by Anthology
And so, at last, there was no more ambiguity. There was only one George Rathburn–a single iteration of the consciousness that had first bloomed some forty-five years ago, now executing as code in the nano-gel inside a robotic form.
George suspected that Shiozaki would try to cover up what had occurred back in Paradise Valley–at least the details. He’d have to admit that Dr. Ng had been killed by a skin, but doubtless Shiozaki would want to gloss over Rathburn’s warning shout. After all, it would be bad for business if those about to shed got wind of the fact that the new versions still had empathy for the old ones.
But Detective Lucerne and his sharpshooter would want just the opposite: only by citing the robotic Rathburn’s interference could they exonerate the sharpshooter from accidentally shooting the hostage.
But nothing could exonerate GR-7 from what he’d done, swinging that poor, frightened woman in front of himself as a shield . . .
Rathburn sat down in his country house’s living room. Despite his robotic body, he did feel weary–bone-weary–and needed the support of the chair.
He’d done the right thing, even if GR-7 hadn’t; he knew that. Any other choice by him would have been devastating not just for himself, but also for Kathryn and every other uploaded consciousness. There really had been no alternative.
Immortality is grand. Immortality is great. As long as you have a clear conscience, that is. As long as you’re not tortured by doubt, racked by depression, overcome with guilt.
That poor woman, Dr. Ng. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing at all.
And now she was dead.
And he–a version of him–had caused her to be killed.
GR-7’s words replayed in Rathburn’s memory. We’d just never been in such desperate circumstances before.
Perhaps that was true. But he was in desperate circumstances now.
And he’d found himself contemplating actions he never would have considered possible for him before.
That poor woman. That poor dead woman . . .
It wasn’t just GR-7’s fault. It was his fault. Her death was a direct consequence of him wanting to live forever.
And he’d have to live with the guilt of that forever.
Unless . . .
Desperate circumstances make one do desperate things.
He picked up the magnetic pistol–astonishing what things you could buy online these days. A proximity blast from it would destroy all recordings in nano-gel.
George Rathburn looked at the pistol, at its shiny, hard exterior.
And he placed the emitter against the side of his stainless-steel skull, and, after a few moments of hesitation, his golden robotic finger contracted against the trigger.
What better way, after all, was there to prove that he was still human?
THE CLOCKWORK ATOM BOMB
Dominic Green
“Over here, mister. This is the place.” The girl tugged Mativi’s sleeve and led him down a street that was mostly poorly-patched shell holes. Delayed Action Munitions – the size of thumbnails and able to turn a man into fragments of the same dimensions – littered the ground hereabouts, designed to lie dormant for generations. Construction companies used robot tractors to fill in bomb damage, and the robots did a poor job. Granted, they were getting better – Robocongo was one of equatorial Africa’s biggest exporters. But usually the whites and the blacks-with-cash sat in control rooms a kilometre away directing robots to build the houses of the poor, and the poor then had to live in those houses not knowing whether, if they put their foot down hard on a tough domestic issue, they might also be putting it down on a DAM bomblet a metre beneath their foundations.
This street, though, hadn’t even been repaired. It was all sloped concrete, blast rubble and wrecked signs telling outsiders to keep out this goverment building! field clerical stores! important goverment work here you go back!
“Come on, mister”, said the phaseuse. “You will see, and then you will have no problem paying.”
“You stand still,” commanded Mativi suddenly. “Stand right there.”
Nervously, he reached into a pocket and brought out the Noli Timere. It only worked fifty per cent of the time, based on information gathered from scientist-collaborators from all factions in the war, but fifty per cent was better than zip.
He turned the device on, on low power in case any of the more recent devices that smelled mine detector power-up were present, and swept it left and right. Nothing. He flicked it up to full power and swept again. A small stray air-dropped anti-personnel device at the north-west end of the street, but otherwise nothing.
“You see that house over there, Emily?” he said, pointing across the road. The girl nodded. “Well, you’re not to go in there. There is an explosive device in there. A big one. It’ll kill you.”
