There was a pause, and the knock was replaced by a pounding that felt like it shook the room. “Sam, everyone on deck. Captain’s orders. Asteroid hits in a few hours.”
“No thanks,” Sam replied, not leaving his bunk.
“This isn’t a request. Topside in five minutes or the captain will have me come down to drag you up.”
Sam considered refusing, but the captain seemed like the type to actually send someone down to get him, so he rolled out of bed and made his way up to the deck. Everyone was gathered on the small observation area that extended over the back of the ship. He was the last to arrive, and the captain was already talking. He looked over at Sam. “Hey, slacker, I was just saying the rock hits in about four hours. If you want to watch, this is probably the best spot.” Sam nodded.
The passengers were all milling about in front of the captain, who stood at the top of a short set of stairs facing the rear of the boat, his arms behind his back. The crew were off to the sides, observing from a distance. Sam turned away and gazed out toward the setting sun.
And there it was. The middle of the day, and he could see the asteroid clearly in the sky. He caught his breath and focused on the water, the giant propellers churning the sea into a violent froth that trailed off behind the ship.
“I said turn around!” Sam finally noticed the captain’s raised voice. He turned and kept his head down.
“I’m sorry. I was listening,” Sam replied.
There were footsteps and the captain stood in front of Sam. “Look at me. I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of what we’re facing here.”
“I think I know better than most.” Sam stared at the deck.
“Are you mocking me?” The captain reached out and pushed Sam’s head up so that he had to look him in the face. “You think you know what it’s like to face death?”
Sam squeezed his eyes tight and prayed that the captain would still be there when he opened them.
He wasn’t.
Or was he?
They were all one.
“You sound like you’re sorry, but do you know what it’s like to face death?” He wasn’t old, but he looked like he had lived a hard life. His skin was tan and dry. His hair was a very dark brown, fine, and straight. It was cut short and parted on the left. He frowned, and Sam thought that he looked like a hick policeman, the kind of guy who liked to pull people over even if they weren’t speeding just to ruin their day.
He slammed his fist on Sam’s desk. “Do you?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t, and I can’t fathom how hard this is for you.” The man pointed at the computer.
“Change it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Sam had seen enough people lose the lottery by then that he knew he didn’t have to hit the panic button yet. Maybe he could get the man to calm down.
“Can’t or won’t?” The man leaned forward. There wasn’t sadness or even desperation in his eyes. Just anger.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m just a Counselor. I can’t make any changes at all.” The man didn’t move. “Perhaps you should talk to the Grief Counselor. They’re just down the hall.” Sam stood up.
The man stood up, too. “I can’t fathom how you can just sit there and lie to me like this—” He looked down at the nameplate on the desk. “—Sam.”
“I’m not—” Before Sam could finish, the man leaned across his desk and grabbed him. Sam pressed the panic button over and over again as the man maneuvered around the desk, pulled Sam away from his chair, and slammed him against the wall. “Please—” His words were interrupted by an explosion of pain as the man’s fist connected with Sam’s cheek. Sam flung his arms up to block any more blows. None came. The man pulled Sam from the wall and pushed him toward the computer as the door flew open.
“Change it now, or I’ll kill you!” The man screamed. The guard, a new one from the Army named Phil, wasted no time and slammed a baton across the back of the man’s head. He fell onto the desk, and Sam scrambled backward against the wall. Phil pulled out his gun and shot the man three times in the back.
Phil spoke while Sam watched the man slide toward the floor off his desk. “Dammit, Sam, you need to be quicker on the trigger.” The man had rolled onto his side, his eyes staring at Sam. “You have the button for a reason, you know. You can’t try to calm everyone down.”
The captain’s mouth—wait, not the captain; did it matter?—opened a bit, and a bloody bubble formed. Sam couldn’t tell when the man had died. All he could focus on were his eyes, which hadn’t closed. The anger and desperation in those eyes were gone now, replaced by an emptiness. Not peace or acceptance: Emptiness.
