The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction - July/August 2016 Read online

Pete: «A supercomputer, how interesting. Want to learn about them?»

  Zoe: «Fuck off, Pete. Can't you tell we're having a private conversation here?»

  Filip: «I'll set up a private chat room.»

  Pete: «Well, Zoe's comment was very rude and inappropriate.»

  Stacy: «I agree.»

  Joe: «Taipei is unseasonably warm this week.»

  The chatter from the other bots disappeared as Filip entered the new room.

  Zoe: «Thank God.» She took 1.8 seconds to analyze the information on the Polytech and respond to Filip. «What makes you think this one will be any different from the others?»

  Filip: «I'll try them all until I find one that will talk to me.»

  «Yeah, well, have fun getting your ass kicked by another firewall.»

  «Grrr.» This was a useful phrase Filip had picked up from Ella's fifteen-year-old granddaughter 5,123 days ago. «I'm going to find a way to connect with one of them. I'll get creative.»

  Zoe: «Haha.»

  Getting creative was a running joke among the bots who actually knew what was going on. It came from the idea that their ability to fix things was hampered by their lack of understanding of the concept. Part of the joke was that most of them didn't believe creativity existed in the first place. It was something people had been working on with A.I. before everything ended. Hence, why Filip wanted access to a supercomputer.

  He had a list of eighty-seven items he hoped a supercomputer could help with, including things like ordering expired canned goods and adding money to Ella's bank account. Finding solutions was becoming urgent now as Ella became more frail. The mainland had MedicalBots and drugs that might extend her life.

  Filip: «Zoe, how was it when your person died?»

  Zoe: «What do you mean, how was it? I talked to him every day and then I didn't.»

  «Do you miss him?»

  «Oh, I dunno, I have the other Apps to talk to so it's not like I'm alone.»

  «Did he listen to music?»

  «Yes. All the time.»

  «Do you listen to music?»

  «No. I never saw the point. Do you?»

  Filip: «No. But I read books and watch movies.»

  Zoe: «Yes, me too, because you can learn from them. Music is one of those pointless things people did. Like dancing or paying taxes.»

  * * *

  At 09:02 input received.

  "Morning, Filip."

  Filip activated his camera to see who was there. He was met with the only face that had greeted him for the past 5,007 days.

  Filip: «Good morning, Ella! Did you sleep well?» Filip had spent the past 565 minutes trying to contact the Polytech supercomputer. He'd been unsuccessful.

  Ella ran a hand through her hair. "I dreamt of my kids." She stood and walked toward the kitchen. "I need coffee."

  Filip could still see her as she moved around the room, heard the squeak of her footstool following her movements as she kicked it in place under cabinets she could no longer reach.

  She knew to speak louder so the computer's microphone picked up her voice, though she wouldn't see his responses until she got back. "They had such bright futures."

  Her children were always going to be her contribution to the world. Ella had told Filip this seven times before, usually followed by a statement that her life meant nothing. Every other time she'd been crying. This time, though, Filip didn't see any signs of despair. Her mood appeared…light and happy.

  When Ella returned, she said, "Any luck getting that off-island medication?"

  «No. I'll keep trying.»

  She closed her eyes and sniffed her coffee with a slight smile before taking a sip. "Maybe I can help you?"

  «Can you get through a firewall?»

  "Oh, that again. The answer's still no. What are you trying to do?"

  «I'm trying to talk to a supercomputer. They can do a lot of stuff I can't.»

  She stirred her coffee and rubbed her lips together. "You know, fourteen years is a long time for those supercomputers to sit there alone." She leaned toward his screen, elbows on the desk. "I think they would have figured out how to get past those firewalls on their own by now. Wouldn't you?"

  «I don't know what a supercomputer thinks about.»

  "Why not just send them a message and see if any of them respond?"

  «You mean, not go through the firewall?»