Emily shook her head firmly. “It isn’t nearly as big as the one that took Claude.”
Mativi nodded. “But you say the device is still there.”
“Has been since I was very little. Everyone knows it’s there. The grown-ups know it’s there. They used it when the slim hit, to get rid of the bodies, so we wouldn’t get sick. Sometimes,” she said, “before the bodies were entirely dead.”
“You can’t get slim from a dead body,” said Mativi.
“That’s what you say,” said Emily. And he knew she was right. So many generously altered genomes had been flying around Africa in warheads fifteen years ago that someone could have altered HIV and turned it into an airborne, rather than blood-borne, virus – like the rickettsial haemorrhagic fever that had wiped out all of Johannesburg’s blood banks in a single day and made social pariahs of blacks all over Europe and America overnight.
The sun dropped below the horizon like a guillotine blade, and it was suddenly night, as if someone had flicked a switch in Heaven. Mativi had gotten too used to life off the equator, had been working on the basis that night would steal up slowly as it had in Quebec and Patagonia. But the busy equatorial night had no time for twilight. He hadn’t brought night vision goggles. Had he brought a torch?
As they walked up the street, a wind gathered, as if the landscape sensed his unease.
“You have to be careful,” said the girl, “tread only where I tread. And you have to bend down.” She nodded at Mativi’s Kinshasa Rolex. “You have to leave your watch outside.”
Why? So one of your bacheque boyfriends can steal it while I’m in there? To satisfy the girl’s insistence, he slid the watch off his wrist and set it on a brick, but picked it up again when she wasn’t looking and dropped it into his pocket.
“Where are we going?” he said.
“In there.” She pointed. Half-buried in the rubble was a concrete lintel, one end of a substantial buried structure, through which the wind was whistling.
No. Correction. Out of which the wind was whistling.
She slipped under the lintel, on which was fixed a sign saying warning! extreme personal danger! The room beyond had once had skylights. Now, it had ruined holes in the roof, into which the geostationary UNPEFORCONG security moon poured prisms of reflected sunlight. 35,900 kilometres above Mativi’s head, he and five million other Kinshasans were being watched with five thousand cameras. This had at first seemed an outrageous intrusion on his privacy, until he’d realized that he’d have to commit a thousand murders before any of the cameras was likely to catch him in the act.
“Don’t step any closer,” said the girl. “It will take you.”
The entrance had promised an interior like any other minor military strongpoint – only just large enough to contain a couple of hammocks and a machine gun, maybe. But inside, after only a few steps down, the room was huge, the size of a factory floor. They had entered via an engineer’s inspection catwalk close to the roof. He was not sure how far down the floor was.
The wind in here was deafening. The girl had to shout. “THERE IS MORE THAN ONE IN HERE. THEY lIVE IN THE MACHINES. THE GOVERNMENT MADE THE MACHINES, BUT NOT WITH TECHNICIANS
AND ElECTRICIANS. WITH SORCERY.”
The machines did not look made by sorcery. They were entirely silent, looking like rows of gigantic, rusted steel chess pawns twice the height of a man, with no pipes or wires entering or leaving them, apparently sitting here unused for any purpose. Mativi felt an urgent, entirely rational need to be in another line of employment.
“HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT THE MACHINES WERE BUIlT FOR?” said Mativi, who had.
The girl nodded. “THE DEMONS ARE IN THE MACHINES,” she said. “THE MACHINES WERE BUIlT AS CAGES. THE MIlITARY MEN WHO MADE THIS PlACE WARNED All THE MOST IMPORTANT MEN IN OUR DISTRICT OF THIS. THEY WARNED MY FATHER. THEY TOlD HIM NEVER TO BREAK ANY OF THE MACHINES OPEN. BUT OVER TIME, THEY lEAK, AND THE DEMONS CAN GET OUT. THE FIRST TWO MACHINES ARE SAFE, FOR NOW. BUT YOU MUST BE CAREFUl, BECAUSE WE THOUGHT THE THIRD ONE WAS SAFE TOO, AND IT TOOK ClAUDE.”
