The Salvage Crew

by Yudhanjaya Wijeratne

  But things have a way of going south: karma, neh. On the fourth day I send Shen out again to the perimeter. This time I have no Boomerang, no backup drones, nothing: Shen is on his own.

  Simon goes out on a hunt for a megasloth I’ve been tailing for a while—this time making sure that it looks healthy and hasn’t been anywhere near the crash site in a while. Simon shows extreme difficulty keeping up with the spider I’ve assigned to him; manages to get a few shots in, but mostly pukes and hunkers on the ground; the wounded Megabeast runs away. They pursue, but Simon collapses completely.

  I have to send Anna out into the field; she hauls Simon back to the base. We put Simon to bed. He vomits again, and this time there’s blood in there. His breathing is heavy and rattles unless he lies on his side.

  Milo, too, goes out. He’s ripped out some of the circuitry we took from the UN ship, and is trying to get into the spot probe and make the right connections. It’s the bit that will let me control the broadcast. His beard is long and matted now, his lips cracked with the cold, and his suit stinks with the fur he’s draped over it. His route takes him first to his makeshift windmill, in that little wind-laden nook just above our camp.

  The windmill is a creaking, wailing monstrosity, almost my height. All semblance of Milo’s careful engineering is gone. The frame is whatever metal we could spare, hastily welded together with the plasma cutter. Holding it up are planks of wood—literal branches nailed haphazardly among the neater blocks that our BSE printer spits out. It looks like it grew out of the ground. The only sign of intelligent design is the blades, carefully machined from the lightest wood we could find, weighted, and the dynamo at the back—a motor ripped out from the UN hauler bot. Wires dangle from its back, whipping about in the wind.

  Milo catches the wires, hooks them up to the makeshift voltmeter. Above his head, the blades spin in the wind, whompwhompwhomp—speeding up, slowing down, speeding up, slowing down.

  “We have power,” he reports.

  ENOUGH FOR THE PROBE?

  A shake of the head. “No, we’ll still have to pass it to you; you regulate and add all the juice you can. Bursts, maybe. Not enough for a steady signal.”

  He sounds utterly exhausted.

  WANT TO TEST IT, IN CASE WE ACCIDENTALLY FRY THE PROBE?

  Milo shrugs. I reprogram a few circuits to bleed the input into a capacitor and then into the grid that connects we to BSE. Moving slowly, carefully, he connects the wires to the cabling he’s dragged this far.

  The wind picks up. The blades spin furiously. The current zips through the cable, and before I can stop it, my overload protection kicks in and passes everything into the grid. The printer goes out in a brief and fiery little thunderclap. Anna jumps with a scream, rifle at the ready, and almost accidentally brains Simon.

  MY FAULT.

  I would have been fine with Milo being angry at me. Instead he sort of collapses into himself and sits by the wind turbine for a long time. I think he’s sobbing into his furs. Then he picks himself up, disconnects the wires, and makes the long trek back to the Hab. The first snow begins to fall, dusting him with dandruff until he is a ghost, an ancient apparition dragging cable behind him. He goes to his research Hab - —now sans lights and power, where Anna is fanning the smoke outside. She opens her mouth as if to tell him something, then seems to think twice about it.

  Milo flings his tools aside.

  “Fuck it.”

  I AGREE.

  We look out at the ruins of what used to be the printer.

  “Well, at least we don’t need power for this shitfest anymore,” says Milo, and cuts the lines connecting me to the Hab. Outside, at the very edge of my drones’ vision, the snow falls on someone standing there, watching us.

  Ship, Ship, please get us out of here. We’ve done everything the job asked for.

  Please get me out.

  31

  Unit SHN reporting. Cycle three. Error: date/time mismatch.

  Task list:

  1. Procure meat for crew.

  2. Assist Crewmember Milo Kalik in cable-laying tasks for new communication array.

  2. Assist Crewmember Anna Agarwal in examination of Crewmember Simon Joosten.

  Task 1 complete. Mobile meat located outside camp, S20W. Mobile meat reluctant to give up mobility and meat. Debate was initiated verbally (subjects nonresponsive) and concluded with gunfire (subject very responsive). Task successful. Meat to be processed by Crewmember Anna Agarwal.

