Robopocalypse

I scream and fall back, scrabbling to escape.

Dawn grabs me by the back of the shirt and I try to fight her, but she is too strong. She lets the curtain drop back into place and holds me up on my feet, letting me hit her and claw at her face.

“Mathilda,” she says. “It’s okay. It’s not online. Listen to me.”

I never knew how much I needed to cry until I had no eyes.

“Is that the machine that hurt you?” she asks.

I can only nod.

“It’s off-line, honey. This one can’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, settling down, “sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby. I understand. It’s okay.” Dawn strokes my hair for a few seconds. If I could close my eyes, I would. Instead, I watch the blood pulse gently through her face. Then Dawn sits me down on a cinder block. The muscles in her face tense up.

“Mathilda,” she says, “that machine is called an autodoc. We dragged it here from topside. People got hurt… people died to bring that machine here. But we can’t use it. We don’t know why. You have something special, Mathilda. You know that, right?”

“My eyes,” I respond.

“That’s right, honey. Your eyes are special. But I think there’s more than that. The machine on your face is also in your brain. You made that spiker move by thinking about it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you try to do the same thing with the autodoc?” she asks, slowly pulling the curtain back again. Now I see that the jumble of legs is attached to a white, oval body. There are dark gaps where the legs meet the main part. It looks like one of the grub worms that me and Nolan used to dig up in the backyard.

I shiver but I don’t look away.

“Why?” I ask.

“To save your little brother’s life for a start, honey.”

Dawn drags the autodoc into the center of the room. For the next thirty minutes I sit next to it cross-legged and concentrate like I did for the spiker. The legs of the autodoc only twitch a little at first. But then I start to move them for real.

It doesn’t take long to feel out all the legs. Each one has a different instrument attached to the end, but I only recognize a few: scalpels, lasers, spotlights. After a little while, the machine starts to seem less alien. I understand what it feels like to have a dozen arms, how you can be mindful of where your limbs are and still focus on the two that you are using right now. As I flex the spider legs again and again, it starts to feel natural.

Then, the autodoc speaks to me: Diagnostic interface mode initiated. Indicate preferred function.

I flinch, concentration broken. The words were in my mind, as if they were scrolling across the inside of my forehead. How could the autodoc put words into my mind?

Only then do I notice the crowd of people. About ten survivors have come into the tunnel. They stand together in a semicircle, watching me. A man stands behind Dawn with his arms wrapped around her, and she holds his arms with her hands. I haven’t seen so many people since I got my new eyes.

A wave of red-orange pulses radiate toward me. The bands of light come from their beating hearts. It is very beautiful but also frustrating, because I can’t explain how pretty it is to anyone.

“Mathilda,” says Dawn, “this is my husband, Marcus.”

“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” I say.

Marcus just nods at me. I think he is speechless.

“And these are the others I told you about,” says Dawn. The people all murmur their hellos and nice to meet yous. Then, a young guy steps forward. He’s kind of cute, with a sharp chin and high cheekbones. One of his arms is wrapped in a towel.

“I’m Tom,” he says, crouching down beside me.

I look away, ashamed of my face.

“Don’t be scared,” Tom says.

He unwraps the towel from his arm. Instead of a hand, Tom has a lump of cold metal in the shape of scissors. In wonder, I glance up at his face and he smiles at me. I start to smile back before I get embarrassed and look away.

I reach out and touch the cold metal of Tom’s hand. Looking into it, I am amazed by how the flesh and machinery come together. It is as intricate as anything I have ever seen.

Looking harder at the other people, I notice occasional bits of metal and plastic. Not all of them are made of meat. Some of them are like me. Me and Tom.

“Why are you like that?” I ask.

“The machines changed us,” says Tom. “We’re different, but the same. We call ourselves transhuman.”

Transhuman.

“Is it okay if I touch?” asks Tom, motioning at my eyes.

I nod, and he leans down and touches my face. He peers at my eyes and lightly brushes his fingers against my face where the skin turns to metal.

“I’ve never seen this,” he says. “It’s incomplete. Rob never got to finish. What happened, Mathilda?”

“My mom,” I say.

That’s all I can get out.

“Your mom stopped the operation,” he says. “Good for her.”

Tom stands up. “Dawn,” he says, “this is amazing. The implant has no governor on it. Rob didn’t get the chance to hobble it. I don’t know. I mean, there’s no telling what she can do.”

A wave of rising heartbeats cascades toward me.

“Why are you all excited?” I ask.

“Because,” says Dawn. “We think maybe you can talk to the machines.”

Then Nolan moans. It’s been two hours since we arrived here and he looks terrible. I can hear him breathing in little pants.

“I have to help my brother,” I say.

Five minutes later, Marcus and Tom have placed Nolan next to the autodoc. The machine has its legs raised, poised like needles over my little brother’s sleeping body.

“Make an X-ray, Mathilda,” says Dawn.

I put a hand onto the autodoc and speak to it in my mind: Hello? Are you there?

Indicate preferred function.

X-ray?

The spider legs begin to move. Some move out of the way, while others creep around Nolan’s body. A strange clicking sound comes from the writhing legs.

The words come into my mind with an image. Place patient in the prone position. Remove clothing around the lumbar area.

I gently turn Nolan over onto his stomach. I pull his shirt up to reveal his back. There are flecks of dark, crusted blood all around the knobs of his spine.

Fix him, I think to the autodoc.

Error, it responds. Surgical functionality unavailable. Database missing. Uplink not present. Antenna attachment required.

“Dawn,” I say, “it doesn’t know how to do surgery. It wants an antenna so it can get instructions.”

Marcus turns to Dawn, concerned. “It’s trying to trick us. If we give it the antenna, it will call for help. They’ll track us down.”

Dawn nods. “Mathilda, we can’t risk that—”

But she stops cold when she sees me.

Someplace in my head, I know that the arms of the autodoc are silently rising into the air behind me, instruments gleaming. The countless needles and scalpels hover there on swaying legs, menacing. Nolan needs help and if they won’t give it, I’m willing to take it.