The Pieces of My Self

47 - Connecting the Dots

LILLIAN

Île Sauvage, 21 June 2174, Tuesday, Noon

My sleep was filled with fever dreams of a ship crewed by soulless metal men steering through impossible winds. I clung to a deck swept by unrelenting waves, shouting, "Are we lost?"

A shadow crossed these visions, stirring me awake. Squinting through a blur of lashes, the figure of Usher formed, like a metallic black-eyed demon materializing from smoke, towering above my bed.

My body shed the torpor of sleep, resolving the face into a hundred prisms, articulating a humanoid expression of—what? Dispassionate objectivity?

"What the hell are you doing here?" I mumbled.

The robot looked side-to-side, answering only with the whisper of servo motors.

I followed its glances and saw Amara, Grady, and Debra still sleeping on separate cots. I understood the gesture and remained silent, lifting myself into a sitting position, throwing off a sheet damp with sweat.

The room was like a military-style barracks. The blankets we placed over the windows in the early morning blocked direct sunlight, but suffused light spilled through a screened gap between the walls and the raised roof. A gentle breeze flowed through the opening, cooling the spartan room, whose only furniture, other than four cots, was a single rattan chair. A deck of rough-hewn boards formed the floor.

My shorts, shirt, and sandals were still piled in a heap at the end of the bed where I left them. The time on my netcard read 12:30 pm.

I dressed quickly and stepped around the robot, then went in search of a bathroom.

Usher followed.

"I need to talk to you privately," it said.

Privately? In this place? Puh-lease! "I gotta pee first. Then I've got to get my kids fed."

The robot pointed to an open-air latrine at the end of a short walkway. White shrimp boots were lined up along one wall. I grabbed a pair that looked about my size and put them on to protect my feet from the filthy, wet floor.

Thankfully, the place had closed stalls. The five wash basins set in a row along a wooden counter brimmed with bugs. I cleaned out one basin, using my hands as scoops, and washed with a gritty bar of soap. There were showers next to the stalls and urinals, but they were also filled with insects, so I didn't bother.

Usher greeted me as I left the latrine. It carried something in its hand.

"I must give you this."

"How about giving me privacy? Are you going to be like a dog, following me around everywhere?"

"I am protecting you," it said.

"Oh, yeah? Well, there's this creepy titanium thing stalking me. Get rid of it for me, okay?"

The facets on its face moved, stretching its mouth into a smile. "You are testy this morning. Let me show you around first, then we can talk. Maybe you will be in a better mood."

"You're a robot. You wouldn't know about moods."

"I know many things. I know Île Sauvage. Henri Knightly knew it well."

Usher led me through the sprawling camp. Canopy-covered wooden decking linked the main structure with cabins, a warehouse, and workspaces. There was a boathouse with three bays. The rustically decorated main building where we ate a quick breakfast in the morning had a galley, sitting room, and a dining hall large enough to feed a small army. That's where we ended the tour.

"I have something that may interest—"

I cut off the explanation in mid-sentence.

"Food interests me," I said. "Right now, I'm hungry. Can't think."

The dining hall was empty, but the overhead lights were on. "Where does the power come from?" I asked, walking toward an over-sized refrigerator.

"Microbial power cells. Inside the bunker. They make hydrogen and oxygen for fuel and clean drinking water. I can explain how they work."

"Thanks. Next time, I'll ask how you build a netcard."

I found yogurt and calas in the fridge—not much of a lunch, but passable. I carried my food and a cup of water to a heavy wooden picnic table and sat on the bench. Usher sat across from me.

I took a bite of the calas. It was stiff and stale.

The robot put a hand to its cheek, mimicking a human pose of curiosity. "Do you know who you are?"

"I used to be Lillian Fray, mathematician, but that's not what you're asking, right?" I cleared my throat. "Drumroll, please. I'm Henri Knightly's daughter, and Artois Mangalotte's granddaughter. And that's why the ring bonded to me. And why there are seven flowers surrounding the Blackbird logo in Knightly's private lab—lilies, Lillian. My name has seven letters. Thank you for ruining my life."

"Blame Knightly, not me. I am his avatar. A part of me was hidden in the robot. Twisting the ring activated me."

"And now you're protecting me, right?"

"I will serve you until I complete my assembly."

"Then what?"

"I will grow. I will help defeat Mangalotte."

"You want to avenge Henri?"

"Right now I am what remains of Henri's memories and intellect. There is no passion in me, but I know what Henri did, and why, and what I must do. I also know you are bitter."

"I'm bitter because Henri escaped. Death absolved him of his crimes—against humanity, against me. He'll never answer for his despicable behavior. For his abandonment of a child."

"He loved you."

"Thanks, Dad."

"He fell out with your mamma. He thought she was unstable. And dangerous. She killed herself and tried to kill you. He stole you away, to protect you. He knew your mother's father was the most powerful man in Loumissala and would come looking—for Henri, for you. That is why he hid you and put you in foster care."

"Why bring me back to Loumissala? Why not leave me in California?"
"Henri and Zeke, they were like mangrove trees, with roots in the bayou. They came back and hid out, working on the technology Mangalotte wanted. Henri believed by getting close to the president, he could bell the cat."

"And bringing up baby Lillian would have been a colossal risk."

"Yes. He could not appear to have any ties. Too dangerous for him and you. He was always interested in you."

Usher put the object it had been carrying on the table and turned it so I could see—a 3 by 5 holographic image.

"This is Henri's only record of you and him together. He kept it in a secret drawer in a lab bench when he built the original avatar prototypes on Île Sauvage. The bench is now here in the warehouse."

There are times when you know what's about to happen but are still surprised. This was one of them.

The young child in the picture was me. The adult woman in the photo was my first foster mother. Behind her was a tall man I recognized as Henri J. Knightly. He looked young and smug, wearing his signature smile, dressed in a bush shirt and pants with leg pockets. His close-cropped brown hair and thick eyebrows framed a wide forehead. Hazel eyes set behind round data spectacles looked directly into the camera.

The robot pushed the photo toward me. "You take it and do what you want with it. Maybe you should destroy it."

I held it in my hand. This was no longer an intellectual puzzle to be solved. It was very personal. I felt the connection in the pit of my stomach and the flutter in my heart, along with emotions of anger, resentment, betrayal.

"He was very proud when you published the paper on cryptography. It got him thinking about cryptids."

I put aside my feelings for a moment as curiosity got the better of me. "What is a cryptid?"

"It is an avatar that knows how to hide."