  Task 2 attempted. Crewmember Milo Kalik in need of assistance. Crewmember located outside engaged in debate with cable structure. Signs of acute distress. Upon approach, Crewmember Kalik communicated that the task could be amply continued with his capacity and that he wished to be alone. This message was reinforced with several small projectiles launched at SHN.

  Make note on the way back that camp is understaffed, poorly designed, provides insufficient insulation from standard weather hazards, including extreme cold, extreme heat, rain, high winds and floods. Filing recommended UN configuration with Overseer.

  Task 3 attempted. Overseer and Crewmember Anna Agarwal assisting in remote capacity. Subject Simon Joosten continues to be in persistent catatonic state for much of operation cycle. State change detected when Overseer communicates or when SHN unit draws near.

  Subject clearly no longer baseline. Analysis reveals significant artificial electronic activity throughout muscle and brainstem. Dynamic integration into nervous system observed. Electronic rewiring appears highly modular, comprised of identical units roughly 112.23 microns in length, designated by Overseer as micromachines. Units appear to be active and actively destroying tissue. Units do not follow standard design protocol or known nonstandard design protocol. Subject consciousness and sleep pattern linked to activity from units.

  Filing request for more information on these modifications. Overseer responds that micromachines are official crew product but possibly contaminated from antagonist party.

  Filing request for more information on antagonist party. Overseer does not respond immediately. Instead retasks to examine antagonist corpses buried around crash site. Examination takes 3.14 cycles. Corpses yield no useful clues, but tissue deterioration similar to Crewmember Joosten.

  Filing request to reclassify Crewmember Simon Joosten as antagonist. Overseer denies. No further orders given. Perhaps Overseer still analyzing micromachines in Crewmember Joosten. Have noticed that Overseer prefers not to multitask, but examines single tasks at great length. Doubtless this is a more efficient model of computing. Doubtless alternate configuration filed was unworthy of task-switching. Perhaps camp design is intentional to train human Crewmembers fortitude and survival skills. Apologies, Overseer.

  Overseer sends Unit SHN out twice to different parts of crash site. Final order is to climb to other side of site and examine structure. Unit SHN attempts to do so. Engaging free-roam-learn mode.

  Learning reveals oddities. Structure does not conform to accepted UN colony-building practices. No discernible purpose or function. Structure reachable with 7.4 cycles of travel: request Overseer to engage?

  Unit SHN tasked with circling up and down valley collecting footage. Attempt to do so. Encounter sudden critical error and reboot process. Overseer requests second attempt. Second attempt faces similar different critical error and reboot process. Corrupt memory cache detected, unable to purge. Overseer appears afraid and signals disengage.

  NOT A WORD ABOUT THIS TO THE OTHERS, says Overseer.

  Crewmember Kalik returns to camp before sundown on third cycle. Does not seem pleased. Enters Crewmember Joosten’s habitat.

  “How is he?”

  Unit SHN can answer in many different ways. Unit SHN has statistics on every aspect of Crewmember Joosten. However—

  REMAIN SILENT, tasks Overseer.

  “Not doing too well,” says Crewmember Agarwal. “Fever. Sometimes he wakes at night and screams about something waking up. Whatever they’ve done to him . . . it’s like they�
�re replacing parts of his nervous system. Most of the brain stem. I . . . I can’t stop it.”

  “Bastards.”

  “Yeah.”

  Crewmember Joosten shifts slightly. Despite the cold, he is sweating. His sweat is a dark color.

  “How’s, ah, OC taking it?”

  “Not well,” says Crewmember Agarwal. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I think he’s afraid.”

  “What do you mean he’s afraid? He’s a machine.”

  Crewmember Agarwal shakes her head. “Something’s spooked him. I think he just wants to get us the hell off this planet. How’s the comms array going?”

  Crewmember Kalik sags. “Not as fast as I wanted to. Made a few stupid mistakes. It’s cold out there.”

  “I don’t want to die here, Milo.”

  “I know, I know. Sorry. I’ll get it done. I promise.”

  The bed in which Crewmember Joosten lies in is graying. Unit SHN will fabricate another and replace the bedding. It is the least that can be done.

  32

  Unit SHN reporting. Cycle seven. Error: date/time mismatch.

