Chapter 2

When Dr. Wilcox woke, the sun had already broken the horizon and peeked in his window between two huge willow branches. He stretched and rubbed his scruffy cheek against his right bicep. Then his earphone rang. What timing, he thought and scrambled out of bed to answer it. “Hello?” he replied in a raspy voice. The familiar voice of Dr. Livingbree saluted him on the other end.

“A fine morning, isn’t it?” Livingbree pondered. Wilcox grunted an approving reply and walked to the kitchen. “I know it’s the weekend, but I have a question for you.” Wilcox raised his eyebrows, grunted again, and took a pitcher of juice out of the refrigerator. “Were you the one who applied for the undersea geothermal generator a few years back? Before Olin?”

“Yeah,” he answered, pouring himself a glass of juice, “I did. Why?”

“The Emperor wants you on it right away; won’t say what it’s for, but his urgency makes me suspicious. You still want it?” Here Wilcox paused and gulped as he thought.

“What about the AI project?” he asked after he swallowed.

“We’ll transfer it. No problem.”

Memories of his conversation with Olin the night before returned to the forefront of his mind. Shades of grey. “Could we bring it with us?” he finally questioned.

“Done. You’ll leave at the start of the week. Should I have transportation arranged for the two of you?” Livingbree asked.

“No, I have an old friend…” Wilcox began, but the laughter on the other end silenced him.

“Always. I’ll send you the location. Have a good one,” finished Livingbree.

“You, too, friend,” he replied and ended the call. Opening the refrigerator and removing a carton of eggs, Wilcox whistled. It wasn’t as good as his best idea, the Spirit Lanes, but the undersea generator was his pet project—even better Olin had already made it. This would be a fun, easy job, away from press reporters and scientific journals: a place where he could sit down with Olin, face to face, and philosophize about their attempt at artificial intelligence.

He pulled out a skillet and cracked three eggs into it. He enjoyed the old ways of cooking, over electric heat, though it was considerably more time-consuming. But he had little to do today—or, more precisely, he had little planned to do. When his eggs were scrambled to perfection, he sprinkled a little cheese and some pepper on top, and strode outside. The patio had warmed already, and he slumped into an eastward facing chair, soaking up the morning light. A blackbird cried from one of the many willow branches above him and was answered by several others in the stillness of the morning.

^*^

Sorel woke in his forest bed, as if he had slept a thousand years, refreshed and replenished, but after a few breaths, noticed a weight on his chest. He strained his neck upwards to find a synx lying comfortably, licking a paw. The feline form turned a distracted gaze towards him and purred happily. Sorel reached a hand behind the large cat’s ear and scratched it. Intensely pleased, the synx moved its nose under his wrist forcing a stroke down the back of its neck. Sorel chuckled and stroked it several times more before helping it off his chest and onto the floor of early autumnal leaves.

He rose to make sure all his things were in order. He pulled his glass drinking jar from a vine-hidden cleft and filled it in the crystal pool, surrounded by mossy green and grey-blue stones. He drank deeply and bent to refill the container, when a reflection behind him caught his attention. He sprung away as memories filled him. The traveling girl. How had she come to this place? Had he led her? His eyes spoke the questions his lips would not and she addressed them.

“I brought you here. Don’t you remember?” she questioned and blinked innocently. Sorel raised the jar to his lips and sipped the cool water, trying to bring sound to his throat.

“Where did you sleep? I don’t mind the leaves, but you…” he began. She pursed her lips and lowered her brow. He scrunched an eyebrow and sharpened his gaze—took another sip of the refreshing water. Then she smiled and licked her hand twice in a twisting feline manner.

A wave of crushing realization swept over Sorel. His eyes went wide with understanding. “Yes, Sorel; I know your secret—for I too possess your powers,” she stated, then smiled with her eyes and continued in a softer tone, “We are so alike—you and I.” She sauntered closer to him, raising her cheeks as if to offer him some privileged information. “There is a place we could go, deep in the forest, where there are others like us. We could live, away from lies and deception, together.” Her hand and eyes moved to Sorel’s chest. When she looked up, Sorel found himself gazing into the most undeniably convincing set of eyes and lost his speech. “Will you?” she purred.

Sorel blinked his eyes. He didn’t even know her name, much less her character. Doubt crept back into his dark eyes. “Where is this place you speak of?” he finally managed to ask.

She spun from him and took three steps northwest. “That way,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder.

He walked to her. “What is your name?” She raised her eyebrows.

“My name?” she tilted her head as if to consult the trees, “My name is unimportant.”

“Yet you know mine,” he stated.

Her eyes brightened and widened. “Ahh, Sorel, it is because you are famous! You learned of the power on your own. None have done that since the elder days. Of course I know your name…” she paused and softened her gaze. “I am Amalia, if you must know.”

Sorel felt something tighten in his chest as she fingered her hair behind her ear. He found himself glancing at the tree beside him. “I cannot leave them—my only friends.”

“You will make new friends—those who will understand you.”

When he looked back into the amber eyes, he found himself unable to refuse her again—not even a delay was possible. She read it in his eyes and smiled.

