Minerva's face set. “You believed Brandon Macauley.” Grace's hands froze halfway to her hair. “How could you be sure his life wouldn't have gotten better? That they wouldn't have developed a miracle cure? But you let him make his own decision. You trusted him.”
The doctor stared, and her voice came out too high. “I—I didn't do that. I was cleared.”
“Sure. You ‘made a mistake’ about his dosage on a new drug. But you did believe him that he wanted to die. When he said that, you believed him.”
Grace glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. I did.”
“All I'm saying is I don't want legs.” Minerva's smile was wan and almost lopsided.
“He was older than you.”
“I read at a college-senior level.”
“That's—I don't know, Minerva.”
“I want a life, not a patienthood.”
Grace looked out the window for a time, jaw tight, and finally kneeled beside Minerva's chair and embraced her. Minerva wrapped her arms around the doctor's back and squeezed, closing her eyes.
“Is that what you came to talk to me about?” she whispered.
“Yes and no. I wanted to talk about Daniel. I've just been visiting him.”
Minerva nodded slowly. “He's a nice kid. I like him, when he's himself for a while.”
“You've never been to the perm-wards, have you?”
“Psych? No. But from what I hear, I wouldn't want to.”
“It's a warehouse. That's all it is. A—” She paused, sighed. “I bought a car.” She saw Minerva's eyebrows jump. “Haven't had one for years.”
“I'm glad.” The girl smiled at her with a sort of reckless joy, and the new hand grasped hers, surprisingly strong under its smooth skin. “I can help.”
Grace inhaled sharply. “What do you—” She looked again toward the door, at the microphone and camera she knew were there.
Minerva drew her into another hug and whispered, “I can read maps. I could keep an eye on the news. I'm great with computers, I can find things out...”
“I'll be fine,” Grace replied. “Don't worry about me.” She pulled back and stood up. “My shift's about to start.”
“I know it is. 3:15.”
“How do you know that?”
“The crypto on staff schedules is perfunctory. Like I said, I'm great with computers.” She half-smiled.
Grace turned, but Minerva wheeled after her and caught her lab coat with one hand.
“Minerva—”
“Come to see me tomorrow. The nurses don't like me getting down into the chair by myself because it gives my spine a jolt, but I can do it already. Anyway, you get off work at three, when they're changing shifts, giving each other reports. I can meet you at the elevators.” She grinned. “I can get out of this room.”
Minerva's gaze held Grace's, hazel eyes to tired gray, and the fingers slackened, dropped from the coat. The woman leaned over and kissed the child's pale forehead. “Goodbye, Minerva.”
Minerva turned away. “I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Grace.”
* * * *
Grace pulled over as the sky deepened toward indigo over the treetops. She had turned down an open service road in the Kentucky forest, and now when she rolled down the window and stopped the car, she could hear nothing but the woods and the pops and sighs of the engine.
She got out, listened again, felt the chill of oncoming night raise the hairs on the back of her hands. Trees stooped, graceful and so green in the dusky light that they strained the eye. The occasional pink of a blossoming redbud glowed out of the shadows. She could smell leaves, earth, other aromas once familiar. She wondered if Minerva had ever been to a forest, smelled this kind of air.
As she had since she drove away from GEPIC, she tried to smooth away the thought of Minerva that caught again and again at her growing sense of peace. Now she failed, and as she leaned against the dusty car she could see the girl alone in her room, circling in her chair. Or perhaps she wasn't by herself—perhaps security had heard her strange offer, perhaps she was answering questions.
Grace felt a sick downward pressure in her chest, as if her lungs were empty. Had Minerva waited for Grace? Had she truly wanted to run away? She must know she stood out, that she'd been a poster child and wouldn't be forgotten, that it was a horrible risk. GEPIC offered her a future—had she thought Grace would take her away from that? She was far too smart to expect it. But would all her intelligence keep her from wanting it?
Grace let out a long breath. She was squandering light.
The trunk opened quietly when she pressed the button, and Daniel didn't even stir. The sedative should be wearing off, but Minerva had been right—he was a deep sleeper. He was nestled into a fort of cushions, with bungees protecting him from boxes of cash and clothing, everything they would need to start a life somewhere.
She bent to listen to his breathing, the remnants of her guilt and confusion melting away. “David,” she whispered, “wake up.” She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and jiggled his hand. “David.”
The child turned in his sleep, then opened his eyes and smiled. “I feel sleepy.”
“I know, and you can sleep again soon, but I need you awake right now.”
Daniel, now David, sat up and yawned. She cupped his chin and dribbled dilating drops into his eyes. He giggled as she put on a red plastic hood.
“There's going to be a bright light. I need you to look right at it for me, okay?”
“Okay.” His bright blue irises were crowded aside by black. He reached out and felt around for her hand, which now, unshaking, gripped GEPIC's portable laser cauterizer. “Who are you?”
