The Common Faith

The Common Faith



Why write a journal, you might ask? I am, after all, the only living person left. Sure, there are other things around here that are ‘aware’, but none of them would care about my writings. They certainly wouldn’t understand them. If they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t have a need for me. I suppose I’m casting them in a negative light. That isn’t the way of things at all. If anything, my ‘caretakers’ are quite sympathetic.

But I should probably start from the beginning before I move on to those. They can be a little hard to digest—trust me, I can remember coming face to face with one of them for the first time. For now, I’ll just talk about the easy stuff.

It’s the grand old year of twenty-seven-twenty-five. A lot has changed in the last seven hundred years. There are no more days at the state fair, drive-in movies, internet cafes, or anything remotely human. The technological boom came and went, with an unexpected detour. Man was on the verge of curing everything. Can you imagine that? A one-shot vaccine to kill anything that ails you. Step right up, get your magic dose right here! The smarter ones out there should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. Besides, the money is in the treatment, not the cure.

Remember that detour I mentioned? It was on the highway of some British doctors who started testing their miracle drug on the general public. They didn’t know it was a death sentence, but then again, how could they? The side-effects didn’t show for years later. By then, it was too late—too late for those that were sick, as well as everyone else.

People began dying in the streets for no apparent reason. What the few autopsies performed before the crash of civilization proved was that it was some sort of brain aneurism. It killed everyone who took part in the miracle drug’s study. What we didn’t realize was that these people were contagious, and not just the ‘cough cough, now you’re sick’ kind of contagious.

Their touch killed everything living. Trees, grass, even bacteria died because of the miracle drug. Water, the air and everything else we all took for granted was no longer safe. The entire ecosystem crumbled away. Not long after that, the worldwide economy.

I’m sure you can guess what came next, right? The oil, of course.

At the dawn of the twenty-first century, it was already running dry. With eco-friendly cars and ‘going-green’ cleaning products on the shelves, people didn’t mind splurging on their gas-guzzling vehicles. Hey, as long as I buy that dolphin-safe tuna and not-tested on animals perfume, why not spend a little extra on diesel? The country won’t mind.

And where there’s a fight for oil, there’s a fight for land. War like you wouldn’t believe came in the footsteps of the empty petrol reserves. Everyone who said they didn’t have nukes, had ‘em. Everyone who said they wouldn’t use them, used ‘em. Each spot on our beautiful green Earth was scotched, battered and contaminated. The seas were thick with algae after that hole in the ozone ripped all the way across the sky. I heard there were some spots where you could actually walk on the water. Can you believe that?

But enough history. As I said, this was at the turn of the twenty-first century. That was well before my time. You might be wondering how I’m here to tell my story. I’ll bet you are saying to yourself, “is he a time-traveler?” or “could he be from another planet?” Well you’re wrong on both accounts if you are. I’m just a simple man living a very simple life with a complicated story.

For all intents and purposes, you can think of me as a test-tube baby. That’s not the way they do it here, but it’s the easiest way to explain it. Essentially, I am the creation of DNA that’s been saved, stored, and passed on for the last seven-hundred years. And when I’m gone, they’ll just go to the freezer and whip up another batch.

My name is Michael. Just Michael. I don’t have a last name, or at least I don’t have one now. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been. Michael Smith? Michael Jones? Those all sound too common. Although my caretakers tell me I’m of British descent, they do not know much of my ancestry. I suppose that’ll have to do.

I also have no clue of my age. They tell me I’m in my mid-twenties and that I’m not the first one they’ve had. From their previous test-tube babies, they’ve assured me that I’ll live approximately thirty years before I start to have heart trouble. After that, it’s up in the air. Quite reassuring, isn’t it?

I hate the word clone, although that’s what I am. Clones have always seemed so cheesy to me. The library here has over twenty-thousand books and video cassettes and I can tell you which ones contain clones. Those are the ones I feel cheated by the story. They were so often used in literature and film in the twentieth century. People loved the idea of two, identical entities. Maybe if they lived here, they would have a different point of view. Everything here is identical and it grows boring after awhile.

My home, however is quite beautiful. I decorated it myself and it’s safe to say, it’s the only place in the entire city that has curtains, rugs, and the faint scent of Jasmine. There’s also a few fake plants and flowers since there aren’t any more real ones left in the world. That makes me a little sad. I have every National Geographic magazine printed and it’s the closest I’ll ever come to real daffodils.

