Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I feel my eye twitch, and I repress the urge to order them to clean up immediately. The words are stuck in my throat, begging to come out like a pack of ferocious hounds straining at their leashes. But these improbably alive men just spared my life and destroyed my enemies. So I hold my tongue.
“Are there any clean cups?”
“It’s Shinji’s turn to clean,” Wallace says.
“You haven’t done any dishes in twenty years,” Ari replies, rolling his eyes. “We had a robot, but she broke. Fortunately, I think we have a solution, indirectly provided by you, as it happens.” He presses a button. “Please bring us tea.”
I wait to see what technological wonder is going to come. The last thing I expect is to see Lydia come through a door, carrying a tray of tea, and smiling at me, very much alive. I feel a rush of joy, along with an uncanny sensation. I am glad she is standing in front of me, but I also feel that she should not be standing in front of me. Something deeply unnatural is happening right now.
“Lydia!”
She smiles at me. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I was sent for, and I was saved. The Artifice knows all.”
She sets the tray down, and I stride over to her, wrapping my arms around her in the tightest of embraces. I feel her breathe, her chest expanding against mine, the sound of her exhalation and inhalation so completely normal.
I held her in my arms as she died only hours ago. Her blood still stains my clothes. I am wearing her death, and yet she is standing in front of me, impossibly here.
“You were dead.” I turn to the others. “She died.”
“Only barely. Hardly at all,” Shinji says. “You’d have to be a lot more dead than she was to stay dead if we want you alive. Look at your scars, Arthur. You’ve been through several un-survivable encounters. We make sure we take care of our own.”
This is too easy.
I held her as she died. I heard her shuddering final moments. I saw her soul leave. I have been injured in battle before, and yes, I have been mended. But I never died. I never left my body the way she left hers.
There’s something wrong about her, I realize.
I noticed it right away, subconsciously.
She is smiling.
Lydia does not smile. She is also holding a tray of food. Lydia does not serve snacks, not even to those who designed the Artifice. Most of all, Lydia does not hug. Whatever I hugged just now is not Lydia. It might bear a strong resemblance to her, but it’s not her.
Grief surges back in twice as bitterly for having experienced a brief respite of hope. The men in this room believe they can fix everything with sufficient technology. But they can’t. They couldn’t fix my eyes properly, and they can’t bring Lydia back.
The creature who is wearing Lydia like a suit serves us while I try not to be visibly repulsed by it. I am disgusted to my core. It is hard not to come to the conclusion that everything I have ever believed in and fought for is a lie. It is even harder not to come to the conclusion that Lance was right. I have been so blinded by my belief in the Artifice.
The Artifice is supposed to be an intellect unaffected by any human influence. But with the engineers still alive, it is clear that the Artifice is strongly impacted by their thoughts and desires. That means there is no Artifice, not really. What I have called the Artifice is actually an oligarchy.
I have lost a lot today. I have lost Lydia, my most loyal soldier. I have lost Lance, my best friend. And now I have lost the very thing I have believed in and fought for my entire life. My moral compass lies shattered as surely as the lives of those I loved.
There is only one thing left to believe in.
“Mila. Where is she? Was she hurt?”
“She’s close,” Ari says. “We can’t have her in the base with us. You shouldn’t even really be here. And of course, you will have to be sworn to secrecy. Not that you would tell on us anyway.”
“And not that anybody would believe you,” Wallace adds.
“We need to retrieve Mila,” I tell Lydia.
“Oh, no. Not group you. Single you. Lydia stays here. We need a good bodyguard,” Shinji says.
Looking around, they do not need a good bodyguard. They need a maid and perhaps a mommy. Strange thoughts to have about the intellects who brought peace to all mankind. It is clear that they are geniuses who have overcome death itself, but do not know how to clean up after themselves.
Lydia is going to stay here and cater to the whims of the pack of spoiled man-children who are so brilliant they have the entire planet on its knees. On the bright side, she might live effectively forever. And she does not appear to be a prisoner, or unhappy with the situation.