Brother Keepers Read online

  Chapter 4 - Making Amends

  "Are you awake, Ernie? May I enter?"

  I peek at the alarm clock next to my pillow with my remaining, right eye. My head feels dizzy, likely the result of my mind struggling to understand why the green, digital numbers on the alarm clock take a fraction of a second longer to appear in my peripheral vision. It's early in the morning. It's certainly no time for another one of Oliver's checkups. But it's hard telling what that robot wants. I don't feel like I know Oliver at all anymore.

  "Help yourself to the lock," I mumble. "When have I ever prevented you from getting through that door?"

  Ernie speaks softly on other side of the door. "I don't have any more tests or exams for you, Ernie. I promise not to peek at your eye cavity. I only want to give you something, and I want you to invite me inside."

  I know that Oliver will just stand on the other side of that door until my next scheduled examination if I deny him entrance. It's likely best that I listen to whatever it is he needs to tell me so as to not make the coming examination any longer than it will already need to be.

  "Give me a few more minutes to shake off the sleep, Oliver."

  "Of course, Ernie."

  It's self-torture every time I do so, but I can't resist straying to my room's mirror. My eye patch hasn't shifted upon the cavity that once housed my left eye, and I sigh in relief. The eye patch had shifted while I slept immediately after the surgery to harvest my left eye to replace the eye Dr. Zito lost when his weapon exploded. Looking in the mirror immediately following that surgery and finding an entire eye missing had sent me into shock. The sight of that empty orifice where an eye should be still makes me shudder, and that empty cavity still chases nightmares into my dreams. My finger, behaving like some renegade intent upon my mind's torment, fidgets with the edge of the patch. At the last moment, my mind regains its dominance and saves me from another sight of my eye's absence.

  I'm sure that Dr. Zito instructed Oliver to choose to harvest my left eye instead of my right. The dual rings that brand me a clone circle my right eye with blue ink. An inner ring of hashes of varying thickness composes a serial code that defines me as a commodity, as another product not unlike a box of cereal or a ream of paper. A second, outer ring of zeroes and ones constructs a language that tells clone engineers and doctors the unique choices that create my strengths and weaknesses. I remain Dr. Zito's only prototype for a universal donor, and so I know that no other clone shares those binary numbers that compose my brand's outer ring. The law holds severe punishment for any man or woman who attempts to remove, or even conceal, the tattooed rings that brand the clone. Any clone caught attempting to destroy the mark is summarily executed. So I understand Dr. Zito would have a lot to lose had he instructed Oliver to harvest my right eye, the eye surrounded by the clone's mark. By removing my left eye, Dr. Zito could be confident that he didn't jeopardize any of the brand's power that circles my remaining eye.

  Yet to me, the removal of my left eye feels especially cruel. Its absence only strengthens the cage symbolized by those dual brands ringing my remaining, right eye.

  Oliver holds a black, velvet bag in one of his six hands as his treads slowly roll him into the center of my room.

  "More medicine in the bag, Oliver?"

  Oliver's telescopic eye twists to consider me. "Perhaps. Perhaps it depends on how you look at it."

  Oliver's deft fingers reach into the bag and extract a glass bauble, an oversized marble, from the velvet. The robot's grip twists the orb to show me the dark brown pupil and the iris painted onto the sphere. I grimace. Oliver has brought me a replacement eye, a cosmetic part to pop into my empty, left socket.

  "You're kidding."

  "I am not," replies the robot. "I hope you like it. I've crafted it to fit comfortably in your eye cavity. It took me several attempts to get it just right, but I believe this prosthetic will now fit perfectly."

  "That means something coming from you, Oliver. You don't joke around when it comes to perfection." Still, I can't help but sigh. "But it's only a glass eye. However perfect it might be, it won't bring back my sight." Oliver rolls another inch towards me, and I find myself flinching. "Hey, you're not going to jamb that eye into my face, are you?"

  Oliver's faceplate shakes back and forth. "I have no intention of making you wear it, Ernie. I only hoped that I might improve your spirits by giving this glass eye to you as a gift."

  Oliver's hand twists. His fingers retreat, and the robot sets the glass eye upon my computer desk. I don't reach for it. No matter Oliver's good intentions, I can't imagine pushing that orb into my empty, left eye socket each morning.