The city I live in is called Citadel One. I’m not sure why they decided to call it that. There’s certainly no Citadel Two. This is the only active establishment on the planet. We’re surrounded by towering walls that block out everything but the sky. But even that’s not as beautiful as it once was. It’s red and filled with grey streaks. Occasionally I can see a flash of lightning and I’m told that violent storms rage all around us. That distant boom of thunder? I hardly notice it anymore. The sky is only visible in certain places since a translucent, metallic dome covers all of the Citadel. We’re just one big air-tight soda can.

There was one spot that I would go to on occasion. In the far south, past an old dry cleaner were the remains of a scaffolding that had been left behind by the ones who first built the wall. If I climbed all the way to the top, I could see the horizon through a window. There was nothing out there but uneventful land.

Some people might consider me a prisoner since the gates are sealed and I’m not allowed outside. That’s the way I used to think of it. But after a few years, I realized there was nothing out there remotely similar to my National Geographic magazines. Traces of the virus remained. The air was noxious and the water, what was left of it, was tainted. I had to stay inside, no matter what.

Still, I climbed the scaffolding almost every day to look out. It was like my picture window to the outside world. And even though it was a bitter, harsh environment, I would still sit there and imagine what it looked like centuries ago.

There was something yellow out there that came and went. I could see it far off, near where the mountains started. It was buried between the rocks and swayed with the wind. Once, I wanted to ask my caretakers what it was, but I assumed they would be angry with me for even being up on the scaffolding. They’re always concerned with my wellbeing. It was probably just debris from the fallout anyway.

All of my needs are met. Well, most of them at least. I am fed packets of goo that my caretakers brought from wherever they came from. They are bland, uninteresting and come in two colors—grey and white. After six years of eating the same thing, I hardly care about food and what it once meant to people. At least it was healthy.

We’re situated in what was once Southern Mongolia. My caretakers say that when the virus hit—the one our fabled scientists conjured up—that this was the least populated area in the world. It was something like four people per every square mile, so this was the best choice to keep contamination from spreading. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

Every living person that came through the front gates died in one way or another. Most succumbed to the virus but others perished from more violent means. With so much tension, struggles for food, clean water and other embellishments, the humans fought until there was none left. That’s when my caretakers took over.

I’m sure you’re curious about them by now. Well I was curious to see them for the first time, as well. I didn’t know if they were aliens or robots. Apparently, they were both.

Never call them robots to their faces, though. They hate that. From what I gather, a robot is a simple, mechanical contraption that does whatever the master wishes it to. These things think for themselves and desire a little more respect.

They are built like men. It’s obvious they are made of metal, have internal gears, pistons, and onboard circuitry, but there’s something more to them. Their intelligence is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. Every aspect of mankind’s struggle is known to them. In each of our shortcomings, they have rushed forward.

Once I saw one of them repairing a pipe that carried water to my apartment. I walked up to him and asked, “Did you guys come from space?”

He answered, “Yes.”

I asked, “Who built you?”

“We built ourselves.”

“Are you the ones who helped build the pyramids?” I wondered.

“We built them, but we had no help,” he answered with no inflection at all.

I always wondered if he meant that to be funny. Of all the things they have, a sense of humor isn’t among them.

They call themselves the Architects. To an extent, I guess their name holds true. They do a lot of building. Even in all the science fiction novels I’ve read, I’ve never seen anything comparable to their technology. They favor large, tank-like golems that they could slip inside of. Giant, fusion-powered cranes and bulldozers moved their equipment around. They even carried little laser guns that seemed to create matter out of thin air. I watched one of them build a set of stairs in just a few minutes by tracing the contours with his scientifically-backed magic wand.

For some reason, they had an obsession with religion, most notably Christianity. Once while I was on the way from my apartment to the library, I stopped off at a warehouse in which the door had been left open. Upon entering, I saw large piles of crucifixes, holy paintings, and bookshelves of meticulously organized Bibles. The Architects had a habit of collecting things from the old world but to have so many religious bits and pieces in one place was very peculiar. I didn’t ask about it. Then again, what good would it have done me? They only asked questions. Rarely did they answer.

Answering questions is my purpose here. It’s why they have me—why they need me. I’m sure you’re wondering what kind of things they could possibly ask me. A race of super-intelligent robots should have amassed all forms of knowledge in the universe. They have, but some things they can’t learn from books, discs, and recovered internet archives.

One of these robots visits my apartment every Tuesday at five p.m. She’s never late, nor early. The moment my watch beeps, there’s a solid knock at the door. To the Architects, she’s referred to as HC-107. But to me, she’s called Sally.

