The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) Page 21

  “Love?”

  I nod. “And what do you call it when you’re about to jump a million feet down into a questionable net, to love waiting below?”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “Absolute insanity.”

  Smudge smiles wide; the first real one I’ve seen from her—soft, innocent, and so natural it surprises me, coming from someone so full of mystery.

  “Yes,” she says. “That makes perfect sense.”

  I hold out my hand, and she places hers into mine.

  “On three?” I say.

  “On three.”

  We climb onto the fat gold railing and teeter there for a second, while Mateo and Johnny observe from a distance. They sit talking low to each other, possibly amused by the whole ordeal.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Smudge asks.

  “I don’t know, but—three!” I jump, tugging her with me, and we scream, laughing a second later as we land in the net. The boys roll back to us, sitting up with their legs crossed. Smudge and I do, too, with her across from Johnny, and me from Mateo. Though I tell myself not to look down, I, of course, immediately do, and my vision sways as I make out the treetops and the splotchy greenish brown-and-white tile floor far below. Dizziness overtakes me, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “Breathe. . . .” Mateo pats my hand with his own warm one. “It’s safe, I promise. Sometimes when I’m bored, I jump up and down, and flip and roll around on this thing until I get tired. I’ve even brought my sister up here. Really, it’s fine.” A short squeeze, and he slides his hand away, leaving my skin longing after his.

  I squint up at the bright sky twelve stories above us, behind the massive light-purple dome I’m amazed to find so clean. “Why is this net here?” I ask.

  “Probably so people couldn’t jump,” says Mateo. “There’s another one twelve stories below us.”

  “True,” says Smudge, as she pulls her hood over her hat, then hugs her knees. “A suicide pandemic hit Bygonne many, many years ago. Most people took their own lives in one form or another. If not, then they were giving them. The Ultimate Sacrifice. Good thing your friends downstairs were more interested in each other, than in the room’s wall dials.”

  “Why?” The only thing I’d noticed about the room were the birds printed in frozen flight on the bed covering tossed recklessly to the floor.

  “Gomorrah Grande was once the largest cultivator of donors. People would go to those rooms to be transferred.”

  “Transferred?”

  “Yes. It’s . . . hard to explain. . . .”

  Hadn’t Mona Superior said: But remember, Arianna wants their minds intact for the transfer when she gets back. No head injuries.

  Were we to be transferred?

  “So . . . 7ZS3-22Y?” says Johnny.

  “Yes?” Smudge replies.

  “Wow, you actually answer to it!”

  “How’d you do that thing back there with the elevator door?” Mateo asks. “Is that how you all came up here? Em was wondering, since he deliberately shut off the breaker to the jungle elevator.”

  Smudge expands her fingers out, then closes them into a ball in her lap. “If I tell you, you won’t believe me.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “We’ve already seen what you can do. Why not believe how you do it?”

  “Because your mind cannot easily conceive that which you know nothing about.”

  “Try us,” says Johnny. “We’ve seen some stuff.”

  Smudge sighs. “Okay. But bear with me. I’ve never . . . done this before.”

  “Done what?” I ask.

  “This. Any of this. I’ve never had . . . friends. I’ve never talked openly to . . . your kind before.”

  “Our kind?” Mateo says.

  “Yes. Humans.”

  “Whoa. . . .” Johnny slaps his knee, eyes wide.

  “So, you aren’t human?” I ask.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, what are you, then?” asks Johnny. “An alien or something?”

  Smudge giggles. “No. I am an OAI—an Organic Artificial Intelligence. I am part human and . . . part machine. Some from Alzanei—the Other Side—who aren’t so fond of us, refer to us as ‘Synthetic Humans,’ or ‘Synths.’”

  We stare in silence, and she flexes her hands again.

  “Wow,” says Johnny. “That’s intense.”

  “Is that how you can control electricity?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She nods. “I send signals to manipulate electrical current. It has its limits, though.”

  “Are there a lot like you on the Other Side?” Mateo asks. “I’ve heard some stories, but never anything about . . . um . . . machine people.”

