Light and Dark, Morning and Evening, the Last Day
They were now twenty-four hours into one of the last, most-critical tests of the project: the last Day and Night, so to speak, of the current era of human history. The Director and a tech named Rashon sat in a surreally dark and quiet room looking at a bank of screens for signs that the girl might be dreaming.
Even in better times, Rashon struggled with ambivalence at his role in the company. He was hired almost before he finished his PhD in sleep psychology. The company was beginning to amass huge volumes of data from unconscious hosts; since the Machine itself never slept, any time a Medalion customer nodded off it was just a different context for data gathering and analysis. The ultimate goal was not physiological health alone, but total health and well-being.
Advocates for the psychotherapeutic process at the company understood that efficacy was probably decades away – the mind is more complicated than the body by orders of magnitude. But to the people pushing healthcare technology forward, sleep had been one of the most promising frontiers for the exploration of targeted interventions for mental health. Rashon was so overjoyed to be hired that he barely questioned what they wanted him to do – he was content to know he’d be a part of the company that was changing the world.
But, once he understood that he was being asked to covertly study the content of people’s dreams in greater and greater detail, he felt he couldn’t in good conscience remain. He tried to quit, but his resignation was not accepted, and all it took to convince him to stay was news that the world was ending, and an offer of a different role in the organization ... any role, his choice. But it wasn’t long before he was back in the sleep lab, this time teaching a machine to suppress nightmares, something he had not been able to do for himself.
Eva had been asleep for twenty-one hours and would probably remain so for as many days. This extended period of rest came after what was understood to be the last days of freedom she’d ever know. Nobody pointed out the irony of describing her life at the facility as free, but, relatively speaking, she had been allowed to live in this world sleeping and waking according to her own natural rhythms – with a couple of exceptions – until yesterday.
Abdul, who was in the observation room again that day, was thinking a lot about her freedom; he had, in fact, been nurturing a simple fantasy about running away with her, stealing a motorcycle and making a break for it. But he knew that life outside of Medalion only promised a quicker death, for himself first, and then for Eva; he wouldn’t do anything that might deny her the right to whatever good might come in her future. Also, he didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle. It hurt to admit, but she would have to pass through all of this alone and find her own freedom. Untroubled by the fact that she was neither his to possess nor release, he told himself that he would have to let her go.
She lay still on the other side of the glass unaware of his thoughts, and unaware that her own thoughts were being so carefully scrutinized at that very moment.
It had been a harrowing process for the operators, because they couldn’t predict when the day before her first big night would come. It had to be the Machine that decided, so their attention was obsessively focused on ensuring that the system was ready. The Machine was always paying attention to cumulative stress, and looking for the moment when to be awake and aware was too great a burden on her; then, she would be allowed to fall asleep naturally, while the system shifted into a kind of maintenance mode that included a few external routines but was primarily focused on providing a machine-rest for the human at the center of the system, and more specifically for the mind of the human at the center of herself. That these ‘nights’ were likely to last for decades was fortunate. The transition from physical health-maintenance to mental health was only possible because they could sedate the subject indefinitely. They understood that working with the mind was a lot more risky, and required a more delicate touch, than when the system was repairing any of the organs less complex, less mysterious, than the human brain. Any intervention had to move so slowly, so meticulously, that none of the people working on the technology could expect to see the results of their labors, nor ever know for certain that any of it would work. Witness poor Brett.
In her dream, she stood next to a river, alone and empty-handed, under a darkly radiant indigo sky. A short distance upstream, standing across from each-other on opposite banks, were two men in long, asphalt-gray cloaks, watching her, and holding clipboards in a way that she could only interpret as menacing. Somehow she knew that as soon as she made a move – to go forward or return the way she came – one of them would take her name down on his tablet. And on the other? There her name would remain unwritten and so forgotten. This would be the final record: once decided, no going back. They watched and waited unmoving, each atop a low heap of rubble, pens dripping dark ink, which trickled over the shattered stones and between them, navigating through the cracks to the hidden earth below. She felt unable to move, as though there was a great obstacle blocking her way. But she would not have been able to say whether that thing was outside of her, or inside.
Her family had gone ahead, at her urging, and were now out of sight. In a kind of dream-terror she’d sent them, not knowing if they’d ever be together again. She’d given them careful instructions to bow as they went, prostrating themselves before some looming confrontation, the details of which she could not recall. Everything she ever owned – inherited treasure, stolen trinkets – was also sent ahead, as payment of a debt, the relevance of which had also been forgotten.
A third presence revealed itself, across the water, standing between the shimmering, luminescent trees. She perceived that it was fear of this one that held the Watchers at bay.
The Presence spoke, and she felt a wind pick up from the East to carry the gentle words on dewy air that smelled of anise and flowering mint. It was the aroma of a mountain meadow warmed by the midday sun, only here the sun had not yet risen.
‘What are you doing here?’
With a dispirited laugh, she said, ‘If you have to ask me, then we’re in trouble, because I never know how to answer that question anymore. If I had to guess, I’m here choosing when and where I’m going to die. I’m being chased from behind, and there are traps set all along my path. Everything I do is measured and I always come up short. I can’t ever rest, and I can never pass your tests. I’m so tired.’
