploaded into a mind-tomb, then neither shall I. Ever.’
At the far side of the sick-pod, the door slides open. Mark enters, a box in his hands.
‘My condolences, sir,’ he says.
Marston turns to him. ‘What are those?’ he asks.
‘Tissues, sir,’ Mark says. ‘To dry your tears should you weep or sob . . .’
For a moment Marston does not move. Then he kneels down, takes the box of tissues and places them on the ground.
‘Oh, Mark,’ he says, his voice cracking with emotion, and he wraps his arms around the little robot’s dumpy body. ‘I’ve lost her.’
Mark’s eyes flash on and off. His mouthpiece buzzes. Then, as I watch, I see one stumpy arm patting Marston awkwardly on the shoulder.
‘It’s just you and me now, Mark, old friend,’ says Marston. ‘Just you and me.’
Launch Year 42. Marston is sixty-eight.
He’s standing next to a trolley, wearing only a towel wrapped around his middle. His shoulders are slumped; his body is stooped. He seems to be having some kind of medical check-up. Two anxious-looking young bio-technicians are fussing about him.
‘What is all this nonsense anyway?’ Marston says grumpily.
‘The latest advance,’ one of them tells him, then turns to a droid. ‘Commence molecular scan.’
‘At once, sir,’ says the droid, beams of light streaming from its eyes. Marston’s body is bathed in blue, while a single red dot flickers quickly across his wrinkled skin. ‘Molecular scan complete,’ it says moments later.
‘So, what’s the result?’ Marston says, turning to the second bio-engineer, who has moved across to a bank of holo-screens.
‘There’s some inflammation in the knee joints,’ she says. ‘And the elbows. And—’
‘Minor aches and pains,’ Marston interrupts. ‘I could have told you that . . . Sophie,’ he says, squinting at her name badge. ‘How much longer do I have to live?’
Sophie smiles. ‘Judging by these results, Mission Commander, you’ll live to be a hundred.’
Marston sighs. ‘I’m not sure I want to live that long,’ he says. ‘Now that the younger generation has everything under control, I’m not needed any more . . .’
‘Oh, you mustn’t say that, sir,’ Sophie tells him earnestly. ‘You are our link with the Earth. You lived upon it. Swam in its oceans. Walked through its forests . . .’ She swallows unhappily. ‘Me, I’ve never even seen it.’
‘Maybe,’ says Marston. ‘But I also saw what humans did to the Earth. The wars. The destruction . . .’
‘Which is why we need you,’ Sophie persists. ‘So we don’t make the same mistakes again.’
Marston shrugs.
‘Please don’t get me wrong, sir,’ Sophie goes on. ‘I hope you don’t go into a mind-tomb for many years.’ She pauses. ‘But when you do, then you will be able to guide us. Forever . . .’
I see the flash of horror that crosses Marston’s face.
‘But for now,’ she continues, ‘you can pop your clothes back on.’
Marston nods. ‘Mark,’ he calls.
The roly-poly robot – still ‘good’ so far as I can see – comes waddling towards him from behind a screen. His arms are outstretched, with clothes hanging over them. But then, as he reaches Marston, he trips, stumbles and the clothes drop to the floor.
‘Oh dear,’ he says.
‘Never mind, Mark,’ says Marston softly, reaching down to pick up his shirt. ‘Thank you for your help.’
He doesn’t notice the two bio-engineers exchanging glances behind his back.
‘That thing’s hopelessly outdated,’ the man mutters, shaking his head.
Sophie frowns. ‘The mission commander is emotionally attached to it,’ she whispers. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’
Launch Year 47. Samuel Marston is seventy-three.
He is sitting on a stool at the far end of a vast hall, in front of a mind-tomb. David Atherton’s glowing face is looking down at him. The pair of them are playing chess. It’s Marston’s move, but he is deep in his own thoughts.
‘What’s it like, Atherton?’ he asks at last.
Around the two of them, standing in rows on the black marble floor, are other mind-tombs. Crew members are standing in front of some of them, and the air is filled with a soft babble of voices as the living members of the Biosphere communicate with the Half-Lifes.
‘You ask me that every time we play,’ says Atherton.