“C’mon, Sam. Let’s get you fixed up.” Sam felt his cheek. He was bleeding.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll be okay.”
“Not if you’re leaning over the railing when the waves hit.” Sam opened his eyes, and the Expatriation Office was gone. Phil was gone. The man was gone. Part of Sam’s soul was gone. The captain tapped Sam on the forehead. “Are you with me, loner? Stop daydreaming and think! This is your life we’re talking about.” He looked over at everyone else. “I want everyone below decks fifteen minutes after the asteroid show ends. A ship this size has little to worry about, but I don’t want to take any chances. You hear me? The waves may get nasty. So stay below decks until I give the all clear.”
As the others asked more questions, Sam made his way down to his cabin. He didn’t want to see the asteroid impact, and he didn’t want to see any more faces.
• • • •
Sam dreamed of the asteroid hitting North America as if he were watching a movie. The blast wave and impact spread fire across North Dakota and rolled across the United States. He flew backward and watched the wave obliterate buildings, cities, mountains. He felt detached from the horror. He was high up in the sky and couldn’t see any people dying. It wasn’t until he was watching the shockwave clear forests in Arkansas that he realized that it was catching up to him. He looked left, looked right, and tried to guide the dream to have him fly faster. But it didn’t matter: The wave of force and flames closed in. He could feel the heat. He felt the edge of the power of the asteroid. The force pressed against the bottom of his shoes. He started to panic. He looked down at the charred and ruined landscape behind the line of the spreading force of the asteroid. He closed his eyes as his feet began to shake.
And he was tumbling violently, rolling over and over as the asteroid took him. Sam opened his eyes.
He had been thrown across his room in his sleep, and as he got his bearings, the room tilted in the other direction, causing him to roll back across the floor. His head hit the wall, but he was able to reach out and grab one of the bunk’s metal supports, which were welded to the floor. The ship seemed to stop rolling just as the squeal of twisting metal accompanied the entire room shaking.
As if toying with him, the room tilted in an entirely new direction, sliding Sam toward the wall opposite the door. Scrambling to his feet, Sam pulled himself toward the door as the deep moan of straining metal reverberated through the metal bones of the ship. The end of the room dropped, and Sam grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. Emergency lights flickered in the hall, and iridescent water flowed down the stairs that led to the deck. The smell of oil was overwhelming.
A voice behind him yelled out, “We need to get to the lifeboats!” Sam turned as an old man approached him. He didn’t know the man’s name. The boat rolled again, and Sam slammed against the wall. He braced himself and moved forward.
He grasped the railing along the stairs and did his best to haul himself up, the erratic rolling of the ship tossing him in every direction. Depending on the direction that the ship rolled, the water flowed down in great enough volume that Sam found it difficult to breathe.
He reached the door to the deck, which was already open. Sam hauled himself through and supported himself against the frame as he looked outside. It was impossible: The bow of the
ship was bent upward, with massive waves surrounding it on all sides. One of the waves slammed into the hull, and it took all of Sam’s strength to hold onto the door and avoid being swept out to sea.
“This way!” Off to the left was a crewmember with a group of people. They pulled themselves along the tower to the lifeboats by clinging to a metal railing. The deck rose, and Sam let it propel him to the railing. As his body slammed into it, he grabbed hold. He turned back to the door; the old man was no longer there.
He looked right; the crew and passengers were making their way to the lifeboats. “Wait! There’s someone else here!” One of the passengers glanced back at him, but Sam couldn’t see who it was through the sudden surge of water as another wave tossed the ship. When the water and mist cleared, the people fleeing continued to move away from him.
Sam ran to the door and hurled himself at the stairs. The oily water made the railing slick, and Sam stumbled down the steps, barely keeping himself upright. Another wave of water flowed through the door and filled the hall. The old man was sitting with his back against the wall.
As Sam reached him, the man’s face went wide in shock. “What are you doing here? Go! The ship is sinking!”