Said the voice: ‘You perceive threats where there are none. You’re wrong to think every test is about you. Are you so certain you understand what is being measured, and what passes? You regularly ignore the truth of a moment, and respond with foolishness, or what may be worse – silence. There is only one challenge that remains. But you aren’t ready, and, for now, I am prevented from closing the distance.’
‘Why can’t I come to you?’
‘There are still things you haven’t sent across.’
Shaking her head: ‘I have nothing left. I have no one left.’
The trees shivered on the opposite shore and she perceived a whispering murmur from within the wood. But she was confused: there was no wind. It was like each tree had been the source of the breeze that stirred its own leaves ... as if ...? whaaat? The trees were laughing! And with the warmth of one in on the joke, the presence said, ‘Alone? You and I are only separated by the waters, and you can still hear my voice. Though it’s true you can’t yet take hold of me, we may yet be bound together. When you are two, I will be the third, then second, then the first and the last. But before that, you will have to be one. A choice remains before you!’
‘I can’t choose. I won’t.’
‘Ahh. Your fate, and your privilege; clearly stated!’ (Those trees, stirring again!) ‘But, which is more true?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘So laugh it up while I suffer; you won’t have to wait long–I’m forced to choose and there’s no way for me to know what’s right, though I’m sure you’ll let me know when I’ve chosen wrong.’
This time, less humor in the voice: ‘Do you see a ledger in my hands?’
She felt a cold thrill deep in her gut, and a dawning awareness that the final decision was not about whether or when to cross the river, but whether to live in fear of the Watchers or to swear by Fear itself. Since the Watchers could only traffic in the counterfeit terrors of lesser beings, maybe, she thought, the greater would count as protection against them?
The Director noticed that his breathing was becoming uneven, matching the ragged breaths of the sleeper. He tried to relax.
‘How are we looking?’
‘Nominal internal responses ... external data shows strong separation. Tracking health. System has good prejudice.’
‘Good. I’d like to see the numbers for the 20 minutes leading up to REM. We’re looking for something like point-one relative pressure. You have content?’
‘Yeah, it’s solid. System rates it medium-scary-bad.’
‘Umm, any chance for something more specific?’
The technician hesitated, and tapped out a command, watching the output. ‘Best guess from the Machine: themes of separation or isolation. Remote but significant threat. Anyway, we appear to be reading the content and intensity just fine. Now we make sure the Machine knows when enough is enough. Look now: heart rate is up.’
‘Good. Give the system a minute to respond, then ... we will give it a little nudge.’ The two held their breath and watched the system’s responses. Finally, the Director made the call. ‘OK. Let’s suppress. 300 seconds.’ He had to consciously relax: he was clenching his jaw.
Forcing the choice had the effect of training the system where the threshold was. He understood and accepted this as a part of the process; he was struggling with the wider implications. He worried the Machine was slow to respond to her, but the time was nearly passed for such concerns. All there is to do, he thought, is to take advantage of every opportunity to teach it how much stress is too much. But dreams were weird. Would the machine ‘understand’ the moment of choice? Feel the moment as he was feeling it? (Was he feeling it the way she was?) His cheeks flushed and doubt settled on him: always he was tripping on the line between the logical structure necessary to the system and the existential stew that existed somewhere between the system and the girl, where so much life takes place, and always wondering from which side of the line might come any real hope of provision for the children of the future.
‘God help me,’ he prayed. God help the Machine, he thought; let stones and silicon cry out to break the silence after we are gone ...
Her limbs were weak to the point of collapse. She ached to cross the boundary and finish the contest once and for all, but the dream had begun to stretch, like a recording slowed to a fraction of its normal speed. Even in the confusion of the dream, the flow of water was too strong, and the sound of it became overwhelming. And though she was powerless to change the outcome of this dream, she could let go, and fall away, believing for now that it was her own choice to do so. The deep colors of the valley faded, lost their saturation, and the sound of running water dissolved as if into steam. Everything became gray.
The tech made silent adjustments to the interface and they watched the screen for signs that the intervention had been successful. Thirty minutes passed and they were satisfied. While the Director and Rashon turned their chairs and let their conversation wander, Abi stayed focused on Evie, and the readouts of her now dreamless sleep.
Three days before, Eva had gathered with the Director and the Psychologist in yet another custom-built room for a final conversation. Left to itself, the Machine might have designed this space to be like the ready room where astronauts assemble before a final trip to the launch pad. A mobile unit like the one in which Brigid spent her first hours onsite would have made sense on a day like today; but this was not that room, because the Machine had not been left to itself.
On entering, each of them reacted differently to the novel environment. Eva relaxed and moved easily across the room to flop onto the large, soft couch. Both the adults were momentarily struck by the ease with which she could make herself at home, given the chance. Underneath the girl’s unbuttoned top could be seen an old t-shirt of her uncle’s that read, State of Denial.
While Albert nervously scanned for anomalous design flourishes, Brigid laughed and pushed him sideways, saying, ‘I like this room, Albert!’
