hiss, and then he was gone.
When he woke up, the robot was there again. Peter felt worse than he had the first time he'd opened his eyes in that room. 'Don't give me another shot,' he said.
'Oh, I don't administer medication,' Burkhardt said airily. 'Fascinating colloquialism, ‘shot'—bit anachronistic now. We do transdermals now, of course, except when intravenous administration is indicated. But I'm not here to go on about our medical procedures; you're a healthy man; you don't care about this. I do need to apologize for yesterday. It seems I moved a little too quickly for circumstances, and Dr. McBride. ' Burkhardt trailed off. 'She was terribly inappropriate and unprofessional. To say some of the things she said, given the fragility of your condition. Trust me when I say that you won't have to deal with her anymore. '
Sometime during its apology, Peter remembered what she'd said to him. 'Are you serious that I was dead?' he asked. Having slept on the idea, even if the sleep was drug-induced, made it easier to grapple with.
Burkhardt cocked its head to one side. 'Oh yes, perfectly serious. My function here is to ensure that your assimilation process is maximally efficient. There is significant state interest in making certain that you come to terms with the reality of your surroundings. Yours is truly an exceptional situation. I can certainly sympathize with your feelings of loss and displacement, but do not neglect gratitude. You have benefited from the most advanced and powerful science the world has ever known. '
'You can?' Peter asked. 'Sympathize?'
'Ha ha,' Burkhardt said. 'Not in an emotional sense, no. But my simulations of emotional interaction are considered very sophisticated. I belong to the only class of artificial intelligences whose testimony is admissible in court. '
Peter could have sworn that it sounded proud. He considered what Burkhardt had said about loss and displacement. Pretty soon he figured he'd feel both, but right then he was letting himself be caught up in the puzzle of how he'd come to be talking to a robot that seemed to have been programmed by a self-help guru. Chicken Soup for the Future Resurrected.
'This is ridiculous,' he said. He tossed back the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt good under his feet.
'Delightful,' Burkhardt said. It actually clapped, or clanked. 'Marvelous. You're making tremendous progress. '
Peter needed a moment to get blood to his head. Then he stood. He was wearing light blue hospital pajamas, and when he ran his hands over his scalp he found that his hair had been cut. That brought on the first tremor of dislocation; someone had cut his hair. 'Okay, Burkhardt,' he said, forcing himself to focus on what was in front of him. 'Where am I?'
'Bremerton, Washington,' Burkhardt said.
'You're kidding. ' Peter had grown up in Kirkland, just across Puget Sound. Ninety-eight years. He wondered what Seattle looked like. A powerful surge of optimism overcame him. He was alive, and Burkhardt was right that he was lucky, especially in that he hadn't had any family left when he'd apparently died. 'I died,' he said, testing it out. He had no memory of it, and was unaffected by the idea. 'So this isn't heaven?'
'My goodness, no. This is still the world of the flesh. You don't seriously think you might be in heaven?'
'No,' Peter said. He chuckled. 'My idea of heaven wouldn't be a hospital room. '
'What would it be?'
Burkhardt's amazing cheer seemed to have gone on hiatus. 'Am I supposed to have a theological discussion with a robot?' Peter asked.
'Part of my assessment must include the state of your beliefs,' Burkhardt said. 'Given the blessing you've received, it occurred to me that you might be thankful. '
'Blessing? What are you, a robot priest?'
'The cutting edge of robotics, if I'm not being too immodest in characterizing myself in such a manner, is conducted in affiliation with the Office of Faith-Based Investigation. We are all products of our upbringing, aren't we? Ha ha. Now please, back to my question: Are you thankful?'
'Sure. But thank the doctors. I've never been much of a religious guy. '
'I see,' Burkhardt said. 'Well. It so happens that this project is centered on the grounds of what was once the naval shipyard here. The primary strength of the American military is now orbitally based, so the facilities here were reconditioned some years ago. There is another similar facility in our Siberian protectorate, but we thought it best to keep you close to home. '
Siberian protectorate? Peter let it pass. A lot could happen in ninety-eight years. 'Okay,' he said. 'Can I get some clothes? I want to get out and see this brave new world. '
Burkhardt's face was a single textured piece of metal, but Peter could have sworn the robot grimaced. 'that's an unfortunate choice of words, Peter. We can certainly get you dressed — in fact there's clothing tailored to you in the closet there — but we think it's better for you to stay on the grounds for a while. '
'What for? Am I sick?'
'I'm reaching my functional parameters here, Peter. You seem to be adapting remarkably well to what must be an enormously wrenching turn of events. Please stay here. Feel free to get dressed. I'm going to hand you off to one of the staff who will get you settled in here. ' Burkhardt extended a hand, just as it had the last time, and just as he had the last time, Peter shook. The robot left, and a bubble of fear rose up and broke in Peter's mind.
He closed his eyes and gathered himself. Okay. Things would be different. He would have to cope, but it would be like he was an immigrant to another country where people spoke the same language but lived in an entirely different way. Difficult but doable. Peter opened the closet door and found a suit of clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place in church the last time he'd gone to church, which was sometime in the '90s at his college roommate's wedding. It fit perfectly, and so did the shoes. A pair of spats came with the shoes; Peter looked them over, and decided that his willingness to assimilate only went so far.
Alone and awake, he had a chance to really look around the room for the first time. There was no window, no TV — did people still watch TV? He couldn't imagine they didn't. It would be weird if the hardest thing about blending into the year 2103 was the lack of television.
2103. The number didn't mean anything to Peter. When it came right down to it, he had to admit that he didn't quite believe it yet. The alternative was that he was hallucinating, but there he was in a room painted pale green with a bed and a monitor and a chair in the corner and a little tube that came out of the wall. Surely he had enough imagination to hallucinate something better than this.
The door opened and an orderly came in with a tray. 'Up and around,' the orderly said. 'Looking good. ' He was tall and ropy with muscle, hair in a crew cut. Peter's first instinct was that the guy was military.
'I feel okay,' he said. The orderly set the tray on his bed and left. Peter removed the cover: baked chicken, muffin, vegetables, a plastic bottle of juice. He sat down and ate, getting progressively hungrier as he demolished the meal, until by the time he was finished he wanted to start all over again.
There was nothing visible that looked like a call button. Peter looked at the monitor, saw that it was tracking his vital signs even though he wasn't connected to it. He hadn't seen any kind of contact patches when he'd changed into the suit, and it wasn't clear how the monitor could get a close reading on him. Was there some kind of camera system that could track all of his vitals? He looked around the room and didn't see one. Then again, Dr. McBride had been talking to someone the day before.
Peter went to the door and tried it. It was locked. He banged on it and it opened almost immediately. The orderly stood in the doorway. 'Are you comfortable?' he asked.
'Am I under surveillance in here?' Peter asked.
A disbelieving expression swept across the orderly's face. 'Surveillance is routine,' he said. 'It presupposes nothing about guilt or innocence. Do you need anything?'
'I'd like to get out of this room for a while. Get some fresh air. '
'A tour is being arranged, Mr. Skilling. You will be contacted when arrangements are complete. ' the orderly shut the door.
Peter got mad. He banged on the door again. The orderly opened it. 'If you're going to bullshit me,' Peter said, 'you could at least remove my tray. '
'Your language is objectionable,' the orderly said, but he came in and took the tray.
Without a clock in the room, he had no way of knowing how much time passed before the door opened again and three people came in. Make that two people and a robot: Burkhardt stood behind the orderly and a woman