Grace caught sight of her reflection in the rear window and started. Who was she, faceless and impartial like the figures in Minerva's waking nightmare? She blinked to clear her scarlet-tinted vision. “I'm your mother.” She thumbed the laser on and thought, I'm the last person you're ever going to see, honey.
Copyright ©2010 Felicity Shoulders
* * * *
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* * *
Short Story: A LETTER FROM THE EMPEROR
by Steve Rasnic Tem
Steve Rasnic Tem has recent and forthcoming stories in Interzone, Crimewave, Paradox, Cemetery Dance, Clockwork Phoenix 2, Exotic Gothic 3, and Phantoms. His collected collaborations with wife Melanie Tem, In Concert, is now scheduled for a March publication by Centipede Press. While Steve's most recent Asimov's collaborative and solo stories, “In Concert” (December 2008) and “The Day Before the Day Before” (September 2009), have mostly stayed close to home, his latest tale roams an interstellar empire looking for...
A mishap occurred four sleeps from landfall. Jacob had been logging observations when he heard the alarm, so by the time he got down to the cargo bay it was all over. The bay door was breached. He stared at the switch through the window—it had been opened from inside the bay. Whatever had been inside the bay had been swept out into space.
“Anders?” he called through com. He waited. There was no answer. Ship command buzzed in his ear. There are indications that Anders Nils ... Jacob shut the communication off. He didn't want to hear what command had to say. He went looking for Anders.
The forward crew cabin was empty. As were the toilets, the shower, records, navigation, engineering, recreation, general stores. Jacob had been in the recording room when the alarm went off. He systematically tried every compartment, passage, pipe, even the output trays of the garbage grinders. There was no place left to look. “Anders, please report your whereabouts,” he called through com. Again no ans
wer.
He waited. He turned the link to ship command back on. “Please report the whereabouts of Anders Nils,” he said aloud.
Anders Nils is not on board, a woman's voice spoke softly into his ear. Procedure is to query ship command first when there is an unscheduled breach of the cargo bay. Why did you fail to query ship command? Why did you shut off initial communications from ship command?
Jacob didn't answer. He didn't know why he hadn't followed procedure. Maybe he already knew Anders was gone, but didn't want to hear command's confirmation. Was that it? It made very little sense—despite their long service together on messaging and data collection ships he and Anders weren't even friends, as far as he understood. Suddenly he wasn't sure. Was that possible?
How had they not become friends, enemies, something? Somehow he had avoided entanglement. He'd spent his long hours listening, the job they'd been trained to do, snatching the words out of space and trying to understand, and whenever possible delivering these stray messages to their intended destinations.
Please respond to official queries. Command's voice had lost some of its warmth, its naturalness. You have a duty to respond to these questions. Command was beginning to show its mechanical roots.
He was a professional, a sensor for the emperor, or for who- or whatever passed forthe emperor these days, capturing the nuances machinery was still incapable of. “You record every stray fart,” was the usual, vulgar summation of their duties. Such attention to detail discouraged both amity and enmity, as far as he was concerned.
He would be finishing the assignment alone. Perhaps even the entire tour of duty. The realization left him cold, furious. How was he supposed to manage it? Besides recording local observations and handling messaging, the ship delivered statements of regulation, and proclamations to the outlying settlements. But a quick replacement was impossible, out here on the farthest reaches of the empire, where the dividing line between empire and not-empire wasn't all that clear.
Did Anders Nils speak to you before going to the cargo bay?
Jacob gathered Anders's spare clothing into a bag. He catalogued his former crewmate's personal effects, his toiletries, his player, various small art objects.
Please respond. Did Anders Nils speak to you of his intentions?
Jacob ignored command's transmissions. He separated out all written notes and recordings, checking the storage on Anders's personal devices for data files and images. Anders's diary files were extensive and detailed, and he only had time to go through a sampling. The entries surprised him, but he had no time or inclination to be surprised.
Did Anders Nils show observable signs of depression?
He'd never liked talking to ship command. The fact that it appeared to possess more charisma and compassion than he did ... grated.
He caught his first yawn while carefully placing Anders's personal documents into a sealed container. Over the next brief interval the yawns multiplied rapidly. There was no way to fight ship command's enforced sleep—he barely made it back to his bunk before oblivion wiped him away.
After sleep, command brought him up to dialogue regarding the incident. The temperature in the recording room had dropped noticeably into the discomfort zone.
“Please change your uniform to the appropriate formality.” The voice out of the speaker was soft again, lush. He considered how brittle his own voice was in comparison. Hebrushed two fingers over his cuff until the correct dark blue color swam beneath them. “Correct.” Pause. “The Emperor expresses his condolences for the loss of crewman reporter Anders Nils.” The voice sounded achingly sincere. It made Jacob ashamed of his own underdeveloped powers of empathy. Another, awkwardly long pause. “How long did you serve with Anders Nils?”
“It would have been fouryears in a few sleeps.”
“More precise, please.”
“You have this information.” He didn't bother to mask his annoyance,
“Answer please. We understand this may be a difficult time.” Command rarely said “we.” Suddenly Jacob felt quite unsure whom he was talking to.
