The Boy at the End of the World (2 page)

CHAPTER   3

They came to a clearing of brown grass. Huddling behind a fallen log, Fisher could see around for a hundred yards while remaining concealed from view. But even if predators couldn't see him, they could still find him. He produced odors. And the mechanical man was noisy. His loose eye whirred loudly, and a crackly hiss came from his mouth.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“Quiet. There could be things out there. They'll hear you.”

“Ah, yes, dangers. Very dangerous. I will adjust my volume. How is this?”

“Still loud enough to get me killed,” Fisher said.

He stood and began pacing the clearing. A lacy drizzle chilled his skin. He needed dry fuel to make a fire, but the forest floor was a damp mess, and the trees were dark with moisture. Was the outside world always wet? Fisher had no way of knowing, but he hoped not. Cold and wet weren't good conditions for survival, and Fisher didn't merely
want
to survive, he
had
to. It was important, and not just to himself. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but he knew this as surely as he knew his own name.

He licked drizzle from his own hand. At least he wouldn't die of thirst.

But hunger? Maybe.

Something rustled in the brush. Fisher tensed. He fingered the tip of his spear.

There, at the foot of a shrub, a little brown snake slithered in the underbrush. Its forked tongue tested the air.

Snakes were edible. Their meat contained protein.

Fisher held his breath and pulled his spear back for a throw.

“Fisher, I have something for you,” the mechanical man said, walking up behind him.

The snake whipped away, into the deeper brush, as if it had never been there.

Fisher whirled around to face the machine and almost shouted with anger, but he silenced himself. No sense scaring off everything in the clearing.

“I was hunting,” Fisher said.

“Hunting, yes. Using other living things as nutritional resources. Hunting is necessary if you are to survive.”

“You said you want me to survive, didn't you?”

“Yes,” the machine said.

“Then why did you scare my prey away?”

“Fisher, your voice is getting loud.”

“I was right all along,” Fisher said. “You really do want to kill me. You just have a strange way of going about it.”

“I can be quiet. I am being quiet now. Yes. Now, as I said, I have something for you. Please access my dorsal compartment.” The robot's back popped off with a
sproing
, and a panel landed on the damp earth. “Ah. That wasn't supposed to happen. I appear to be damaged. The rats and collapse of the Ark have left me operating below specifications. Do not be alarmed, Fisher. I am still able to help you survive and repopulate the planet. You will find useful items inside my compartment.”

The machine turned around to present an open space in its back. Inside was a folded square of dark green cloth. At the machine's urging, Fisher removed it and unfolded it. It was shaped roughly like he was, with legs and arms.

Clothing.

Yes, it seemed right to Fisher that he should wear clothing. It took him only a moment to figure out how to fit the clothing over his body. It covered him from the neck down, and the parts that went over his feet were lined with a nubby surface. He could feel how it helped him get a better grip on slippery ground. His skin began to warm, and for the first time, he was a little bit glad the mechanical man had found him.

“Your skin is darkly pigmented to give you some protection from sun exposure,” the machine said as Fisher replaced his hatch. “But clothing will help you against weather and insects. Such protections are important. The world has changed since you were grown inside your birthing chamber. The world has evolved. But you have not evolved with it.”

The machine seemed to know a lot about Fisher. But Fisher didn't know anything about the machine. And there were a lot of things he didn't know about himself, or his world, or how he'd come to exist in this world.

It was time to find out.

“What's your name?” Fisher asked. Things that could speak should have names.

“I am a custodial unit designated … designated … failure to access.” The mechanical man cocked his head to the side. “Ah, yes, several of my memory modules are missing or not functional. I am damaged. This may be a problem.”

“You don't know your own name? Even I know my own name, and I just became born.”

“Yes, you are Fisher. That is the module you were imprinted with.”

“Imprinted? What does that mean?”

