The End Is Now

I place the call to Jay, but it doesn’t connect.

It occurs to me that even if we survive, we’ll evolve differently in the dark, without fresh air. I ought to give up this notion of a caretaker, who’ll turn the lights back on and usher us through our dark ages. We ought to meet our fate out in the open, with our children in our arms.

My tenth—or who knows, twentieth?—call goes through. It’s a small miracle, and I decide it’s a sign from God. I’m Midwestern, so I believe in all that. The Holy Trinity, transubstantiation, the virgin birth. Why not?

“Hey,” I say. “I love you. I hope you get this and come find me at Strat Com.” Then I’m looking at the phone, even though the connection’s still live. I ought to be saying all the right, last things, but I can’t bring myself to surrender.

“I’m going to do something desperate,” I say. “But it’s for you. And me. And the boys. No. that’s not true. It’s because I don’t know what else to do.”

* * *

“Volunteers?” I ask. It’s a bad joke. I’m back in surgical. News has traveled that there’s an operational shelter with open doors. The settlement has grown to about one hundred. My team’s been sent by someone in charge to save them. Inside the operating room, it’s just Jim, Marc, and Troy, who’s been readying the metal casings, and me.

“You really slowed us down, insisting on AI. I’d have solved the singularity by now if it wasn’t for you,” Troy says. The entire right side of his face is twitching.

“Okay. How’s your progress?” I ask.

“I think it makes sense to eliminate the parietal. It’s worse feeling the loss. They might develop phantom limb syndrome. The Network interface should provide plenty of sensory feedback.”

“You sure?” I ask. “I’m worried it’ll shock them too much, psychologically.”

Troy looks up at the cement ceiling, then around the operating room. “You’re worried about psychology?”

“Do what works for you, Troy.”

Jim and Marc show me some intercepted transmissions they’ve hacked from Shelter Nine’s network, which we’ve imported into this installation and plan to use for automation. It’s scary stuff. Before Macun’s nukes brought the whole thing down, the Dorothy cult convinced some thousand people to down cyanide pills. The National Security Council and Joint Chiefs were murdered by Shelter Nine scientists, led by the cybernetics department.

“Jesus,” I say. “What a clusterfuck. Our families? Are they gone, too?”

“The itinerary’s complete and our people weren’t listed. Looks like they made the Bluebird, but that’s all I can figure out.”

I send another enlisted out to look for them, then head back to surgical. “Volunteers?” I ask again.

Nobody answers. As their leader, it should be me. But I’m not a martyr. I want to see my family. “You’d get to live forever,” I say.

Marc lifts his hot-dog greasy fingers from the keypad. “You can’t spare me. I have the best hands.”

“No, I do,” Jim says. “I have a doctorate in medicine! I’ve actually performed brain surgery!”

“Should we ask a soldier?” Marc asks.

“No. We’ll lose their trust if it goes wrong,” I say.

We all get quiet. I smell the ammonia and metal grease. The surgical lamps are bright and I picture what’s to come. I remember reading about leeching in the 18^th century, and doctors who didn’t wash their hands between surgeries. Lobotomies. Botched tracheotomies. My knees lose their lock and I’m propping myself over a surgical table.

“This is crazy. I don’t want to go out like a butcher,” I say.

There are tears in my eyes. It might be the first time I’ve cried this week. I can’t remember. It occurs to me that my family might be dead, or lost, and instead of looking for them, I’m in a mile-deep basement, parsing dendrites.

“Let’s kill ourselves,” Jim says.

Marc punches the wall.

“It’ll be easy. We’ll do it together,” Jim says.

“I want to see Jenny,” Marc says. “I was wrong when we broke up. I never told her I love her.”

I’m still crying. “This is too hard,” I say. “I can’t take it.”

Troy stands up. He pats my back, awkwardly. I don’t know what possesses me, but I hug him. “It’s okay,” I say. “We did our best. You, especially. It’s okay. I’m proud of all of you.”

“I’ll do it,” Troy says. “I volunteer.”

“No,” I say. “I won’t let you.”

“I’ve decided.”

“It’s 99.9% likely to fail,” I say.

Troy sneers. He’s terrified. “Let me do this. It’s all I’ve got.”

* * *

We do it. We insert Troy’s brain into an articulated steel husk with oxygen gills and tiny needle holes through which he can inject his own calorie serums. We connect his spine and central nerves within rubberized sheaths. When we’re done, his body’s an empty husk on the table.