Waking Gods
Page 2
It was a busy four years.
I don’t remember any of it, of course. I wasn’t there. Whoever did all those things died. I know for a fact it wasn’t me me. Rose Franklin was twenty-eight when she was put in charge of the research team studying the hand. She died at thirty. A year later, they found me. I was twenty-seven.
Themis ended up with the United Nations. They created a planetary defense branch, called the EDC, with the robot as its main asset. I wasn’t there for that either. One of me had died. The other hadn’t been found yet. They put me in charge of the EDC research team about a month after I reappeared. The other Rose must have made quite an impression because I was probably the least qualified person for the job. I had never even seen Themis. As far as I was concerned, the last time I had seen any part of her was on my eleventh birthday. They didn’t seem to care. Neither did I. I really wanted the job. I’ve been at it for nine years. Nine years. One would think that would be enough time to get over what happened to me. It’s not. I had four years of catching up to do, and that kept my mind busy for a while. But as I settled into some sort of routine, got more comfortable with my new job, my new life, I became more and more obsessed with who and what I am.
I realize that if I did travel through time, I probably don’t have the knowledge to fully understand it, but there shouldn’t have been two of us. Move an object from point A to point B, logic dictates you won’t find it at point A anymore. Am I a clone? A copy? I can live without knowing what happened to me, but I have to know if I’m…me. That’s an awful thing to doubt.
I know I don’t belong here, now. I’m…out of sync. It’s a familiar feeling, now that I think about it. Every so often—maybe two or three times a year—I would get this anxiety rush. I’d usually be really tired, maybe had too much coffee, and I’d start feeling…I never knew how to describe it. Every second that goes by feels like nails on a chalkboard. It usually lasts a minute or two but it feels like you’re just a tiny bit—half a second or so—out of sync with the universe. I was never able to really explain it, so I don’t know if I’m the only one who ever felt this. I suppose not, but that’s how I feel every minute of every day now, only that half second is getting longer and longer.
I have no real friends, no real relationships. The ones I have are based on experiences I didn’t share, and the ones I lost have been damaged by events I didn’t live through. My mother still calls me every other night. She doesn’t understand that we hadn’t spoken in over a year when I came back. How could she? She’s calling that other person, the one who isn’t still dealing with her father’s loss, the one who everyone liked. The one who died. I haven’t talked to any of my old friends from school, from home. They were at my funeral. That’s such a perfect ending to a relationship, I wouldn’t want to spoil that.
Kara and Vincent are the closest thing I have to friends now, but even after nine years, I’m somewhat…ashamed of our friendship. I’m an impostor. Their affection for me is based on a lie. They’ve told me what we supposedly went through together and we all pretend that we would have shared the same experiences had the circumstances been different. We keep pretending I’m that other person, and they like me for it.
I don’t know what I am, but I know I’m not…her. I’m trying to be. Desperately trying. I know that if I could just be her, everything would be all right. But I don’t know her. I have gone over every page of her notes a thousand times, and I still can’t see the world as she did. I see glimpses of myself in some of her journal entries, but those fleeting moments aren’t enough to bring us any closer. She was clever, though; I’m not certain I could do what she did if we were looking for giant body parts today. She must have found some research I don’t know about, probably something that was published while I was “away.” Maybe I’m an imperfect copy. Maybe she was just smarter.
She certainly was more optimistic. She believed—was utterly convinced—that Themis was left here as a gift for us to find in due time, a coming-of-age present left to an adolescent race by a benevolent father figure. Yet they buried all the pieces in the far corners of the Earth, in the most remote of places, even under the ice. I can see why I might get excited by a treasure hunt, but I can’t find a good reason for the added hurdles. My gut tells me these things were hidden…well, just that. Hidden, as in not to be found.
More than anything, I can’t imagine why anyone, however advanced, would leave behind a robot that, in all likelihood, we wouldn’t be able to use. Anyone with the technology to build one of these things, and to travel light-years to bring it here, would have had the power to adapt the controls to our anatomy. They would have had a mechanic aboard, someone who could fix the robot, or at least MacGyver their way out of small problems. All it would really take is their version of a screwdriver to turn the knee braces around so we could use them. They couldn’t have expected us to mutilate ourselves in order to pilot this thing.
I’m a scientist, and I have no proof for any of this, but neither did the other Rose when she assumed the opposite. Without evidence, even Occam’s razor should never have led me in that direction.
The irony is that they built this entire program based on my findings. If I had told them how scared I am of what will come, they never would have given me the freedom to do what I’m doing now. The lab is the only place I find comfort in and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for Themis, to be in her company every day. I feel drawn to her. She isn’t of this world either. She doesn’t belong here any more than I do. We’re both out of place and out of time, and the more I learn about her, the closer I feel to understanding what really happened to me.
I know everyone is worried about me. My mother told me she would pray for me. You don’t do that for someone who’s doing great. I didn’t want to upset her, so I said thank you. My faith has never been really strong, but even if it were, I know there’s no God coming to help me. There’s no redemption for what I’ve done. I should be dead. I died. I was brought back by what I assume is advanced technology, but you might as well call it witchcraft. Not too long ago, the Church would have burned someone like me.
I may believe in God, but I’m at war with Him. I’m a scientist, I try to answer questions, one at a time, so there’s a little less room for Him as the answer. I plant my flag, and inch by inch, I take away His kingdom. It’s odd, but none of this has ever occurred to me before. I never even saw a real contradiction between science and religion. I see it now, I see it clear as day.
