by BL Craig
Scrolling through the feeds, William found an entry from a few years before. It had clearly been meant as a private message but had ended up on the main crew feed.
From SClarke: Hey @AHaruna can you cover for me today. It’s Emma’s birthday and I need some space.
From AHaruna: No prob, sweets, let me know if you need anything. Hugs.
Who was Emma? William supposed he could ask Addy, but it seemed like prying, and he was far from sure the engineer was inclined to answer William’s personal questions.
* * *
…
* * *
It was on his way back from looking over the probes with Sarah that he found the first bit of guerrilla art. It was an anamorphic sketch when viewed at just the right angle looked like bird in flight casting a long shadow across the corridor between the various analytical labs.
William knew the Tilly had originally been a sub-light commercial vessel, probably used for harvesting rare minerals from Earth’s asteroid belt. He guessed that the living crew had once had an artist in their midst, or more than one, given the wild differences in style. Some of the paintings were fairly obvious, like the large mural in the mess hall that he had originally mistaken for corporatized art, which featured a gaseous star nursery. Closer inspection revealed a tiny version of the Tilly sailing between two stars. Other pieces he found behind equipment in the med bay (a surrealist scene featuring deconstructed mechanical worms), on walls (a series of impressionist depictions of complex machinery), ceilings (eerie portals to mathematically impossible other spaces), wrapped around pipes (a parade of vegetables), and once under a desk (a face looking back at the viewer with a startled expression). He found a tiny mouse hole painted on the wall of the corridor between the EVA suit locker and Elixir tank. Exploring the Tilly became a type of therapy.
He had tried using the counselor app as directed in the orientation materials. The pleasant woman on the screen had started by asking what he wanted to talk about. It seemed reductive to go off on a rant about the deep unfairness of existence. Instead, he simply said, “I don’t know.”
So, the counselor sent him a few worksheets about his current mental and physical state. He checked the meaningless boxes. Has your mood effected your ability to participate in activities you normally enjoy? one question asked. How was he supposed to answer that? He was dead. Being dead was definitely getting in the way of enjoying pleasurable activities. The worksheet then asked him about any trauma that impacted his ability to function and feel satisfaction in life. Again, he thought, being dead is impacting my ability to enjoy life.
“I see from your records that your sister died when you were very young. Does that loss still trouble you?”
He switched the nexus off and went hunting for more art.
* * *
…
* * *
Elva decided that the interval before the last jump to Mirada would be a good time to hold a drill and test the new rail gun. She triggered the drill and the ship’s VI pinged to life. “This is a tactical alert drill. All personnel to the bridge. Repeat. This is a tactical alert drill. All personnel to the bridge.”
Surprisingly, Addy was the first to report. He usually kept himself in close proximity to the drives. The only area on the ship more remote from the bridge was the big cargo bay. She wondered what he was up to, but figured it was probably just the new puzzle he had set up in the mess hall.
Alex came in next, walking quickly but not in an undue rush. Sarah and William entered together and took up their positions.
In a real tactical situation, the crew would be at their primary posts, which would keep the engineers below decks, but she figured they might as well have some fun with the new toy as well.
Brooks came in last, making a point of shoving William in the shoulder with his hip as he passed toward his own station. “Looks like your scene,” he sneered. “Tactical alert. Too bad it’s just a drill and you can’t kill more innocents.”
William shot out of his seat. It seemed he was finally done with the man’s jibes. Before he could speak, Elva barked, “Brooks, enough! Do I need to put you on report? This needs to stop.”
“Stop? It needs to bloody well start. How can you all cozy up to this little murderer? Why did the company even put him here? They should have left him gorked with the rest of the lot he came in with!”
“Brooks, I said, ‘enough’ and I meant it.” Her tone was low and threatening.
William blurted out, “What is it? What did I do that you hate me so much?”
“What did you do? Do you pretend not to know? Seriously? Those people you used for cannon fodder on Mirada were our friends,” Brooks hissed. “But you didn’t care, did you? They were just drones to be ground up to save some Navy flyboy’s ass!”
William moved right into Brooks’ face. “You weren’t there,” he said with low menace.
“No, I wasn’t there. Just the 10,000 reanimates you got killed.” Brooks loomed over him.
“I tried to save them,” William said through gritted teeth. “I was supposed to die. They sent me forward to die. But I lived. I saved as many of them as I could.”
“Then why are you the only one that came off the surface.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! Five thousand drones got on the Giltine for transport back to Yan Luo. I saw them march into the hold of the ship. It was the best I could do. No one else even tried!” William was screaming now. Elva could see the pilot’s face growing violent.
“They weren’t drones. They were atypes and you got them killed!”
“I was there! I was with them for four days. I saw what they did! There were no atypes on the surface! No one with any humanity could have done that.” In the length of a sentence, William’s voice faltered. Going from rage-filled to broken. When William stepped back from John, Elva understood that things had just gotten worse not better.