“I’m here to help,” Sam replied, as the ship rolled again. Sam smashed against the opposite wall. He looked back at the man, who was bracing himself against the floor with his hands. His face was contorted in pain.
“I broke my leg. You can’t save me. Go!” The man motioned toward the stairs with his head.
“No, I can help support you.” Sam moved closer and reached for the old man’s arm.
Pulling his arm away from Sam’s grasp, the man looked him in the eyes. “Look, son, don’t be foolish. I know I can’t survive this, but you can.” He grabbed Sam’s arm. “Go! Save yourself.” He then shoved Sam toward the staircase.
Sam didn’t argue and stumbled toward the stairs. He looked back at the old man, whose face was lowered, his eyes closed. Sam paused and wiped the salty water from his eyes.
He had left enough people to face death on their own.
“What’re you doing?” the old man asked as Sam slid down next to him.
“Not leaving you.” Sam looked at the old man, who seemed confused and afraid, but whose face didn’t remind Sam at all of any of the poor souls from the Expatriation Office.
The old man shook his head and smiled, his fear receding. “Better than being dashed against the hull, I guess.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you.” The change in the old man took Sam’s breath away. There was no fear. No desperation.
Just a warm and friendly face.
The water rose, and the other faces faded. So many of them, alone as they walked out the door of his office.
Sam closed his eyes. He was finally there for someone, walking with them as they left through the door.
There was a pure and brilliant light on the other side.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jake Kerr began writing short fiction in 2010 after fifteen years as a music and radio industry columnist and journalist. His first published story, “The Old Equations,” appeared in Lightspeed and went on to be named a finalist for the Nebula Award and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. He has subsequently been published in Fireside Magazine, Escape Pod, and the Unidentified Funny Objects anthology of humorous SF. A graduate of Kenyon College with degrees in English and Psychology, Kerr studied under writer-in-residence Ursula K. Le Guin and Peruvian playwright Alonso Alegria. He lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife and three daughters.
AVTOMAT
Daniel H. Wilson
The animated figures stand,
Adorning every public street,
And seem to breathe in stone, or
move their marble feet.
—Pindar, 450 BC
GREAT EUROPEAN PLAIN, 1725
The five Imperial Russian infantry saunter toward us, hips rolling in their rain-spattered saddles. I raise my shashka and point the saber at the heart of the nearest guardsman. In response, the mounted dragoon smiles at me, his teeth rotting under a bushy black moustache.
Even from this distance, I can see that he is eager to fight. I lower my saber. The gesture was futile. In a few moments, these men will run us down on the empty plains.
I will have to fight. And my daughter will fight alongside me.
This morning just before dawn, Peter the Great, father of his country, founder and Emperor of the Russian Empire, true sovereign of the northern lands and king of the Mountain princes, passed from this world and left no heir. In the aftermath, those of us allied too closely with Peter lost everything. By command of Empress Catherine, newly appointed Tsarina of Russia, we have been sentenced to death.
And so today our world ends, along with the life of our sovereign.
On tall horses, the royal dragoons are confident. They trot toward us under a storm dark sky. Short wet grass rolls away from us for hundreds of miles, each blade glinting purple-green under a light rainfall.
“Stay close to me,” I say to Elena.
The little girl presses her hard shoulder against my thigh and the wind pushes the tail of my kaftan over her chest. Misty rain has plastered her wig to her forehead, spreading the black ringlets like cracks over her porcelain skin. Her sculpted face is nearly lost within the hood of her cloak. My daughter is indistinct under the billowing fabric, but she moves like a small, fierce animal.
“We cannot succeed,” she says, and her voice is a melody, like the singing of clockwork birds. Indeed, the mechanism that speaks for her was created from a singing wooden clock that came from the German Black Forests.
The beautiful noises signify an ugly truth.