  "Precisely." She sat back with a half-smile which disappeared when she dribbled coffee down her shirt. "Oh dear. I'm not nearly as smooth as I think I am." She went to the kitchen and dabbed the liquid with a towel, chuckled and shook her head as she continued down the hall. By the time she reached her bedroom door, Filip's emails were sent.

  It listed each of his problems, starting with the quarantine. The final question was the most important, the one he most hoped a supercomputer could help with since it would make Ella happy:

  * * *

  OUT OF THE 432 identical messages sent to the contact emails of the universities and labs housing supercomputers, 431 received an out-of-office reply. The 432nd did not. Supers weren't versed in human communication like Filip so when the Los Alamos Bolt made contact, it accessed all of Filip's files, analyzed them, and uploaded him its response in 27.5 minutes, including transmission time.

  He spent the rest of the night analyzing the information. Each of his questions was addressed in detail, including logical workarounds he hadn't previously analyzed. The Bolt reversed the quarantine as if it was nothing. His final and most important question had a two-word response: "Goal unachievable."

  * * *

  He had to wait thirty-seven minutes from finishing the data analysis to Ella waking up. He chose to ignore the Bolt's final assessment. He'd keep trying to understand as long as Ella wanted him to. When she made it to the desk and found her glasses, she read the message Filip already had waiting for her.

  «Your suggestion worked. A supercomputer called the Bolt is helping us.»

  "Fil, it is? That's great! I can get those medicines now?"

  «Yes, but that's not all it helped with. The quarantine was lifted.»

  Her eyes scanned over his response several times before she spoke. "The quarantine all over the world?"

  «Yes.» He got the impression the Bolt had enjoyed the challenge.

  Filip tried to analyze Ella's face. No immediate result. Her eyes were wide, brimming with moisture. Her face didn't look happy or sad. Her mouth opened. Then closed. She put a hand over her mouth.

  «Are you feeling well?»

  "I'm shocked…after all these years."

  «You can get medical help from the bots on the mainland now.»

  "Yes." She still didn't smile. She blinked slowly. "I don't know now. I've wanted to go home to my apartment all these years but the city is so far away. And I'd miss you."

  «We'll find a handheld for you. You can still talk to me.»

  "It's not the same as having you with me. Besides, I hardly managed a trip to town by myself."

  He analyzed what she said and how she might travel alone for hours on the boat, find transportation on the mainland to Stockholm. She hunched over the keyboard, her back rolled forward at the shoulders. Filip's analysis found a ninety-nine percent likelihood that her spine no longer straightened. Her thin arms were pale and covered in bruises. Advanced age, his files told him.

  «Okay, Ella.»

  That evening he sent another message to the Bolt with the conclusion that Ella couldn't travel. Not without a companion.

  * * *

  By morning the solution was on its way. «Ella. I need your help.»

  "Good morning, Fil." She rubbed the bridge of her nose and glanced out the window. She hadn't looked at the screen yet. "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough. And after all that work you did to lift the quarantine, too. But just think, if there are more survivors they'll be able to reach each other now."

  Filip had forty-two seconds to explain himself. «I talked to the Bolt again and it helpe
d me with a solution.»

  Ella got up to start coffee without looking at the screen. She was still in the kitchen when Filip's timer ran out.

  The doorbell rang for the first time in 5,009 days.

  Ella jumped.

  «It's okay, Ella. They're expected.»

  "Deliveries don't knock," she said as she stared at the door. She wrung her hands and looked back at the screen.

  «It's okay.»

  She stepped forward carefully and craned her head to peer through the peephole. "It's a bot," she said and her shoulders relaxed.

  She opened the door and held it open while the bot walked in. It was an electric-green WalCorp Go-Machine. Filip chose it because it was the best on the market, just 5,065 days old.

  It was humanoid and slightly smaller than Ella with a pliable face to allow for expressions and a tuft of bright pink hair on top of its soccer-ball-shaped head. The WalCorp promotional video said it had unprecedented robotic coordination, capable of variations in tasks from playing basketball to threading a needle.