Jacob ran his fingers over the table, accessing his personal diary. “Three years. Eleven months. Three weeks. Seventy-three hours. And four minutes, at least until the time of the hatch alarm.”
Another long pause. Jacob knew this wasn't processing inefficiency. Com could formulate appropriate questions instantly. It was giving him time to think and remember, and it was measuring and analyzing that process. But as far as he knew, he had nothing to remember. So he waited.
“Did you know Anders had been depressed?”
“Was he?”
“Do you know why Anders would commit suicide?”
“Is that what he did? What is your percentage of certitude on that?”
“Forty-three percent.”
“Then you don't know to a certainty.”
Quite a long pause, then, “We do not know to a certainty.”
“Then you don'tknow what you're talking about.”
A red light glowed unsteadily on the panel. Jacob thought about Anders, concluded they'd never really been friends.
“You have heard the personal diaries of Anders Nils.”
It wasn't a question. Wasn't command supposed to be asking questions? He answered anyway, thinking that at least he was doing his part. “I listened to some of it. There wasn't time for a full examination.”
“What was your impression of the personal diaries of Anders Nils?”
“I ... well, that's hard to say. He recorded a great deal. I suppose that surprised me. And they were well-composed, I think. Somewhat poetic, I suppose.”
“Did any of the events described in the diaries of Anders Nils actually occur?”
“No, none that I heard. They were pretty outlandish.”
“Please define ‘outlandish,’ as you understand it.”
“Oh, unusual. Crazy. Impossible. We never went to the locations he describes. You know that very well. We did not visit those places, or have those adventures.”
“You did not have the kind of relationship with Anders Nils he describes?”
“Well, no. No,I did not. I didn't know him all that well, actually.”
“You were not friends?”
“Well, not close, not like that. We were acquaintances. We worked together. We had a working relationship.”
“Why were you not friends?”
Jacob never would have expected command to ask such a thing. “I really don't know how to answer that,” he finally replied.
“Why did you not know Anders was thinking of committing suicide?”
Jacob would not answer. He sat there silently, staring into the red eye lens mounted in the panel, until the countdown for landing preparations began.
* * * *
The planet's surface was that light-trapping coating they'd used for official installations and supporting structures back before his grandfather was born. The fact that here and there it glistened and flowed with bits of color only emphasized how basically drab it all was. But it was durable and resistant to the attempts ofmost planetary ecologies to reclaim it.
“Welcome to Joy,” the officer said, with what appeared to be a genuinely warm smile.
Jacob blinked. This wasn't the official designation. “From the looks of things, someone had a sense of humor.”
“It would appear so,” she said, still smiling. “Ninesix oh gee four dash thirty-two.”
“Then I'm in the correct place.”
The com link in his ear murmured, You may inform her that her uniform color has shifted out of sequence, but he ignored that. True, her outfit appeared slightly on the purplish side, but it was probably the best she could do. It was no doubt decades old and difficult to calibrate.
“I'm pleased. We don't get many visitors.”
Protocols were loose here, he observed. Not that he really cared. “I'm only scheduled for two sleeps,” he said, not really wanting to discourage her friendly manner, although he was sure it
came across that way.
“Well, we'll see what we can show you during that time. I know that the reporter ships like to record as much as possible during their limited visits.”
COM buzzed his ear. There are currently 432 undelivered regulatory messages due for 960G4-32. Too many for practical application. Please select at your discretion. He had no intention of passing along any of these messages. In any case, how could they be enforced?
He nodded, thinking she probably hadn't even beenborn yet when the last such ship arrived. She'd probably briefed herself from some aging manual. The truth was the system didn't care that much about the outlying bases—just some basic facts on population and armaments for the statistical grids. He'd heard that the assumption had always been that such far-flung installations would fade in and out of participation in the empire over time. Otherwise their construction would have been made more pleasing.
* * * *
“Anya, you should have called me.” The man's voice was somewhat frail, but commanding as he trotted into the room. He raised a palm. Jacob returned the gesture tentatively, no longer accustomed to the act.
“I believe I did, Colonel,” she said softly, stepping back from her post as the man stepped onto the platform.
“Terrible bother, this scan business,” he said, face slightly red. “But required. Looking for tentacles, I suppose.”
It was an old joke. Jacob waited for the inefficient sensors to grind to a halt. “Have you ever turned up any?”
“Certainly not with this device. There were Strangers about in the old days, and I might have run into a few during the sweeps. But hard to say. Back then they had these tag lines attached to every communication, ‘If they're not a Friend, they might be a Stranger.’ Remember those? Of course not—you're far too young. In any case, we were told they were all about. Problem is they were, are, so hard to identify. Has the process gotten any easier? Surely, with all the advances.”
Jacob wondered what advances the old man could have been talking about. People could be so gullible out on the reaches. “Not that I know of. I've never seen a Stranger myself. Friends all, I suppose.”
Asimov's SF, January 2010 Page 8