Stephen King – The Dark Tower

the old means of locomotion just because you’d been granted a brief vacation with legs, she

was discovering—and read both the name and the serial number stamped on the robot’s

chrome-steel midsection.

“Nigel DNK 45932, drop that fucking glass box, say thankya!”

The robot (DOMESTICwas stamped just below its serial number) dropped the incubator

and then whimpered when it shattered at its steel feet.

Susannah worked her way over to Nigel, and found she had to conquer a moment’s fear

before reaching up and taking one three-fingered steel hand. She needed to remind herself

that this wasn’t Andy from Calla Bryn Sturgis, nor could Nigelknow about Andy. The

butler-robot might or might not be sophisticated enough to crave revenge—certainly Andy

had been—but you couldn’t crave what you didn’t know about.

She hoped.

“Nigel, pick me up.”

There was a whine of servomotors as the robot bent.

“No, hon, you have to come forward a little bit. There’s broken glass where you are.”

“Pawdon, madam, but I’m blind. I believe it was you who shot my eyes out.”

Oh. That.

“Well,” she said, hoping her tone of irritation would disguise the fear beneath, “I can’t

very well get you new ones if you don’t pick me up, can I? Now get a wiggle on, may it do

ya. Time’s wasting.”

Nigel stepped forward, crushing broken glass beneath its feet, and came to the sound of

her voice. Susannah controlled the urge to cringe back, but once the Domestic Robot had

set its grip on her, its touch was quite gentle. It lifted her into its arms.

“Now take me to the door.”

“Madam, beg pawdon but there aremany doors in Sixteen. More still beneath the castle.”

Susannah couldn’t help being curious. “How many?”

A brief pause. “I should say five hundred and ninety-five are currently operational.” She

immediately noticed that five-ninety-five added up to nineteen. Added up tochassit .

“Do you mind giving me a carry to the one I came through before the shooting started?”

Susannah pointed toward the far end of the room.

“No, madam, I don’t mind at all, but I’m sorry to tell you that it will do you no good,”

Nigel said in his plummy voice. “That door,NEW YORK #7/FEDIC, is one-way.” A pause.

Relays clicking in the steel dome of its head. “Also, it burned out after its last use. It has, as you might say, gone to the clearing at the end of the path.”

“Oh, that’s justwonderful !” Susannah cried, but realized she wasn’t exactly surprised by

Nigel’s news. She remembered the ragged humming sound she’d heard it making just

before Sayre had pushed her rudely through it, remembered thinking, even in her distress,

that it was a dying thing. And yes, it had died. “Justwonderful !”

“I sense you are distressed, madam.”

“You’re goddamned right I’m distressed! Bad enough the damned thing only opened

one-way! Now it’s shut down completely!”

“Except for the default,” Nigel agreed.

“Default? What do you mean, default?”

“That would beNEW YORK #9/FEDIC,” Nigel told her. “At one time there were over

thirty one-way New York–to–Fedic ports, but I believe #9 is the only one that remains. All

commands pertaining toNEW YORK #7/FEDICwill now have defaulted to #9.”

Chassit, she thought…almost prayed.He’s talking about chassit,I think. Oh God, I hope he

is.

“Do you mean passwords and such, Nigel?”

“Why, yes, madam.”

“Take me to Door #9.”

“As you wish.”

Nigel began to move rapidly up the aisle between the hundreds of empty beds, their taut

white sheets gleaming under the brilliant overhead lamps. Susannah’s imagination momentarily populated this room with screaming, frightened children, freshly arrived from

Calla Bryn Sturgis, maybe from the neighboring Callas, as well. She saw not just a single

rathead nurse but battalions of them, eager to clamp the helmets over the heads of the

kidnapped children and start the process that…that did what? Ruined them in some way.

