Starsight (US)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “There’s a lot of information here,” he said. “Shall I just start in alphabetical order? A. A. Attanasio was a science fiction writer who sounds interesting.”

  “Tell me the story of Pine Leaf,” I said. “And how she fought four Crow warriors at once.”

  “Fallen Leaf,” M-Bot said, “is often associated with the historical figure known as Pine Leaf, or Woman Chief. She was a Native American woman of Gros Ventre birth, though many pseudo-historical accounts of bravery are associated with her life.”

  He said it so dryly, in such a monotone.

  “And the story of how she fought four men at once?” I asked. “Touching them each with her rod in turn, taking them captive due to the shame of letting a woman outfence them?”

  “She is reported to have counted coup four times in one battle,” M-Bot said. “Though, it is uncertain if this legend is true. Historically, she was instrumental in turning back a Blackfoot raid, where she first gained renown among other Crow. And…Why are you sighing? Did I do something wrong?”

  “I just miss Gran-Gran,” I said softly. She made the stories of Old Earth come alive, simply in the way she told them. There was always a passion in her voice that M-Bot, however well intentioned, couldn’t impart.

  “I’m sorry,” M-Bot said softly. “This is more proof that I’m not really alive, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m not a very good storyteller either. That doesn’t mean I’m not alive.”

  “The dione philosopher and scientist Zentu claimed that there are three important hallmarks that indicate true life. Growth is the first. The being must change over time. I’ve changed, haven’t I? I can learn, I can grow.”

  “Definitely,” I said. “The mere fact that you made me your pilot proves that.”

  “Basic self-determinism is the second,” M-Bot said. “A living thing has to be able to respond to stimuli to better its situation. I can’t fly myself. If I could fly, do you think it would make me alive? Do you think that’s why whoever created me forbade me from being able to move on my own?”

  “You can use your smaller thrusters to adjust your position,” I said. “So you can kind of do that one already. If a plant is alive because it can respond to sunlight, then you’re alive.”

  “I don’t want to be as alive as a plant,” M-Bot said. “I want to be really alive.”

  I grunted, applying quick squirts of lubricant to the hinges of his wing flaps. The mere scent of it made me feel better. That room down below, it was too clean. Even my quarters back at DDF headquarters had smelled faintly of grease and exhaust fumes.

  “What’s the third indication of life?” I asked. “At least according to this philosopher.”

  “Reproduction,” M-Bot said. “A living thing is capable of making more versions of itself, or at least its species is capable of this at some point in its life cycle. I’ve been wondering…You’re going to have to fly a new ship tomorrow. Maybe we can find a way to upload a copy of my program to that fighter’s data banks. Then you could have my help, but still be able to fly one of their ships.”

  “You could do that?” I asked, looking up from the wing.

  “In theory,” M-Bot said. “I’m just a program—granted, one that relies on trans-cytonic speeds for processing. But at my core, the thing you call M-Bot is nothing more than a group of coded bits.”

  “You’re way more,” I said. “You’re a person.”

  “A person is nothing more than an organic collection of coded information.” He hesitated. “Anyway, my programming forbids me from making copies of my main processing code. There’s a fail-safe to prevent me from duplicating myself. I might be able to change it if…” Click. Clickclickclickclick.

  I kept working, falling silent as his program rebooted. Whoever made him didn’t want to risk the enemy getting a copy of him, I thought. Or…they didn’t want to risk their AIs copying themselves without supervision.

  “I’m back,” M-Bot finally said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Maybe we can find a way around…what I said earlier.”

  “I don’t know if I like that, honestly,” I said. “Making another of you feels wrong. Weird.”

  “No more weird than identical twin human beings,” he said. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t know how my programming would respond to being confined in an ordinary computer system—one that doesn’t have trans-cytonic processing.”

  “You say those words like I should know what they mean.”

  “To create computers that can think as quickly as my mind, you need processors that can communicate faster than normal electric signals facilitate. My design achieves this by using tiny cytonic communicators, which pass signals at FTL speeds through my processing units.”

  “And the station’s shield doesn’t stop that?”

  “My own shielding appears to be enough to block their shielding. Or, well, that’s a simplified and maybe contradictory way of putting it. In any case, I can still process at my required speeds.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Cytonic processors. So that’s why I can feel you thinking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes, when I’m deep inside…whatever it is I do…I can feel you. Your mind, your processors. Like I can feel Brade sometimes. But anyway, talk of copying you is moot, right? We can’t transfer you to a new ship, because that ship wouldn’t be able to think fast enough.”

  “I should be able to survive in one,” M-Bot said. “I’d simply think slower—I’d be dumb. Not as dumb as a human though, and you all seem to get along just fine.” He paused. “Um, no offense.”

  “I’m sure you find our stupidity endearing.”

  “Nope! Anyway, I’d like to at least try to find a way to replicate myself. If just to prove that…that I’m actually alive.”

  I walked around him toward his other wing, smiling. After I’d joined the DDF officially—and M-Bot had come out into the open—the ground crews had taken over maintaining him. Before that though, it had just been me and Rodge. Rodge had done most of the difficult work, but a lot of the simple jobs—greasing, peeling paint, checking wires—he’d given over to me.

