THE ADVENTURES OF
BARTON MILLER, JR.
By Adi Teodoru
I’m just sitting down to breakfast, when
the alarm goes off and my limited supply of air begins to leak out. My name is
Barton Miller, Jr. and today is my thirteenth birthday.
Two hours earlier…
I
wake up at eight o’clock like I do every morning since I can remember. I like
routine, it makes me feel safe.
“Morning,
sir,” the disembodied voice welcomes me, as it always does. I run my hand
through the mop of shaggy black hair which is sticking out at odd angles from
my head, and try to remember the last time I cared enough to comb it.
“What’s
on the agenda today, STAG?” I ask, only mildly interested. Nothing new ever
happens to me.
“Daily
checklist,” STAG begins in his nasal, robotic voice. “O-eight hundred hours, wake
up routine and exercise. O-nine hundred hours, full body cleansing. Nine
thirty, medication and marrow injections in the MedSec. Ten AM, breakfast. Ten-thirty-“
“What’s
for breakfast?” Anything but trail mix,
I silently pray.
“Fruit
and nut trail mix bars,” STAG answers, ruining all my hopes. I’m so sick of the
taste of nuts and berries I would eat tree bark if it was available.
Unfortunately, all that is available
is what my dad stockpiled in the food stores all those years ago and it was
designed to last. Taste wasn’t really a part of the consideration. “Shall I
continue the schedule, Barton?”
I
sometimes find it strange when STAG calls me by my first name. I have to remind
myself over and over that STAG is only a computer program, designed to keep me
fed, watered and give me some form of company. Though STAG’s not what you would
call a real friend, I’m afraid I can’t remember any other voice but his. Not
even my mother’s.
“Status
report?” I continue, too depressed to listen to more inane activities planned
for the day, and refusing to give into thoughts about a family I can’t remember
having.
“Sector?”
STAG responds, as I make my way to the command center at the back of the main
room.
“Food
supply.” The two widescreens come to life, displaying a thousand different
numbers, most of which are unimportant to me at the moment. I wait for STAG to
bring up the proper statistics, while I think about how to make fruit and nuts
taste like a steak. I can’t even recall the last time I smelled meat. That went
first.
“Nutrition
back-stock at thirty three percent,” STAG says, and I feel a strange chill in
my bones. Just a third of my original stock left. That’s a daunting number.
It
had only been eight years since my dad, Barton Miller, Sr.- or as I called him,
Pops-had stocked the food and water supplies to keep me going. Even being a
brilliant engineer, it had taken him a year to build and program STAG, to prep
the supply bunker and fill it. It would be the final year of his life.
Now
here I was, eight years later, and I’d gone through two thirds of Pops’ hard
work. The first few years, STAG had managed my portions, oxygen rations and
battery usage. When I turned eight, he started giving me more and more
responsibility, the way I assume a parent should. I wouldn’t know.
“Life
support systems?” I ask. It’s part of my daily routine to check the life
support, because it’s by far the most important. My condition requires that the oxygen and nitrogen in the air be kept
at a specific level and any fluctuations could mean a tear in the line. If that
should happen, the entire system would collapse leaving me exposed to bacteria
and infection.
“Life
support systems normal, sir.” STAG responds, though I feel like he’s hesitating.
Can robots hesitate?
“What’s
up?” I ask, feeling a warm prickle on the back of my neck.
“The
systems register normal, sir, but there is a discrepancy in the seal sensor. It
seems to be malfunctioning.”
“Are
we leaking air?”
“No,
levels are steady. But with the sensor damaged, there is no way to be certain
it will remain that way.”
“Can
it be repaired?” I watch the lights flicker across the screen as STAG thinks
about it.
“I’ll
send the RoboTech right now, sir. It
should take no longer than two hours.”
I
feel the panic recede like a wave and try to calm myself. We’ve had a few of
these scares over the years, moments when minor malfunctions could mean the end
of my way of life. STAG had handled them marvelously every time, however the
danger still existed. Without the safety of my enclosure, my compromised immune
system wouldn’t be able to deal with the bacteria and viruses outside. This is
why I’ve spent all of my thirteen years in this plastic room.
