by Peter Watts
So Mike’s gone for six, seven hours—there’s no cell phone coverage, right, there hasn’t been since everything fell apart, and I start to—is that my … that’s my daughter screaming, that’s—Emma!—
Lansing: No, ma’am, that’s not Emma. I told you, Emma’s sleeping.
MedTel Annotation: IV GABAbarbitol increased to 85 ml/l 19:26
Sweet: But … who is it, who’s screaming, who’s—
Lansing: It’s not Emma, Caitlin. I promise. Honestly, it’s nothing to concern you. If we can get back to your story …
Sweet: It’s—it’s a bit bright in here …
Lansing: I can turn down the lights if you like.
Sweet: No, actually the light’s … nice …
Lansing: So your husband’s been gone for six or seven hours …
Sweet: Yes. And the cell phones aren’t working, and there’s this, I don’t know, this muffled whump from outside. Like an explosion, but far away. So I go out onto the balcony, you know, just to look around, just to maybe see what’s happening. And about three blocks down along 15th there’s one of those spires, you know. Just sticking up out of the road, four, five stories high, glowing around the base with this banner of thick smoke streaming out the top. The smoke’s blowing my way and before I know it it’s in my eyes. It’s not like regular smoke, it’s—gritty. So I turn my face away, you know, look away in the other direction and—and I see him, down there in the street.
Lansing: Prophet.
Sweet: Who? Oh, you mean—no. Mike. Facedown. He never even got half a block. He …
Lansing: Would you like a moment?
Sweet: No, it’s okay. That screaming’s a bit distracting though, you know? Anyway, that’s when I decided to leave. The neighborhood just wasn’t safe, and Mike was—gone, and Emma and I were on our own. But my folks live in Brooklyn, and MacroNet’s been saying there was this evacuation site downtown, so Emma and I just picked up and left.
Lansing: Just so I understand: A spire’s just detonated three blocks from your apartment. Your husband didn’t make it half a block down the avenue. And you decide to take your child outside.
Sweet: Yes.
What?
Lansing: Nothing. Please go on.
Sweet: So I take Emma down the stairwell and we head out the back way because I don’t want her to see her daddy like that. And I’ve got my iBall out but the realtime updates aren’t working so we’re basically going by memory. And the farther uptown we get, the more dead soldiers we see. Or at least, you know, they had uniforms. Like yours. Not regular army or anything. Are you real soldiers? Armed forces? CSIRA?
Lansing: Yes, ma’am. We’re—for all intents and purposes, we are the armed forces.
Sweet: Well I didn’t see any regular army, but there were a lot of bodies that looked like you. They were burned, and blown apart—
Lansing: Yes, ma’am.
Sweet: Some of them were in pieces, just scattered around—
Lansing: Yes, ma’am. I get the picture.
Sweet: And then we turned a corner and we ran into what was killing them. They were these—machines. These walking machines. Like, you know, that old invaders-from-Mars book they made us read back in high school, Walls or Wells or something. There were soldiers fighting back but they weren’t doing well, I mean, no offense but you guys were getting your asses handed to you—
Lansing: Why did you keep going?
Sweet: What do you mean?
Lansing: You have your eleven-year-old daughter with you, you’re walking through a war zone, and the farther you go the more bodies you see. Why didn’t you turn around, go in another direction?
Sweet: We were trying to find the evacuation site.
Lansing: Uptown.
Sweet: Yes.
Lansing: MacroNet said the evac site was downtown. That’s what you said.
Sweet: Did I?
Lansing: You did.
Sweet: Well, it—it just seemed like the right way to go, I guess.
Lansing: I see.
Sweet: Could we take a break? I could use some fresh air, stretch my legs a little.
Lansing: It’s not really safe outside. Besides, wouldn’t you rather stay close to Emma?
Sweet: She’ll be okay. I don’t think she likes the light as much as I do.
Lansing: I’ll see what I can do. Just as soon as we finish here. It won’t be long.
Sweet: Easy for you to say. You’re not trapped in a glass box.
Lansing: That’s just a precaution, ma’am. Honestly. Now: You had encountered one of our detachments in a combat situation, is that right?
Sweet: Combat situation? Oh, yes. And that was when we ran. Emma was pulling at my hand and I was just standing there, I don’t know, stunned I guess, but my little girl’s screaming and so I snap out of it and we just run back the way we came, as fast as we can. And there are things skittering along in the wreckage after us, not like those war machines, not big, but—fast. We could never really get a good look, we were too busy running but you could hear them gaining, they made these little clattering sounds as they moved, like, like big spider crabs or something. And Emma was pulling me to the side, she’s going Mommy, Mommy in here! because she’s seen this little hidey-hole she thinks we’ll be safe in and I’m not so sure but she breaks away from me and dives into this wrecked storefront, right through the display window—well it was already shattered of course but there was glass everywhere, it’s amazing she didn’t open an artery—and I go in after her and the whole second floor has come down, there’s concrete and those twisted wires everywhere and some of those collapsed slabs, they’ve formed this little cave. And Emma dives right into it. And I dive after her.