I don’t remember any of it, of course. I wasn’t there. Whoever did all those things died. I know for a fact it wasn’t me me. Rose Franklin was twenty-eight when she was put in charge of the research team studying the hand. She died at thirty. A year later, they found me. I was twenty-seven.
Themis ended up with the United Nations. They created a planetary defense branch, called the EDC, with the robot as its main asset. I wasn’t there for that either. One of me had died. The other hadn’t been found yet. They put me in charge of the EDC research team about a month after I reappeared. The other Rose must have made quite an impression because I was probably the least qualified person for the job. I had never even seen Themis. As far as I was concerned, the last time I had seen any part of her was on my eleventh birthday. They didn’t seem to care. Neither did I. I really wanted the job. I’ve been at it for nine years. Nine years. One would think that would be enough time to get over what happened to me. It’s not. I had four years of catching up to do, and that kept my mind busy for a while. But as I settled into some sort of routine, got more comfortable with my new job, my new life, I became more and more obsessed with who and what I am.
I realize that if I did travel through time, I probably don’t have the knowledge to fully understand it, but there shouldn’t have been two of us. Move an object from point A to point B, logic dictates you won’t find it at point A anymore. Am I a clone? A copy? I can live without knowing what happened to me, but I have to know if I’m…me. That’s an awful thing to doubt.
I know I don’t belong here, now. I’m…out of sync. It’s a familiar feeling, now that I think about it. Every so often—maybe two or three times a year—I would get this anxiety rush. I’d usually be really tired, maybe had too much coffee, and I’d start feeling…I never knew how to describe it. Every second that goes by feels like nails on a chalkboard. It usually lasts a minute or two but it feels like you’re just a tiny bit—half a second or so—out of sync with the universe. I was never able to really explain it, so I don’t know if I’m the only one who ever felt this. I suppose not, but that’s how I feel every minute of every day now, only that half second is getting longer and longer.
I have no real friends, no real relationships. The ones I have are based on experiences I didn’t share, and the ones I lost have been damaged by events I didn’t live through. My mother still calls me every other night. She doesn’t understand that we hadn’t spoken in over a year when I came back. How could she? She’s calling that other person, the one who isn’t still dealing with her father’s loss, the one who everyone liked. The one who died. I haven’t talked to any of my old friends from school, from home. They were at my funeral. That’s such a perfect ending to a relationship, I wouldn’t want to spoil that.
Kara and Vincent are the closest thing I have to friends now, but even after nine years, I’m somewhat…ashamed of our friendship. I’m an impostor. Their affection for me is based on a lie. They’ve told me what we supposedly went through together and we all pretend that we would have shared the same experiences had the circumstances been different. We keep pretending I’m that other person, and they like me for it.
I don’t know what I am, but I know I’m not…her. I’m trying to be. Desperately trying. I know that if I could just be her, everything would be all right. But I don’t know her. I have gone over every page of her notes a thousand times, and I still can’t see the world as she did. I see glimpses of myself in some of her journal entries, but those fleeting moments aren’t enough to bring us any closer. She was clever, though; I’m not certain I could do what she did if we were looking for giant body parts today. She must have found some research I don’t know about, probably something that was published while I was “away.” Maybe I’m an imperfect copy. Maybe she was just smarter.
She certainly was more optimistic. She believed—was utterly convinced—that Themis was left here as a gift for us to find in due time, a coming-of-age present left to an adolescent race by a benevolent father figure. Yet they buried all the pieces in the far corners of the Earth, in the most remote of places, even under the ice. I can see why I might get excited by a treasure hunt, but I can’t find a good reason for the added hurdles. My gut tells me these things were hidden…well, just that. Hidden, as in not to be found.
More than anything, I can’t imagine why anyone, however advanced, would leave behind a robot that, in all likelihood, we wouldn’t be able to use. Anyone with the technology to build one of these things, and to travel light-years to bring it here, would have had the power to adapt the controls to our anatomy. They would have had a mechanic aboard, someone who could fix the robot, or at least MacGyver their way out of small problems. All it would really take is their version of a screwdriver to turn the knee braces around so we could use them. They couldn’t have expected us to mutilate ourselves in order to pilot this thing.
I’m a scientist, and I have no proof for any of this, but neither did the other Rose when she assumed the opposite. Without evidence, even Occam’s razor should never have led me in that direction.
The irony is that they built this entire program based on my findings. If I had told them how scared I am of what will come, they never would have given me the freedom to do what I’m doing now. The lab is the only place I find comfort in and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for Themis, to be in her company every day. I feel drawn to her. She isn’t of this world either. She doesn’t belong here any more than I do. We’re both out of place and out of time, and the more I learn about her, the closer I feel to understanding what really happened to me.
I know everyone is worried about me. My mother told me she would pray for me. You don’t do that for someone who’s doing great. I didn’t want to upset her, so I said thank you. My faith has never been really strong, but even if it were, I know there’s no God coming to help me. There’s no redemption for what I’ve done. I should be dead. I died. I was brought back by what I assume is advanced technology, but you might as well call it witchcraft. Not too long ago, the Church would have burned someone like me.
I may believe in God, but I’m at war with Him. I’m a scientist, I try to answer questions, one at a time, so there’s a little less room for Him as the answer. I plant my flag, and inch by inch, I take away His kingdom. It’s odd, but none of this has ever occurred to me before. I never even saw a real contradiction between science and religion. I see it now, I see it clear as day.
