Tevun-Krus #100

13 - The Blueprint Man - @PhonerionBallznevsky - Immortality SF

The Blueprint Man

An Immortality SF story by PhonerionBallznevsky

1

The notion that I would live forever first struck me when I was a boy. And I don't mean the usual sort of invulnerability little kids feel they possess because their brains haven't yet fully developed—after all, no young man believes he shall ever die—this was different. I was seven and I'd never given much thought to the concept of death, had never experienced the death of a family member or a dearly loved pet. We didn't keep pets in my house. There was love at home, yes—not much of it, though it did exist—but it was a strange kind of love, the kind of love that can turn to a barbed wire–enwrapped baseball bat in the blink of an eye.

Not that such a weapon was ever used on me. I don't want you thinking that. The sudden screaming matches between my parents, the throwing and smashing of randomly grabbed possessions, the weeping with my head hidden safely under the blanket as I tried to block out the torrent of abuse I heard—that was the weapon. We could be a relatively happy family one minute, and then the wheels of normality would come squealing off.

But even that changed, too. I was seven.

One morning I awoke past my normal time. It was a school day and it wasn't yet winter, so I found it unlikely to have snowed the considerable amount needed to warrant a day off. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I peered through the crack in my blinds and saw a regular autumn day, with red-orange leaves either on the ground or still in the trees, contemplating their timely descent.

Thinking this strange, I hopped out of bed—quickly pulling the sheets and blankets neatly back into place; I was a fastidious child—and explored the house, first peeking into my parents' room, seeing their bed had been made, too. This was Mom's handiwork; she'd make the bed before heading off to her actual job, designing anti-gravity boots at Atriokk Corp. On any other day, Dad himself would have been at his own job, watching over the robots that process, pick and package people's online purchases. Normally it was Dad who ensured I was up, dressed, fed and sent on my way to school.

Obviously this hadn't happened that morning.

I checked the upstairs bathroom, the living room downstairs, the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom—Dad was nowhere to be found. While rotating in circles and thinking of where he could possibly be, I saw the back of his head through the kitchen window. He was sitting on the back porch, seemingly staring at the rear fence separating our backyard from the neighbour's.

Heading outside, I noticed he was spinning his car keys around his finger, looking dazed with his eyes out of focus. "Dad," I said, "how come I'm not at school?"

He turned his head, still spinning the keys, and seemed to look through me. The keys stopped spinning, his eyes crinkled and he smiled. "Oh, good. You're up." He stood and said, "C'mon, Ralphie, get dressed. We're going for a drive. Put a coat on—it's chilly today."

Dad hadn't answered my question, but I was never one to turn down an opportunity to be with him. I ran back upstairs, stripped out of my pajamas and threw on some clothes, raced back down, found my shoes and my coat, then went outside. Dad was sitting in the truck, an old cream-blue Dodge, with the window open. His hand hung out, and between his fingers was a cigarette giving off tendrils of smoke.

Climbing into the passenger side, I shot him a grin, which—given my age at the time—I'm pretty sure was partly toothless.

He returned the grin and said, "Seatbelt," waiting for me to buckle up before reversing out of the driveway.

2

All seemed well. We were travelling the scenic route, with the deep-blue calmness of Lake Batanouille to our left and a forest of yellow-red-orange leaves to our right. Dad asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.

"An astronaut," I answered, looking with longing at the Moon, wondering what it was like to leap from crater to crater. Wondering about its gravity.

"Wow, an astronaut!" He puffed his cigarette. "You could get me a chunk of cheese, huh, Ralphie?" He poked me in the side, tickling me, making me laugh.

We went over a small hill and saw a hatchback ahead of us. Dad braked and swore. The road had a solid line of paint, meaning passing wasn't allowed.

"Fucking idiots," Dad hissed, agitated. He rocked around in his seat, checked the mirrors, gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. We were now well below the speed limit, riding the rear bumper of the hatchback. "What is this? A fucking robot driving a car?" He banged on the horn and held a middle finger high out the window. "Speed limit's eighty, asshole!"

After thirty seconds, Dad couldn't take anymore and floored it, swinging around the hatchback and lowering my window so he could shout a few choice words at the offending vehicle.

There was no driver at the wheel. It was a test for a driverless car.

I didn't know it at the time, but Dad had been fired the previous day, replaced in his role as supervisor by an advanced robot that could watch over simpler ones.

"I fucking knew it! Goddamn lying, thieving cunts! Your mother said I was crazy. But, fuck. That lying bitch... The whore. Lesbian slut. Behind my back. The government flying her around. I've seen the websites," he said to me, eyes wide, his arms shaking. "Seen where she goes, day, night. She's supposed to be working. And she thinks I'm crazy. Not crazy. Saner than she is. Bitch. Useless fucking bitch..."