  "It's not so bad, Ernie. Before long, you will hardly miss your lost eye. The loss of stereoscopic, binocular vision and your diminished periphery vision is likely still uncomfortable to you. You will notice a temporary loss in hand-eye coordination as you adjust to the changes in your sight. You will feel clumsy for a little while. You will need to take your time going up and down any of the estate's stairs, but you will adjust to it all quickly enough. Soon, you'll hardly miss that left eye at all. I will always be ready to help you, Ernie."

  Oliver confuses me. He promises to help me. He brings me a glass eye he's spent so much time crafting for my exact dimensions. Yet I haven't forgotten that Oliver shot that dart into the back of neck that put me to sleep before he harvested my left eye for Dr. Zito. I haven't forgotten that Oliver's hands wielded that surgery's scalpels.

  "If losing an eye isn't such a big deal, Oliver, then why did the doctor have to take mine?"

  Oliver pauses. I again sense the quiet that's lately indicated that the circuitry of the robot's mind is racing. I hear the robot's internal fans hum to life. It's Oliver's duty to insure that I'm always healthy, that I'm ready to offer up whatever pound of flesh Dr. Zito comes to need. Does Oliver worry about my anxiety as much as he worries about my body's health? Does Oliver worry that a clumsy answer to my question might do me a kind of harm that could jeopardize the condition Dr. Zito has instructed his robot to maintain with his universal donor?

  "Does satisfying Dr. Zito's need not make you happy. Ernie? Does it not make you proud?"

  "Not when it means losing an eye." I growl.

  "But isn't it your duty to give that eye? Isn't that the purpose for which you were created?"

  I'm frustrated, frightened and hurt. My hands clench. "Sure. When it comes to giving blood, or a kidney, or maybe some of my bone barrow in case cancers should clutch at Dr. Zito. But an eye? An eye pisses me off, Oliver. I can't replace an eye. I'll be blind if I lose the other one."

  "But Ernie, I know you understand your purpose. I know you understand why you were created."

  I have tried to deny that reality for all the days I can remember. Denying my purpose was so much easier before Dr. Zito's few extra pounds swelled to such obese proportions. I didn't dwell on how my mortality was linked to Dr. Zito's frailty before I knew a larger world existed beyond the estate's fencing. I never wished for a future I never possessed before I found a friend in a computerized world of fantasy. I cannot forget what I've learned. I cannot erase my yearning to one day visit a new street. I cannot ignore my hunger to meet new friends. I cannot ignore my yearning to be with a woman. I can no longer deny that I too want all the tomorrows I can gather. I can no longer claim that survival's spark does not burn within my heart. Dr. Zito should never have allowed me to know anything but sleep. I've learned too much, and even my dreams wish for old age.

  "Dr. Zito is your creator, Ernie. Do you not understand the order of all things?"

  "I understand, but I no longer accept."

  Those microchips in Oliver's head must be on fire, because his internal fans have never whirled so loudly.

  "Would you like me to administer a medicine that might help you to relax, Ernie?"

  I'm afraid I've told Oliver too much.

  "I would prefer it if you gave me nothing, Oliver."

  Oliver's telescoping eye t
urns and clicks. "Then I will leave. I'll return in a few hours for your next examination. I hope you will try the glass eye I've crafted for you. I think it will make you feel better. I believe it will help raise your spirit."

  I suspect Oliver makes a last note regarding my strange behavior onto one of his hard-drives before rolling out of my room. How long will it be before Oliver informs Dr. Zito of my dissatisfaction? What consequence will I pay for voicing my objections? How will my creator respond to my rebellion? Perhaps I should make plans for another attempt at escape, regardless how slim my chances of success may be, no matter that I fear the two rings that mark me as clone will show me that outer world to be very cruel. Would there be a dignity in running, no matter if my flight be an inevitable failure? Or is there more lasting honor in quietly accepting the fate my maker has reserved for me? I shouldn't be concerned with such questions. I'm only a clone. I'm only a closet of organs and parts. I've been playing my computer game for too long, and so I have tricked myself into hoping I might find a path to freedom.

  The world around me has never changed due to my influence. My hands have no power to shape the course upon which I have been placed. Brooding only magnifies my fear. Thus, I escape in the only manner I know. Once more, I sit in front of my computer, and with the last eye remaining to me, look upon my game's glowing, pixelated world.

  * * * * *