“WHAT DID IT DO TO ClAUDE, WHEN IT TOOK HIM?” said Mativi. He could not see any damage to the walls around the third machine beyond, perhaps, a certain swept-clean quality of the dust on the floor around it.
“IT TOOK HIM,” said the girl. “IT MADE HIM SMAll. IT SUCKED HIM UP.”
“THE MACHINES,” said Mativi in broken lingala. “THEY ARE COVERED WITH…WITH ThINgS.”
The heads of the chess-pawns, under the light of Mativi’s torch, were surrealistically coiffured with assorted objects – spanners, wire, door furniture, and, worryingly, a single fragmentation grenade. Many, perhaps more than half of the things were ferrous metal. But some looked like aluminium. Some were even bits of wood or plaster.
Not just magnetism, then.
He fished the fake Rolex out of his pocket, waved it in the direction of the machines, and felt a strong tug on it as he held it in his hand. But he also felt a strong tug on the sleeve of his shirt, and on his arm itself.
He realized with growing unease that the wind was not blowing out of the chamber, but into it, pushing him from behind. It also appeared to be blowing in through the skylights in the roof above. It did not seem to be blowing out anywhere.
The girl gasped. “YOU SHOUlD NOT HAVE DONE THAT! NOW YOUR WATCH WIll NOT KEEP GOOD TIME.”
“IS THAT HOW THE MACHINE SUCKED ClAUDE UP?”
“NO. All THE MACHINES DRAW THINGS IN, BUT YOU CAN PUll YOURSElF lOOSE FROM MOST OF THEM. BUT THE ONES THE DEMONS lIVE IN WIll SUCK YOU RIGHT INSIDE WHERE THE DEMON lIVES, AND NOT lEAVE A HAIR BEHIND.”
“WHOlE PEOPlE?”
“PEOPlE, METAl, ANYTHING.”
“STONES?” Mativi picked up a fragment of loose plaster from the floor.
“YES. BUT YOU SHOUlD NOT THROW THINGS.”
He threw it. The girl winced. He saw the plaster travel halfway across the floor until it passed the second machine. Then it jerked sideways in mid-air, as if attached to invisible strings, puffed into a long cone of powder, and vanished.
The girl was angry. “YOU MUST DO WHAT I SAY! THE MIlITARY MEN SAID WE SHOUlD NOT THROW THINGS INTO THE BAD MACHINES. THEY SAID IT MADE THE DEMONS STRONGER.”
“YES,” said Mativi. “AND THEY WERE ABSOlUTElY RIGHT. NOT MUCH STRONGER, BUT IF ENOUGH PEOPlE THREW IN ENOUGH UNCHARGED MATERIAl OVER ENOUGH TIME…”
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN BY uNcharged maTerIal.”
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I MEAN BY ‘EVERYONE WOUlD DIE’?”
The girl nodded. “WE SHOUlD NOT STAY TOO lONG IN HERE. PEOPlE WHO STAY TOO lONG IN HERE GET SICK. THE DEMONS MAKE THEM SICK.”
Mativi nodded. “AND I SUPPOSE THIS SICKNESS TAKES THE FORM OF HAIR lOSS, SHORTNESS OF BREATH, ExTREME PAlENESS OF THE SKIN?”
“YES,” said the girl. “THE VICTIMS DISPlAY THE ClASSIC SYMPTOMS OF RADIATION AlOPECIA AND STEM CEll DEATH.”
Well, I’ll be damned. But after all, she has lived through a nuclear war. She’s been living among radiation victims her entire life. Probably taught herself to read using red cross posters.
“WEll, THE SAME DEMONS THAT WERE USED IN THE RADIATION BOMBS ARE IN HERE. SlIGHTlY DIFFERENT, BECAUSE THESE ARE A SlIGHTlY DIFFERENT WEAPON. BUT THE SAME DEMONS.”
