by Lena Nguyen
A wide, transparent one-way screen was set into the wall, flashing with readouts as it monitored the . . . it must be a HARE explorer, Park thought. It was standing placidly in the middle of the room, its big boxy monitor pointed at Park as if it could directly see her—though that seemed impossible. Where were its eyes? Did it have any? Park’s heart stuttered in her chest. What was it doing here?
She stood still, a good distance away from the cell. What did any of this mean? Why were the conscripted keeping an explorer robot captive? And what did it have to do with the androids’ delusions?
All at once her eyes caught something else in the far corner, dark and dormant. Another cryogenic pod. Park’s stomach clenched, and the sour-milk taste of fear filled her throat. What was that? Who was that? There was something floating within . . .
Before she could move, the HARE suddenly spoke to her. She heard its voice clearly, despite the glass interface, the wall between them. And her heart jumped when it spoke: its voice lacked the mechanical stiffness and timbre of a robot’s. It sounded, very startlingly, like a human.
Her brain clamored. She had never heard of a mere explorer bot possessing such a convincing voice before. And even though it lacked a face, there was—an affect to it. She couldn’t explain it, but it felt very human.
“So they told you, after all,” the HARE said, with pleasant politeness. “We didn’t think Jimex would do it. The synthetics must trust you deeply.”
She almost cringed away from it, from its strange and assessing presence. There was something about its unseen gaze that felt too keen—too knowing. She was still at the doorway of the room, several feet away. “Who are you?” she asked, even though she half-thought it wouldn’t hear. She could not stop thinking about the other man’s dead body, hovering and floating somewhere in the room behind her. “What—why are you here? How do the androids know about you? Are you the—what they call ‘the sleeping god?’ Or is it whoever’s frozen over there? Or behind me?”
The HARE did not answer for a moment, instead only watching her. All at once Park couldn’t take it anymore; she felt a savage desire to hurl something, to tear it to pieces in her hands. In her teeth. She could not bear the uncertainty or the terror, the not knowing, any longer; she tore across the room and slammed the button that would light up the last cryogenic pod in the corner. If it was Wick—hell, if it was Keller—she had to know. She could not take the unanswered questions anymore.
Then she screamed. The sound was terrible, raw and bloody-sounding, as if someone had stabbed her. She felt stabbed; she could not make sense of what she was seeing. She nearly fell backwards from the pod; instead she bent at her knees, curled in on herself, as if she had suffered a terrible blow.
It was the stranger. The stranger was in the pod, the same stranger she had seen in the mess hall. There was the same white-blond hair, the tall, awkward gait—the pale and ghostly blue eyes. She’d seen him, she’d seen this very man—and yet he was dead. And by the looks of it, he had been dead and frozen for a very long time.
Park nearly retched. “No, no, no,” she heard someone moaning; she looked around to see who it was and met only the blank, indifferent gaze of the HARE. “It can’t be,” the other person said. Only belatedly Park realized that it was herself, her voice low and strained from the way she was clutching her own knees. Trying to steady herself. “No. I saw him. He was alive—he was up there—” Her brain scrambled for an answer. A twin? A clone? A holographic projection?
The HARE shifted from foot to mechanical foot. “Please forgive our appearance,” it said. “We’ve vacated that old body for this one. Don’t be concerned. It doesn’t hurt.”
Park stared at it. “What?” She blinked; her vision swayed. “What—who are you?”
The HARE made a little gesture with one of its steel plungers, something ironic and very manlike. “We are the owner of this planet,” it said. The words dropped out of the speaker in its head like it could pick them up and offer them to her, loose and shining. Then it bowed. “And we have been waiting for you, Park. Hello. Our name is Fin Taban.”
19.
[ERROR: THIS ACCOUNT COULD NOT BE LOCATED. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR ASSIGNED ISF TECH SUPPORT FOR MORE DETAILS.]