  “Hundreds. In fact, last time I heard, we were nearing five hundred.”

  “How do they . . . make OAIs, and why?” I ask.

  “We are the ‘pure ones,’ the followers of The One who’ll bring the dead Earth back to life. We’re developed with manipulated human DNA and grown for three years in artificial wombs, rapidly reaching our full young adult size. While our human bodies grow, fragile organs are removed, recycled, and replaced. Except for the brain. No matter how hard they try, they cannot mimic that miraculous operating system. So, instead of removing it, they add another section—the Nirvonic System. It targets the amygdala and hippocampus to block emotional drive, with programmed responses to certain life-threatening situations to replace the lack of the emotion and fear that helps protect humans from danger.”

  “Wait,” I say. “So, they program your brain?”

  “Kind of. With the rapid growth rate of OAIs, we don’t learn the things human children learn. Mind maps from donors are imprinted onto the fresh brain, with the knowledge it needs to operate in this world. The Nirvonic System keeps the mind ‘pure’ from the so-called ‘impurities’ of emotion. It also creates an amnesia of sorts; we may remember bits and pieces of our donor’s past, but we feel no connection. We become the perfect servants of the One True Lord, the ‘Messiah,’ come to bring back peace and purity to the Earth. I once had no choice but to believe that.”

  “Whoa, you totally lost me there,” says Johnny.

  “Me, too,” I say. “Kind of. Let’s back up. What’s ‘organic artificial intelligence’?”

  “Mechanics that mimic life. They grow and heal themselves, except faster and better than a human body can.”

  “What do you mean by ‘donor’?” Mateo asks. “And ‘transfer,’ and ‘mind maps’ . . . ?”

  “A mind can be mapped. Everything a human mind has ever learned can be uploaded onto an OAI liqui-drive—billions of neuroconnections and electroneuro patterns are stored for a short time, usually about five years. Donors are those who give the Ultimate Sacrifice, also called a ‘transfer’; they give their lives for an OAI. After a transfer has taken place, the donor’s mind is wiped clean, inducing a vegetative state.”

  “So . . . they die?” Johnny asks.

  “Yes. They are told this sacrifice is the only way they’ll get to live forever, though they are only told a partial truth.”

  “Basically, this guy thinks he’s God,” says Mateo, “and he’s tricking people into suicide so he can build an army of mindless followers . . . ?”

  “Not entirely mindless,” Smudge says, “but missing many human aspects, yes. OAIs are not curious, envious, angry, selfish, boastful, fearful, or traitorous. They are loyal, intelligent, honest, graceful, strong, confident, and, best of all for Lord Daumier, programmable. The Nirvonic System receives direct override commands. OAIs can be completely controlled, and often are.”

  “But, Smudge,” I say, “you’re here, and you have feelings; like, real human emotions. You’re not controlled. How can what you’re saying be so?”

  “That’s where Raffai comes in. He’s the leader of the Revols, a group who oppose Lord Daumier and are doing everything they can to make things . . . right. As right as possible, anyway. Servants of the One True Lord are sometimes c
aptured and awakened.”

  “Awakened?”

  “Yes. With a simple surgical procedure, Raffai rewires and reprograms the Nirvonic System, removing the brain blocks, which relinquishes the control of Lord Daumier and his Clergy. We are then open to the full spectrum of human emotions, as well as the memories of the ones who sacrificed themselves for the lie of making a better future on Earth.” Smudge breathes in deep and meets each of our stares, until her eyes drift back down to her hands in her lap. “After Raffai’s Revols capsized our fishing boat, they paralyzed the five of us and took us back to their city where they awakened us, then gave us three options: to continue to serve Lord Daumier, to stay with them, or to go rogue and live life on our own as we chose.”

  “Free will,” I say.

  “Yes. He made us human. And then, he set us free.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Lunchtime!” Emerson calls up, a tiny brown speck-of-a-person below, still holding an even tinier speck on his hip. “And I think Little Missy needs a changing!”

  “Guess that means we have to go,” Johnny says. “That’s too bad, ’cause this is great. Best time of my life.”