“You’re lying! We knew the techs on the Yan Luo. Almost half the crew were atypes.”
“You’re wrong, I’m sorry but you’re just wrong. I don’t know what you were told, but it’s not true. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice,” William whimpered out the last words falling down into his chair. “I’ve never had a choice. Not once.” She could see William’s hands shaking as he brought them up over his ears.
“Haruna, get Brooks off my bridge,” Elva said with finality.
* * *
…
* * *
William heard the screams in his head, saw the strange way the reanimates leaked grey fluid when shot, remembered the smell of their burning bodies, like melted plastic. His hands were tingling. He was gasping, choking, shaking. The razor ran across his brain. He had not had a full attack since he died. He had thought he couldn’t have them anymore. The screams and the sound of tearing flesh pounded in his ears. He saw the Rannit child, mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish in a bowl, her arms ripped off and tossed to the side. He put his hands to his ears and screamed.
William heard the Captain at an extreme distance, ordering Brooks off the bridge. Sarah was next to him. “William, William? Are you ok?”
6
Employee Relations
“Dammit,” Elva cursed while Addy dragged the prone Brooks off the bridge. She would have to find out where the demented little engineer had gotten a stun gun and why he was just carrying it around. Later.
“Sarah, get him out of here.” Elva knew she should be used to reanimate strength by now, but sight of the smaller woman easily hoisting the catatonic William into her arms made her thoughts pause for just a moment. It had been a long time since her crew had been seriously out of harmony. There had been bad times, for sure, but they had been in them together. She was out of practice and the speed of the confrontation, both its start and end, had rattled her. There had almost been violence on her bridge and Elva needed to stop her own hands from shaking as she came down off the
adrenaline. Still, William’s words echoed in head. Five thousand drones got on the Giltine for transport back to Yan Luo.” Five thousand. Elva knew, because the company had told everyone that all 10,000 of the Yan Luo reanimates had died in the assault on Mirada.
* * *
…
* * *
In body, William was being carried to his quarters in Sarah’s arms, but his mind was churning through the past.
There had been so much excitement in the fleet when the conflict broke out on Mirada. “It was only a matter of time,” said many of the senior officers nodding their heads sagely. “What were the lizards thinking?”
William was a lieutenant in the Navy, stationed in the Mirada system. His job until then had been fairly routine. He flew transport ships around system to check on the various mining and manufacturing installations based on asteroids and moons. He delivered supplies and went wherever the fleet needed him.
When the conflict broke out, he had been working on the Cerulean. As the largest in-system transport ship, it was tasked with collecting the reanimates from the Yan Luo and delivering them to the surface, near the largest concentration of Rannit forces. The reanimates, who had been building docks and derricks a few hours before, were herded into the gravity free cargo hold by the three enlisted deck crew.
The bigger fleet ships screened the Cerulean as she descended into the atmosphere. William had expected his job to end when the drones were offloaded. Instead, the head of the strike team that had come down on the smaller transport Athos, Commander Vitkin, had drafted William and his deck crew into the ground assault. They passed out weapons to the reanimates and gave them basic instructions on their use. Included in the arms passed out were high caliber anti-tank weapons. Long standing Earth law and treaties did not all allow for the use of these weapons against personnel, but the Rannit were not covered by human laws.
“Sir,” he asked the commander, “should we be giving these types of weapons to the drones? There’s no time to verse them on the laws of war.”
“We’re not talking about people here, Lieutenant. Carry out your orders.”
William was unsure if he meant the reanimates or the Rannit when he talked about “people.”
Afterward, the news stories made it sound like a single valiant push to overwhelm the Rannit positions, but in truth, the fight went on for days. Directing the drones was difficult. They were very literal in carrying out instructions and seemed to have little sense of self-preservation. If they did not understand an order, they sometimes became immobile. Some showed distress in this state, making high pitched whines and swaying in place.
“Sir, communications among the ranks are proving ineffective.” William replayed the reports to the commander. “We’re losing drones who aren’t taking cover or who march forward with no consideration for terrain. They have no concept of covering fire or coordinated combat of any type.”
“You know what, Butcher? You’re right.” There was a sinister look in the commander’s eye. Officers like Vitkin did not take bad news from subordinates well. William had encountered a few like him, and there seemed to be a disproportionate number of them amongst the assault team. Technically, they had been trained for combat, but naval martial training focused on boarding and securing ships, not surface battles. None of them were prepared for the reality of a prolonged assault. The violence and the stress were getting to them. The tension was giving life-long military personnel a hair trigger and they had nothing to vent their aggression on except their subordinates, and in some cases, the drones.
It did not help that officers like Vitkin despised grounders, especially those with SecondLife mortgages, like William. To Vitkin, if you were not born fleet, you did not belong in space. William knew that whatever Vitkin said next was not going be good.
