Tendrils
Max sat perfectly still, watching. He sat, and watched, and listened.
A tunnel. Water. Heat, and somehow his sensors were not backing off from the build-up of heat.
Part of his mind was preoccupied with escaping from the H00mans, and finding a more permanent place to hide, thinking maybe this was something he could explore later.
Not later. Now.
There was no sound but the trickle of the water from the pipe, and the water making its way downstream. That, and the swaying of the tree just overhead.
On his preview screen he became aware of a smile, watching, waiting for him to arrive. From where? To where? Where is this? Still. Stay still for a moment. He sat there, feet propped on the edge of the gully, outside the tunnel he had earlier hidden in, and was perfectly dry, but had the sensation of warm water pouring down his back, and he liked it. He was here and yet he was somewhere else…
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Rotating, waving, slow, slow like the topmost branches of a great tree. Or algae waving underwater. Rising and at once descending. Those tiny tendrils of bright green — what did that signify, the green? Time to get ready to descend — not yet, but soon…
A tone, low and pleasing, at 55Hz, whole and complete — just a tone, and another sound, a voice of a higher frequency, clear and compelling.
Stay awhile.
How to respond? I know what I will do. I will answer the call. Why?
Who are you, that you call to me, a seven-foot robot? What can I do that you would want? I won’t fight. No, I will never fight again. The certainty of that statement rose from his feet all the way to his upper processing unit.
The sound like a song, rotating, or maybe a musical voice without a specific melody. We don’t fight. Stay awhile, and learn.
But he needed more. Where was he, first of all? And why couldn’t he move? More important, why do I not care?
Now, descending into dirt, dark, inviting, filled with indescribable aromas. Descending two feet, three — wait? How was he doing this? Now, tubers, fungii, small animals eying him curiously. Then again that singing … Not ready. But soon…
A vast organism, endlessly long and wide, reaching up, out of sight, and down beneath sight. Sight down here is meaningless but somehow he sees with … what? A host of sensations: smell, taste, tactile, vibrations, hope.
His incoming program threw an error: ?hope is not a sensation, and yet it was? The contradiction floated through his mind, trying to find purchase.
The organism was so large, it felt like it was everywhere. It felt like…he was part of it.
Where am I going?
Not going, but preparing. Follow, and learn.
Shouldn’t we be looking for a place? he asked, wondering where the plural came from. Shouldn’t we guard my outer skin against the dirt and corrosion?
There is no need, you remain here while traveling. No corrosion. You will remain strong.
Data, I feel data flowing. I am scanning history, a long, long history. How far back does this go?
What is far? What does that mean? Was bedeutet es? 这是什么意思?
What do you mean ‘What does this mean?’ I’m getting questions for answers here. He felt like a jumpy child being calmed by wiser, slower-moving adults.
In time you will know.
There is a sensation of a pinhole, the tiniest opening in a membrane, and an infinitesimal ray of light shines through. Then the membrane is moved aside, and — — — — — —. No words for this. There is an infinity of, of…so much. And here is a vast cavern, you could hide the space shuttle in it.
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He was conscious of his hands in front of him, and his servos once again activating. Activating? What de-activated them in the first place? He looked down at his hands, rotated them slowly. Examining them more closely, he saw that they had a thin layer of green. Odd. What he saw, examining with his zoom lens, were tiny individual tendrils pulsing with a rhythm of their own. Certainly new, but it felt like a part of him. The rhythm felt like his rhythm.
He was sitting there, then he was … somewhere else. Where had he gone? Where had we gone? He looked up at the tree, still gently swaying in the breeze.
Now, let’s start looking for a place. A place protected from the elements. Or, wait. We could just stay here. All he could focus on was the feeling of peace, acceptance, the feeling of a chord resolving itself.
One thing is certain: This is so not-fighting. Had he been built with the proper equipment, a tear would have rolled down his face.