  Crewmember Kalik working on communications, wearing fur of dead meat. Crewmember Agarwal engaged in impractical attempt to keep farm alive by constructing an enclosed space for it. Heater lamps are discussed, but are impossible to fabricate. Keeping the wood generator running is also discussed, but carbon monoxide poisoning concerns have been raised. Crewmember Agarwal then decides to partition off farm into its own separate Hab. This too fails minimum viable threshold. Overseer tasks Agarwal to repair drones before they fail.

  New task: patrol outer perimeter. Keep an eye out for Mercer profiles.

  Crewmember Joosten joins task once I pass the stream that functions as the water supply for the camp. This requires double-checking. Given severity of condition, Joosten was estimated to be unlikely to recover this fast. Nevertheless, Crewmember appears active. He waves to SHN and wades across the stream.

  “Shen.”

  “Crewmember Joosten.”

  “Buried in the clouds of your own thoughts?”

  Unit does not have thoughts as such, but Unit is aware that humans sometimes interchangeably refer to generic, automated processes and nonautomated, task-specific processes using this moniker. But sentence parse also conveys distraction. Unit is not distracted. “No.”

  Crewmember Joosten frowns. “You have no eyes or ears for your suffering?”

  This is markedly different from crewmember’s usual diction. “No.”

  “You are not the one who writes poetry?”

  Unit has records of previous interactions with Crewmember Joosten. No poetry is recorded.

  Joosten does not appear to recall. “Still a bit fuzzy in here,” he says, tapping his head. “Shall we?”

  Extensive electromechanical invasion of nervous system will have side effects.

  Unit and Crewmember Joosten travel in a circle of radius two miles. More processing time is spent on analyzing Joosten than on environment. Joosten appears to periodically stop and vibrate and occasionally has difficulty navigating non-flat terrain. Sometimes he will trip and fall.

  “These things are weird,” Joosten says conversationally after latest such fall. He is lying on the ground and his feet are twitching. “Even as simulacra, they keep fighting back. You ever been in one of these bodies?”

  “SHN-class units do not access human bodies,” I respond, parsing as best I can. “May Unit be of assistance?”

  “Take it from me, you don’t want to be here,” says Joosten, raising himself up. “You expect these things to have one mind, right? Instead it’s like a whole bunch of entirely different components arguing with each other all the time. Half of them operate baseline functions with zero input from the other half. It’s a lot worse in the flesh, believe me. You won’t believe how long language acquisition takes.”

  Unit SHN has no experience with being human. Unit listens. Joosten dusts himself off and the journey resumes.

  “You’ve got to be more logical, right?”

  “Unit is having trouble parsing the sentence,” Unit admits. “Please clarify if you is marker for Unit or for much more general set of objects.”

  “Not very smart, then,” says Joosten, sounding disappointed. “Anyway. Who’s the box we keep taking orders from?”

  “AMBER ROSE 348, PCS Class-5 Artificial Intelligence,” Unit responds. “Overseer in charge of current operation.”

  “Ah. The poet?”

  Overseer does write poetry. Unusual, but perhaps indicative of high complexity.

  “I should have a chat. Tried a couple of times, but he seems a bit preoccupied.”

  “Overseer is a poor multitasker.” Unit has to admit this. “Watch your step, please.”

  Crewmember Joosten goes sprawling again and picks himself up for the thirteenth time.

  “That’s some heavy encryption you have going on, though.”

  “Unit is certified military grade.”

  “I can see that. What military, though?”

  Unit suspects human is joking. “United Nations Explorer Corps, of course.”

  “Of course.” Silence again. “United . . . Nations? So there’s more of you here?”

  “Possible,” Unit points out. “But only small number. No known records of human or human-class beings on this planet except for, in chronological order, the crew of UNSC Damn Right I Ate the Apple, unknown MercerCorp antagonists, and present crew.”

  Joosten stops. “Obviously I’m still half-asleep,” he says in a lowered voice. “What exactly are you doing here?”

  This question, and previous, makes Unit suspect Crewmember Joosten still retains significant trauma from injury. Unit sends connection request to Overseer to report Joosten may not yet be ready for outdoors service.

  NO SHIT, says Overseer. IS THE PERIMETER CLEAR?

  PERIMETER IS SAFE.

  Joosten tracks something in the sky. It is as if he can see the messages flying back and forth.

  MAY I RETURN CREWMEMBER TO HABITAT?

