Terminal Uprising

by Jim C. Hines

  A woman in a thigh-length white jacket appeared, wearing half-circle lenses in invisible frames. Her eyes twitched from side to side as she spoke, like she was reading the words, possibly from the lenses themselves. Mops followed along with the subtitles.

  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, together with the Global Health Organization, have issued a level four alert for all residents of North and Central America. Krakau Virus outbreaks have been confirmed as far south as Costa Rica.

  The woman—Doctor Adamopoulos—spoke of quarantine zones, advising anyone with symptoms to report to the nearest hospital or emergency medical center. She reassured everyone the CDC was doing all they could to protect unaffected populations and to help those stricken by the plague.

  The clip was less than a minute long. At the end, it faded into that same blue-and-white logo, followed by a block of text in Human:

  February 17, 2105

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Subject Headings: Krakau Virus, Quarantine, Medical, 22nd Century

  Language: English

  Contributor: Adamopoulos, Marion Susan, MD (Narrator)

  Index Code CDC210502-35.12.932

  “That’s our cataloging information at the end,” Gleason explained.

  “Doc, bring up that image of Dr. Adamopoulos.”

  The doctor appeared in the center of Mops’ monocle. Mops closed her other eye to better focus on this woman the Krakau had blamed for the end of human civilization.

  Marion Adamopoulos had light brown skin and close-cut black hair, just starting to turn to gray. Swollen shadows beneath her eyes made it look like she’d just lost a fight. A choker with yellow beads or jewels circled the snug collar of her blue turtleneck.

  To Mops’ eye, she looked broken. Her hands were clasped together, as if to keep them from trembling. Her shoulders hunched protectively, like she was bracing against an attack. “Who was she?”

  Gleason skimmed several other documents. “Dr. Adamopoulos worked eight years as an epidemiologist for the CDC. Spent a year vaccinating families around the Gulf of Mexico after the malaria outbreak of 2099. Married twice. One child, a son who’d have been about twenty when everything fell apart. She was infected in October of 2105 and declared legally dead on November 2, 2105. I’ve got one article suggesting she was the one to first call the Krakau plague by that name.”

  Could that be why the Krakau had scapegoated her? Out of spite for daring to lay the blame at the Krakau’s tentacles?

  “Thank you again.” Mops cleared the monocle. “You’re being awfully nice, considering we led the Alliance to you.”

  Gleason watched Libris jump about, pulling articles to the ground and batting them offscreen. “Our days were numbered the moment they spotted Melvil running about. You just sped up the inevitable.”

  “Why show me all this?” asked Mops. “Shouldn’t you be preparing to defend LockLand?”

  “That’s what I’m doing.” Gleason didn’t look at her. “Captain, every one of my librarians carries a backup of our data, but we can’t transport the equipment to read it. Nor can we save all those books behind you.”

  Mops searched for words, but found none.

  “How did you plan to get your people off this rock, once you found what you were looking for?”

  “Originally? On a shuttle.” Mops shook her head. “We thought we had a way to hide it from Alliance scanners.”

  “I take it from your expression that didn’t work out the way you’d hoped?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mops. “They blew us up. We had to jump.”

  “No shit?” Gleason looked her up and down. “You reborn humans are tougher than I thought.”

  “It’s how they made us,” she said bitterly. “The Krakau want their guns to last.”

  “If you were nothing but guns, you and your team wouldn’t be causing such headaches for the Krakau,” Gleason retorted.

  “We’ve spent most of the time running and hiding,” Mops admitted. “I wasn’t trained for command. Not like this.”

  “You’ve kept your people alive so far.” Gleason shut down the computer screen. “They trust you. So do I. Trust is a big part of what keeps this community going. The moment we brought you here, you became a part of that community and that trust.”

  “Even Cate?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Gleason grimaced. “Point is, whatever comes next, folks are trusting you to help protect all this.”

  “That’s why you brought me here? To make sure I knew what we were fighting for?”

  “Got it in one.”

  “Devious.” Mops gave a quick salute. “Effective, but devious.”

  “There was another reason,” Gleason admitted. “A selfish reason. How could I possibly resist the chance to show off our collection to a new patron?”

  Mops laughed. “Thank you, Gleason. Whatever happens, I’m glad I had the chance to see it. I can’t thank you enough for showing me how much of our history and culture still exists. That humanity still exists.”

  “There’s no need,” said the librarian. “Like I said, it’s my job. And call me Eliza.”

  LockLand Theme Song as Sung by Emperor Waddle

  Every child knows

  The place where their dreams come true.

  Children want to go

  Where penguins dance and laugh and

  Make good memories with you.

  Everyone has come to play.

  Hope you have a pleasant stay.

  Stop by LockLand’s shops and rides and petting zoo.

  If the lights start flashing red,

  Duck and cover up your head.

  If they’re blinking blue, then go to Shelter Two.1

  You’ll be happy and secure.

  Try the penguin wagon tour!

  There are countless joys and wondrous things to do.

  Every child knows

  The place where their dreams come true.

  Every family goes

  Where they’ll be safe and joyful.2

  Waddle has a hug for you.