And I know we’re going to die then, because we’re snug and secure in this little lean-to of collapsed concrete, we’re completely protected except for that open part at the front we came in through, it’s the only way in or out. And there’s something there, something—bloated. And spiky.
You know what a tick looks like? Mean little front end with needles and teeth for digging into you, and a kind of bulbous inflatable back end that swells up when it feeds? This was like that. Except it had these wavy metal antennae or tentacles or something, like the hoses off one of those old-style vacuum cleaners you had to run yourself. And it was half as big as Emma! It made this hungry little clicking noise, and its antennae were waving around in our direction and it was climbing over the rubble toward us blocking the only way out and we were dead, I just knew right then that we were both dead.
Except something shifted in the building then, something just gave way, and instead of squashing Emma and me it landed on this tick-thing and squashed it instead. This big slab of concrete, and dust everywhere, and these antennae-tentacles sticking out from underneath, whipping back and forth. That’s were I got this cut on my face; those things were sharp, like needles.
And Emma’s screaming even louder now, she’s calling out for help and those little lungs of hers are amazing, if there’s anyone within ten blocks I figure they have to hear her. But I don’t know whether to curse or pray, because that big pile of cement did save us from the tick, but now we’re trapped. There are gaps—there’s about four or five places where you can see into the rest of the store, even all the way onto the street—but there’s no way even skinny little Emma can fit through any of them. And the chittering hasn’t stopped. It’s only getting louder. I can see things moving out there, the shadows of monster ticks and other things too, I think.
And that’s when he shows up. That Prophet you’re interested in.
Lansing: Yes. Tell me about him.
Sweet: I guess he must have heard Emma. He was just there, all of a sudden. He dropped down into sight from somewhere overhead, and he was—I thought he was some kind of robot at first, you know? You see those things on National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, they’ve got those soft-bodied humanoids over in Japan? Acto, actino-something. Soft muscles, almost like ours. Tha
t’s what I thought this was at first. Except he wasn’t built like any of those nursemaid robots you see in the retirement homes, he looked like he was built for—heavy construction, or something. And Emma’s shouting Over here! Over here! and I’m right there with her, bellowing my lungs out, and this Prophet of yours, big as one of those museum statues, he just turns toward us—slow, almost lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world—and without a word he just stares through this visor the color of dried blood. Emma and I both shut right up then and there and he didn’t move for a bit, he just stood there cradling this big gun the size of a fire hydrant, sizing us up like he was deciding whether to rescue us or—I dunno—cook us for dinner.
And Emma says in this very scared quiet voice, He’s one of them. And I knew just what she meant, somehow, but you know what? I was okay with that.
Lansing: Excuse me?
Sweet: Weird, isn’t it? It’s hard to explain, he just seemed to—not look like, exactly, it was more—almost as if he smelled like one of them, if that makes any sense. And it scared the hell out of poor Emma, but to me it was almost—comforting. I forgot to be afraid for a little while.
Lansing: Mmmm.
Sweet: And he saved us. He started tearing through that concrete as if it were cat litter. And the ticks were all over him, he spent more time blasting those vicious little things than he spent digging us out. A couple of times I thought This is it, they’re going to tear him apart but they never did. And he got us out. He rescued us. I told him what we’d seen, where the bodies were, where the machines were fighting, but he seemed—distracted. Put his hand up to his helmet once, you know, as though he was trying to hear a very faint radio station. I wanted to go with him, I almost asked him to take us to the refugee camp, but Emma just didn’t like him at all, Emma never stopped being afraid of him even after he’d saved our lives. So he went on his way, and we went on ours, and that’s when you picked us up. And there’s really nothing more I can tell you so if you don’t mind I’d really like to get out of here now. I’d really like to follow the light.
Lansing: Just one more thing. Why did you tell him those things?
Sweet: What things?
Lansing: Where the bodies were. Where the machines were fighting.
Sweet: He asked.
Lansing: How did he—did he speak to you?
Sweet: Of course.
Lansing: With his voice?
Sweet: How else would he speak to me?
Lansing: Did he sound—was there anything distinctive about the way he spoke?
Sweet: Not really. I mean, his voice was a bit buzzy. But that’s just the suit, right? The microphone.
Lansing: Yes, of course. The microphone.
Sweet: I really have to be on my way, now. I have to, to …
Lansing: Follow the light?
Sweet: Yes.
Lansing: Follow it where, Caitlin?
Sweet: I don’t know. Wherever. I’ll know when I get outside.
Lansing: Uptown. Toward the aliens.
Sweet: You don’t really get it, do you Corporal? You don’t get it, because you don’t got it.
Lansing: Got what, Caitlin?
Sweet: This. In my eyes. On my hands. I can even feel it in my head, somehow, it’s growing but it’s not—not evil. It’s all good.