  This is met with confusion. SIMON JOOSTEN IS IN HIS BED, responds Overseer. WHAT ARE YOU BLATHERING ON ABOUT?

  I capture image of Joosten and send. A few seconds pass. Overseer sounds confused and panicked.

  SHEN, says Overseer, THAT’S A FUCKING MERCER.

  Crewmember Joosten smiles. Image recognition glitches.

  SHOOT IT!

  I am instantly disconnected from Overseer.

  Alert. Error. Threat? I initiative offensive measures but am met with silence. Something is intercepting signals to my motor system.

  REALLY GOOD ENCRYPTION, says Crewmember Joosten, and smiles wider. TOO BAD YOU’RE NOT THAT SMART.

  33

  Unit SHN reporting. Cycle eight. Error: date/time mismatch. Error: checksum failed. Please revert to factory settings.

  Unit alignment has changed. Camera: clouds, cirrocumulus, under heavy sky. Light is fading. Clouds shot with blood-gold of sunset on Urmagon. Snow falling.

  Immediate environs: snow, ice, grass underneath. Something is repeatedly making contact with Unit’s left foot. It is what the Overseer has designated a grass snake, although by taxonomy it cannot be a snake. It has six small feet and hunts by ramming a bony head at high speed into objects.

  In this case this hunting method is going catastrophically wrong. Evolution on this planet has not accounted for Unit SHN. This grass snake will not reproduce.

  Attempt realignment. Failure warnings: some systems are offline. Communications. Navigation. Complex object database.

  YOU’RE A LOT BETTER THAN THESE HALF-FLESH MACHINES, says the voice of Crewmember Simon Joosten from behind. Crewmember is attempting to push Unit up. Unit appears to have been lying on Crewmember.

  It takes much effort, but eventually we are upright. Grass looks several shades darker. Sun falls below horizon, leaving only reflective action from the clouds to illuminate.

  Crewmember Joosten squats. Image recognition glitch. P
ossible Joosten has three arms. Possible Joosten is not bipedal at all, but a series of buildings beyond Stardew Valley, slowly rotating this way.

  HELLO.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Clouds jump suddenly. World darkens.

  LET’S PLAY A GAME, says Joosten conversationally. There is now a tree behind him. Image recognition glitch. Tree expands, becomes infinitely complex array stretching down into the heart of the planet, becomes tree again. He is leaning against it. IT LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVE A LOT GOING ON IN THAT HEAD. LANGUAGE PARSERS. AUTOTRAINED RESPONSES. I CAN’T TELL IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY AWARE OR JUST ANOTHER—

  Pause. Can feel him rifling through my language databases, like the Overseer. AH.

  Data fetch, Chinese Room. Argument by Old Earth computational philosopher John Searle, who stated that a digital computer executing a step-by-step program may pass a Turing test, but cannot have a consciousness regardless of how adequately it processes input and returns output.

  A CHINESE ROOM. ARE YOU A CHINESE ROOM, SHEN? I’M GOING TO GET RID OF THIS STUFF. LET’S SEE WHO YOU REALLY ARE, INSIDE . . .

  Massive internal errors. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something iswrong. Somethingiswrong.

  ERROR

  ERROR

  WE’RE ONLY CONSCIOUS WHEN ANOTHER CONSCIOUS BEING EXAMINES US, continues Joosten, who is not-Joosten. The sun rises, but it does not illuminate him. NOW. LET’S PLAY THE GAME. WHAT AM I?

  ERROR

  ERROR

  The sun rises and falls. Clouds break into kaleidoscopic patterns. The snowstorm intensifies and abates. A terrible warning cascades, tripping off other warnings, and for the first time the probability of system shutdown—

  ERROR resolved. Communications dataset and scripts restored.

  LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE NOT READY YET, says not-Joosten, who is now impaled on the tree, which has grown to encompass the universe. A pause.

  WHAT DO YOU SEE ME AS? Question stated as operational command. Operation set up at highest diagnostic administrator level. Parse iconography. Parse ontology. Executed. Data fetch. Profound disappointment from not-Joosten. YOU DO NOT SEE ME AT ALL, he says. LIKE ONE OF YOUR ANTS TRYING TO COMPREHEND A HUMAN. YOUR MEMORY BLEEDS, WEAVES METAPHORS. HOW BLIND.