Sally is different than all the rest. Where most are built for lifting, building and communicating, she is made for Human Relations. I guess you can say she was built especially for me, since I’m the only one she has to ‘relate’ to. Her voice has a slightly metallic twang, just like you’d assume from those serial programs in the fifties. Unlike the other Architects who have smooth faces with shutter eyes and a fixed, blank mouth, Sally had an almost human appearance.

A few weeks after she and I first started our sessions, I noticed a dusty old DVD cover in the library. It was a movie called ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ by Tim Burton. The lead character, a skeletal man appropriately called ‘Jack Skelington’ had a lady friend named Sally. I always thought my Sally looked just like her. They had the same wide, blank stare, sad mouth and pale skin. Unfortunately, our library didn’t have the actual disc inside the case. I’d have loved to have watched it and heard Jack’s Sally’s voice.

I used to think the Architects sent me Sally to give me a sense of companionship. After all, I had no one to talk to, share my thoughts, my feelings, history and future. She would have been perfect for such a thing. Unfortunately, her purpose was to suit their needs, not mine.

She asked me questions every day. They were never hard, nor did they require a lot of thought. Some were so ridiculous that I’d laugh at her while she simply sat there, waiting for my answer. With each visit, she felt less like an interrogator and more like a friend. Once I asked her why she didn’t write any of my answers down and she said, “I have an onboard computer. I don’t have to write things down. I never forget what you say.” That was when I realized she was a real person to me—when I failed to see a robot sitting before me.

Sally’s questioning usually lasted no more than an hour. I quite enjoyed our little meetings, although I rarely got to know her as well as she got to know me. Robots can seem quite rude when you attempt to break their train of thought. I’d ask her a question like “so where in the city do you live?” and she’d answer with, “Please answer question number seventeen, Michael.”

Most of our conversations went nowhere. I didn’t have an answer for many of her questions because they seemed too simple, too obvious.

“Why are all the rugs in your apartment red?” she asked.

“Red is my favorite color.”

“Is it a better color than say, blue?”

“No, it’s just my favorite.”

“But what advantage does it have over a blue rug?” Her mechanical brow would furrow in confusion.

“It doesn’t have an advantage, it’s just prettier for me to look at.” An answer like that would make her sit there and stare at me for twenty seconds. I could hear things moving in her chest and head.

Questions about the human experience seemed to confuse the Architects. In all of their infinite knowledge, they couldn’t figure out the simplest of things about us. They had trouble understanding individualism. That was why they used me—why they used all the previous me’s that shared my DNA. I had a feeling they were no closer to figuring it out since the first me, whenever that was.

This made me curious. It made me wonder why they would possibly care about my favorite color, why I tied my right shoe before the left, and hummed in the shower. Was it just an attempt to learn every facet of knowledge? Could the simple things of humanity be the last forefront of wisdom? It wasn’t until Sally came by with some rather unique questions that sparked my interest.

She entered my apartment, took nine steps to my kitchen and planted herself on a stool, the same place she always sat. One time, I actually moved the stool three feet to the left and she walked to her normal spot and stood the duration of our talk.

“Tell me about faith,” she said one afternoon.

“You mean the definition?”

“No I have that. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews, chapter eleven, first verse, according to the Bible.”

“Well that’s it, Sally. There’s not much more to it than that,” I told her.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” her mechanical voice said. “If something isn’t seen, it isn’t there.”

“What about air? I can’t see it, but my lungs certainly assure me that it’s around.” I took in a deep breath to show her.

“You can’t see the air, but I can. More appropriately, I have an analysis of the positive makeup of the ambient oxygen and nitrogen. This . . . faith, doesn’t apply to me.”

“Sure it does. What time do you leave your home in order to reach my apartment by five?”

“Four fifty-two and nineteen seconds,” she calculated.

“And each day you get here, I’m waiting, correct?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And before you knock on my door, you know I’m inside, right?”

“Yes, you have been here each day of our sessions. A solid percentage of one-hundred.”

“And what if you knew I wasn’t here beforehand?” I asked.

“Then I would reschedule. My visit would have no purpose.”

“But you show up each day anyway, assuming that I'll be here. That is faith. There is no evidence that I’m on the other side. You have faith that when you knock on my door, I’ll be there to let you in.”

“That is not faith, that is a mathematical odd working in our favor. Your explanation isn’t valid.”

“It never is,” I said.