I
let the RoboTech do its work and go through my morning routine without much
enthusiasm. I wish I had someone to complain to, really, someone I could shout
at when I’m frustrated or who could witness my tantrums and actually feel
something. Unfortunately, STAG always responds to my temper outbreaks by
knocking me out with sleeping gas. One minute I’m yelling at the top of my
lungs and the next-thump. My least favorite of the “parenting modules”
in his mainframe, but it works, I guess.
My
morning exercise routine has changed over the years. When I was five, I was
always running around, so there was no need to set aside time for physical
fitness. A few years after my parents’ death, I went through what STAG calls
“my dark times”, and I became languid and lazy. My robotic caretaker decided it
was time to add physical activity to my routine, before I lost all use of my
muscles except the fingers I used on my game controller. At first, I whined and
threw tantrums like any child, which mostly ended with my being knocked out
every day. After a while, I realized I was tired of spending half my time
asleep, so I decided to follow STAG’s advice.
A
few weeks into a specially designed physical training program, mirrored after
the former Navy Seal boot camp exercises, I realized I actually liked it. With
STAG’s help, I designed my own PT which included kickboxing, karate, jiu jitsu
and tai-chi. I had reached the equivalent of a brown-belt by the time I was
ten, so we advanced to weapons training. I always wondered what I would do with
these skills, but no answer had ever come.
Today
I’m working with the staff in the Rec-Room, a large circular offshoot of my
main living quarters. I favor the staff over any of my other training, I have a
natural talent for it. The robotic targets STAG had designed come equipped with
extension arms which counter my attacks and give me a more realistic combat
situation. It’s my favorite part of the day.
I
go a little over my allotted time today, and STAG rushes me. For a week I’ve
been working on perfecting a strike technique where I feint to the left and,
balancing on the staff, throw myself into an upward spin to strike the enemy
from the right. I still haven’t been able to get off the ground with enough
momentum to complete the three-sixty spin. Today, I’m sure I’ll get it right.
I
don’t. Frustrated with my failure and STAG’s constant badgering, I break my
training staff in two. Great! Now the
RoboTech will have to find and process a new one. Add that to the list of tasks
they have to complete on their next run outside the perimeter. The RoboTech
devices are like sophisticated remote cars that STAG controls whenever we need
something from the outside world. I’m often jealous of them. It seems like
they’re the only ones with any freedom around here.
“We’re
behind schedule, Barton,” STAG prods, sounding almost human.
“Who
cares?” I spit back, feeling the familiar surge of anger rising from the pit of
my stomach. I’d been getting testier and testier over the last year. STAG had
been monitoring my emotional spikes and recording the data, but none of that
felt like he was listening to me.
“I
do, sir,” STAG answers back. I hate how he never gets ruffled. No matter what
happens, he’s still even and I wish Pops had programmed a personality in. If I
had to talk to only one “person” for the rest of my life, I wish they would at
least be interesting.
“Any
chance the water will be warm today?” I ask, dumping my clothes on the ground
as I move through the enclosure to the sanitary section.
“The
temperature outside has increased by three units. Today’s tank temp reads
eighty degrees.”
Well
that’s better than I’d hoped for. I relieve myself in the toilet which
immediately begins to filter and recycle the water once I flush. The shower has
a motion sensor and temperature regulator with a default setting. Of course our
heating coils had malfunctioned a few years ago, and we haven’t been able to
get the right parts to fix them. So, my showers depend on whether or not the
sun’s out. In Albuquerque, New Mexico, thankfully that’s often.
Once
I’m done with my shower I wait for the full-body dryer to complete its function
and I throw on whatever clothes STAG has prepared for me. Today it’s a red,
checkered button-up with acid stained jeans. I haven’t bothered with shoes in
years. I brush my teeth quickly and head to the MedSec.
MedSec
is the place I like least out of my entire enclosure, because it reminds me of
a horror movie. It’s a small room in the back, filled with terrifying
instruments I have no interest in understanding. I’d learned when I was an
infant that this is the room where pain happens and it’s the place I feel the
weakest. The needles and probes glimmer like a villain’s smile at me when I
walk in. I know, logically, that this is for my own good. The shots, the
transfusions, the tests, are all an attempt at curing the disease keeping me
trapped in this place. The disease that saved my life.