My heart pounded as I attempted to process what I'd heard. Dad lit another cigarette and we continued driving in silence, thirty kilometres over the speed limit.

"It's not fair," he said. "Nobody understands. Only me. They can't see them. They can't touch them... speak to them. But I can," he added, giving me a knowing glance. "My latest theory? Maybe I'm a god. I've denied the signs for too long. Nobody else has any clue, but I do." He shrugged. "One way to find out."

He jerked the wheel to the right and took us into the forest. I felt the seatbelt pinch me on the neck, chest and abdomen. Then we were airborne, and time seemed to freeze for me. I stared through the windshield and saw a closely grouped row of white birch trees.

The impact rocked the truck, and both of us flew forwards through the windshield, shattering the glass. Evidently our seatbelts had malfunctioned. I rolled off the hood and felt a sharp pain in my arm as I landed on it, then hit my head on a branch before hitting the ground. When I was flying, I saw Dad get clotheslined by a tree and go swinging around it. By the time I'd hit the ground, in a daze, I saw he was partially impaled on another tree the truck had broken. He shrieked in pain, his nose and ears bleeding. I saw he had a large dent in his skull, like a cantaloupe gone rotten and tender to the touch.

I tried to scream "Dad!" but no words came out. There on the ground, I realized my head was canted at a bizarre angle, meeting my unraised shoulder. I couldn't move it, couldn't move anything.

Dad stared at me, blood spilling from his mouth as leaves floated down from above. "Y-You," he said, grimacing in pain, struggling with the word. "W-Wowf. Wowfie. It... you."

"Me?" I wanted to ask, but couldn't.

The next few minutes were spent silently watching my father in agony, as he said mostly nonsensical things—or, at least, they were nonsense to me then. His final words to me before he died were: "I wuv you, Wowfie. I s-so, so—" His face contorted as he tried to get his last thought out.

And then he was gone, slumped over the jagged point of the tree, a string of bloody drool hanging from his open mouth. A bubble of blood popped in his nostril. My eyes shed all their tears. Thin, warm snot ran down my cheek. A strange, choked whimper came from me but I couldn't properly sob, still couldn't move.

As I later learned, the self-driving car detected tire marks on the road, stopped and detected our truck had crashed, then alerted the police. I'm unsure how long it took for help to arrive, but I suspect it must have been at least forty-five minutes. In that forty-five minutes, a warmth spread throughout my body, then a tingling sensation in the parts I believe had been broken. I was starting to regain movement in my head and appendages when a voice echoed from above: "Holy shit! Hey, kid, you okay?"

I couldn't speak, but I flopped my limbs a little.

A group of police and paramedics descended the slope. One turned me over and momentarily held a device over my eyes. "Can you move?"

"A little," I said, my voice a dry croak.

"Wait here." He joined the others examining Dad, whistled when he saw what was left of him. "Won't have to scan him."

"Hey, c'mon, man," said one of the others.

"Just sayin'."

Hearing him talk about Dad like that, I felt a renewed strength to regain my independence. The warmth became hotter, burned inside me, then a sharp jolt of pain shot to my head, arms and legs. I picked myself up, wobbled a bit, stretched and gave my neck a crack.

Scanner turned. "The hell?" he said, checking his scanning device. "Weren't you hurt?"

"No," I lied, both astonished and afraid, realizing I should've been paralyzed but wasn't. Dad's talk of being a god crossed my mind, alongside his cryptic "It you."

"I swear this kid was busted beyond all hell!" Scanner slapped the device.

The other replied, "Well, you read it wrong. The kid's just in shock. I mean, hell..." He indicated to Dad.

Looking at Dad's remains, I let out another sob. I covered my eyes and Scanner came and hugged me as I cried into his shoulder.

"There, there, kid. You'll get through this."

Nobody really knew why Dad did what he did—he didn't live to tell the tale, after all. It was pure insanity, and selfish, too. Naturally, I revealed the conversation and his actions leading up to the crash.

It was later learned—after he'd been collected from the forest floor and the surrounding trees, and his body given an extensive examination—that Dad's brain had a number of massive tumours growing inside it. The professionals suggested the possibility such malignancies were responsible for his bizarre actions.

I find it hard to hate him. How can I, when his mind was not his own? A part of me does hate my father, however—not for doing what he did, which would have killed me if I were anyone else, but for leaving me. Even with all the years I've lived now, all the lifetimes I've lived, I still long for those years I missed with him. And even with all the knowledge I've gained and wisdom I've gleaned, part of me still hates him for that.

I'm not proud of that fact.