“I will explain myself,” said the mechanical man. A small panel of some dark gray material in the machine's chest flickered and glowed white. Noises came from the robot that reminded Fisher of birds. The word
music
took shape in his head. Images appeared on the robot's chest panel. Buildings. Towers, all far grander than the ruins.

“Many thousands of years ago, the planet teemed with people,” blared the mechanical man. “Humans occupied every climate and environment imaginable, from the deepest shadowed valleys to the highest mountain perches. They became the most dominant species to ever reside on Earth. Their numbers reached into the billions, and they believed they were eternal. But look now upon their ruins. See what became of their lofty achievements. Their legacy is rubble, inhabited by rats and humble creatures. Humans are no more, Fisher. Except for you.”

“You're talking too loud again,” Fisher whispered. “And really weird.”

The mechanical man made a little click in his throat. “It's not my fault. I'm running History Orientation Program 3–A. Would you like me to continue?”

“Can you do it quietly? And less weird?”

“I will attempt to do so. This is me attempting to do so. Yes. Well. The world was broken. Human activity changed the climate. It poisoned the waters. It stripped the soil of nutrients. It introduced new diseases. Many animals went extinct. Survival became harder. Resources became scarce. Humans fought wars constantly. They damaged themselves, and they damaged the environment they depended on for survival.”

Fisher had a hard time imagining how humans could have done so much to change their world. He was a human, after all, and he was just a hungry animal.

The robot continued: “Humans made many attempts to fix things. They tried to change animals so they could evolve more quickly in the changed world. They tried to change the seas and the earth itself. But each change brought unexpected consequences. Nature is a very complicated system, and you cannot change one part of the system without making other changes you did not intend. Many thousands of years ago, before the world collapsed into ruins, scientists made one last effort to save living things, to preserve what was left. Out of raw genetic material—genes, DNA, the substance of life—they crafted healthy specimens of as many useful life forms as they could. They made fish. Dogs. Sheep. Swine. Humans. And they stored them for safekeeping in the Life Ark, the location of your birth. The specimens were placed in birthing chambers and preserved in gel. I was one of several custodial robots programmed to maintain the Ark. The plan was to awaken the specimens once enough time had passed for the world to heal. Humans could then repopulate the planet. Civilization would survive. But something went wrong.”

Something went wrong
. Those words seemed like the truest thing Fisher had ever heard. He'd known that from the moment he became born, cold and alone with his birthing structure falling down around him, and everything and everyone, dead.

“What about the people who built the Ark? The people who … built me?”

“It is more accurate to say that they grew you. But to answer your question, they, like all of humanity, were sick and could no longer reproduce. They died eventually in the Ark. Their tombs were on the bottom level, buried now beneath tons of rubble when the Ark was attacked.”

“What attacked it?”

The machine whirred. “I do not know.”

“But I'm the only one who survived?”

“Yes, but only by chance. Your birthing chamber was located below two steel crossbeams and so withstood the impact of the attack better than other places in the Ark. When I realized your body had not been destroyed, I decided to imprint you with a personality and awaken you in hopes that you might escape the Ark before you were killed. And now, here we are.”

The machine's musical background noise stopped. His chest panel went dark.

Fisher didn't say anything. He walked around. Then he sat down with his head between his knees. He felt disconnected, like a dead leaf spinning from a tree, drifting on updrafts but sure to fall to earth.

“You said there were once people, and then there weren't, except for some of us in the Ark. And now everyone in the Ark is dead. Except for me.”

“Yes. That is accurate.”

“So, I'm it, then. The only one. The last.”

“Yes.”

“And you're going to help me survive. To repopulate the Earth.”

“Yes.”

“How?” Fisher said, too loudly. Small creatures scurried in the gathering dark. “If I'm the last human, then civilization is over. As soon as I die, there won't be any humans at all.”

“I agree that this presents challenges,” the robot said. “Our purpose is uncertain. As I said, I am a custodial unit. I was not designed for the tasks I must perform now to maintain your survival. Also, a rock fell on my head and a rat tried to eat my face, so it is possible that I am not seeing all the available options.”

