The Treemakers (A YA Dystopian Scifi Romance Adventure) (22 page)

“
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 captured
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.”

“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.”

“How do you know all
of this?”

“My father. Best thief the world has ever known, I’m sure of it. He had ways of
discovering things.”

“Your father was
a thief?”

“Well, yes and no. He was primarily a salt miner, but also a thief. He’d tie pouches of salt to his legs to trade in small quantities in exchange for information from people who wanted more than their
meager rations.”

I giggle.

“What’s so funny?”
Mateo asks.

“Oh, it’s just
. . .
my daddy was a gambling magician; the best
liar
the world has
ever known—”

“Wait—was he Zephyr
the Magnificent?”

“Yes!” I blink. “How in the world did you
know that?”

“Come on
. . .
not many gambling magicians around
Bygonne lately.”

“True
. . .
but how? Did you hear
about him?”

“I saw him
perform once.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I was about ten or so, and my father had saved up Notes for two whole years so I could see him
. . . .
” We lock gazes, and the desire for his hands in mine grows. But young eyes, and angry ones, watch in my peripheral and make the physical connection impossible, though this non-physical one is almost as intense. “Your father was an awesome man,” he continues. “Freeing himself from those chains, when he should’ve long
been drowned—”

“Oh my God,” I laugh again. “You know what? I think I was at the same show. Only time I ever saw him perform in front of a crowd. I’d stolen a man’s coat and
snuck in—”

“That was my father’s coat!”
he blurts.

“What?”

“Yeah, when we left, it was gone. Did you put
it back?”

“No, I ditched it later in a storage closet when I got near
our quarters.”

“Was it brown, with
a hood?”

“Yes! Oh my God, are
you serious?”

“Yes!”

Everyone’s staring now as our voices rise
in excitement.

“That’s unbelievable,” I say, as tears well in contrast to my smile. “I’m so sorry I stole your father’
s coat.”

“Don’t be. Why are
you crying?”

“Well, I
. . .
I miss him so much, and I’ve only been able to share his memory with one other person.” I glance over at Jax. “But now I’ve just realized something
. . . .
”

“What’
s that?”

“Real magic exists
after all.”

Mateo takes my hand, and I let him. No longer can I withstand the inevitable: fate or God, or the ghosts of our fathers, have brought Mateo and me together—at the perfect time. No denying it, the awe of how it’s all happened, and now this undeniable connection between us, like stars that have orbited together for years, finally colliding to make a
bigger star.

“Magic is real,” Mateo says. “Ever since I saw Zephyr the Magnificent perform that night, I knew it was. Never a doubt in my mind about it, either.”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I openly sob, hiccuping against swirling emotions, everyone watching as my revelation comes. Baby Lou’s face grows serious, concerned, as she watches me. I kiss her cheek. “Momma Joy’s okay, sweetheart,” I say.
More
than okay.

Smudge was right about the magic. It was there all along. But I failed to see it, because
. . .
I was a part
of it.