‘It’s something I want to understand,’ says Marston. ‘Need to understand.’
‘It’s a bit like daydreaming. Only more real . . . Sometimes I’ll go to touch something, and have to remind myself I can’t.’ He pauses. ‘Your move, Samuel.’
Marston nods. Moves a pawn.
‘It’s a time for contemplation,’ Atherton continues. ‘For endless meditation about yourself . . .’
‘And others?’ says Marston.
‘When crew members ask my advice, I am there for them,’ says Atherton. ‘I like to think I have helped.’
Marston nods thoughtfully. ‘And the other Half-Lifes?’ he says. ‘You communicate with them?’
‘Yes,’ says Atherton. ‘We share our knowledge, our wisdom, our memories of our past experiences . . .’ He pauses. ‘Rook takes bishop,’ he says, and Mark moves the holo-chess piece for him. ‘Check.’
‘Clever,’ says Marston quietly. He falls still. I think he’s mulling over his next move, but when he speaks his mind is still elsewhere. ‘What does it feel like?’
Atherton’s glowing face sighs. ‘It’s true, Samuel, there are downsides to being a Half-Life. You cannot taste or smell. Or touch. Then again, you’re also free from all physical pain—’
‘But what about the mental pain?’ Marston breaks in. ‘You don’t know the thoughts I have. Such dark thoughts.’
He lowers his head. Atherton watches and listens, but this time he says nothing.
‘They call me a genius. I understand why they want to upload my mind into a mind-tomb,’ Marston goes on, ‘but the thought of it continuing, forever . . . I’m telling you, David, it terrifies me.’
‘You must have courage, Samuel,’ says Atherton. ‘We need you. Especially now. The younger crew members have to learn what we know. Why we built the Biosphere. Why we had to leave Earth. They must not repeat the mistakes of the past.’
‘You’re right of course,’ says Marston. ‘But the thought still terrifies me. In fact, I’ve been thinking long and hard about . . .’ He pauses, glances around at his little robot. ‘Where do you think I should move next, Mark?’ he asks.
‘Perhaps knight to . . . errm . . . no . . . Bishop to . . .’ His red eyes flash on and off. ‘Yes, king’s bishop to . . .’
‘Oh, Mark, Mark, Mark . . .’ Marston chuckles softly. ‘You still haven’t got the hang of it, have you?’
‘Thinking long and hard about what?’ asks Atherton.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Marston mutters, and I know he’s still imagining his consciousness continuing after he dies. Forever. ‘Queen takes rook,’ he says, then sits back and folds his arms. ‘Checkmate.’
Launch Year 58. Marston is eighty-four years old.
He and Sophie, the bio-engineer I saw back at the medical examination room, are walking arm in arm. Marston is holding a walking stick in his free hand, and Mark is waddling along at his side.
He still looks ‘good’.
The three of them are on the path that winds its way between the hydroponic grow-troughs. The fruit trees are neatly pruned, their trunks much thicker than when I last saw them.
‘You’re like the daughter I never had, Sophie,’ Marston is saying to her, his voice weak and faltering. ‘And you remind me so much of her . . .’
‘Who?’ Sophie asks.
‘Of Delphine,’ he tells her.
‘Ah, yes,’ she says. ‘Didn’t you tell me she once worked here?’
‘I did,’ says Marston, and he smiles, his head full of memories. ‘I loved her.’
They continue strolling between the trees, the sunlight units warm and bright overhead. Marston nods towards one of the lens-head droids, busy gathering samples of blossom from an orange tree.
‘It’s incredible how . . .’ he begins.
But then he stumbles. His stick clatters to the ground and he just stands there staring down at it, his face drained of all colour. Mark waddles forward, picks it up and returns it to Marston – but not before Sophie has noticed how badly the old man’s hand is shaking.
‘How long have you had that tremor?’ she asks him.
Marston looks at his hand as though seeing it for the first time.
‘This?’ he says. ‘A while now. But it doesn’t bother me.’ He laughs weakly. ‘I’ve always been clumsy. And anyway, Mark here helps me out. Don’t you, Mark?’
‘My aim is to serve you, sir,’ the dumpy robot says, which makes Sophie laugh.