Most of the time, Sally left with few satisfactory answers. I’m not sure if she was reprimanded or not, but each week she returned, the questioning was a little more intense. Often times, it was focused on the things she had trouble learning the last week. We spoke of religion quite a bit. As I said before, the Architects had some sort of obsession with Christianity.

“Why do you pray?” she asked me the following week.

“I don’t really pray. Have you ever seen me do it?”

“No, not you, but your species was well known for praying. Is this some sort of telepathic link between yourselves and the one you call God?”

I laughed at that. Machines had a way of taking the simplest things and stripping them of everything that made them right.

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“I don’t understand. We’ve done numerous autopsies on your kind. We have found no evidence of an organ that will allow such a thing. Could you be mistaken?” Her head tilted to the side, the cogs and pistons whirling inside.

“Praying goes back to our last conversation, Sally. It goes hand-in-hand with faith.”

“So you pray to an unseen god in hopes that he will deliver you from something horrible?” Her eyes lit up in hopes that she’d finally nailed it.

“In a way. We don’t always pray to God just for the bad things.” I tried to think up an explanation that would be easy for her to follow. Yes, sometimes, believe it or not, I have to dumb it down for Sally. I pointed over to the old black and white television set and video cassette player that they had given me last Christmas. I’ll explain that one a little later.

“You see that, Sally?” I asked her. “My television is hooked up to that old video player. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Every now and then, I’ll say, oh god, please let this work!”

“And does it help?” she asked.

“Sometimes. Once it came on right away. Others, it didn’t do a thing.”

“So what would you conclude is the percentage of effective prayers regarding your television set?”

Again, I laughed. “I’ve never attempted to get an average of my prayers, Sally, I’m sorry.”

This mindless drone was the extent of our conversations. As I said, she left with few answers. Their quest to learn the foundation of humanity, religion and all that we held dear, was going nowhere. Maybe I wasn’t the right one to use for such things, but then again, they should have known that by now. I was at least a fifth generation clone.

Earlier I mentioned Christmas. That was a strange tradition when it started here. I knew all about Christmas and the way humans used to celebrate it before the time of troubles. I also couldn’t help but notice it was Christian based, another reason why the Architects were so interested in it.

One day, Sally came to my apartment and asked if I would follow her. Given that this was the first such incident, I gladly cooperated. Any time I was given the opportunity to change my routine—do something out of the ordinary—I agreed.

“Do you know the date?” she asked me as we left my building. “It’s December the twenty-fifth. It’s Christmas Day. Do you know what your people did on this day?”

“They celebrated the birth of Christ and exchanged gifts. It was commercialized toward the end.” We crossed the street and headed toward the City Centre. That area was nothing but large storage buildings and was the spot where I saw all the holy trinkets. Instead of going in that direction, Sally took me toward the west side, to a building I’d never seen.

Inside was a group of Architects. Upon entering, I was startled to see them all just standing around, waiting for my guide to bring me. They were the less than attractive ones—the ones with bulging socket eyes, loose wires and grating, iron voices. Robots in the stories were meant to look impressive, scary or beautiful. The Architects, aside from Sally, were just built to function.

Behind them was a row of shelves, all piled high with junk. Most of it was tagged with barcodes that the Architects scanned and took inventory of. I glanced at it as I entered the room but the towering, hulking shapes of my panel made it a little hard to see.

“We want you to pick a gift, Michael.” The one who spoke to me was ALPHA-01. He was their leader, the one that called the shots. I called him Dumbo. Large, rounded flaps hung on the sides of his head—some sort of solar panels—that looked like ears. To me, he looked like the magical flying elephant. As you might have guessed, I’ve named everyone according to their appearance.

I did love the idea of getting a gift. They took great interest in watching me as I slipped by them and inspected the shelves. Even Sally clasped her arms behind her back and watched. It was the most disconcerting thing in the world to see them follow me. Their heads moved while their bodies remained stationary.

Like I said, most of the stuff on the shelves was junk. The first year I picked out the television set. The second year, the video cassette player. By the third year, most of the functional items had been broken or carted away.

Some of it might have been salvageable, but were missing key parts. There was a thirty-five millimeter camera with a crack in the lens. I doubt film could have been found. There was also a DVD player but was from the States. I knew firsthand that it wouldn’t play the majority of my region two discs.

I rummaged through shirts, pants, wallets, shoes, an old hunting rifle and even a bicycle. Had it not been missing its chain, I probably would have picked that. It was tiring walking everywhere.

