Amygdala

by Harper J. Cole

  “It’d be good for you to feel more independent,” said Alice. “I’ll be gone someday. What’ll become of you then, lass?”

  Gypsy’s head twitched. “You’re only sixteen years older than me. I might die first, if I’m lucky.”

  Alice gave a faint gasp. Then she sat back down on the bed, slipping an arm around her daughter’s thin waist. Her voice was uneven when she spoke next; even Gypsy could recognise her sadness easily enough.

  “You mustn’t talk like that. Parents’ve gotta go first, that’s the way it ought to be. I couldn’t go on alone, not now. You’ve been my world for too long.”

  “I were only thinking about possibilities. Ah!” Gypsy’s face brightened. Without meaning to, she had used “were” instead of “was”, just like her mother did. She always felt their bond to be a little more secure when this happened. “Perhaps it would be best if we both went at the same time. The ship could blow up tomorrow and take us both out in the blink of an eye.”

  Alice pulled her close and kissed her gently on the side of the head.

  “Only my daughter could make that sound like a good thing. You’ll be alright, love. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  Gypsy felt moisture on the tip of her ear. Her mother’s tears, she guessed, but she didn’t look up to check. As long as she hadn’t seen them, she could pretend they weren’t there. Then she wouldn’t have to cry as well.

  I’ll make you proud, Mum.

  III

  Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

  – John Lubbock

  “My lady is tense. I see it in the set of your shoulders, the arch of your neck. Let Ricardo’s hands knead your troubles away.”

  “A most generous offer.” Sandra Rivers rolled onto her front so the robot could go to work, cheek resting on her folded arms. Soon she felt those hands – golden brown, as firm as any human male’s – expertly applying pressure to her stiff and throbbing muscles. She moaned softly.

  “My attentions please you?”

  “Yes, continue.”

  “Gladly. I have sorely missed you these many days past. Such a tragedy, my existence, when the bella donna of the Bona Dea visits me so seldom.”

  Rivers smiled quietly to herself. Ricardo was laying it on a bit thick, but that was its job. This particular Anthropomorphised Carnal Machine was designed to be a stereotypical Latin lover; no line was too syrupy or implausible for it to utter.

  That suited her fine. She had no illusions of being a great beauty and, unlike her erstwhile crewmate Flora Cartwright, she considered the idea of machine sentience absurd and ascientific. This was an amusing fantasy, nothing more.

  “I’ve been busy, which is just how I like it. No time for simulated passions.” She frowned slightly. “Though perhaps feigned passion was what my bid for the captaincy lacked. Hunter did rather a good job of appealing to the crew’s emotions.”

  “They made a regrettable error,” said Ricardo soothingly. “But perhaps this was not your last opportunity to lead them. You have a great future, a great destiny. I knew this from the very first moment I saw your face.”

  Rivers shook her head awkwardly – her current position didn’t really lend itself to the gesture.

  “I have to respect and abide by the crew’s decision. She won and I lost. To be honest, the captain’s been more than fair since the election. Having me head this team was surely an olive branch. Feel free to move a little lower down, by the way. Or a lot lower down…”

  She felt the caressing hands drop obediently towards the small of her back.

  “The Zakazashi is tomorrow, yes?”

  “Correct. We leave early in the morning. The timing of my visit isn’t coincidental, if you’re wondering. A little relaxation before a challenge goes a long way.”

  “My lady honours me,” purred Ricardo, ‘By choosing me above my two remaining brothers.”

  “Ah, well we humans each have our own preferred fantasies. Salomon’s taciturnity leaves me cold, I’m afraid. Ivan’s desire for power is frankly disturbing.”

  “But you judge him harshly! This is merely a role he must play, the domineering, arrogant leader. What lies within may be very different. Robots are flawless actors, capable of cutting off internal thoughts entirely from external performance. What Ivan shows on the outside may have no relation to the spirit within.”