Fisher stood again and peered into the gloom.

Without any other humans alive, what meaning did his own life have?

He was humanity's dying breath.

But at least he was still breathing.

He decided he would keep breathing as long as he could.

He sat beside a rock and began sharpening his spear.

CHAPTER   4

Fisher spent the next morning hunting.

He caught a cricket in his cupped hands, and so what if he only caught it because one of its wings was broken and it could barely fly? It still counted as a catch, and since it was the first time he'd ever caught anything (after only seventeen attempts), he was happy with it.

And then, digging under a rock, he caught a worm. Or half a worm, since the other half burrowed deeper in the mud.

“I'm a pretty good hunter,” he said to the robot.

The robot responded with a clicking noise. Fisher's stomach responded with a painfully empty rumble.

As he and the robot made their way down the mountain, the air grew warmer and dryer, and it felt good to move away from the destroyed Ark.

By the middle of the day, Fisher decided the mechanical man needed a name.

“How about Click?” Fisher proposed.

“Why Click?” said the mechanical man, his question punctuated by a distinct click from his voice box.

“Because of that sound you just made.”

Another click. “I detect nothing that I would describe as a click. Your suggestion is rejected.”

They reached a valley where a brook trickled beneath red- and yellow-leafed trees. In the distance, many miles away, loomed ruined towers. People had built these things. Fisher couldn't imagine how they'd done it. The only thing he'd ever built was his spear. And he hadn't even really built it. He'd just taken a broken thing left behind by the people of yesterday and then broken it some more until it was something he could use.

“Why wasn't I born smarter?” Fisher asked.

“I uploaded a very intelligent personality module into you,” said Click.

“I'm not smart enough to ever build anything like that. I wouldn't even know how to begin.” Fisher gestured toward the far-off ruins. People who could build what the ruins had once been must have been limitless.

“No single individual in your Ark was ever intended to possess all human knowledge. Each of you would have had his or her own set of skills. If your community worked together, you would combine your knowledge for the common good.”

But there was no community now. There was no “together.” There was only Fisher.

He dipped his hands into the brook for a drink, and a small creature flitted above the pebbles at the bottom.

A fish.

Fisher had never seen a fishhook, but he knew what a fishhook was and how to make one and how to use one. He could catch fish with a line and a worm. He could make a line from fibers woven of tall grass. Or he could make a fish trap from twigs. He could catch fish with his bare hands. He could use explosives to blow them to the surface.

“Hundreds of ways to catch fish,” Fisher said in wonder. “I know all of them.”

“Yes,” said Click. “I gave you the Fisher personality. If your Ark community had survived, your specialty would have been fishing. You have other skills, but not advanced. You know how to build a fire, but all you can do with it is keep yourself warm and cook game. The possessor of the Forge profile would have been a builder. The Healer profile would have known advanced medicine. You have very little of those skills. You have no knowledge of raising and keeping animals. You cannot farm. You are not a leader. I cannot give you these things, for you are only one unit of what should have been many. You are limited, Fisher. Your survival is in question.”

Click paused and clicked. “I am sorry, am I talking weird?”

Fisher gritted his stupid teeth. Limited? What did a machine with a broken head know? Fisher wasn't limited. He would survive. He would.

He walked along the stream until he found some flat rocks overhanging a deeper part. Lying on his belly, he peered over the ledge. The black shapes of several small fish darted in the waters. Fisher dipped his hand in and the fish darted away.

He knew what to do.

He gathered some stones about the size of his head and arranged them in a dam on the streambed. It wasn't a very effective dam. Water still flowed through. So from the forest floor he gathered leaves and twigs and clumps of shed bark, and these he stuffed in the spaces between his stones. The spaces didn't need to be watertight, just fish-tight.

Next, he constructed a funnel with more stones and more forest material. Then he crouched by his dam and watched. If the fish trap worked as planned, fish would swim through the funnel and collect near his dam. There, they'd be sitting targets.