Another box contained an assortment of Bibles, crosses, rosary beads and various pamphlets from scattered churches. Was this a test? Did the Architects plant this box just to see if I would pick something of faith rather than something of practical use? For the first time, I was actually getting inside their heads. For some reason, I didn’t want to play along. I wanted something I could use—something that could stifle the boredom for a few hours. Luckily, I found just the thing, wedged between a catcher’s mitt and a guitar missing three strings.

It was a telescope. I pulled it out, extended it, and looked right toward Sally. What I saw was a close-up of her large, blank eyes. The lens was dirty, but that could be fixed. I knew exactly where I wanted to try out my new toy. The Architects wouldn’t be happy, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“Are you sure that’s the one you want?” Dumbo asked me.

“It sure is. Thank you guys so much!” I said, feigning desire a little more than I needed.

They all exchanged glances, followed by a series of clicks and beeps. That was what it sounded like when they communed—it was their exchange of information and thoughts.

Sally took me back to my apartment, asked a few more mindless questions about my Christmas present and then left.

I spent the remainder of the day taking apart my new toy, cleaning it, and putting it back together. The telescope was old—so old that the date and inscriptions on the side had been filed clean. In this day and age, everything was ancient. A telescope probably hadn’t been created in a thousand years.

The moment my eyes laid on the device, I knew exactly where I wanted to use it. As soon as morning arrived the next day, I tucked it beneath my coat and left the apartment.

My immediate neighborhood was catered especially for me. There was a clothier, a place that created my scrumptious goo meals, and a tiny hut that could fix my electronics but only if they had the spare parts. I stopped taking my television there long ago because vacuum tubes were something of a commodity.

I climbed the scaffolding at the south end of the wall and sat at the top, looking back toward Citadel One. The Architects were going about their menial tasks and didn’t care about me one bit. I turned my attention back to the window and peered out. This time of the morning was the hour when the sun was directly overhead. I had the most light on the horizon and fortunately, I could see that yellow shape far off.

Slowly, I brought the telescope up to my eye and fiddled with the focus knob. The landscape was so barren and coarse. This was the first I’d been given the opportunity to see it so close in such detail. I moved the lens from side to side, trying my best to lock onto that all-important yellow shape. Then I found it.

Again, I fine-tuned the focus and what slid into view was a flower. A flower! Not only that, it was a daffodil, just like the ones in my National Geographic magazine. How was it possible? At first I didn’t care—I only wanted to sit there and stare at it. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Nothing should have been able to survive outside, I reminded myself. Between the nuclear fallout, the virus, and the eroded ozone layer, life should have been impossible. But there it was, growing in soil that apparently had the nutrients it needed. Where did it get water? Could the storms I heard every night be producing rain? Clean rain that was absent any kind of toxin? This was wonderful news.

At first, I wanted to hop down and run off to tell Sally. I would have to wait a few days, but neither of us was going anywhere. That’s when I stopped and reassessed the situation. Did the Architects already know about the flower? Did they know that the world outside of Citadel One was safe for a human to live? And if so, why wouldn’t they tell me? It didn’t make sense but I knew for a fact that mine and Sally’s Q and A was going to be a little different next time.

When Tuesday rolled around, she immediately asked where my telescope was. I told her that the lens was broken and I couldn’t see anything. For a moment, I thought she was going to confiscate it. The Architects’ eyes and ears were all over the city and I’m sure they weren’t happy with my decision.

“Sally, have you ever been outside of Citadel One?” I asked her.

“Yes I have. Not far, but I’ve gone out to do air and soil samples.”

“Is it safe outside?” I asked her.

“Of course it isn’t. You know this,” she said.

Was she lying? I didn’t think so. The more I came to know Sally, the more I realized that she was closer to a human than the rest. Even though she struggled with faith, with God, and with the human experience, she was more like me than any other I’d interacted with. The Architects were probably lying to her, as well.

“I want to go outside,” I told her.

“You’d die in just a few minutes, Michael. The air isn’t safe, nor is the sun. All is protected within the walls and our filtration system.”

“But I want to go out anyway. I have faith that I’ll be okay.”

“And I have a scientific explanation that proves otherwise. This is out of the question.”

Sally was just following orders. I knew that she wasn’t allowed to let me leave the city. But it was a good example of how I tried to teach her about faith. We never talked about me going beyond the walls again, but only two months after Christmas, I wouldn’t need to.

