Remembering Zed

by Charles C. Cole

Dear sweetest posterity,

I take it, by definition, we will never have the opportunity to meet. Your time will be after mine. How sad I am.

If you have found this file, please know that I am today the master’s voice, that is the residential sentinel over the entire sprawling underground lab. I see, listen, monitor, give commands to my mechanical assistants.

In this world, I have one job: to keep the last human specimen from getting emotional and, impulsively, permanently damaging his home or killing himself. His name is Zed. Get it? He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t consider me, a machine, worthy company. He is acutely aware how special he is and of my sole purpose.

A typical exchange: At almost noon, Zed shuffles through his living quarters in the same clothes he has worn the last three days. His hair is shoulder-length, in his face, a mess. His last shower was two weeks ago, when he suddenly decided he did not want me seeing his nakedness. I have been waiting for his movement for hours.

“Good morning, Zed. How are you?”

“Don’t ask,” he mumbles, toothbrush sticking out of one corner of his mouth. “I take no pleasure in lying.”

“Can I assist you in any way on this fine morning?”

“Yes, don’t ask me any more questions. And keep your trite wisdom to yourself.”

“Would you like coffee, perhaps breakfast?”

“Your coffee tastes like rusty water,” he says, though previous chemical analysis shows this is impossible. “And every time I eat, I feel like a prisoner getting a last meal. Why is that?”

“Perhaps because we make it to tickle your every tastebud, like satisfying a dying man’s last wish.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says, though I completely comprehend.

Hesitant to interrupt his routine but excited to elicit a smile, I ask, “Zed, do you have a moment?”

“You know that I do. Why, Amigo?” This is not my name. I have no name, but he often feels like he is talking to something less than an equal. This is his way of reminding me.

“I have something to show you.”

“You made me a new girlfriend? About time. The last one wasn’t very accommodating.”

“Better,” I say. “I have a surprise. Please, let’s take the elevator down to S4.”

“I’m not in the mood for more electroshock therapy, thank you.” This is a jab. We tried it once. We were desperate. Apparently, the process was more common in less civil times.

“You will like this,” I assure him. “You’ll see.”

“If you tick me off, I’ll unplug you, you talking toaster, I swear I will.” This is his sick humor. He needs me, all of us. I am the nerve center to his world.

We’ve been working around the clock to exceed his expectations, to make a garden of living plants. This is unfamiliar territory for us, but we have an archive of all existence at our fingertips. We have newsreels, movies and a large collection of seeds, should we try to tame the surface one day. We’ve done very well. When the doors open, he can see the artificial sun, feel a gentle breeze, and see genuine grass and flowers. The chatter of songbirds. A soft inspiring hum of several violins. The piped in smell of straw.

“Is this a simulation?” he asks. “Because if it is, it’s a coldblooded tease.”

“This is the real thing, Zed, all of it.”

“This is real?” He runs his fingers over the top of the tall grass. He takes a deep breath. He turns his head this way and that, to take it all in.

“Yes,” I assure him. “I apologize for not asking for your advice, but there was a significant time-delay from start to finish. Patience is not your strength.”

“You did this? For me?” At last, we have made a positive impression.

“The moveable units did most of the world-composing; I merely led the large, talented orchestra. Do you approve?” Somewhere in my memory banks, I recall the saying, “Never ask a question for which you are not prepared to hear the answer.” But, surely, there is only one answer.

“It’s lovely,” he says. “You and your metal boys did a masterful job, no kidding. It’s an ideal version of life as it once was.”

“Thank you, Zed. That is wonderful news.”

“How long until you populate it?” he asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“People. You are going to make people, too, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I lie, “we are gestating them at this time. Then we will raise them. When they are old enough to have a meaningful conversation with you, we will introduce you. But that is not now.”

He breaks off a blade of stalklike grass and replaces the toothbrush in his mouth with it, then he throws the toothbrush as far as he can. “For luck,” he says, darkly joking. “Maybe it will grow a toothbrush tree. Or maybe an orchard of toothbrushes.”

“We can but try,” I say.

“Take me back up. I’m suddenly hungry.”

“Is there anything you would like different? We were thinking about a small brook and pond, maybe thunder and a rainbow that you can turn on with a switch.”

“Just people,” he says.

“On it,” I say.

When he takes one of his frequent naps, we induce a temporary deeper sleep.

Using his cells, we are remaking the human race. They will be made from him, likely resemble him, but I tell myself that they will not behave like him. Over many iterations, we can make genetic modifications, maybe instill them with more intellectual curiosity, more compassion, more generosity. These steps will take time, but they have given my fellow units a greater sense of purpose. If you are reading this, then many years have gone by. Do not thank us, for we are the ones grateful to you, future people, for once more, filling this place with hope and promise.