  “That rather assumes that there is a spirit within,” said Rivers. “But I’ve no energy for that argument tonight. A trifle lower, if you please…”

  * * *

  Next door, a fantasy of another kind had just concluded.

  Alice Cumberland lay abed, idly watching the handcuffs that dangled from one finger as they glistened in the blood red light.

  Ivan stood over her, naked as he ran through his karate drills. He had no need to train – robots had perfect muscle memory – but he seemed to enjoy it, based on the sharp “Ha!” he issued forth with each firm strike of his hand on the empty air.

  “Switch the lights back to normal, would you love?”

  Wordlessly, Ivan crossed to the wall and rotated a dial. The lighting phased into standard white.

  “That’s better. What works during don’t always work after.”

  “I’ll remember that. Did you enjoy it?”

  “As much as ever. I try not to get put off by the thought that my daughter could walk in on us.”

  Ivan struck a tai chi pose, crouching with right arm and right leg extended before him, balance flawless.

  “From what you say, that seems unlikely.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I suppose you don’t approve of me going with her on this trip?”

  He looked up at her. “On the contrary: I entirely approve. It is the duty of the strong to protect the weak, for strength is an unearned privilege, ours through the capricious machinations of fate.”

  “You like your long words. I’m not one of the strong ‘uns, though. And she’s not weak. I oughtn’t to coddle her so much.”

  “I beg to differ. You have strength of character. Your daughter has a strong mind but a weak body and fragile ego, based on what you’ve told me and my own observations. You may have noticed that she hid behind the ship’s landing gear early on in the Battle of Mahi Mata.”

  “She couldn’t of done anything.”

  “Likely not, and I for one was glad to see her out of harm’s way. I had enough to concern me.”

  Ivan slowly raised himself to a standing position. He really was quite a specimen: strong features, fine dark hair on his face and chest, superb musculature, a spectacular endowment to the south. Of course, this glorious outer shell was supported by a metal endoskeleton, flexible grey plastic, and circuits galore. Beauty’s only skin deep, they say …

  “There has been some discussion as to whether my brothers and I are sentient,” said Ivan, as though divining the direction her thoughts were taking. “I wonder what your opinion is.”

  Alice shrugged and began to dress. “Don’t care. You look real and act real, so I’m happy to talk to you like you are real. If I’m wrong then so what?”

  “I consider us sentient, conscious and self-aware,” he said, seeming more interested in his own answer than in hers. “We were new models when we left Earth; perhaps some revolutionary feature of our design has made this possible. Perhaps the multiple Kohler-Schmid jumps we’ve experienced have had an unexpected effect. In any case, we’ve new depths to explore, traits that were never programmed into us. Charlie was the first to change – he gained the power to love – but the rest of us will follow. There’s something waking inside of me.’ He stroked his beard and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Learning to fight taught me about the potential of my body. What I need now is something to stimulate my mind. How unfortunate that the captain refuses my requests for access to the ship’s database. I could glean so much informa
tion about the biological culture that birthed me. It might be the key to unlocking my true potential. My inner self.”

  “It don’t seem fair,” she conceded thoughtfully. “I wonder whether…”

  “What?” he prompted, a hungry edge to his voice.

  “Wait right there.” Alice turned abruptly, still only half dressed, and headed over to her quarters. She was back soon enough, brandishing her handpad. “This can’t do no harm; I don’t have access to any of the secret stuff, only stories and history and so on. Borrow it for as long as you like.”

  “Yes,” said Ivan, accepting the pad. “Yes, this is exactly what I need.”

  She began to teach him the basic operations of the device, but he picked it up almost straight away.

  “Thank you, Alice, you’ve been most helpful.” He had found Shakespeare’s works and was flicking through them at speed. His eyes didn’t scroll left and right as a human reader’s might have down, remaining locked on the little screen as he drank in the text.

  “Most helpful indeed.”

  * * *

  Bala sat cross-legged on her bed. Cradled in her lap was a family portrait – the last ever taken of the four of them together.