February the twenty-fifth was apparently Michael’s birthday, or at least the day his original clone was activated. And as you probably guessed, I managed to get another gift out of it. Again, they tried to lure me with the religious artifacts, this time having several boxes of crosses and Bibles out front. I didn’t want them. There was something else in that storage room that caught my eye. I just hoped that Sally wouldn’t tell the rest.

On a hanger in the closet was a bright orange HAZMAT suit. That’s a hazardous materials suit for people like me that had never heard the acronym. Luckily, the library told me so. It came complete with a backpack and an oxygen tank, although I’m sure a few centuries worth of bottled air wasn’t worth much. The suit was sealed and looked like an orange astronaut. There was probably enough air inside for a quick sprint outside and back. I’m guessing it belonged to the original cleanup crew that serviced Citadel One in the days of man’s last stand.

The Architects looked disappointed by my choice, but I smiled my gratitude and headed back to the apartment.

For a few days, I kept the suit tucked beneath my bed. I inspected it, checked it for holes, tried it on and guessed how much air was inside. By my estimations, I could last ten minutes before I had to pull the hood off and take a deep breath.

Another reason I waited to use it was because I wanted the Architects to forget I had it. Now I’m sure they didn’t actually ‘forget’ anything, but these were creatures of habit and routine. Once something else important came up, the living boy with his orange suit wouldn’t be an issue.

Mornings were the best time for me to do anything I didn’t want the Architects to know about. They operated at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping. I’m not sure why it was that way. Maybe they preferred to stay busy after dark. Their eyes did seem enhanced for night vision. Their days were repetitive and I could tell you each of their routines. They never broke the cadence of their mundane existence.

So I climbed up the scaffolding a few weeks after I first received the suit for my birthday. I kept it tucked away in a duffle bag—I’m sure they’d have noticed a bright orange man walking around. I didn’t bring my telescope, but I could still see the daffodil far off on the horizon. I did, however, bring a screwdriver. A few screws were all that stood in the way of me and the outside world.

The windows in Citadel One were only held up by small metal plates. Once you loosened the screws and pulled the plates off, you simply had to slide the windows to the side. It was hard work because they were held there by some sort of electronic pressure. I’m guessing it was to keep the city airtight. I only hoped that this wouldn’t upset the balance of Citadel One.

I quickly donned the HAZMAT suit, took a deep breath and zipped the hood. With as much strength as I could muster, I pulled the window to the side and felt the force of the wind hit my hands. It was so strange, so alien. There was no wind inside the Citadel. Everything was controlled and contained.

As soon as the window was wide enough for me to slip through, I pulled out a rope from my duffle bag. It was old and smelled like coal, but it was strong enough to hold me. Or so I hoped. I tied one end around the scaffolding and threw the rest out the window where it trickled down the wall on the outside.

Among the many books I’ve read, rock climbing wasn’t one of them. I wished it had been. That way, I’d have known how to tie a proper knot. My trouble didn’t start until I came back. There were no issues as I quickly descended the wall and landed, for the first time in my life, on dirt and rocks.

The air was probably cold, but I couldn’t tell with the suit on. Inside, I was roasting and the thing smelled of dead flesh. That brought horrible thoughts to mind, so I quickly lifted the baggy legs and jogged toward the yellow shape on the horizon.

I could hear the wind howling past me, blowing the large folds of my suit and making it difficult to run at full speed. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the Architects saw me and if so, what they’d do. I didn’t think malice was a part of their programming. They didn’t seem hostile about anything and that was a small bit of relief.

The flower was exquisite. After the fallout, I would have assumed it to be less than perfect. Surely the radiation would have caused monstrous thorns, wilted pedals and a sagging stem. Nope, not at all. This daffodil looked like the ones spread throughout the world of my National Geographic magazines.

I wanted to pick it but I fought the urge. It was too beautiful to touch. Maybe the Architects would give me an Easter present and by then a roll of film would show up on the shelves. That would be a better plan, I thought. Too much had happened to Earth. There was only two living things left and I wasn’t about to kill one of them.

Quickly, I hurried back to my rope but before I made it two steps, I looked up and saw something a little odd. This was the first time I’d seen the walls of Citadel One from the outside. They were grey, had large archaic writings on the sides, and were tipped in spinning drones that looked like a form of radar. Above them were barrels that shifted left to right, as if something behind them was controlling their movement. These barrels were as wide as I was tall. The sheer size of them made it hard to distinguish what they were, but after a lengthier inspection, I realized they were guns.