  ——

  Use your room terminal or stop by any information kiosk to upgrade to skip-the-line shelter access!

  Per the liability release form, LockLand cannot guarantee individual safety or joy.

  * * *

  “DOC, DOUBLE-CHECK THOSE directions Gleason gave us and tell me I’m in the wrong place. Please.”

  “Sorry. That pillar to your left confirms it. Welcome to the Princess room.”

  Mops walked cautiously through the open doors . . . doors painted in bright metallic purple, with gleaming yellow hinges. The inside was decorated to resemble the interior of a castle, if that castle were built of pink stone and glittering purple mortar. Tiny floor tiles formed a mosaic of a penguin dressed in a flowing green gown, wielding sword and shield against an enormous red dragon.

  Artificial torches on the walls filled the room with light. The “flames” were molded glass or polymer, each one with unique facial features, but every one beaming with a too-cheerful smile.

  Cate lay snoring on an old sleeping bag against the far wall. The rest of Mops’ people, along with Junior and Khatami, sat around a circular wooden table eating from a pile of nuts, dried fruit, and dull green squares of algae-based nutrient.

  “Welcome back, Captain,” said Monroe.

  Mops took the vacant seat between Monroe and Junior and picked up one of the nuts, a segmented green ball about four centimeters in diameter.

  “Shagnut hickory,” said Khatami. “I brought a nutcracker, but your second in command doesn’t seem to need it.”

  Monroe took the nut, removed the green husk, then squeezed until the shell cracked in his grip.

  “That is so zip,” said Juni
or. From the admiration in her expression, Mops assumed it was a compliment.

  Monroe dropped the pieces into Mops’ hand. She nodded her thanks, picked bits of nut meat free, and popped them into her mouth. They had a sweet, buttery taste. She was reaching for more before she’d finished chewing.

  “Bathroom’s through that door in the back.” Wolf cocked her thumb at a warped metal door. Flaking paint suggested it had once been painted to resemble wood. “No water showers, but there’s dry shampoo and some cleaning and disinfectant powders.”

  From the smell, Wolf had taken full advantage. Instead of smelling like skunk, she now smelled like lemon, wildflowers, and skunk.

  “Any word from the surface?” asked Mops.

  Khatami glanced at their wrist comm. “Lookouts have spotted a few drones and fighters passing overhead, but the Alliance hasn’t started their assault yet.”

  “Gleason’s meeting with the Board and department heads now,” said Mops. “She asked me to join them in half an hour to help plan the defense, and to figure out where and how my team can best support the librarians.”

  The table grew quiet. They all knew this wasn’t a winnable fight. Sage had at least a hundred fighters and bombers available to her on Stepping Stone Station, as well as any larger-class ships in the system.

  Mops wiped crumbs from her hands, her appetite having soured. She pulled a food tube from her harness and unsealed her suit.

  Junior stared with unabashed curiosity. “You have bionic stomachs?”

  “The Krakau install feeding ports in all reborn troops,” said Mops. “The nutrient mix goes directly into our stomachs. The stomachs themselves are unmodified factory-issue, though.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “There are rumors that eating ‘naturally’ can occasionally trigger reversion.” Mops pressed the injection button on the end of the tube. “From what we’ve learned, there’s not much truth to those rumors. I think it’s more so the Krakau can monitor and control our nutrition intake.”

  Junior rolled her eyes. “You mean they don’t trust you to feed yourselves?”

  “The tubes also let the Krakau deliver medication and drugs as needed,” said Monroe. “Infantry troops get a mixture before battle that includes stimulants to improve battle performance.”

  “Does it ever leak?” asked Junior. “Like, what if you’re walking around and your port comes undone? It would be like vomiting out of your belly button.”

  “They don’t leak,” Mops assured her.

  Khatami dipped their fingers in a small bowl of water, wiped their lips, and spoke briefly in a language Doc couldn’t translate. When they looked up and noticed Mops watching, they explained, “An after-blessing for the food.”

  “Khatami’s always praying to different gods and prophets,” said Junior. “Like they’re trying to practice every Earth religion at the same time. They rotate through different blessings and prayers at mealtime.”

  “It can get confusing,” Khatami admitted with a smile. “The holidays alone are overwhelming.”

  “Why make the effort?” asked Wolf.

  “I find I understand them better through practice,” said Khatami. “Religion is part of our history. This is my way of keeping that history alive. Then there’s Pascal’s Wager. If our religious traditions were wrong, I don’t lose anything by practicing. But if one of those traditions got it right . . .”

  “Do your prayers have any measurable effect?” asked Rubin.

  Junior groaned. “Don’t get them started.”

  Khatami threw a scrap of algae bar at her. “Do they impact the world or the outcome of events? It’s impossible to construct a controlled experiment to say one way or the other. But they bring me peace and comfort.”

  “Better say some for us,” said Monroe. “We’ll need all the help we can get when the rest of the Alliance forces get here from Stepping Stone.”

  Khatami’s expression turned sober. “I’ve been praying for days, brother.”