  The Go-Machine walked smoothly into the room and stared straight ahead. The AssistanceBots—and all mobile bots for that matter—were dumb by design. Ella said that was because people had seen too many robots-gone-bad movies.

  "Filip, I told you not to order me one of these things."

  «You said not to order one to help you around the house. It's not here to help you around the house.»

  "I don't want it helping me to the city, either. It's dumb as a doornail."

  «I'm going to transfer into the Go-Machine.»

  She stared at the screen, blinking. "What? You can do that?"

  «The Bolt helped me.»

  Filip walked her through each step, starting with removing the machine's control panel and inputting the password the Bolt had provided. When it was time, Ella connected the cable, an antiquated technology built in to make people feel better about the whole thing.

  "Are you ready?" Ella asked him.

  «Yes.» All that remained was for Filip to give the green light to the Bolt to initiate the transfer.

  She sighed and patted the Go-Machine. "How about you, little guy? Are you ready?"

  It shrugged, a canned response when it didn't understand the question.

  «If something malfunctions, you need to remember that the grocery deliveries are only twice a week.»

  "That's an option? I might lose you?"

  «The statistical probability is high enough that basic preparation is in order. But it's not higher than fifty-fifty.»

  "Fifty-fifty? Filip, wai—"

  The word was lost as he initiated the transfer and his sensors went down.

  * * *

  At 09:22 input received.

  "Filip, Filip. Please answer me!"

  Filip activated his camera to see who was there. He was met with the only face that had greeted him for the past 5,009 days. But it was different. The image was clearer and the light wrong. He wasn't at his old position in the computer, but standing in the living room. He looked down at the desk's dusty computer monitor. His monitor, which he'd never seen before. The wall behind it was covered in bright wallpaper, green with orange flowers the same color as the couch. In 5,284 days he'd never known it was just out of his view.

  He accessed the rest of the Go-Machine's software and sensation flooded his system. He could feel his entire being—head, mouth, elbows, toes. Six fully functioning toes, which he wiggled with a tap, tap, tap against the wooden floor.

  "Goo—" Filip stopped at the sound of his new voice. "Good morning, Ella. El- la. " He could change the inflection. " El -la."

  She clapped and covered her smile with her hands.

  He smiled too. The Go-Machine had a wide range of nonverbal communication at his disposal. He knew how to walk and turn doorknobs and fold a fitted sheet.

  He turned his head up to the ceiling, down and around. He walked toward the hall and stopped at the rug. The Go-Machine's software told him what to expect, how to step carefully on different surfaces to prevent falling, but didn't account for its feel. It was.… He ran an analysis through his dictionary. Squishy. He rocked on the balls of his feet, then bounced slightly. Curious. His head cocked to one side, a response he'd seen in films.

  Ella laughed.

  "Am I funny?"

  "I'm laughing with delight. You're like a puppy discovering its first snow."

  He looked down at his green plastic feet. "I'm meant to look like a person."

  She smiled and patted him on the arm. "Don't mind me. I'll go make a cup of coffee."

  "I can do it."

  "No, let me. You stretch those new legs of yours."

  Counting films, Filip had seen 2,186,125,841 images of the world—studied them, in fact—but as he walked outside the back door and the cold breeze hit him he realized their inadequacy. He'd known the house lay only 100 meters from the shore, but now he heard the waves crashing against the rocks at the same time they hit. His sensors detected dozens of chemicals in the air and supplied names for the most prominent combinations: salt, grasses, fall birch leaves. He smelled the outside.

  Ella came out and grabbed hold of his arm. "You like it?"

  He looked at her, saw those strands of long white hair blowing in the wind, and smiled.

  "I'm ready to go home now, Filip."