“How fast are you?” she asked, then turned and sprinted northeast. He took off after her. They weaved through the trees, ducked branches, and lightly hurdled the tangled undergrowth. Sorel had nearly caught her when she began singing in the voice of the forest. The next thing he knew, she fell forward and bounded onwards in a feline form, outdistancing him quickly as a synx.

Sorel whispered a verse to himself and leapt into the air, where his wings caught the breeze and lifted him into the air. His vision narrowed, focused—crisp and clear. He kept a wary eye on the tan blur flashing through the forest as he broke free of the branches to soar above it. He fell slightly behind as he worked to gain altitude, but in a swift dive he pulled easily in front of her, gliding through the morning air.

^*^

Olin felt displaced. His enamel skin and titanium joints set him apart from the ordinary traveler. He did not need the clothes he wore; without surprise, they hindered more than helped. The overcoat and tweed hat did not keep the stewardess’ eyes from widenening momentarily. His polite discourse put them somewhat at ease, as did his Imperial badge.

The Emperor, however, had been enigmatic about his existence. He and Dr. Wilcox had hidden for some time after his awakening, onboard Shalre Decon’s cargo ship, waiting for Wilcox’s application for the undersea generator to clear. It was Dr. Livingbree who had notified them of the official governmental ban of any new spirit technologies. Livingbree had also proposed their new project: Artificial Intelligence. Wilcox had been optimistic, but Olin remained skeptical. The idea rubbed too close to home. He wondered what the difference would be between them—a soul within metal and autonomous metal.

And it was during their work that the Emperor requested Olin’s presence at a ceremonial christening of an ancient archeological dig in the western half of the Empire—and his expertise in this field. Olin remembered little from his former life, though some memories still flashed within him in the late hours of the night, and hoped his logically deductive mind would somehow make up for it.

Halfway across the empire, he had stopped for the night in the city of Talorn, a dusty town on the edge of the Plains of Raida and overlooking the Slaac Canyon. Olin stepped from the hull into the swirling breeze. He felt immediately thankful for the overcoat to keep the dust from infecting his joints.

Olin strode down the main street, anxious to escape the sweeping dust flurries blowing westward through the town and out over the canyon edge. He entered the twin glass doors of the first inn he found. He checked into a room and slouched into an open recliner. The room, painted a fuzzy yellow, seemed to choke on his presence. A dull light flickered passively on a brown carpet—dirty or clean, he could not tell.

He retrieved the recorder from his pocket and flipped it open; the crisp silver sheen seemed to remind him of his home, as much as he could call Livingbree’s laboratory or Wilcox’s library home. The instrument’s display lit up with an azure glow and Olin plugged into it, choosing the interview session of which he had spoken to Wilcox.

Though his memory banks contained the dialogue in perfect form, to experience it again helped him concentrate. The holographic scene flickered to life in the middle of the hotel room. Olin slumped back in the recliner, perfectly alert, and watched the interview unfold:

“State your name, please,” Olin began, folding his hand together, elbows resting on the table. He stared into a face similar to his own, coated enamel designed to bend and flow with facial expressions. The eyes were set a bit wider apart, the nose thicker, the lips heavier. It’s photoreceptors dazzled back at him in a permanent smirk.

“521-B,” it said flatly.

“Brandon,” Olin corrected and sat back. “Brandon, tell me what you are thinking now.”

“You, a class 345 autonomous unit designed by Dr. Stanley Burke, 11.43.2573.2, exist 3.5 feet 29 degrees south of west of my entity, sitting on a Crenian lab-stool, product number 8657123, ordered 09.32.2572.2, rest 100% of your weight, spread evenly, on grade 3 reinforced concrete 50 meters below sea-level in a pressurized environment of 1.12 atmospheres. Your vocal frequency matches that of a certain deceased Karl Demasca and has attained a maximum wavelength of 4.5 clicks and a minimum of 4.1 clicks.”

“I know that, Brandon.”

“Yes, you do. Your central processing core, though 3.2 months older than mine, retains 98.32% of my computing capability. I completed the computation 3.2 nanoseconds faster than you did.”

“I know that, too, Brandon,” Olin remarked again, carrying the face of a gambler, the patient blank waiting for the right hand to bet big on. “but tell me about yourself, without describing what I know.”

“You know all I know. You have seen my blueprints. You can see me now.”

“I cannot know what you think, Brandon. I can assume you are as I, interpreting the world around you into its rational explanation. But I cannot know your thoughts. That is why I interact with you; that is why I asked you what you were thinking.”

The blank face across from him stared back with dull eyes.

“You are not a passive receiving entity in this world, Brandon,” Olin continued. “You are an active, participating force, autonomous in this world. So I’ll ask you again: what is it that you are thinking, uniquely?”

The blank face changed little, but changed nonetheless with a slight eyebrow raise. It inched forward.

“I think,” it began carefully, “that I think.” A murky silence filled the room. “I think…I think I remember thinking, thinking that I think.” It eyes stared far beyond the confident smile of Olin.”