VIDEO LOG #56—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079
Day 10: 22:43 UTO
[Daley and Taban pick their way across the field of dark, glassy waves. The HARE scurries after them. Taban frequently checks his glove sensor and oxygen readout, seemingly confused about what it tells him. Daley moves erratically, his head moving this way and that, as if he’s a dog trying to pick up a lost scent.]
Taban: It’s been five minutes, Daley.
Daley: It’s around here. I know it. I saw.
Taban (wearily): I’m going back.
Daley: No, just one more minute. You can’t!
Taban: That was our deal, man. Give it up.
Daley (breathing heavily): . . .
Taban: My oxygen’s low. I think. Everything acts so screwy out here, I can’t tell. And I bet yours is, too. Let’s go back to the ship, okay?
Daley: I’m not going back there. I can’t.
Taban: What do you mean, you can’t? Daley, your heart—
Daley: It’ll be fine.
Taban: No, it won’t! It nearly gave out the last time. And it was in bad shape even before that. I know you’re saving for a new one, Daley. You want to die here before you ever get the chance to buy it?
Daley: No one dies here.
Taban: . . .
[The two men struggle through the field for a few moments more.]
HARE: What do you mean, USER Daley?
Daley: What?
HARE: What do you mean, no one dies here?
Taban (stopping): No one’s going to die here. We’re going back.
Daley: I can’t. It won’t let me.
Taban: . . .
Daley: I want to stay out here. With it. It will make us whole again. You know?
Taban (turning to HARE): Come on, HARE. We’re going back.
HARE (beeping): Warning.
[The HARE is looking at Daley, whose large shadow is moving behind Taban. Taban half-turns to look at him, but before he can make the full turn, Daley smashes his fist into Taban’s faceplate. He appears to be holding a large rock or a chunk of ice in his hand. Taban lands on his back, shouting, while Daley sits on his chest and brings the rock down three times against his helmet again with enormous force.]
[The HARE leaps over and gives Daley a hard punch to the chest with one of its plungers. Surprised by the sudden blow, Daley rolls away from Taban and skids a meter away across the ice. The HARE leans over and checks Taban’s vitals.]
Taban: What the fuck?!
HARE: Are you injured?
Taban: No—I don’t think so—
[He sits up, seemingly unharmed, and looks around in a furious panic. Daley is scrambling to his knees.]
Taban (shouting): What the fuck is wrong with you?!
[Daley doesn’t answer. Instead he stands and stumbles off into the storm like a panicky animal in flight. He stays low to the ground, almost on his hands and knees. Taban tries to follow him but loses his balance and lands back on his rear.]
Taban: Seriously, what the fuck?
HARE: Should we follow USER Daley?
Taban: No! Fuck that crazy asshole! He’s lost it! We’re going back to the fucking ship—
[Again he tries to stand, and again he loses his balance. The HARE zooms in on his faceplate.]
HARE: There is a breach in your helmet.
[Taban claps a gloved hand over the area where Daley struck him.]
Taban: Shit, seriously? Where?
[The HARE examines his faceplate even more closely. It’s hard to see in the dark, but there is the tiniest chip in the thick gold surface of the helmet. Within t
hat, a crack as thin as a spider’s web.]
Taban (anxiously): I’ve—I’ve got emergency sealant. Just tell me where to point it.
[With the HARE’s help, Taban manages to fumble open a tiny tube of sealant from one of his pockets and clumsily slathers it over the crack in his helmet. He checks his medical readout.]
Taban: Am I going to die?
HARE: Your biology does not seem to have been adversely affected by outside elements. But the breach has depleted your oxygen to dangerous levels.
Taban: Meaning?
HARE: You are not poisoned or irradiated, but you might suffocate.
Taban: Thanks.
HARE: You are fortunate that de-pressurization did not do irreparable damage to your ocular receptors or brain.
Taban: Yeah, real fortunate. So we need to get back to the ship ASAP, right?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Okay, let’s go.