The
virus struck when I was four years old. It spread across the world like
wildfire, killing everyone in its path. In six months, more than half the
population of Earth was dead, my mother along with them. After he watched her
die, Pops went to work. Due to my condition,
Severe Combined Immunodeficiency, or SCID, Pops knew I’d be safe in my sterile,
air-tight environment. He wanted to make sure I had every chance of survival
after he was gone. He was a brilliant man, or so STAG tells me, and he knew the
chances of his survival were non-existent, nor could he hide in my enclosure
with me without risk to my health. So, he worked day and night to build an
everlasting battery which would run the entire system and created STAG to take
his place when he was gone. I was five when he finally went.
I
try to shut out the images of that time. This room, above all else, brings back
those ugly memories; that’s probably why I hate it so much. I strap myself down
to the examination chair and the robotic arms begin to move on their own. I try
to concentrate on my staff training while they work, anything to ignore the
pain. Even though I’ve received these shots every day of my life since I was
diagnosed, the pain is still as bad as that first time.
The
bodiless arms lift my shirt from my back and I feel the cold spray of
disinfectant on my spine. I breathe evenly like I’ve been taught to do, and try
to focus on my tai-chi lessons. Those are the most helpful in dealing with pain
and stress, and they’ve taught me how to keep calm. The pain is blinding when
the needle digs into my vertebrae, sending ripples down my back and making me
want to curl in around myself.
I
remain motionless. I know that if I shift even a fraction of an inch, it’s
likely that the machine will sever my nerves and leave me paralyzed. I dread
that more than anything else in the world. Everything already seems so stifling
and oppressive; I can’t imagine being stuck in a chair for the rest of my life.
I don’t move.
The
machines are well programmed and they finish much quicker than a human would.
Soon the excruciating pain is only a dull ache and I feel the needle retract. I
release a loud sigh when I’m given the all clear and once again my thoughts
turn to the upcoming breakfast.
“Well
done today, Barton,” STAG encourages me, in his pre-programmed way.
“Any
chance I can get a brownie as a reward?” I try.
“All
sugar based products have been consumed, sir,” is the only answer I receive.
“Let’s
get it over with, then. What’s the deal with the RoboTech?”
“They’ve
isolated the sensor and are currently working on replacing it. Another fifteen
minutes and it should be up and running.”
I
drop into the chair at my computer and type my log-in password. I sometimes
think how ridiculous it is to even have a password, when there’s no one left to
break into your computer anyway. It’s like locking your door when you live on
top of Mount Everest.
Other than STAG, my computer has
been the one thing keeping me sane over the last eight years. In the beginning,
I had the “dark times”, moments when I wanted everything to just end,
especially the loneliness. Not normal thoughts for a six year old, according to
STAG, so he taught me how to use the computer. It opened up my tiny little
world into one of infinite possibility. Though there’s no one to create new
pages or update anymore, the archives still exist. The entire history of the
universe is right at my fingertips in the form of e-books, articles,
dissertations, forums, blogs, and a million other mediums I can explore. I
can’t imagine who found “food blogs” interesting back in the day, but now, they’re
my favorite. I’ll spend hours reading the posts and longer going through people’s
comments, Sometimes, I’ll even post my own. I always check back to see if
somehow, someone has answered me, but it never happens. Still, it feels like
I’m actually having a conversation with a person, something I can never
remember doing for real.
“I’ll
eat here,” I mumble to STAG, who I imagine nods to himself. There is a moment
of silence before he speaks.
“I
could make you some chocolate milk, if you’d like.”
I
feel something squeeze painfully in the center of my chest. That’s exactly what
my mother used to say. I don’t remember much about her, but I remember that she
made the most amazing desserts. She had a knack in the kitchen, STAG’s told me,
a real iron chef. Every time I have to swallow down another mouthful of sludge
that tastes like cardboard, I miss her even more.
“How
are you going to do that?” I ask STAG. “All sugar based products have been
consumed.”
“I
have powdered milk stock and chocolate cereal. The combination should produce
the desired results.” He pauses. “Would you like some chocolate milk, Barton?”
I
feel strangely hollow, empty, like I don’t, nor will I ever, want anything again. I feel an anger rising from the void, and I wonder if this will be one of those days when
I end up unconscious.
I’m trying to calm myself using every technique I know,
when the alarm blares to life behind me.
* * *
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