  “Just a minute!” I yell back to Emerson. “Mine, too, Johnny,” I sigh, “but Baby needs me. Now how do we get down?”

  “Just roll on over to the side, and climb up onto thirteen,” Mateo says. “Once you get there, you’ll find a handle to help you up over the railing.”

  Sure enough, there’s a brass handle bolted to the support beam that runs from sub-level thirteen to sub-level twelve. Mateo climbs over first, then helps the rest of us.

  “So, you never told us,” Johnny says to Smudge. “About your head, I mean.”

  “Oh. Right. Well . . . OAIs are almost immortal, if it wasn’t for this fragile brain. . . .” She shakes her head slightly. “Once I was awakened, I realized just how fragile it made me, especially once I decided to remove my helmet.”

  “You wore a helmet?”

  “All OAIs wear helmets. We’re hated by many people, and the only way to kill an OAI is to . . . remove the head or the brain.” Smudge rubs the back of her neck. “I guess I’m . . . still getting used to being . . . so exposed.”

  Johnny slowly reaches a out hand, and she studies it as the fingers come closer to make contact with the skin of her neck. He gently massages the spot. “We won’t hurt you,” he says. “You can trust us.”

  Smudge closes her eyes, melts beneath his touch. “I know you won’t hurt me. And it’s not that I don’t . . . trust you . . . but I’m still learning all of these human emotions. They can be tricky.”

  “That’s the truth,” I say.

  “You remember what it was like?” Johnny asks. “Before you were awakened?”

  She nods and makes the elevator door open for us. Johnny stops his massaging as we climb on, retrieve our spears, and Mateo, his walking stick.

  “I remember everything,” she says.

  The door closes.

  “You don’t know until after you’ve been awakened that it was like. . . .” She trails off, lost in reminiscence.

  “Like . . . ?” I coax.

  “Being a prisoner in your own body and mind; being alive, but not really alive; human, but more machine, more . . . programmable. Lord Daumier calls it ‘pure,’ but that’s not purity. It’s purely evil.”

  “What’s the truth about the portal to paradise?” I ask after a long silence. At the second floor, the elevator door opens to Emerson and a crying Baby Lou.

  “I’ll tell you more later,” she says. “Take care of your Baby.” But for a moment, she stares hard at Baby Lou.

  “Is that him?” I ask after following her gaze to Baby’s shirt. “Is that Lord Daumier?”

  She nods, shuddering in disgust.

  “He looks like a big time ass.” Johnny holds out his hand. “Join me for lunch?”

  Smudge grins and slides her own small hand into his bigger one. Together, they walk down the balcony, and I take Baby Lou from Emerson, once again inspecting the ugly man’s crackled face on the front. Only now do I notice how strikingly similar his features are to Diaz Superior’s. The thought doesn’t sit well.

  “She’s been a good girl,” Emerson says, “and a couple of your boys helped clear out a few more rooms. I think they’re all getting situated in them.”

  “Thanks again for all of your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “Hey, it’s no problem. You enjoy the sky hammock?”

  “Yes, wow. It was incredible.”

  “Lots of incredible things going on around here,” says Mateo, who glances at me with a grin, then looks off down the balcony. “So what’s for lunch, Em?”

  “Artichoke hearts, beans, and mashed potatoes. Along with whatever that stuff is you found in that tree.”

  “I guess we’re running pretty low on supplies now,” I tell them. “Thanks to Smudge, we’ve been eating decent since we left.”

  “Well, this is from our supply,” Emerson says. “We raided the food storage before we left the Subterrane. Terrible how awful the guards are. All brawn and no brains. Deaf, too, prob’ly.”

  “You had food like that where you lived?”

  “Yep. Came from the Other Side, three times a week, usually. The Subterrane’s a salt-mining community, with mines a mile down almost. We traded salt for food, then shipped it across Bygonne to whoever had a decent trade in their specialization . . . diamonds, cotton, other kinds of food, precious metals, etcetera.”

  “Why did you leave?” I ask.

  Emerson and Mateo make uneasy eye contact for a moment. “Because my sister was chosen,” Mateo says.