HARE: What about USER Daley?
Taban: Forget about that fucker. He’s on his own.
[Unsteadily, he raises himself to his feet. The HARE leans against his side to act as leverage, allowing Taban to use its box-head as a crutch. They begin walking back in the direction they came. Daley is nowhere to be seen.]
Taban: Why the hell would he do that? Was he luring us out here?
HARE: I do not know.
Taban: And where is he going?
HARE: I do not know. The chances of mortality are very high.
Taban: For him, you mean.
HARE: Yes.
[Taban’s breathing has acquired the faintest wheeze, though he seems to be moving easily enough. When the HARE looks up at him, the camera’s view is partially obscured by his gloved hand.]
Taban: My oxygen’s at 5%. But it’s been that way for the last half-hour, or more. I don’t get it.
HARE: There are anomalies here.
Taban: Yeah. No kidding.
HARE: This planet—designation: HARPA—is dangerous.
Taban: Yeah. No kidding.
[A minute passes. Taban continues to breathe with a slight rattle.]
Taban: Seriously, fuck Daley. I’m leaving his ass. Soon as we get back. I don’t even care if I don’t know how to fly. I’ll figure it out.
HARE: I will assist.
[It periodically turns its lens to check on Taban’s condition. Through the dark curve of his helmet, it looks like his nose is bleeding.]
Taban: How far away is the Wyvern?
HARE: Approximately twenty minutes at this current speed. If this is the right direction.
Taban: Do you not know?
HARE There are anomalies here.
Taban: . . . We’ll make it. It’ll be there.
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Fuck.
HARE: How do you feel?
Taban: Sick. Nauseous. Like the ground is moving under me. Pulsing like a heart. Do you not feel that?
HARE: No.
Taban: . . . It’ll be fine.
[They continue walking in silence. Taban moves gamely, keeping a brisk pace—but his breath comes in hard, labored pants. He tries to steady himself, but the rasp of his lungs can be heard clearly through the HARE’s audio array.]
[Twenty minutes pass. Despite their steady pace, the landscape around Taban and the HARE never seems to change.]
Taban: Is he following us?
HARE: No. There has been no sign of USER Daley since he left the party.
Taban: Some party. Does he have any way of getting back? Does he know how?
HARE: . . .
Taban: Whatever. It’s the least of my concerns. I’ve gotta get to a med pod.
HARE: USER Daley might be dead.
Taban: What?
HARE: I enacted defense protocols. He was attacking you.
Taban: What are you talking about?
HARE: I targeted his chest. I struck it. Such a blow may have induced cardiac ischemia. The chances are likely.
Taban (breathing heavily): Can’t worry about that now. Wouldn’t be your fault, even if that did happen. He brought it on himself.
HARE: There are chances that he is well.
Taban: Yeah. Fucker.
HARE: There are chances that he is not.
Taban: Yeah.
HARE: . . . I am sorry.
Taban: Don’t apologize to me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.
[The HARE suddenly stops dead and enters analysis mode, its antenna stretching upward and emitting a pulsing green light that reflects off the ground beneath it.]
Taban: What is it?
HARE (looking around): We have reached the coordinates of the ship. It should be here.
[There is nothing to be seen but an endless ‘sea’ of the frozen, glassy waves. The shapes of the waves against the white blizzard create eerie shadows that look like prowling creatures, encircling Taban and the HARE. The Wyvern is nowhere in sight.]
Taban (looking around, uncertain): What? Here?
[The HARE’s camera slowly pans around. The waves, impossibly, seem to loom larger than before.]
HARE: My processors must be faulty.
Taban: . . . So what does that mean? We have no way of getting back to the ship? We’re lost?
[There is neither anger nor despair in his voice. Just a wooden, resigned kind of calm. He speaks almost as if he’s been put in a trance. His breathing has acquired a painful, asthmatic scrape.]
HARE: I will continue to analyze. With enough time, I should be able to locate the ship via transponder signal.
