Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (35 page)

My head dropped. “So I killed him.”

“No, Mr. Lowery,” the robot said, “you
saved
him. Paul Jacob Nicely was near death when he arrived here. The regulator did nothing but prolong the inevitable.”

I gargled and raised my hand to feebly wave him away. Silas barked.

The robot was having none of it. “Enough of that,” it said. “Let me introduce myself.” It folded one hand over the other before tilting at the waist in a bow. Gears clicked and whirred as it moved. “My name is Benjamin Queen, Instructor Class TS-196833, designed by Doctor Robert Queen in a year unknown to me at this time.” It –
he
– tilted his head. His eyes dimmed as if to convey sadness. “Unfortunately, there are many aspects of myself I have not been able to access in quite a while.” The eyes brightened, the head lifted. “But all in due time, correct? I am still alive, and that alone is something to give thanks for.”

The serene and proper tone the robot used soothed me. Soon, memories of what became of Paul were forced to the back of my mind. The lump in my throat reduced to a sliver and I uttered, in almost a chuckle, “It’s nice to meet you…Ben.”

“As, yes. Ben. Such a pleasant sobriquet. I have not been called that since…”

His glowing blue eyes once more darkened and he veered away. A low humming came from his speaker-box. It sounded like a groan. Then his head whirled in my direction with such speed that I startled, causing jolts of pain to cascade across my chest. I winced. Silas licked my face. The robot Ben stepped forward with a hand outstretched.

“Would you like to get up, Mr. Lowery?” he asked. “I am sorry to have frightened you. In your state, I realize that sudden movements may cause you pain. If you would like, I have set up some chairs by the veranda. We can sit and chat for a while, if that sounds appealing to you.”

I reached out to take his hand, drew back in an instant of worry, noticed Silas sitting patiently beside me, obviously not concerned, reconsidered, and locked palms with the tall, talking android. Ben’s grip was rigid and sturdy but gentle enough to not hurt me. He helped me rise to my feet and I stretched my back. My joints popped, my ribcage screamed. I gnashed my teeth together and closed my eyes. I felt a cold steel arm wrap around my back. Ben’s prying metal fingers jabbed into my underarm. The motors that allowed him to perform these actions hummed, and he repositioned himself in what ended up being the perfect stance to help me stand with as little anguish as possible. All I could think was
this is one practical piece of machinery.

I swayed a bit, Ben steadied me, and Silas paced in palpable edginess around us. I heard his claws tapping on the concrete as he moved, and I realized I’d heard that sound before, when Ben approached me. I opened my eyes and, sure enough, there was concrete under my feet. It was white and creased, the rough stone caressing my soles when I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. We were on a walkway about ten feet wide, bordered by cradles of dead flowers and stretching out before us another twenty yards or so before ending in a lush green field.

As I took in our surroundings, I realized the valley we were in had to be as large as Mercy Hills itself. The trees in the distance were tiny – mere hints of what was actually there. The outlying mountains seemed minuscule, their purple ridges sweeping along, rising as far up as I could see. An amazed whistle graced my lips.

“Yes, it is quite spectacular,” Ben said. “But we can admire the scenery later. Right now we should get you seated before you become dizzy again.”

The tall android held me upright as he ushered me down the walkway and around a corner, where the mountains were even closer. Cut into the sheer rock was a huge black circle trimmed with gleaming metal, forming an empty chasm leading into the massive stone wall. In front of this portal was a large patio. Walkways sprouted from either side of the terrace, surrounded by ash trees, palm trees, and wild ferns. The two sides of the path couldn’t be more different. To the left, immersed in darkness, stood a gazebo-like structure with blackened, rotting, moss-covered boards. Derelict wire mesh crisscrossed the gazebo’s collapsed beams like artificial spider webs. To the right was a red table crafted from wound aluminum piping, along with two chairs that looked to be made by the same artisan. Sunlight bathed the small space, illuminating the vase positioned in the center of the table. A single rose, petals opened in full bloom, ascended from the vase.

Ben brought me toward the sun-bathed spot. He aided me like an experienced home-heath provider, his strong mechanical arms gently holding me steady. Silas pranced about in front of us, happy as the day was bright. When we reached the table Ben let go of me and stepped ahead, flashing his glowing blue eyes over his shoulder to make sure I was stable, and pulled out a chair. I shuffled over and slowly lowered myself into it. Ben took his place in the chair opposite me. Despite the grace of his movement, I still heard the hollow thud of his metal rump when he sat down.

Silas nudged my leg, gave me an adorable, puppy-love flash of his big brown-blue eyes, and then trotted around the table, where he stood on his hind legs, his front paws supported on Ben’s lap. The android stroked his fur with one hand and tapped aimlessly on the aluminum tabletop with the other. He stared down at my boy with those unnatural, viewfinder eyes.

Another hum escaped his speaker-box. It was a song this time. For a moment I cringed, thinking it was Art Lonnigan again, but no, this one was different. I just couldn’t place it.

“What song is that?” I asked.

“Oh, one of my favorites,” he replied, his mechanized voice faraway and contemplative. “A delightful song from your world, as a matter of fact.
Mellow Yellow.
Do you know it?”