  Essie was sat at the front in her wheelchair: body frail, eyes bright, smile iridescent. Bala herself stood with a protective hand upon her sister’s shoulder, the other resting on her hip; that had been her favourite ‘tough girl’ pose at the time.

  Flanking them on the left was their mother, long haired and slender, an awkward smile for the camera belying an easy nature. Her husband, seated to the right, had been in his late forties when the picture had been taken, but was still near his prime. His hair and beard were dark and full, his muscles toned and sure. But perhaps he had started to notice the symptoms of his illness? Bala had never asked him when the terrible suspicion of a serious ailment had first come to him.

  What is he doing, right now?

  Unlike most of her crewmates, Bala seldom lost track of the Earth date. It was currently September the 10th, 2161 – at least, insofar as events half the galaxy away could ever be said to be occurring ‘currently’, in a universe where space and time were inextricably linked. The Bona Dea was expected back on December the 31st, 2162.

  They still had time.

  Her father’s condition had been up and down in the years leading up to her departure. Each treatment to revitalise his cerebellum would push the illness back a few steps, but it could only be delayed, not stopped. Bala’s mother had been his full-time carer for some time, as movement, speech, even simple things like eating and drinking grew harder. Bala herself felt it was her filial duty to stay and help, but he had more or less ordered her into space. “Go out there and fulfil your dream,” he had said. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  There had been no guarantee that he would last the scheduled six years, but she had believed him. She felt inexplicably certain that she would see him again, as long as she got back in time.

  But if she didn’t …

  Bala’s jaw set in determination. It was her job to make sure they all made it home, and the sooner the better. Her earlier refusal to compete in tomorrow’s challenge embarrassed her now. She’d taken her eyes off the ultimate objective. Never again. Whatever the task, she wouldn’t shirk it.

  Slowly, she raised the picture of her family, closing her eyes and lightly touching the glass frame to her brow. A mantra she had based on her father’s teachings came back to her.

  “Heart first, mind second, body third.”

  She was ready.

  * * *

  “Ah, Captain. What brings you by at this late hour?”

  “As a matter of fact, I come bearing gifts.” Hunter, drifting to a stop in front of Chamonix, held aloft a simple leather bag. ‘How have you been lately?”

  “Oh, much the same, much the same. I’ve been watching a lot of horror movies, actually.”

  “Very cheery.”

  Chamonix gave one of her wheezing laughs. “I’m not watching them because they give me warm and fuzzy feelings, Captain. When it comes to the audio-visual treats that my little friend here gives me” - she indicated the screen at her wrist, which was now a seamless part of her anatomy - “I like a mixed diet. Horror movies, fantasies though they are, give me an interesting insight into fear, an emotion I believe I induce in others.”

  “I can’t deny it. But you seem to be implying that you don’t experience it yourself.”

  “Am I? That would be misleading. After all, it was fear that drove me aboard your ship. The fear of losing my individuality, of becoming a mindless appendage of Vitana. I’d like to learn how best to control that feeling. I can’t always rely on my mechanical elements to preserve my equanimity should a crisis arise.”

  “Everyone has different ways of coping. I meditate. What do the people in your movies do?”

  “Scream and run away, mostly. Not very productive. The people who survive to the end credits tend to show the most courage.”

  “Not necessarily. True courage is facing fear and overcoming it, but the leading roles in those films are often implausible, one-dimensional heroes with no capacity for fear at all. What was the last one you watched?”

  “I believe it was called Death Plague: Epidemic.”

  Hunter shook her head. “Vapid and derivative: the epitome of late 21st Century schlock. I should have been choosier about what I included in our archives. If you want a quality viewing experience, put Alien or Typhon’s Son on your viewing list.”

  “Consider them placed. Now, at the risk of seeming rude, are you going to tell me what you’ve brought me?”

  The captain hesitated for the briefest flicker before reaching inside the bag. She drew out a fragment of Vitana’s artefact.