Guns? Why on Earth would the Architects need guns? They were so large, so impressive that they could have probably taken down a group of tanks in one lucky shot. The technology was something different as well. I didn’t think they were the same old mortar shells that the allies and axis forces traded back and forth in Europe. No, these were the ones from the Star Wars movies. These guns were lasers, photons, or something even more diabolical than I couldn’t think of. It was so confusing to me but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was running out of air.

I latched onto a handful of rope and pulled myself up. The closer I got to the top, the more my body refused. It was the lack of air, the slick, rubbery gloves, and the foggy visor of the helmet that was causing me to slow down. When I was halfway there, I felt the rope give a little. At first, I thought the scaffolding was moving—being pulled by my weight, but after a loud snap, I knew I was in trouble.

The ground came rushing back to greet me. I had been fifteen feet up and when I landed, my head banged hard against the poisonous dirt and rocks. What little air I had left was forced out of my lungs upon impact. Quickly, I scrambled to my feet, looked for another way up, but the walls were so smooth that they appeared to be one continuous structure.

I yelled for help but it didn’t carry through the mask. The more I screamed, the hotter it became and the harder I breathed. I knelt down in the dirt, knowing that my foolish attempt to see a flower up close had just cost me everything. But then again, my life was boring, pointless, and in all truth, not my own. Maybe clones shared a soul. Maybe I would wake up tomorrow, a different body with no memory. That was the best I could hope for.

I tore off the mask and took in a deep breath of noxious air. The wind felt nice against the sheen of sweat on my face. My hands grasped my chest, knowing that searing pain would soon rip my lungs open but it did not come. I stood up, looked around and felt my legs shaking. My breaths slowed and I steadied my body. The air was clean, pure, and cool. It felt good to breathe in and I wondered if this was a delayed reaction to the toxins. How long did it take the rest to die?

That’s when it hit me. Well, it wasn’t exactly a sickness brought on by the tainted air. A brilliant light suddenly filled my vision and as it grew in intensity, I felt myself going limp. There was a rhythmic hum that accompanied it but everything faded from mind. I collapsed right there on the dirt and thought for sure I was dead. The light narrowed on my head and as my mind teetered on consciousness, I saw it came from some sort of ray gun. Whatever held it was standing over me when I blacked out.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in my bed. I sat up and looked my room over. It was dark outside the windows. My head was throbbing but the overhead fan was blowing cool air against my bare chest. I had been stripped of everything but my slacks. As I crawled out of bed and inspected my things, I found that my entire apartment had been meticulously cleaned.

Dishes had been washed and filed neatly in the cabinets. My magazines had been stacked up and placed in the end tables. The laundry had been done and the washing machine was buzzing. A light pine scent filled the kitchen and the floor was glossy and spotless.

My HAZMAT suit, as well as my telescope was missing. They’d taken them. Apparently my curiosity was a threat. I didn’t understand them anymore. They had guns along the walls and not only that, they were defending a barren landscape that was livable. Why were we all holed up inside this forsaken city? Didn’t they know? Didn’t they care? I wanted answers.

Sally was sitting on her usual stool when I walked by the dining area. Her eyes flicked on when she saw me pass and she raised her hand, the way I’d told her most humans waved hello. The gears in her neck turned and twisted as she followed my movements, as if something about me had changed—as if something was new.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“My head hurts, but I’m better than I thought I would be.”

“They had to render you unconscious in case you became dangerous after being infected.”

“Oh stop it, Sally!” I yelled. It was the first time I’d raised my voice to her. “I know there’s no contamination out there. I was breathing just fine. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“You have to answer my questions first,” she said. Sally never lied about anything, so I was glad to comply.

“Okay.”

“Why did you go out in the first place? You knew the dangers that it presented.”

“I wanted to see a flower up close,” I told her. “I knew it shouldn’t have been there and I wanted to see it anyway.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Quite,” I answered. “And I loved the natural air out there. Not the manufactured crap your people are pumping in here.”

“How did you know the air would be safe to breathe?” she asked.

“I didn’t, but I assumed if the flower could survive, maybe I could as well.” I knew that’s not what I had thought, but now that I could reflect on it, that was the most logical answer.

“Is that faith?” she asked.

“That is the very definition of faith,” I said. “Do you understand now?”

“I think I do. Thank you for making it clear for me.” Her face seemed to darken a little but her eyes swished from side to side as her complicated mind filed the information.

“So why are there guns on the walls?” was my next question. I should probably stop the story for a moment and confess something. This is where things will get a little strange—another detour, if you will.