There were many things that stood out in the space. The walls didn’t have the pale cast of the rest of the facility: they were painted with a variety of rich colors that harmonized with each other and the light. The furniture was heavy, “well made”, and comfortable to sit in; there was art.
But it was the light that really made the difference. It was coming from real bulbs, with visible filaments burning, apparently, with real fire. This light was not the homogenous white that coated everything in every other room on site, the kind of “light” that felt more like darkness to Brigid because it made her want to shut her eyes, made it harder to look at things, harder to see. The pools of light in this room clearly delineated dark from light, giving the impression that it was not the space that was important, but what you do in it – sitting on the couch under a blanket; sharing a meal at the table; reading in a comfortable chair.
The room was meant as a gift. Albert didn’t always have the luxury of acting on the criticism he received but had spent an afternoon thinking about Brigid’s reaction to the facility design, and worked with a couple techs to expand the architectural libraries in order to mark this as a special day, a day of transition from research and design to ... real life, and whatever came next.
Because the room was comfortable, the discussion that day was a little less tense, less formal than it might have been. But nobody really knew what they were meant to be talking about. Of course, Albert had a few things he felt he should say, but Eva knew all she needed to know: she’d seen her new home, interacted with the VIEPs, and learned enough about the various limits to the user interface of the future.
Even if everything that would happen from this point forward would be automated and she didn’t need or want more instruction, there was no avoiding a last conversation. And this one, for Albert at least, was in danger of collapsing under the weight of uncountable burdens. When Eva woke up for the first time, everyone else would be long gone, and she? She would be finally cut off from her home, her family, her community ... stateless. Except .... He was painfully conscious of how insufficient Medalion’s provision was, would have been embarrassed if he had to bring his gifts alongside others’, as an offering to this new queen of all creation. He had to stifle thoughts like these, if only out of fear that he would be overcome by emotion.
Even without the Director’s overwrought reveries about her future, this was a conversation in danger of being pulled in several directions. What was it like? It was a little like an astronaut visiting with family right before a moon shot (except that astronauts could always call home, and were expected to return to normal life after successfully completing their mission); or like a last meal with the warden for a convict on death row (except that Eva had committed no crime so awful that her life should be cut short ... in fact, one day, she might wonder what crime she’d committed that her life should be so cruelly extended); it also had a bit of the flavor of a final psych evaluation administered before undertaking a critical task for a secret government agency (except, that would be a test you could fail, and, despite her beliefs to the contrary, Eva passed them all).
The adults knew that there were no more simple answers, so they just asked meaningless questions, like ‘How are you feeling today, Eva?’
In the end, they had a surprising conversation about how most of the people on the planet had died. Brigid was at first worried, but reminded herself – reassured herself – that the easiest conversations are the ones that allow everyone to say what they’re thinking. To speak up about grief and loss doesn’t make it less painful, but it shares a burden, fights the solitude of feeling terrible.
It was a good talk. Until Eva picked up on the fact that the Director had an encouraging, if weirdly detailed, perspective on how certain people had faced the end, and decided to ask about her uncle’s final days.
Albert took a moment to steady himself at the unexpected question, then spoke: ‘... He’s not dead, Eva.’
She was shocked. ‘What? My uncle? He’s alive?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How do you know? Where is he?’
‘Well ...’ he hesitated. ‘He was treated. Medalion has his signature. We can see him. He dropped out of the system for a while there and we thought we’d lost him. But recently he reappeared in Corinth, then in Athens. He’s been there for a few months.’
The wound of separation re-opened, she quickly withdrew, back inside herself. Though her face became expressionless, the rising and falling of her chest betrayed her intensifying emotions. Isolating the girl from him just because he wasn’t her bio-dad wasn’t a great choice. He regretted it.
With a quiet voice, and tears in her eyes, she asked, ‘Can I see him. I want to see him. Can he come?’
‘No. Evie. I’m so sorry.’
She looked ready to boil over. With sorrow or with rage, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both.
‘But we can try to get a message to him if you’d like.’
She didn’t respond.
‘There’s still a secure base near Athens. And the hospital in Athens is still intact and has a few staff. It’s still on the network. It’s how we found you. We can get to him.’
‘How are you supposed to find him? How ...?’
‘Well we are connected to him; so ... we can send someone from a local base.’
She shook her head at him. ‘You shouldn’t send soldiers. He won’t like that.
‘We don’t have to. I mean, I don’t know how to not involve the soldiers – there’s really no other way to move through the streets anymore. But we built labs at military sites and hospitals for ... while we ... well. We can send someone, who can bring a message.’
‘You’re going to send ...’
‘Someone he’ll be comfortable with. You can take a day or two to decide what you’d like to say to him. In the meantime ... tell us about him.’
It took some encouragement. She had to resist a powerful urge to be done. Done talking, done with people, with all of it. She finally made the choice, for herself, and for her uncle, to keep the conversation going for a little longer, to tell his story. It made her feel a little better to remember him, especially as he used to be, and to laugh. And they laughed with her.
Then she was done, and the good feelings ended. It would be their final conversation with her. Shortly after, the Machine would recommend she be put to sleep.