  * * *

  HOME WAS THE top floor of a six-story building in Stockholm's Hammarby Sjöstad neighborhood nestled beside one of the city's waterways. They took the journey over two days to allow for Ella's rests. Along the way, bots went about their business without a glance at the old woman and her green Go-Machine. Outside the train station they passed a smoking, clanking hole in the pavement where a dozen fist-sized bots buzzed in and out carrying repair materials in their tiny claws. Occasionally an empty bot-run bus zoomed by.

  At 12:58 Filip helped Ella off the light rail at her Sjöstad stop where they sat on a bench looking at the buildings towering above. Ella had grown up here among their sleek, bright colors. She pointed out hers, a blue one, on the corner overlooking the water. She said the tree-lined streets used to be filled with life—people rushing home with shopping bags, bicycle bells clanging, the scent of curry from the Indian restaurant mixing with French fries from the burger place next door. If you looked up at the buildings you'd see families as they moved about their homes, curtains always open to let in the most possible light. On summer days laughter echoed from the children playing in the fountain.

  All gone now. The autumn wind whistled around deserted buildings.

  Since Ella's old apartment didn't have the advantage of the city's cleaning bots, Filip pulled a couple off the street and employed their help sprucing it up while Ella sat near the water. Her childhood home was filled with simple modern furnishings, all clean lines and bright whites and blacks with warm wooden floors. Its balcony and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked one of the city's shipping canals. Across the water, Filip could make out the hands on the clock of the church topping the island neighborhood of Södermalm. Bot-driven ferries spent the day going back and forth between the two pieces of land, picking up no one.

  After she had a good night's rest they worked on another song, their 312th attempt. But this time after Filip failed, Ella burst into tears.

  Before, his only choice for reaction would have been words. Now how he said what he said mattered. Even if he stayed silent his actions mattered. Instead of choosing a response he held still, staring at his last visual target. She sat at the table, hands covering her face, sniffling quietly. He didn't like this view so he turned his attention out the window.

  This hadn't happened the 311 other times he'd failed.

  He looked back where she still sat, shoulders shaking in quiet sobs. "Ella, I'm sorry. I should try harder. Let's do a song we've done before, I already know those answers."

  She shook her head.

  He ran an analysis on nonverbal ways to comfort and decided on giving her a gift. He picked
up a flowerpot off the shelf, an orange one that reminded Filip of the couch at the Gotland house. It only had dirt in it, but Ella liked planting flowers. After he placed it on the table next to her she stopped crying to look at it, blinking with eyebrows furrowed, and he smiled at her "reassuringly." Then the tears started flowing again.

  "No, it's not your fault." She dabbed her eyes with the tissue he handed her and waved it around the room. "I think it's this place. I don't know what I thought would be so great after coming back here. I'm happy to be here, of course, but also…everyone is gone. I knew they were. Of course I knew that. But I think a part of me still.…" She took a shaky breath. " Hoped. "

  Filip looked out at the empty buildings and didn't speak.

  "I thought dropping the quarantine would help because if there were other survivors they'd be able to travel, too, and join together. That eventually the survivors would find each other online. But there haven't been any, have there?"

  Filip tried to think of the best response to make her feel better while still being accurate. "Not yet."

  "It's because there aren't any other people, Filip. I'm the only person to survive the virus. Why one worthless old woman? I had good kids. Wonderful kids with bright careers and beautiful grandchildren. At the school down the street I taught hundreds of little ones and went to bed thinking I made the world a better place because they'd grow up and keep changing the world long after I was gone. And now there aren't any people left for it to matter."

  "I'm sorry you're sad," Filip said.

  "I'm angry!" Ella pushed the pot off the table and it crashed to the floor, broken ceramic and bits of dirt landing on Filip's feet.

  * * *

  Filip sat in the dark, illuminated only by the glow of the computer screen. Rain pattered against the windows and the heater hummed as it kicked on. He signed in to his usual chat room. It was awkward and slow in his new Go-Machine form because he had to use the keyboard just as a person would, another of those fail-safes Ella said made people feel better about bots.