Taban: Why weren’t you doing that in the first place?
HARE: The simpler way is to return to the coordinates marked in my global positioning system. To communicate with the ship’s computer and locate its signal through the storm would be far more complex.
Taban: But it would make way more sense to do that on a planet that changes direction, wouldn’t it?
HARE: You did not instruct me to do so.
Taban: I thought it would be common sense.
HARE: I have not acquired ‘common sense.’
Taban: I thought you were a heuristic learning model. An evolving intelligence—that’s what it says on the label on your back. I thought you get smarter over time! Have you even learned anything?
HARE (processors whirring): . . .
Taban (turning away): Whatever. It’s fine. Just go ahead and do it now.
[The HARE hunkers down on the ice, processing furiously, as Taban stumbles a few more feet, one hand pressed against his ribs as if he has a stitch. His breathing is scratchy and strained; blood has now clogged the lower half of his face. He appears to be fighting unconsciousness, or hypothermia, or even just immense tiredness. The HARE keeps watching him as he sways on his feet, even as it processes.]
[Gradually, the wind stops howling.]
Taban: . . . Wait. What the fuck is that?
HARE: What is what?
[Taban points at something in the distance. The camera follows his outstretched hand. He’s pointing at something in the waves, a few meters away from the pair. The wind has died a little, clearing the air of the film of ice crystals, and the HARE’s field of view has widened significantly. The camera zooms in, pixelates briefly, then clarifies: there’s a dark, lumpy shape caught in the frozen waves. It looks like the figure of a man.]
Taban: That’s not—
HARE: USER Daley.
[Taban begins to run. The HARE follows.]
[When it catches up, Taban is on his knees at the base of a dark wave, staring slackly at Daley’s body. Daley’s eyes are open and bloodshot; his face is contorted in a rictus of fear or surprise. The HARE checks Daley’s medical readout on his suit. It indicates that he’s dead.]
Taban: Shit!
[He punches the g
round next to him, to little effect.]
HARE: I could administer emergency medical procedures—
Taban: Look at him. It’s way too late.
[He hunches over Daley’s body, shuddering, as if to pray. Then he looks back up at the HARE with a hint of accusation.]
Taban: How is this possible? He went the opposite way of the ship—ran off somewhere else. He can’t have circled back around and died that fast.
HARE: There are anomalies here.
Taban: Did we go in the wrong direction?
HARE: No. We experienced an anomaly.
Taban: Stop fucking saying that! Not everything is a goddamn anomaly, HARE!
HARE (in concluding tones): We are experiencing an anomaly.
[Taban’s breath bursts through the transmitter in a short, staccato tattoo. He is crying. His tears glimmer through the gold of his helmet.]
Taban: We went the wrong way. We’re even farther from the ship than when we started. We’re not going to make it back.
HARE: We can. Your oxygen readout—
Taban (hopelessly): It’s at 0. I don’t know how I’m still alive.
[Suddenly he jolts backward from the wave and begins patting his suit all over, as if checking his pockets.]
Taban: Homing beacon . . .
HARE: Please repeat.
Taban: A homing beacon! We need a homing beacon. I’m going to write a message, stick a homing beacon in it—so when ISF comes, they can find it, even if we . . . move.
[He rolls over onto his back and starts scrabbling for his boot.]
Taban: Don’t they give us extra homing beacons with these suits?
HARE: Yes.
Taban: Where are mine located?
HARE: They’re usually strapped to your left calf.
Taban: Oh. Because—
HARE: . . . But USER Daley took yours to set his ‘markers’ several days ago.
Taban: FUCK!
[He flops over for a moment, apparently defeated. Then he rolls back over onto his knees again and begins to scramble around on the ice.]
Taban: Then I need to leave a note or something—pile up some ice, or scratch something out—so they know what I wanted, who to tell, and someone can find it later, regardless of this shit planet and its shit directions—