Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Land of Light

“What about this guy?” he asked. “Where’s he?”

Walter snatched the card and used the light from his computer to read it. He typed something into the small keyboard and sucked air through his teeth.

“Where is he?” Cole asked again.

Walter looked up from the screen. “I think he’s looking for us.”

The spinning pad whined madly, pushing grit between Molly’s teeth and gums. The nerves at the base of her tooth ached; the chalky cleaning substance threatened to choke her. Every now and then, she received a welcomed jet of water, but it just pushed the foul-tasting cleanser to the back of her mouth. She fought to not swallow, to form a barrier at the top of her throat using her tongue, and then the suction would come again and give her relief from one misery, only to start the process all over again.

Each of her teeth had been cleaned at least twice, but the dentist had begun a third round. Molly cursed the feedback loop operating between Parsona’s pleasure circuits and the AI routines. The result was pure torture for her, as this “heaven” didn’t seem to take any feelings into account other than its creator’s. She felt certain that her three hours must be up by now; she should have already woken up in a padded chair, yelling at Stanley to get these restraints the hell off.

The dental tool was only halfway done with one of her molars when it spun to a stop. Molly could hear herself moaning and realized she’d probably been doing that for quite some time. The myriad bits of metal holding her jaw open were removed; she experimented with closing it.

Her jaw ached realistically.

The chair came up and her head moved free from the padding; she looked around for her mother and Mr. Byrne, but he was gone. It was just her mother, smiling.

“Let me see those pretty teeth,” she said.

Molly wiped the saliva away from the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Where’s Byrne?” she asked, her tongue and jaw aching from the effort.

“Now, dear, let’s not get into any more unpleasantries. Mr. Byrne said he needed to go and that he would come and visit me soon. Why don’t we finish our tea?”

Just like that, the dentist office vanished. Molly’s spit-encrusted bib was replaced with a new dress. Only the pain in her jaw, something that didn’t seem to affect her mom’s happiness, remained.

Parsona sat down in the swing and patted the wood slats beside her. Molly remained standing. She worked her mouth open and closed a few times, then asked her mom: “What did you guys talk about?”

“No more talk of Mr. Byrne, Mollie. I mean it.”

Fine , Molly thought. This has been a waste of time, anyway .

She started to say goodbye, but no longer cared. There had been plenty of time to think about the horror of this place while the dentist did his work—and he had been wrong. She gave her mother one last, sad look and realized there were plenty of cavities here. All created by too much sweetness .

Without a word, she ran and leapt down the stairs leading from the porch. She ignored the laughter and chatter in the commons as she ran up to the door she’d entered. She heard her mother calling for her as she flung it open and jumped through, back to the real world—

But it was just a room. A room identical to the one in the other cabin, only with two chairs instead of three. Parsona sat in one and patted the other.

Molly felt absolutely certain that she’d been under for more than three hours.

Stanley #8427 was walking down hallway 8C, looking for their missing guests—when his legs went goofy. His right foot slammed into the back of his left calf, sending him sprawling forward toward the floor. Automatic arm routines tried to compensate, but something went wrong with them as well. A hand flew out in front, fingers straight, and the weight of his gear-filled body crashed down.

Several metacarpal joints snapped back and injury codes flashed red in his vision.

He flopped around on the ground for a few moments, one of his legs kicking a containment drawer noisily.

Gradually, some semblance of coordination returned. He used his undamaged hand to push himself to his knees; he looked purposefully at the handle of the nearest drawer and grabbed at it. His timing was off, but he managed to hook two fingers around the steel.

Stanley pulled himself to his feet.

He took a few experimental steps while he kept one hand on the wall beside him. Stanley #8427 turned around and stumbled back the way he had come.

He was on the wrong hall.

“You wrecked him!” Cole complained.

“Sshut up. I’m getting it.”

“It looks like he’s having a seizure.”

The camera was sideways. On the ground, vibrating.

“Thiss sstupid computer only hass one analog sstick.”

“I thought you were good at these things.”

“You wanna try?”

Cole watched him work the controls and the small keyboard at the same time. The camera gradually made its way off the floor. He shook his head. “How long until he gets here?”

“I don’t know. He’ss one hall over from here. Uh, oh. Another Sstanley.”

“Greetings, Stanley. Any luck?”

The other Stanley didn’t say anything. It just waved a ruined hand awkwardly.

“You should have that looked at. Should I call maintenance?”

The mute Stanley staggered, its shoulder brushing the doors on its right side.

“Hold still. I’ll call maintenance.”

The helpful Stanley walked over, graceful as a cat. It reached out to steady the other android.

The hurt Stanley didn’t have the dexterity of the approaching robot, but it also lacked its compassion. The mangled hand spun around as fast as its servos could move it, brutal strength moving with no control.

It caught the nice Stanley on the temple, nearly taking its head off at the fragile neck-joint.

Both Stanleys went down from the blow.

One of them struggled to get up, getting the hang of it now.

“If we get out of this,” Cole told Walter, “I’m gonna make you practice your video games as part of your regular duties.”

Walter hissed, ignoring him. His fingers tapped buttons in frustration. He had the Stanley in front of their door—they could even hear the damn thing banging against the wall outside—but swiping the card through the reader was infuriatingly difficult. The robot had already dropped the card once, and trying to pick it up off the floor gave Walter a new appreciation for everyday feats he took for granted. He had resorted to scooting the flat card across the floor with the robot’s fingernails until it hit the wall, popping one edge off the ground. After that ordeal, he instructed the finger-grip servos to lock down and never loosen. The card would snap in half before he let it slide out again.

“I need the other hand,” he moaned. He jammed Stanley’s bad fingers behind the handle of a lower cabinet to steady the body, then he pressed the edge of the card against the wall with the other hand, adjusting its angle of attack. Cole kept crawling back and forth between the screen and the door, egging both him and the robot on—it was driving him absolutely crazy.

One more swipe, and Walter heard a beeping noise. He yelped with delight, trying to get the Stanley to grab the handle before the green light on the LCD went off. Reluctantly, he instructed the robot to drop the card so he could use the good hand. He guided the digits up to grasp the door handle and ordered a yank.

There was a pop. Light came in through a crack. The metal floor of their tiny cell jolted forward and both of them lost their balance, falling backwards.