Sucked the intelligence out of their heads and knocked their growth-hormones out of

whack and ruined them forever. Susannah supposed that at first they would be cheered up

to hear such a pleasant voice in their heads, a voice welcoming them to the wonderful

world of North Central Positronics and the Sombra Group. Their crying would stop, their

eyes fill with hope. Perhaps, they would think the nurses in their white uniforms were good

in spite of their hairy, scary faces and yellow fangs. As good as the voice of the nice lady.

Then the hum would begin, quickly building in volume as it moved toward the middle of

their heads, and this room would again fill with their frightened screams—

“Madam? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Why do you ask, Nigel?”

“I believe you shivered.”

“Never mind. Just get me to the door to New York, the one that still works.”

Six

Once they left the infirmary, Nigel bore her rapidly down first one corridor and then

another. They came to escalators that looked as if they had been frozen in place for

centuries. Halfway down one of them, a steel ball on legs flashed its amber eyes at Nigel

and cried,“Howp! Howp! ” Nigel responded“Howp, howp! ” in return and then said to

Susannah (in the confidential tone certain gossipy people adopt when discussing Those

Who Are Unfortunate), “He’s a Mech Foreman and has been stuck there for over eight

hundred years—fried boards, I imagine. Poor soul! But he still tries to do his best.”

Twice Nigel asked her if she believed his eyes could be replaced. The first time Susannah

told him she didn’t know. The second time—feeling a little sorry for him (definitely him

now, not it)—she asked whathe thought.

“I think my days of service are nearly over,” he said, and then added something that made

her arms tingle with gooseflesh: “O Discordia!”

The Diem Brothers are dead,she thought, remembering—had it been a dream? a vision? a

glimpse ofher Tower?—something from her time with Mia. Or had it been her time in

Oxford, Mississippi? Or both?Papa Doc Duvalier is dead. Christa McAuliffe is dead.

Stephen King is dead, popular writer killed while taking afternoon walk, O Discordia, O

lost!

But who was Stephen King? Who was Christa McAuliffe, for that matter?

Once they passed a low man who had been present at the birth of Mia’s monster. He lay

curled on a dusty corridor floor like a human shrimp with his gun in one hand and a hole in

his head. Susannah thought he’d committed suicide. In a way, she supposed that made

sense. Because things had gone wrong, hadn’t they? And unless Mia’s baby found its way

to where it belonged on its own, Big Red Daddy was going to be mad. Might be mad even

if Mordred somehow found his way home.

Hisother father. For this was a world of twins and mirror images, and Susannah now

understood more about what she’d seen than she really wanted to. Mordred too was a twin,

a Jekyll-and-Hyde creature with two selves, and he—or it—had the faces of two fathers to

remember.

They came upon a number of other corpses; all looked like suicides to Susannah. She

asked Nigel if he could tell—by their smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.

“How many are still here, do you think?” she asked. Her blood had had time to cool a little,

and now she felt nervous.

“Not many, madam. I believe that most have moved on. Very likely to the Derva.”

“What’s the Derva?”

Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, but that information was restricted and could be

accessed only with the proper password. Susannah triedchassit, but it was no good. Neither

wasnineteen or, her final try,ninety-nine . She supposed she’d have to be content with just

knowing most of them were gone.

Nigel turned left, into a new corridor with doors on both sides. She got him to stop long

enough to try one of them, but there was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and long-abandoned, judging by the thick fall of dust. She was interested to see a poster of

madly jitterbugging teenagers on one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, was this:

SAY, YOU COOL CATS AND BOPPIN’ KITTIES!

I ROCKED AT THE HOP WITH ALAN FREED!

CLEVELAND, OHIO, OCTOBER 1954

Susannah was pretty sure that the performer on stage was Richard Penniman.

Club-crawling folkies such as herself affected disdain for anyone who rocked harder than

Phil Ochs, but Suze had always had a soft spot in her heart for Little Richard; good golly,

Miss Molly, you sure like to ball. She guessed it was a Detta thing.

Did these people once upon a time use their doors to vacation in various wheres and whens

of their choice? Did they use the power of the Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower

into tourist attractions?

She asked Nigel, who told her he was sure he did not know. Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.