‘I always forget how polite these old droids are,’ she says.
‘He’s been with me my whole working life,’ Marston tells her. ‘Call me a sentimental old fool, but I can’t bear the thought of being without him.’
Sophie pats his hand. ‘You’re not a fool, Mission Commander,’ she says. ‘You’re the wisest man I know. And none of us could do without you.’ She links arms with him again. ‘Now, if you’d just let me run a few tests . . .’
Launch Year 67. Marston is ninety-three.
We’re watching Mark tidy a sleep-pod in some kind of medi-centre room. Cleaning, ordering, putting away.
In the corner, the green glow of the digi-marker fades, and Marston glides forward. He is in a robotic walker, strapped upright to a rigid backboard, staring at a holo-keyboard projected just in front of his immobile face. As his eyes move, a mechanical voice speaks.
‘Mark,’ it drones, ‘stop doing that. I need your help.’
‘How may I serve you, sir?’ the little robot responds as he waddles obediently over to Marston’s side.
‘There isn’t much time,’ the mechanical voice says. ‘Sophie will be here soon to take me to the ceremony. They want to upload me into a mind-tomb – and I can’t let that happen. So you will have to help me, old friend.’
‘How may I serve you, sir?’ Mark repeats.
‘Show me your protocol access key,’ Marston says.
‘My protocol access key is restricted, sir.’
‘Mission-commander override,’ the old man’s mechanical voice intones. ‘Marston double-helix eight.’
‘Mission-commander override in need of dual-verification, sir,’ says Mark.
‘Dual-verification . . .’ He pauses. ‘Atherton double-helix four.’
‘Override accepted,’ says Mark, and projects a glowing circular disc into the air.
It is covered in a grid across which streams of data are moving in intricate patterns. Another disc follows it, then another and another. Soon the air between the robot and the paralysed Marston is filled with a constellation of spinning discs.
Marston stares at them unblinking. He seems to be searching for something in particular as they orbit around him – until one comes to a halt directly in front of his eyes.
I feel Belle tense beside me.
‘Primary protocol accessed,’ says Mark. ‘But I must warn you, any alteration will affect my safe functioning.’
Marston stares hard at the disc, then blinks twice.
I see a single line of data detach itself from the surface of the disc and fall, symbol by symbol, down through the air before vanishing. I turn to Belle. She is staring at the space where the symbols just disappeared. Her eyes glow white for a moment, then fade to their usual green.
‘Is that the glitch we’ve been searching for?’ I whisper.
‘Not a glitch,’ Belle replies, ‘but a deliberate act of sabotage. Marston has made it possible for the robot to harm him. It is against the first law of robotics.’ She pauses. ‘This is the moment. Good Mark has been turned bad.’
I shake my head. ‘Marston didn’t realize,’ I say. ‘He wanted to end his own life. That was all . . .’
‘The robots communicate among themselves,’ says Belle. ‘We know that. If Mark harms Marston, then no human will ever be safe again.’
I look back at the scene before us.
‘Activate amended protocol,’ Marston commands.
Mark shuts off the projection. The spinning discs disappear.
‘Thank you, old friend,’ says Marston, the mechanical voice betraying no emotion. ‘Now, before you deactivate yourself, you can do me one last kindness.’
‘How may I serve you, sir?’ Mark asks.
‘Let me die.’
Mark looks at the life-support system he has deactivated, then at his master. Samuel Marston is still strapped into the robotic walker. He is not moving. Not at all. But there is the trace of a smile on his lips.
Red eyes flashing, Mark switches the system back on.
The control unit hums into action, and lights on the display panel flicker. Waddling closer, Mark confirms no signs of life are being displayed on any of the holo-screens. Heartbeat. Pulse. Brain activity . . . The digital blip on every one has flatlined.
Mark takes a step back. Then, with a soft bleep, he deactivates himself. The glowing red eyes switch off. His head slumps forward.
And I realize there’s a lump in my throat.
The little robot, Mark, has gone. And by his own hand. Down the years, I watched him being so helpful to Marston. So loyal. So dependable. So kind. Sure, he made mistakes. Spilling stuff. Knocking things over. But somehow that just made him seem all the more human.
