We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  “What are you talking about?” Elly asked. She was sounding more lucid, impatient, as if she’d been shaken awake from a deep sleep. Hunter finally flicked on the light. Park had to stop herself from closing her eyes; she saw Elly recoil from the glare for a moment, then relax.

  There was something red on her arm. In the sudden brightness Park couldn’t see what it was. She heard Natalya give a muffled scream behind her.

  “Elly,” Park said, her own voice sounding strangely steady, even to herself. “What happened to you?”

  The climatologist looked at her sleepily. She seemed to take no notice of the stripes she’d clawed into her arm. The nails of her right hand were speckled with blood. She shook her head and looked at Park with the innocence of a sparrow. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Wake me up. I think I’m having a nightmare.”

  3.

  [Hello:

  I’ll start with the bad news, since I know you prefer that. I was unable to access the video files you asked for. Ever since those terrorists blew up those archives on Halla, ISF’s put most of its databanks on lockdown. And I mean on super-lockdown. I was unable to bypass their security measures.

  Now for the good news. The loss of the data in Halla must have spooked them, because they commissioned text transcripts of the videos to be stored elsewhere—in case the original filmstreams were ever lost or damaged or hacked or held hostage by the rebels. Those transcripts, I was able to access. They’ll do fine, won’t they?

  I’ll have to send them to you piecemeal. Too big of a file, and ISF will get suspicious. Just keep writing back to me, so that I’m not sending you many unanswered messages in a row. That would be suspicious, too. You can say things like, “How’s little Nicky! Can I see a picture of him?” I’ll hide the transcript files in the pics. Click on the eyebrows to execute; type the name of that stupid blue toy we used to fight over to unlock.

  Aren’t you lucky your little sister is in Communications Sector? And you always told me the job would be shit.

  Love,

  S.S.]

  Video Logs from the CS Wyvern 7079

  Recorded for Posterity

  Transcribed by Officer A. Sagara

  #900382

  Transcriber’s notes: These logs were filmed by a first-generation HARE (Heuristic Analysis, Reconnaissance, and Exploration) model, a unit from the 270-RX line. Serial number has not yet been recovered, as of this recording. A HARE is an exploration robot used by surveyors and miners to analyze terrain. It looks like a large mechanical spider, about 1.3 meters tall, with eight titanium legs, plungered feet, and a box sitting on its top, which houses the HARE’s camera, processors, cataphotes, scanners, total station theodolite, gyrotheodolite, and other tools. This HARE’s video logs were first received by the merchant vessel RA Ryujin, which then relayed them to ISF Corvus.

  VIDEO LOG #1—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 1: 10:38 UTO

  [The HARE model activates for the first time. Its camera blinks on, fuzzy, then focused. The cockpit of a small mining ship appears in its view: a two-seater, very cramped, the ship itself shaped like a teardrop with a conic drill at its point. The HARE looks at the control panel in the room and the bank of video screens that show the exterior of the ship. There is a multitude of stars on the screens. In the distance, there seems to be a small white planet or moon, about the size of a fist.]

  [Abruptly, a man appears in the camera’s eye, very close. There’s a loud scrambling noise as he adjusts something on the HARE’s ‘head.’ The man is tall, approximately 2 meters in height, with a large nose, white-blond hair, and gray eyes. He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. There’s an indistinct Martian tattoo on the right side of his neck. A thin scar cuts halfway through his left eyebrow. His nametag reads CS Engineer Fin Taban.]

  [Taban fiddles with the camera lens of the HARE, then points it at the bank of video screens.]

  Taban: HARE, identify that planet.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  Taban: HARE, identify.

  HARE: I’m sorry. You must undergo this unit’s activation protocols before use.

  Taban: God damn it.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  Taban: Do you have transmission features? Can you relay a message back to ISF?

  HARE: I’m sorry. You must undergo this unit’s activation protocols before—

  [Taban reaches over and the video cuts out.]