That’s why you’ve got me in this cube, isn’t it? You don’t want to catch it.
MedTel Annotation: Halothane introduced into Quar. Cube 19:36
Lansing: We don’t really know what it is yet, ma’am. It just seems prudent to get all the facts before exposing ourselves.
Sweet: Well, then, you’ll never get anywhere, will you? You’ll never have all the facts until you know what it feels like. And you’ll never know what it feels like until you’re exposed. And you won’t expose yourself until you’ve got all the facts …
Lansing: Yes, ma’am.
Sweet: It’s just a funny little circle. You’re running around and around …
Lansing: Yes, ma’am. Would you like to see Emma now?
Sweet: … Emm …?
Lansing: Your daughter, ma’am. Would you like to see her?
Sweet: Oh, isn’t that nice …
Lansing: Ma’am?
Sweet: The screaming … stopped …
MedTel Annotation: Subject loses consciousness 19:37
Subject Disposition: Routine. Transferred to Trinity Center for culture/autopsy. Custody transferred 22:34 (S. M. Samenski receiving).
Notes & Comments: Subject presented mild physical symptoms of early infection (acidosis, mild vitreous turbidity) but no obvious signs of Rapture during initial processing (note, however, that her self-reported, almost unconscious movement toward centers of high Charybdis density is consistent with incipient Wanderlust). Rapid onset of more obvious behavioral changes was apparent during the course of this interview, a period of only 12 minutes; this is significantly faster than preliminary results led us to expect. Changes in speech patterns suggest elevated metabolism in the religious circuitry of the temporal lobe, but we are still awaiting Trinity’s galvanic-necropsy results.
Subject’s daughter (SWEET, EMMA, SUBJ. #430–10024-DR) showed no signs of infection at autopsy despite extended close proximity to infected subject post-infection. We have yet to encounter an instance of person-to-person transmission.
Flag D. Lockhart/L. Aiyeola/L. Lutterodt: Subject claims Prophet spoke to her, contradicting telemetry intercepts suggesting that his injuries had rendered him effectively mute. It is possible that Prophet’s injuries are not as severe as we’ve been led to believe; this also raises obvious information-management concerns, should Prophet engage in conversation with other civilians.
Corporal Analee Lansing,
24/08/2023 04:45
Motherhood issues. That’s what you guys live for, isn’t it?
Shrinks, of course. Neuromechanics. Psychiatrists. Therapists. What, you thought I didn’t know? You thought I didn’t have you pegged the moment you opened your mouth? I don’t care how many stripes you’re wearing, Roger; you ain’t no soldier. And who else would they send in to talk to a suit full of bad wiring?
Anyway, it’s what you guys live for. That and sexual dysfunction. They haven’t outfitted the N2 with a hydraulic dick, more’s the pity. I do have this rubberized nozzle rammed up my ass so I don’t soil the suit; I suppose that might come in handy for giggles as well as shits if you swing that way, which I don’t.
But yeah, I’ve racked up such a rep for killing things that it actually makes you suspicious when I take a moment to help out a mom and her little girl. Maybe you think there’s a bit of a weird vibe there and that’s all you need to go to town, right? Shrinks and mommy issues.
Okay, then. Let me tell you about my mother.
She was a cunt.
Not always, mind you. Not at first. She was never Parent of the Year material—bit on the judgmental side, that just goes with the whole Bible Belt mind-set—but at least she wasn’t a drunk or a methhead. Never hit me. Never forgot me on the luggage carousel. Perfectly decent woman, you know? No complaints, all while I was growing up.
Then the dementia hit, and holy fucking Christ.
She’d turn into a monster. Not full-time, not in the early stages anyway, but sometimes she’d just—snap. Turn into this rabid snarling animal. ’Course she was getting on by then, and times weren’t great generally. My folks lost most of their savings in the Double Dip, which meant they couldn’t replace those fancy antique plates we had after she threw them at me during one of her episodes. All we had left was that cheap plastic shit that would barely dent if you dropped it from orbit. And I wasn’t around much by then, for obvious reasons, so she started whaling on Dad instead. Poor bastard never fought back—some TwenCen bullshit about not supposed to hit a lady, he wouldn’t last a day in today’s armed forces let me tell you. I came home on furlough one weekend and he’d locked himself in the bathroom and she was stabbing at the door with a goddamn screwdriver. H
e was one big fucking bruise, all purple and yellow, this gentle old fart who never hurt anyone. I mean, he was seventy-five years old! And that was when I decided, enough. I gave the old cunt a choice between the police station and the psych ward. I never saw her again after I got her institutionalized. Not once.
But what really pissed me off was the way people kept making excuses for her.
Nobody saw a monster. All anybody saw was a victim of the disease. That’s why Dad never hit back, It’s not her fault, it’s the dementia. People would visit her in the home and she’d rant and spit and say all these vile things about Dad and everyone would just sadly shake their heads and say, “It’s the Alzheimer’s speaking, how can you cut her off like that, she’s your mother.”