  There was something satisfying about maintaining my own ship. Something relaxing. Calming.

  Then I looked into the polished surface of his hull, and saw infinity staring back at me. A deep void in place of my reflection. One pierced by a handful of burning white lights, like terrible suns. Watching me.

  The eyes. A delver, or more than one, was here. Right here.

  I stumbled back, dropping the grease gun with a clatter. The reflection vanished, and I swear there was nothing reflected for a short time. Then, like a screen turning on, Alanik’s figure reappeared—the holographic image I was wearing.

  “Spensa?” M-Bot asked. “What’s wrong?”

  I slumped down to the rooftop. Overhead, ships coursed along invisible highways. The city squirmed and moved, a sickening buzz of annoying insects all around, suffocating me.

  “Spensa?” M-Bot repeated.

  “I’m all right,” I whispered. “I’m just…just worried about tomorrow. About having to fly without you.”

  I felt alone. M-Bot was great, but he didn’t understand me like Kimmalyn or FM did. Or Jorgen. Scud, I missed him. I missed being able to complain to him, and listen to his overly rational—yet somehow calming—arguments back.

  “Don’t worry, Spensa!” M-Bot said. “You can do this! You’re really good at flying. Better than anyone else! You’re practically inhuman in your skill.”

  I felt a chill at that. Practically inhuman. Feeling sick, I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around my legs.

  “What did I say?” M-Bot asked, his voice growing smaller. “Spensa? What’s wrong? What’s really wrong?”

  “The
re’s a story Gran-Gran would tell,” I whispered. “An odd one that never quite fit with the others. Not a story about queens, knights, or samurai. A story about a man…who lost his shadow.”

  “How do you lose your shadow?” M-Bot asked.

  “It was a fanciful story,” I said, remembering the first time Gran-Gran had told it to me. Sitting on top of our cubelike apartment back in the caverns, the deep, hungry light of the forges painting everything red. “One strange evening, while on a journey, a writer woke up to find that his shadow had vanished. There was nothing he could do, and no doctor could help him. Eventually he moved on with his life.

  “Except one day, the shadow came back. It knocked on the door, and greeted its former master with joy. It had traveled the world, and had come to understand men. Better, in fact, than the writer himself did. The shadow had seen the evil in the hearts of the men of the land, while the writer had sat beside his hearth, entertaining only kindhearted fancies.”

  “That’s strange,” M-Bot said. “Didn’t your grandmother usually tell you stories about slaying monsters?”

  “Sometimes,” I whispered, “the monsters slew the men. In this story, the shadow took the man’s place. It persuaded the writer that it could show him the world, but only if the man agreed to become the shadow for a short time. And of course when the man did so, the shadow refused to let him go free. The shadow took his place, married a princess, and became wealthy. While the real man, being a shadow, wasted away and became thin and dark, barely alive…”

  I looked back at M-Bot. “I always wondered why she told me that story. She said it was a story her mother had told her, during the days when they’d traveled the stars.”

  “So, you’re worried about what?” M-Bot said. “That your shadow might take your place?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I worry that I’m already the shadow.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking of where the delvers lived. The place between moments, that cold nowhere. Gran-Gran said that in the old days, people had feared and distrusted the engine crew. They’d distrusted cytonics.

  Ever since I’d begun seeing the eyes, I’d never quite felt the same. Now that I’d traveled to the nowhere, I couldn’t help wondering if what had come back wasn’t completely me anymore. Or if maybe the me I’d known had always been something else. Something not quite human.

  “Spensa?” M-Bot said. “You said you weren’t a good storyteller. That was a lie. I’m impressed at how you do it so easily.”

  I looked at the fallen grease gun, which had squirted a little glob of clear lubricant onto the rooftop. Scud. I was getting emotional—M-Bot really was right. I got strange when I didn’t have enough sleep.

  That was it, obviously. Sleep deprivation was making me hallucinate, and it was why I was rambling. I stood up—pointedly did not look at my reflection—and put away the grease gun. I then stopped at the stairwell down into the embassy.

  The thought of sleeping in that sterile, empty room…with the eyes watching me…

  “Hey,” I said to M-Bot instead. “Pop your cockpit. I’m going to sleep up here tonight.”

  “You have an entire building with four bedrooms,” M-Bot said. “And you’re going back to sleeping in my cockpit, like you did when you were forbidden DDF quarters?”

  “Yup,” I said, yawning as I climbed in and pulled the canopy closed. “Could you dim the canopy for me?”

  “I suspect a bed might be more comfortable,” M-Bot said.

  “Probably would be.” I leaned the seat back and dug out my blanket. Then I settled in, listening to the noise of traffic outside. A strange, somehow accusatory sound.

  Even as I began to drift off, I was left with a sense of isolation. Surrounded by noise, but alone. I was in a place with a thousand species, but I felt more lonely than I ever had exploring the caverns at home.

  Jorgen Weight stepped into the infirmary, flight helmet under his arm. Perhaps he should have stowed the helmet, but there was no rule requiring it—and he felt good carrying it. Made him feel ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Gave him the illusion that he was in control.