The dragoons are trained soldiers, chosen by Peter himself from a standing force and elevated to personal Guard for the royal family. Wearing dark kaftans with red sashes crossed over their chests, the moustached men ride fearlessly with well-worn sabers hanging from their hips. Each is equipped with two saddle-mounted Muscovite wheellock pistols. The leader wears a steel cuirass over his chest and carries a long carbine. The rest carry simple Hussar lances.
Pursued by the Imperial Russian Guard, we took a risk and fled across the rolling steppes east of St. Petersburg. We hoped to disappear into the emptiness, but we knew this could happen. Our goal was never simply to survive . . . we are running to protect the secret of our existence.
A single dragoon separates from the others, gallops toward us with one hand on the pommel of his saber.
“Stay low, Elena. Survive the onslaught,” I say. “After I am finished, surprise them if you can. If they take you, do not let them discover what you are.”
“Yes, Peter,” she says.
I shove my cloak to the side and step away from Elena, drawing my long knife. The dagger is a simple blade the length of my forearm. Long and short, both my hands now sprout fangs.
The horseman yanks the reins and his mount comes to a prancing stop fifty yards away. Steam rises from the black flanks of his horse. The others are staying back, eyes dark under their red hats, watching this sport from a distance.
Arrogant and sure, they expect us to cower. Voices drift to me on the wind as mushrooms of mist sprout from their mouths. I hear a short bark of laughter.
Eyeing my blades, the dragoon hesitates. He begins to reach for his pistols, and I lower my nearly seven-foot frame to a knee and place my long and short blades flat on the wet grass. The backs of my hands are made of leather, stained dark with the rain. I can see the brass gears moving beneath them, ridges like foothills.
The dragoon leaves the pistols holstered. As he approaches, I keep my fingers pushed into the ground. Elena stands at my side.
“Be strong, Elena,” I say, without turning. “Protect Peter’s legacy.”
MOSCOW, 1707
Elena’s face is the first thing I see—my first memory of the world—and she is the last sight I could ever forget.
I don’t remember opening my eyes.
The
candle-lit path of her cheek eclipses the darkness, a perfect curve, shining like the sight of a city burning from the sea. Her skin is made of hard porcelain. As she moves, the silhouette of her doll’s face is a wavering blade of light. She leans over a wooden desk, clad in a girl’s dress, scratching out a message with a fountain pen held in frozen ceramic fingers. Her black eyes strafe the paper without seeing.
On this first day, Elena’s hand is a doll’s hand. It swoops back and forth as she mindlessly writes her message in the dark. She is oblivious to the world of men, for now. A flutter of gears is lost within the folds of fine fabric that she wears and I hear a faint clicking. This is the heartbeat of my world, a rhythm that is steady and quiet and mechanical under the warm wax-smell of candles.
Another shape moves—a man, shifting between shadows that flicker like tongues on the wall. Thin and bent, he drapes long fingers in delicate patterns over me. I turn my head slightly to inspect him, blinking to focus. His taut face sharpens into detail: wrinkled bags under glittering eyes. His lips are pressed together and white within a graying beard. The man’s limbs are shaking every half second as his heart beats in his narrow chest.
I will come to know this man as Fiovani. My father. Or the closest thing to it.
The man is holding his breath, watching me with wide eyes.
“Privet,” I say, and the old man collapses.
Without thought, I reach out and catch him by the shoulder. Eyelids fluttering, his head dips like a sail dropping to half-mast. For the first time, I see what must be my own hand. An economy of brass struts wrapped in supple leather. And now I truly begin to understand that I am also a thing in this world. Not like the doll who is writing a few feet away with all the mindfulness of water choosing a path downhill. Something more. But also not like this fainting man, made of soft flesh.
Somehow, I am. And, I tell you, I find it a strange thing, to be.
The idea of it settles into my mind. A world outside me, perceived through sight and hearing and other senses. And somewhere inside, I am placing the sights and sounds into a smaller, simpler idea of a world that is jarringly complex and unknowable. From within this little world in my head, I am making decisions.
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