I nodded, dumbfounded.

“But enough of music for now,” he said. “We have things we need to discuss.”

55

“What kinds of things?” I asked.

“Why, you must have
some
questions for me, do you not Mr. Lowery?”

“Please don’t call me that. My name’s Ken.”

Ben clanged the tops of two fingers against his forehead. “Very well. Ken it is.”

I shuffled in my chair before asking, “How do you know my name, anyway?”

“You were mentioned extensively in the file of Paul Jacob Nicely,” he replied. “I was connected to Nell, the operating system that runs this facility, so my self-charging power core could keep her operational. I had access to everything in her memory banks. And to be honest, I find your part in this very interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not supposed to be here.”

“How so?”

Ben paused as if contemplating his next words. His speaker box piped up again. “A long time ago, the Elders, those who created myself and provided the blueprint for my unfortunate cousin back there, built a series of supercomputers they called
Oracles.
The Oracles were stored underground, as their size – that of an entire city – was too restrictive to exist on the surface. These computers were probability calculators used to find order in the random. They scoured the worlds for information and collated thousands of lifetimes of data, all in search of that connecting thread that could be used to harness the many illogical occurrences of chance and choice and come to a single predictable outcome. There are only a few remaining today.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Are you telling me these machines predicted the future?”

“Yes,” Ben replied with a nod. “And they were very accurate. In fact, the largest of the Oracles, a beast of a machine called
Old Crone
, has never been wrong…until now, that is. According to her, Paul Jacob Nicely facilitates the arrival of a dangerous dimensional entity into your world, but instead, because he somehow thwarted probability and brought you here, even the Oracles are at a loss. They do not know what happens next.”

“But Paul wrote me a letter. He said an Oracle
told him
I’d come here.”

Ben stared at me for what seemed like a long time, his blue eyes sparking. Finally he dropped his hands to his lap with a clang. “Hm. That does not seem probable. However, stranger things have happened. I have not been myself for many years, so it is possible some information has…slipped past me.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure. Perhaps you simply fell through the cracks in probability. Either way, I do not think it matters. You are here, after all. Best to just accept they were wrong and move on.” He glanced at Silas, whose tongue now flopped to the side while I petted him. “There is one thing I must know,” he said. “Has your
gi-faht
been altered while on this plane?”

“In what way?” I replied. “Like how he turns into an eight-year-old boy during the full moon?”

“Ah, yes,” said Ben. “I see he has. Would you like to know what causes this?” I nodded, and he continued. “Just as with many of the common realms, there have been instances of…
passing through
over the years. The creatures that inhabit any world move about constantly. Occasionally they will stumble upon cracks in the walls that separate realities. In the case of your
gi-faht
, the race he is descended from crossed over thousands of years ago. They bred with the canine species of your reality – the wolves that inhabited your forests – and passed along to their offspring a portion of their intelligence and sense of self. In other words, hence did they create the domesticated beings you call ‘pets’ that now populate much of
Q-9.
However, the effects of the lunar cycle has been slowly bred out of them, as the moon on your Earth is much different – and much less potent – than the one that dwells in our sky. However, now that he is here, he is subject to the same transformation that occurs in the rest of the Lupine species.”

I shook my head. “This is unbelievable.”

“I know how it must feel, Ken, and I am sorry. To be ripped from your world and shown that you are but a mere speck in the eyes of forever, that your every belief of what constitutes reality has been rendered irrelevant, is very difficult.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said with a slight bow, “and I am truly sorry if I have offended you. But you must know that it was the same way for me. As I told you, my memories were wiped away a long time ago, which made me a contradiction – an advanced consciousness with no sense of self. In that way I am like you. Every day for me is filled with wonder as I rediscover a world I have existed in for five hundred years and yet have no recollection of.”

“And yet you know
Mellow Yellow
,” I replied. “That strikes me as odd.”

“Oh, it shouldn’t,” Ben said in a soft, dreamlike tone. “The barriers that separate us are real in a physical sense, but there are ways to traverse realities without ever stepping foot in them. The mind is a wonderful thing, Ken. There are so many wavelengths that humans simply do not understand – not in your world, and not here anymore, either. If one is to alter their mental makeup enough, they can potentially create a portal
within themselves
and step through into another plane of existence. Music has helped accomplish this since its creation. The simple act of playing an instrument or humming a melody alters the chemical composition of the brain, and if there are other factors introduced – illness, extreme stress, chemical stimulation – the mind opens a window and peers through. In fact, the diagnostics of the
Old Crone
Oracle were patterned after the brainwaves of a woman named Charlotte Groton, perhaps the greatest musician and psychic our world has ever known.”

I gasped. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that songs…can tell the future?”

“At times, yes. Why?”

I told him about Art Lonnigan and
Blood Red Morning
. He stared at me with those glowing blue eyes, tapping his metal finger on the table. He was quiet for a long time, and during that span I really wished this Robert Queen guy who’d made him had thought to give him facial expressions. Though Ben was nice enough to listen to, he gave off all the emotional energy of the walking computer that he was.