  VIDEO LOG #2—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 1: 10:45 UTO

  [The camera blinks on again. Taban is still in the same position. So is the HARE.]

  Taban: My name is Fin Taban, of the CS Wyvern. I, uh, guess this is a mayday signal . . . Our communications system went down several days ago. Maybe five. My pilot took us out past Vier and went in the wrong direction—I think we’re in unregulated space now. There’s some planet nearby that I don’t recognize. We went through an asteroid cloud similar to the Oort and took some damage. Didn’t come out with much more than a stubbed toe on the human end, but our FTL engine, lambda drive, and comm systems are down as a result. Requesting rescue from these coordinates. Uh, ASAP. Please.

  Taban (sitting back): What do you think? Did that sound good?

  HARE: I am unable to answer your query at this time.

  Taban: I guess it’ll have to do. Transmit to the nearest ISF frequency.

  HARE (processing): I’m sorry. This unit is unable to comply.

  Taban: What? Why not?

  HARE (processors whirring): There are no ISF frequencies within range.

  Taban: Can’t you boost your signal?

  HARE: Only models past the second generation are capable of that function.

  Taban: What generation are you?

  HARE: First.

  Taban: That’s great. That’s just wonderful. Thank you.

  HARE: You are welcome.

  [There’s the sound of a pneumatic door opening and closing. Taban looks at something off-screen. Another man walks into view and slouches himself into the pilot seat of the cockpit. This man is short, muscled, barrel-chested, with dark brown hair in a military buzz and heavy jowls. He looks to be in his early to mid-forties. His nametag reads CS Pilot Hap Daley.]

  Daley: So did you figure out how to turn that thing on?

  Taban: Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Took a while to get it set up. You really never used it the entire time you’ve been flying this ship?

  Daley: Never had to. The company just pointed me at whatever they wanted me to mine and I mined it. Never needed some robot to help me explore the barren piece-of-shit asteroids I was hacking up.

  Taban: Yeah. Makes sense, I guess.

  Daley: So you know how to use it?

  Taban: I think so.

  Daley: Why’s the screen blank?

  Taban: I thought it was supposed to be that way.

  Daley: I don’t think so. Give it a little shake.

  Taban: Are you kidding?

  Daley: No.

  [Taban shakes the HARE.]

  HARE: Please. This action is unnecessary.

  Taban: Oh. Sorry.

  Daley (turning back to his screens): Well, whatever. Ask it what planet that is.

  Taban: HARE, identify the closest planet and provide its ISF designation.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  Daley: What did it say?

  Taban: It’s thinking.

  HARE: Planet unidentified. Not listed in ISF databanks.

  Daley: What?

  Taban: I told you. If our ship’s nav-sys didn’t recognize it, an ancient HARE wasn’t going to.

  Daley: It must be malfunctioning—just like the nav.

  Taban: It’s not. It can’t be. It just got turned on for the first time. How could it already be malfunct
ioning?

  Daley: You know. Radiation and shit . . . screws these things up.

  Taban: Daley, getting lost screws these things up.

  Daley: We’re not lost.

  Taban: You went the complete opposite way we were supposed to go! Of course we’re lost!

  Daley: Just because you—

  Taban: I saw you go off-course weeks ago. You said you were cutting across Luxue to avoid the checkpoints, but—

  Daley: Look, I go through this sector all the time. Relax. I know what I’m doing. And I did exactly what the nav told me to do.

  Taban: The nav you just said was broken? And you go through this sector all the time, my ass. We’re in the dark butthole of space out here. What is that? (pointing at white planet)

  Daley: I don’t know. But you need to calm down.

  Taban: Calm down, sure.

  Daley: I know you’re a rookie, but you really need to nerve up for shit like this. It’s not a big deal, okay? All we have to do is land, fix up the FTL, turn back around, and fly home. Got it?

  Taban: Land where? On that?

  Daley: Where else are we going to land? You want to try the asteroids again?