  The creature lying in the infirmary bed proved that wasn’t the case. They’d hooked the alien woman to all kinds of tubes and monitors, with a mask over her face to control her breathing, but what drew Jorgen’s attention immediately were the straps binding her arms to the table. The DDF brass wanted to be extra careful, even though Spensa had seemed to think the alien wasn’t a danger.

  The fallen pilot’s alien physiology left the DDF medics scratching their heads. The best they’d been able to do was patch her up and hope she eventually woke. Over the last two days, Jorgen had checked on her at least six times. He knew it was unlikely she’d wake up while he was there, but he still wanted the chance to be the first to speak to her. The first one to make the demand.

  Can you find Spensa?

  He felt a growing sense of worry each day Spensa was away without communication. Had he done the right thing, encouraging her to leave like that? Had he stranded her alone, without backup, to be captured and tortured?

  He’d broken DDF chain-of-command protocol in telling her to go. Now, if she was captured because of it…Well, Jorgen could think of nothing worse than disobeying, then realizing he’d been wrong to do so. So he came here, hoping. This alien was a cytonic; she’d be able to find Spensa and help her, right?

  But first, the alien had to awaken. A doctor with a clipboard stepped up to Jorgen, dutifully showing him the report on the alien’s vitals. Jorgen couldn’t read most of the chart, but people tended to be deferent to pilots. Even the highest government officials would often step aside for a man or woman bearing an active-duty pilot’s pin.

  Jorgen didn’t care for the attention, yet he bore it because of the tradition. His people existed, lived, because the machine of war worked—and if he had to be one of its most prominent gears, he would bear that position with solemnity.

  “Any update?” he asked the doctor. “Tell me what’s not on the chart. Has she stirred? Does she speak in her sleep?”

  The doctor shook her head. “Nothing. Her heartbeat is irregular, and we don’t know if that’s normal for her species. She breathes our air just fine, but her oxygen levels are low. Again, we can’t tell if that is normal or not.”

  The same as before—and it could be weeks before she awakened, if she ever did. Engineering was analyzing her ship, but so far they hadn’t been able to break the encryption on her data banks.

  The scientists could analyze that all they wanted. The secrets Jorgen wanted were inside this creature’s brain. He felt an…electricity when he drew near her. A quiet shock that ran through him, like the sensation of being splashed with cold water. He could feel it now, standing over her, listening to the steady hiss of the respirator.

  He’d felt that same sensation before, when he’d first met Spensa. He’d thought it was attraction, and surely he felt that. For all she frustrated him, he was attracted like a moth to a flame. There was something else though. Something this alien had too. Something he knew was hidden deep within his family line.

  He turned to the doctor. “Please make a note to send me word if anything about her situation changes.”

  “I’ve already done so,” the doctor replied.

  “By the code at the bottom of the chart, you’ve updated her status priority, requiring me to renew my request. Department procedures 1173-b.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking over the chart again. “All right.”

  Jorgen nodded to her, then left the infirmary, returning to the corridor of Platform Prime. He was on his way to his ship’s berth to take the ground crew shift report when the klaxons went crazy. He froze, reading the pattern of buzzing alarms that rang through the sterile metal corridor.

  Incoming fire, he thought. Not good.

  Jorgen fought against the tide of
scrambling pilots and crew members running for their ships, and headed straight for the command room. Incoming fire, not incoming ships. The fighters weren’t being scrambled. This was something bigger. Something worse.

  His stomach churned as he reached the command room, where the guards let him enter. Inside, the alarm sounds were muted. By now, the DDF had moved much of their command staff up from Alta Base to Platform Prime. Admiral Cobb wanted to separate the military installation from the civilian population, to divide potential Krell targets.

  They were still setting everything up though, which made this room a mess of wires and temporary monitors. Jorgen didn’t bother the command staff, who had gathered around a large monitor at the far side of the room. Though he was of a rank to join in operations here, he didn’t want to be a distraction. Instead he made his way down the line of workstations to that of Ensign Nydora, a young woman in the Radio Corps whom he knew from their time in school together.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, leaning down beside her.

  She responded by pointing to her monitor, which—by the designation at the bottom—was displaying a feed from one of their scout ships out beyond the shells. The feed showed two enormous Krell battleships moving toward the planet.

  “They’re settling into positions,” Nydora whispered, “where they can shoot through an upcoming gap in the defensive platforms and hit Alta Base on the surface.”

  “Can we fire back?” Jorgen asked.

  Nydora shook her head. “We don’t have control of the long-range guns on the outer platforms yet—and even if we did, those battleships are far enough away that they’d be able to move before our shots arrived. The planet, though, can’t move.”

  Jorgen’s stomach twisted upon itself. From orbit, the enemy could bombard the surface of Detritus with a devastating rain of fire and death. With sustained shelling, and with the planet’s own gravity working in the Krell’s favor, those battleships would be able to obliterate even the deepest caverns.

  “What are our chances?” Jorgen asked.

  “Depends on how far engineering got…”