But the trap didn't work as he'd hoped. The fish avoided it.

“I thought you said I know how to fish.”

“You do,” said Click. “You appear to be fishing right now.”

“But I'm not catching anything.”

“Knowledge isn't enough to guarantee your survival, Fisher. There are additional factors: experience, circumstance, luck.”

“You should have given me more of that.”

Getting up to gather more rocks, he paused. Something stirred in the mud at the foot of his dam. Long antennae twitched. A claw emerged in a small cloud of silt.

Fisher grabbed a heavy stone and brought it down right on top of the creature. He lifted it out of the water by a claw.

Some kind of insect, he thought, with a cracked armored shell, six segmented legs, a plated tail, and two claws.

An insect, or a small … the word
lobster
came to him, and quick on its heels,
crayfish
.

He'd caught a crayfish, and tonight he would have meat!

Anticipation of his meal reminded him of his hunger. The few bugs and worms he'd eaten hadn't given him much nutrition, and building the fish trap had sapped much of his energy.

He needed fire.

He tucked the crayfish beneath the small pile of rocks and told Click to guard it while he went off to look for fire-making supplies. Half an hour of work gave him a sizable bundle of bark shavings. He brought his tinder and kindling back to the stream. Gathering fuel had been the easy part. But he still had no way to make a spark. He'd found no flint rocks to strike, nor anything to fashion into a string for his fire drill.

Click stood nearby, whirring softly. “I have protected your prey,” he said. “Though nothing attempted to take it.”

Fisher peered into the machine's left eye, the one damaged by the rat. It still hung loose.

“Can you see out of that?”

“Are you referring to my left optical sensor? No, I believe the rat severed the data conduit to my processor.”

After some prodding, Fisher got Click to explain that the eye itself wasn't damaged, but that the wires connecting it to his electronic brain were cut.

“But your other eye is okay?” Fisher asked.

“My right optical sensor is operating at full capacity.”

“Okay. Then I need to borrow the left one.”

Click made a little hissing noise. “What for?”

“It's a lens, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe I can use it to focus sunlight and start a fire.”

Click's hissing grew louder. He was doubtful, but after some more convincing, he told Fisher how to unplug the eye from its socket. The eye was made up of several parts: a panel in the back where the wires plugged in, the globe that made up the main part of the eye, and a covering of a thick, glasslike substance. Fisher tried to pry off the glass part with his fingers.

“You will break it that way,” Click said with an especially loud hiss. “Turn it to the left.”

Fisher did. The covering didn't budge at first, but with some more effort, it snapped off with a neat
click
.

He looked through the glass. The trees appeared distorted.

He arranged his fire bundle on one of the bigger flat rocks and gave a worried glance overhead. In the time it had taken him to gather his wood, clouds had begun scudding across the sky. They were moving quickly. Fisher needed sunlight if this was going to work.

Hunched over the fire bundle, he angled Click's eye until concentrated sunlight made a white-bright spot on the bark shavings.

He waited.

And waited.

Click waved bugs away from his empty eye socket.

When delicate threads of smoke finally began to rise from the bark shavings, Fisher had to stop himself from celebrating too early. Keep the lens still, he told himself. It wasn't a fire yet. And fires were finicky. All it would take was a gust of wind, or a light-blocking cloud, and then Fisher would be spending another night in the cold.

But when he heard a dry crackle, he couldn't help but rejoice. There! Glowing sparks in the shavings! Small flames wavered, trying hard to become born.

Fisher put the lens down and moved his body protectively over the infant fire. He blew gently on it. And then, as if the world had made a final decision to reward him for his efforts, the fire caught and Fisher's spirits rose, as cautious and buoyant as the smoke.

Soon, he was eating cooked crayfish. It was just a small nugget of meat, but it was rich and fatty and sweet and full of protein, and it tasted like success.