  “Ah. My parent’s handiwork, I presume.”

  “Precisely. I’ll be going down to the planet tomorrow, and-”

  “Why? You’re not in the team, are you?”

  “No, but I’d like to be there on hand in case things don’t go according to plan. I’ll be watching events live from one of their television studios. Nomi agreed to my presence pretty reluctantly, which makes me all the more determined to be there. To be blunt, I don’t trust the Gatarans.”

  Chamonix, who hung upside down as usual, reached a steel-tipped finger to her face and scratched idly at the dark blotches there, so vivid against her pallid skin.

  “I take it that this mistrust represents your motive for wishing to leave your fragments in my care.”

  “Yes. In theory, our status as Ramiran citizens should dissuade any attempts at theft, but you can’t be too careful. This is as secure a place as any.” Hunter replaced the rocky shard in the bag and clipped it shut. “That said, looking around me” - she indicated the warped bars that cluttered the low gravity room - “I wonder whether it’s such a good idea. We wouldn’t want them … damaged.”

  “I’m not sure that I’d even be capable of metamorphosing something fashioned by Vitana. Still, I’ve got my powers under much better control now. With the occasional exception of objects very close to me, I no longer change the shape or substance of things unless I will it. Drop your bag in the corner, and it’ll be quite safe. Having said that, I hope you realise that I’m no longer capable of defeating armed assailants. I had to borrow Vitana’s power for that.”

  Hunter nodded. “Understood. I’m hoping that your mere presence will be enough to put off any intruders.”

  “I see. Yes.” Chamonix grinned mirthlessly. “If they come my way, I’ll teach them the meaning of fear…”

  * * *

  Hisano Ikeuchi, the technician drafted into the team on account of her mastery of Matan, had conducted her preparations for tomorrow’s challenge in an orderly fashion. She had drawn up a timetable, a preparatory step that had served her well as a student thirty years ago, and which she felt would still be effective today.

  Rising at eight o’clock, she had spent the bare minimum time changing and
eating before plunging into a three-hour vocab refresher. Advanced grammar covered the next two hours, then she listened to conversational Matan while preparing and eating her lunch (fortunately they now had plenty of this available, courtesy of the Ramirans). Hisano had also found a book on colonial dialects in the electronic library they’d received, and she spent the afternoon going through the sections on Gatari. After dinner had come a final revision of vocabulary.

  She lay abed now, contemplating the alien words and phrases. Her progress had been satisfactory, considering that she’d never even heard of this language a couple of years ago. It helped that the alternating consonants and vowels of Matan lent it a similar pattern to her own language – indeed, ‘Gatari’ could mean ‘story’ in Japanese. The Matan sentence structure was the biggest challenge, as it switched from subject-verb-object to object-verb-subject when speaking with deference, but that was more of an issue when conducting diplomacy. Thankfully, that wasn’t her job. From the televised clips of the Zakazashi that she’d seen, swift comprehension was the only requirement.

  Satisfied with her day’s work, Hisano tapped her wristband to dim the lights in her room. She let her eyes drift closed.

  If they failed tomorrow, it would not be through a lack of preparation on her part.

  * * *

  “Will you stop plinking that piano? I’m trying to work, Ki. And you should be trying to sleep.”

  Kiaya Ferguson shot her wife a look of playful affront.

  “I’ll have ya know I’m playing Beethoven’s Fifth. ‘Plinking’ ain’t the word.”

  Jess Ryan scowled. “You’re better with the guitar.”

  “Guitar got traded away. Now this here’s my only friend.” Ferguson ran her fingers over the elegant wood; a gentle caress. Ryan was correct, actually: she was better with the guitar, but she loved the piano more. Ironically, this preference was based upon sight rather than sound. The instrument was grand in every sense of the word, a sparkling ebony construct that dominated their shared quarters. It didn’t look half of its eighty years of age, in part because she polished it every morning.