  Taban: But that’s a foreign planet.

  Daley: So?

  Taban: So we don’t know anything about that place. Even the ISF doesn’t, apparently—and isn’t there some sort of law against landing on unsettled planets?

  Daley: Planet, asteroid, moon, what does it matter? And I’m not gonna tell. Are you gonna tell?

  Taban: And shouldn’t we be fixing the comm system before we think about fixing the FTL engine?

  Daley: Fuck no. The FTL engine is what lets us fly back.

  Taban: But we need the comm system to contact ISF if we need help.

  Daley: But we’re not gonna need help if you fix the FTL and we fly home.

  Taban: But—

  Daley: Taban, man. Come on. Let’s nut up a little here, huh?

  Taban: Okay. Fine. Whatever.

  Daley: Okay. Good.

  Taban (rubbing his eyes): . . .

  Daley (steering): . . .

  Taban: HARE, analyze that planet.

  HARE: What would you like to know?

  Taban: Anything you can tell us. Weather conditions, atmosphere composition, whether there’s enough radiation on the surface to toast our marshmallows . . .

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  HARE: I’m sorry. I am unable to answer your query at this time.

  Taban: What? Why not?

  HARE: In order to analyze an unclassified planet, I need to be on it.

  Taban: Great. That’s very useful.

  Daley: Hey, do me a favor, will you?

  Taban: What?

  Daley: Override its ISF protocols.

  Taban: Why?

  Daley: If it is against the law to land on a virgin planet, the thing might go on red-alert and we’d never get it to shut up. Root it so it takes commands from you, not its original ISF programming. You can do that, right?

  Taban: I think so.

  HARE: Tampering with ISF property is not permitted.

  Daley: Shut up.

  [Taban reaches for the camera. The video cuts out.]

  VIDEO LOG #3—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 1: 18:22 UTO

  [The HARE reboots again. The ship seems to be landing at this point: the radiation shields are down, revealing the windows and the view outside. Outside, an icy horizon rises up as the Wyvern descends. The tundra is so flat and white that the HARE’s camera lens struggles to focus on it as a distinct object. In the distance (~6–7 kilometers away from the ship’s landing site?) there are large, mirror-like structures towering into the sky. They’re strangely-shaped, fractal and razor-sharp shards as tall as skyscrapers, reflecting and bending the light in odd, dizzying ways. The effect is wholly unnatural.]

  Daley (whistling): Take a look at that.

  Taban: Never seen anything like it before. What are they?

  Daley: Dunno. Can’t be manmade.

  [The structures vanish beyond the curve of the horizon as the ship lands. For a moment the two men are silent as the ship winds down from its landing sequence.]

  Taban (looking at the ship’s dashboard): So, come here often?

  Daley: What?

  Taban: Nothing. Just a joke.

  Daley: (grunt)

  Taban: I’m pretty sure we could get court-martialed for this.

  Daley: No one’s ever gonna find out. And if they did, just pretend we didn’t know anything. Our ship’s computer malfunctioned, we just assumed this was Elysium or Gimle. It looks pretty much exactly the same.

  Taban: Except that it’s orbiting two stars, not one.

  Daley: Shhhh. We’re miners, not astronomers. We’re poor, ignorant fools.

  Taban: So, delete the HARE footage before we get back, is what I hear you saying. Since it’s recording everything you just said.

  Daley: See? This is why I keep you around. You clean up after yourself.

  Taban: (sighs) (turning back to the HARE) Okay, I think it’s ready.

  Daley: And you’re sure it’s okay to go outside the ship?

  Taban: For the HARE? Sure. That’s what it’s built for—extraterrestrial exploration. (tapping HARE’s legs) That’s what these titanium legs are for. They keep it mobile, sturdy. We can send it out, let it analyze, and see what conditions are like out there.

  Daley: And then you’ll nut up and fix the engine?