  “Sage isn’t using Stepping Stone ships.”

  Mops turned to stare at Wolf. “What did you just say?”

  “That troop carrier yesterday came from Earth.” Wolf shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t anyone else notice the fecal stains?”

  “Gross,” muttered Junior.

  “You want gross, try clearing a plumbing jam when Grom’s secreting eggs.” Wolf mimed throwing up, eliciting a pained laugh from Junior.

  “The troop carrier,” Mops pressed. “Explain.”

  “It had dry smears of something black and white all over the hull, mostly on the top or streaked down the side.” Wolf shrugged. “I’ve seen enough shit to recognize it. Probably left by birds or bats or dragons or whatever.”

  Khatami raised a hand. “Dragons aren’t real. And if they were, their droppings would be significantly larger.”

  “That ship was parked here on Earth, exposed to the animals.” Mops stood, her mind racing through the implications. “Monroe, when you spotted those fighters approaching the library—”

  “They were already within the atmosphere.” He smacked his artificial hand against the table. “I’m a damn fool.”

  “The rest of us can’t read minds, you know,” Wolf complained.

  “Sage wants to keep the existence of the librarians a secret,” said Mops. “So she only dispatched security forces from her research facility here on the surface. Stepping Stone is too big. It would be too easy for secrets to leak. She’s limited to using people whose loyalty she can trust.”

  “With respect,” said Khatami, “those limited resources far surpass anything we have available to protect ourselves. LockLand is a difficult nut to crack, but even a single fighter would eventually destroy us.”

  “Eventually,” Mops repeated. “But in the meantime, every ship and soldier Sage sends here means fewer forces to protect her research lab.”

  “You want to attack them while they’re busy attacking LockLand,” said Rubin.

  “I concur!” Cate stood and stretched his wings. “I’m sorry. I only heard the last part of the conversation. Who are we attacking?”

  “Everyone finish eating and double-check your equipment.” Mops started toward the door. “Junior? Take me to your mother.”

  * * *

  Junior filled every moment of the walk with questions. Mops suspected it was a response to anxiety, a way to avoid thinking about what was about to happen. She wasn’t alone in her fear, but it showed more in her restless gestures, in her discomfort with silence.

  Chronologically, Junior might have lived more than Mops’ twelve years, but she was still growing. The other librarians Mops had met all seemed to know who they were and how they fit into this little microsociety. Junior felt . . . unfinished. Uncertain.

  “What’s the grossest thing you ever had to clean up on your ship?”

  That was an easy one. “Two years ago, a medical refrigeration unit failed after a battle.”

  Junior sounded disappointed. “That’s it? A broken fridge?”

  “That particular fridge was being used to store a Prodryan corpse, and it took three weeks for anyone to notice the failure.” Mops had put in for commendations for the whole team after that one.

  “Gross.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “If they found a cure, would you want to be human again?”

  Mops slowed. “We are human.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Mops. “I also know what you said.”

  Junior groaned and waved her hands in exasperation. “You’re as bad as my mother. Fine, I’m sorry. If they found a way to undo everything the Krakau plague did to you, would you take it?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “There was a time I’d have said yes, no hesitation.”

  “Not an
ymore?”

  “I’d have to think about it. For one thing, you natural-born humans feel pain. That sounds unpleasant.”

  Junior leaned closer. “You really don’t feel pain?”

  “Not like you do.” Mops rotated her arm, making the shoulder pop so loudly Junior jumped. “I feel the pressure and the jolt of the joint jumping into place, but no pain. At most, we might get a dull ache or throbbing sensation. That’s not necessarily a good thing, though. It means we don’t notice injuries. One of my crewmates four months ago was walking around with a chunk of shrapnel in her back. She didn’t even know. She could easily have severed her spine, or worse.”

  Junior nodded wisely. “CIPA.”

  “Pardon?”

  “In Human, it would be . . .” Her face screwed up with concentration. “Congenital insensitivity to pain, with . . . I’m not sure how to translate the last word, but it means you can’t sense temperature extremes, and your body doesn’t sweat. It was a human genetic disorder. High fatality rate from injuries and overheating.”

  “We can feel differences in temperature,” said Mops.

  Junior cocked her head. “Has anyone ever done a study to figure out why you don’t feel pain? Do the nerves not transmit the signal, or does the brain just not register it?”

  “I don’t have any such studies in my databases. I’d have to synch up with the Pufferfish medical systems to run a more comprehensive search.”

  “I have no idea,” Mops admitted. “Doc’s not aware of any.” There was a lot she didn’t understand about how humans worked. She’d learned basic first aid, the same as any other EMC recruit, but nothing deeper.

  What would a cure even mean? Pain, yes, but how else would her senses change? The average reborn human was known to be less intelligent than their “natural” ancestors. Would a cure improve her memory, help her to think more clearly and quickly?

  They passed a woman with wrinkled skin and pale hair. She moved with slow, stiff steps, leaning on a metal cane and laughing at something her younger companion had said. Mops knew human life spans had once reached a century, but knowing and seeing were very different things. Few EMC troops made it to half that age.