“Why don’t you go earn yourself some medals. Take that group there forward and coordinate from the front.” A malicious smile had crossed the commanders face as he issued the order. William knew the man wanted him gone, permanently.
William gathered the group of 200 reanimates he had been assigned and moved forward. He started to write a tender goodbye message to Carly on his nexus.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud. He had no experience with reanimate drones and no idea how to command them. Was it even really possible? Drones could barely garden. How was he supposed to get them to fight? “You there,” he grabbed the arm of the nearest drone. “What is your designation—never mind, I’m going to call you Hank. Can you remember that?”
“Yes, you will be calling me Hank, because you do not know my designation.”
Was that sass from a drone?
“The drones are having trouble with orders. They don’t improvise.”
“No, sir. This is a novel environment with many factors. Without a clear decision tree, it is easy for drones to become confused. I am finding the lack of instruction very distressing. Please, even some simple orders would be helpful.”
“So how do we fix that?” It was ridiculous expecting a drone to solve a problem Command had not been able to tackle.
“You elucidate all possible orders and then predict possible outcomes or complications and determine what the action should be under the given conditions.”
“Can you help me with that?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. All drones are highly proficient with decision trees. I will need either a large sample of possible scenarios or a common life experience to relate it to.”
“Here, take this. Start taking notes on what I say and ask questions if you think of them.”
The drone took William’s nexus, and they began.
Over the course of the march to the front, with Hank’s assistance, William worked out the first decision tree, a basic structure for marching and attacking an enemy position. It covered every possible outcome he could think of. Hank was surprisingly helpful in pointing out holes in the trees and helped William develop a standing protocol for what the drones should do if they encountered a novel situation.
When they reached the forward position, William reported to Lieutenant Foster.
“Foster, I’ve been sent forward with this group to help coordinate the forward troops.”
“Good luck with that,” snorted Foster hunkered behind a barricade. “No one saw fit to make sure all the drones were issued comms along with weapons. Only 1 in 50 has some method of communication and most of those are personal nexus or logistics data pads we cobbled together, not proper comms.”
“I think I’ve worked out a few decision trees that will help the drones react more appropriately in combat.”
“A what?” he asked. “You know what, I don’t care. Whoever made this your disaster can have my rations for a week. Just so you know, Command is adamant we keep pressure on the foremost Rannit fortifications. Mostly the drones are just walking forward shooting until they drop.”
William could see, across the field, scattered clumps of drones walking toward the Rannit gun emplacements. Firing their own weapons, taking shots over and again until they ran out of ammo or finally toppled over unable to proceed.
William selected another drone from the group and had it identify all the drones at the front with a comm. He invited those drones into the command bunker to review the decision trees with Hank. They then took those trees out to designated units.
It started working. William observed the drones nimbly taking cover, learning how to stagger fire to allow a comrade to reload. Hank could update, copy, and adapt decision trees quickly. Whenever drones ran into a decision roadblock, they passed it on to a communications drone who passed it on to Hank. William came up with an answer, which was added to the tree and disseminated.
Once the drones began showing a semblance of order and competence, the Rannit began using mortars. The high-pitched whine of an incoming explosive shell soon became the only thing anyone listened for. Previously, the drones had been taking all the fire, but now the living cowered in bunkers and behind fortificatio
ns, praying they would not be the next target. There was nothing to be done when the first shell was heard. After it landed, everyone still able ran away from the initial blast, knowing more would come. William set the drones to erecting tall wire covers over the bunkers and command posts, an old tactic used to trigger explosives before they reached their target, diminishing the damage done.
Either due to limited supplies or to increase the terror, the Rannit kept the mortars going at random intervals of night and day. William was forward scouting a gun emplacement with a small group of drones who had shown facility with stealth when a devastating pair of mortars struck the command bunker, ripping through the protective wire.
When his group got back to the command post they found what was left of Foster, part of a torso, blown well out of the bunker. Hank was on the ground, still holding William’s nexus. “Lieutenant, I have sustained fatal damage.” He croaked from lips gushing out blue grey fluid.
“It’s OK Hank, you’re tough.” William bent down next to the drone and stroked his hair. It was stupid, he knew. The reanimate was not a real person.
“Why are they killing us?” Hank asked and then William heard the air hiss out of the drone’s lungs. Who was “they,” he wondered, the Rannit or their human keepers?
The Rannit were running out of munitions. They were colonists, not soldiers. Once the drones started working like a genuine military unit, they were devastating. They had learned what wounds they could shrug off and when to take cover. They acted with perfect logic according to their decision trees, no panicking, no questioning, no fear. When shown once how to execute a maneuver they performed surprisingly well. They were not just pain resistant they were strong and fast. Resistant was the key, however, William learned. He could hear the moans and cries of reanimates who had been injured so badly the pain leaked through whatever buffer protected them.