  Taban: Yeah, Daley. As soon as I find out my atoms aren’t going to get ripped apart and scrambled by cosmic death-rays or a fucking solar wind, I’ll nut up and fix the engine.

  Daley: All right. Send it out, then.

  Taban: HARE, you ready?

  HARE: I am awaiting directives.

  Taban: HARE, enter reconnaissance mode. Acquire data about this planet.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  HARE: ‘This planet’: command unrecognized.

  Taban: See, hacking its protocols made it go all screwy. It’s not equipped to be dealing with undesignated planets. You know why? Because it’s illegal to land on undesignated planets.

  Daley: Just rephrase. Make up a name for the planet, give it something to categorize. Fool it.

  Taban: HARE, enter reconnaissance mode. Acquire data about current planet, uhhh, designation HARPA.

  Daley: Harpa? Who the hell is Harpa?

  Taban: It’s just a name I made up.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  HARE: Designation HARPA acquired. Entering reconnaissance mode.

  Daley: Okay, let’s send it outside.

  [Daley and Taban rise from their seats and leave the cockpit. The HARE also rises on its plungered feet and lumbers after them. Daley and Taban stop in front of the airlock of the ship and begin to zip up in protective suits.]

  Taban: It’s a heuristic learning model. An evolving intelligence. It’ll get smarter the longer it’s active, the more it absorbs.

  Daley: I don’t really care about that, Taban. All I care about is fixing the damn engine and getting home.

  Taban: Right.

  Daley: (grunt)

  Taban (to HARE): And don’t you come back until you’ve acquired as much data as you can, you hear? Scan everything in sight.

  HARE: Affirmative.

  Taban: And stop saying that.

  HARE: Okay, USER Taban. What would you like me to say instead?

  Taban: I don’t know. Just say something less creepy.

  HARE: Something less creepy.

  Daley: Ha. It’s fucking with you.

  Taban: It can’t do that. Can you?

  HARE: I’m sorry. I am unable to answer your query at this time.

  4.


  Park could not remember when she had first decided to be a psychologist. There was no defining moment, no sudden epiphany. No inspirational role model who had encouraged her in the dream. In fact, almost everyone who knew her in her youth had assumed she would turn out to be a roboticist. She had a hazy memory of typing ‘psychology’ on the hobbies and interests portion of some survey. But where had the impulse come from? She didn’t know.

  Later, she would test low in amiability on her career placement exams in high school. That was a problem: you needed moderate-to-high scores in amiability, empathy, and self-awareness to even get a degree in the field. The family android, Glenn, informed her that she was too “closed up inside” when he helped her practice for the retakes.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Park had asked, coldly.

  “In the animal kingdom, you would be neofelis nebulosa,” Glenn had answered.

  Whatever that meant. Park had never looked it up; she was afraid to find out exactly what it was. But she got the idea. An elusive, enigmatic thing. Ultimately what Glenn was saying was something she had always known: that she was not a social animal; that she was not meant to be wedged into close contact with other people. That she belonged to a single-cat home. People like her—people turned inward, people solitary and on the fringes of society—were best encountered from afar. Those on the outskirts could not understand the problems of those in the center of things. They couldn’t really bridge the gap. She understood this.

  But she’d taken the test again anyway.

  Park thought about that now, as she helped Hunter sedate the hysterical Elly Ma. On her other side, Natalya was sealing the wound in Elly’s arm with a kind of medical glue.

  “What kind of nightmare?” Park kept asking Elly, as the woman’s eyes flickered under a wave of tab-induced drowsiness. “What were you dreaming about, Elly?”

  The climatologist shook her head. “I wasn’t in control of myself,” she slurred with an effort, as if struggling to speak across a great distance. “There was some other—force guiding me. Controlling me. Making me do things I didn’t want to do.”

  “What things?”

  For a moment Elly didn’t answer. “I was so cold,” she said. “My eyes weren’t my eyes. There was no blood in my body. I didn’t have a tongue.”