  “Chosen? What does that mean?”

  “Uh . . . let’s eat first,” he says. “Then, I’ll explain everything.”

  §

  After I change Baby Lou, I join the others, who are scattered here and there on the balcony in groups of three and four, eating lunch in the first real relax-time since we left the Tree Factory. Their contentment in such a short time after Miguel’s death makes me both hopeful and downhearted, though I shouldn’t expect them to shed tears about it forever. Or at all. Children are like titanzium—so strong, resilient, and they can take so much before their spirits finally break. A good thing, really. Most of them have a chance at future happiness, once we get to the Other Side.

  But I’m dying to know more about Smudge and the world she came from. As I feed Baby Lou mashed potatoes, sneaking a delicious bite here and there, a thousand questions flood my mind: Does she eat? Sleep? How is it over there? Is there clean air? I’m kicking myself for not having asked all of this while in the sky hammock. Can’t ask her now. No way Jax and the rest of them will take her story lightly. She’d be an outcast, whether stated openly or not. Already Jax is probing for a reason to throw her into the river. He definitely doesn’t need to know Smudge’s truth. Sooner or later, though, I’ll need an explanation. A good bluff may be in order.

  Jax sulks over, sits down onto the floor next to me and Baby Lou. A few feet away, Mateo eyes me from beside Emerson, where Vila blabbers on to a few younger children while her strange animal sniffs the air around her head, maybe to learn the smells of these strangers in her home.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Jax says.

  “Talk away.” I spoon more mashed potatoes into Baby Lou’s mouth.

  “Listen, what happened between me and Aby . . . that was a mistake—”

  “Yes, it sure was.”

  “We were just talking about Miguel and . . . and then we were crying together. I was comforting her, and. . . .”

  Aby peeks up from her spot alone by the distant wall, where she’s decided she doesn’t need to eat. For a split second, my sympathy rises for her . . . then it’s gone. “I don’t want to hear anymore, Jax. It happened, it’s over, let’s move on.”

  “Yeah, you already have, haven’t you?” And he glares at Mateo, who locks onto his stare without expression, without turning away. Jax shifts back
at me. “So, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” I sneer.

  He scrambles to his feet and storms away to pace along the balcony, where he tosses me one last glance, then goes to sit down next to Aby.

  After a moment’s struggle with his walking stick, Mateo rises and joins me, favoring his outstretched right leg as he sits down. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Fine. What happened to your leg?”

  “Mining accident. Fell in a hole, busted up my knee. Never did heal correctly.”

  “Wow. When did it happen?”

  “Three years ago, when I was fifteen.”

  “So you’re eighteen?”

  “Yep. At least I think I am. Lost track of time since we’ve been here. May be my birthday today, and I don’t know it. It was coming up soon. . . .”

  “Well, happy birthday, then.”

  “Thanks.” He smiles. “How about you?”

  “Sixteen last May.”

  “No way! You seem much older than that.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re very mature for sixteen.”

  “Well, I’ve been like a mother to these guys for a few years already.” I run my fingers through Baby Lou’s hair, meeting tangles that will need to be cut out. I shake my head. “I do the best I can.”

  “That bad over there, eh?” He lifts his head, eyes shielded under the brim of his hat from everyone but me, giving himself to me alone.

  “It’s bad,” I say. “We’ve been running the factory ourselves for about three years now, with only the Superiors to answer to. It’s been horrible.” Then, I lean in to whisper, “It wasn’t an accident. The explosion, I mean.”

  “I didn’t think it was,” he whispers back.

  “How did you know? Usually I’m a pretty good bluff.”

  “Anyone sane would do whatever it took to get away from that place. The Superiors—” He shudders. “The few times they traded with the Subterrane, I could practically taste the evil dripping from them.”

  “How did they get there?”

  “The trolley. Or a rover, maybe.”

  “A rover?”

  “Free-range vehicles built to travel in the harsh, open-air climate. They’re usually only used at night, when it’s not as hot outside; it can get pretty toasty inside, even with the air-cool system.”