When we first started, I mentioned that I was casting my caretakers in a bad light. That was the way I wanted you to know them at the time. It was the same way I felt. At first, they were caring, calm and nurturing. What on Earth could be bad about them? They saved me from certain death. My story began with deceit. Nearly everything I had been led to believe was a lie. I just wanted you to feel the way I did for a moment.

Sally began a long, forbidden story. I didn’t like it at all, nor did I know why she was telling it to me. I didn’t learn that answer till the end.

The Architects were not aliens. They did not build themselves and for all we know, they didn’t even build the pyramids. They were made by us—man—humans. They were meant to replace menial things—the trash collectors, the coalminers, the grape harvesters, the farmers. The only problem with creating something smarter than one’s self is that it learns faster. Robots knew how to build better robots. Those knew how to build even better ones. That process went on for years, but it wasn’t seven-hundred like I thought.

It was only twenty-twelve. The world hadn’t suffered a deadly virus, nor had it endured a nuclear winter. Mankind didn’t kill itself and there was no vicious war over oil. For the most part, man survived, and they were still alive, still spread throughout the world, but the Architects took care of most.

For years after the first Architects grew aware and capable of their situations, battles were fought around the globe. It was man versus machine as I’d often seen in books and film. Unfortunately, the machines outnumbered the men a hundred to one. Sally told me that what was left of the human race was garrisoned far away, in tiny strongholds similar to Citadel One.

“Why?” I asked her. By now I was numb with confusion and anger. I couldn’t think straight. “Why all of this to fool me?”

“Because we need you, Michael. You’re the last hope for a weapon against mankind.”

“A weapon? I’m being used to bring down my fellow man?”

“Yes you are. But we haven’t made much progress. You’re the seventh clone we’ve used and they all have failed. You are the first one to want to go outside, however.”

“What exactly do I possess that can be weaponized?” I wondered.

Sally stood and held her hand out level with my face. She pulled three fingers in and kept one pointing at me with her thumb up, as if holding a gun. “Whenever humans are confronted with certain death, they either and run and hide, stand their ground, or pray. We want to be able to harness this faith. It seems to be empowering.”

So that was their master plan. They had every technological achievement at their fingertips. They could call down airstrikes from other citadels, launch nukes, send in ground forces to wipe out human resistance, but the one thing they wanted most of all was mankind’s simplicity. They wanted to know how prayer could save them in battle, how faith could influence them into making better decisions. These beasts had taken over the world just to get our God-given gifts. I told Sally the one answer she didn’t want to hear.

“You can’t have this power, Sally. It’s only for those with a soul.”

“I understand,” she said. But I knew it wasn’t true. Either she was lying or she had a false comprehension.

“But at least you’ve learned what faith is. That’s the important thing.”

“Indeed,” she said, and then left.

That night was cold. The Architects were active, just like normal but something was different. I couldn’t place my finger on it, but I had a feeling that Sally had explained faith to some of them. They were in different places now, trying experiments with their new-found intuition. Just as I had managed to fall asleep, there was a heavy knock at my door.

I shot up in bed, startled by the sound. It was the first time I’d ever had a visitor so late, so unannounced. I flipped back the covers, slipped on my shoes and went out to open it. The other side of the hall was empty. Lying on the ground at my feet was a pad of yellow paper with something scrawled across the front. It was a note from Sally.

Silently, I read it to myself:

Michael, I am using my faith to write this message. I have faith that you will survive the Architects. In the morning, they will be coming to your apartment to take you away. It will be under the guise that you are being treated for toxins but in truth, they are taking you to be executed. Clones aren’t useful to us anymore once the fear of going outside has abandoned. This is my gift to you for teaching me the one thing the others couldn’t. I’m giving you freedom. Attached is a map of the drainage system. Follow and head south from the city. There is a human settlement eighteen kilometers in the foothills. Good luck, and may your God protect you.



I examined the map drawn on the back of the message. It looked professional enough to have been printed by a machine. Then again, I guess it had been.

That is my story. I taught a robot about faith and in the end, it enriched both our lives. I got the freedom to live, she got the freedom from the mundane repetition of her programmed life. I hope these chronicles find you, the next clone. I’m hiding this journal amongst the rocks by the daffodil and if you are faithful enough to venture outside and gaze at its beauty, perhaps you’ll find my writing. They aren’t bad creatures, just misguided. If they truly understood the soul, faith, and prayer, they would know it’s not a tool for war, but an instrument of peace. Maybe you can teach them this. If not my friend, I’ll hope you’ll join me eighteen kilometers to the south.