The girl nodded. “BUT THESE ARE NOT RADIATION BOMBS,” she said. “THIS MEANS YOU HAVE TO PAY ME DOUBlE.” She held out her hand.
Mativi nodded. “THIS MEANS I HAVE TO PAY YOU DOUBlE.” He fished in his wallet for a fistful of United Nations scrip.
after all, why shouldn’t I pay you? None of this money is going to be worth anything if these things destroy the world tomorrow.
“I’m telling you, there are at least forty of them. I counted them. Five rows by eight…I didn’t go to the hotel because I didn’t want to call you in the clear. We have to be the only people who know about this…Because if anyone wanders into that site, anyone at all, and does anything they shouldn’t, we will all die. I’m not saying they, I’m saying we, and I’m not saying might die, I’m saying will die…Yes, this is a Heavy Weapons alert…No, I can’t tell you what that means…All I can tell you is that you must comply with the alert to the letter if you’re interested in handing on the planet to your children…Your children will grow out of that, that hating their father thing. All teenagers go through that phase. And credit where credit’s due, you really shouldn’t have slept with their mother’s sister in the first place…No, I do not want ‘an inspection team’. I want troops. Armed troops with a mandate to shoot to kill, not a detachment of graduates in Peace Studies from liechtenstein in a white APC. And when I put the phone down on you, I want to know that you’re going to be picking up your phone again and dialling the IAEA. I am serious about this, louis…All right. All right. I’ll see you at the site tomorrow.”
When he laid the handset down, he was trembling. In a day when there were over a hundred permanent websites on the Antarctic ice shelf, it had taken him five hours to find a digital phone line in a city of five million people. Which, to be fair, fifteen years ago, had been a city of ten million people.
Of course, his search for a phone line compatible with his encryption software would probably be for nothing. If there were this few digital lines in the city, there was probably a retrotech transistor microphone planted somewhere in the booth he was sitting in, feeding data back to a mainframe at police headquarters. But at least that meant the police would be the only ones who knew. If he’d gone through the baroque network of emergency analogue lines, every housewife in the cité would have known by morning.
He got up from the booth, walked to the desk, and paid the geek
– the geek with a submachinegun – who was manning it. There was no secret police car waiting outside – the car would have been unmarked, but extremely obvious due to the fact that no one but the government could afford to travel around in cars. The Congolese sun came up like a jack in a box and it was a short walk through the zero tolerance district back to his hotel, which had once been a Hilton. He fell into the mattress, which bludgeoned him compliantly unconscious.
When he opened his hotel room door in the morning to go to the one functioning bathroom, a man was standing outside with a gun.
Neither the man nor the gun were particularly impressive – the gun because it appeared to be a pre-War cased ammunition model that hadn’t been cleaned since the Armistice, and the man because his hand was shaking like a masturbator’s just before orgasm, and because Mativi knew him to be a paterfamilias with three kids in kindergarten and a passion for N gauge model railways.
However, the gun still fired big, horrid bullets that made holes in stuff, and it was pointing at Mativi.
“I’m sorry, Chet, I can’t let you do it.” The safety catch, Mativi noted, was off.
“Do what?” said Mativi.
“You’re taking away my livelihood. You know you are.”
“I’m sorry, Jean, I don’t understand any of this. Maybe you should explain a little more?” Jean-Baptiste Ngoyi, an unremarkable functionary in the United Nations Temporary Administration Service (Former People’s Democratic Republic of Congo), appeared to have put on his very best work clothes t
o murder Mativi. The blue UNTASFORDEMRECONG logo was embroidered smartly (and widely) on his chest pocket.
“I can’t let you take them away.” There were actually tears in the little man’s eyes.
“Take what away?”
“You know what. everybody knows. They heard you talking to Grosjean.”
Mativi’s eyes popped. “No. Ohhh shit. No.” He leaned back against crumbling postmodernist plasterwork. “Jean, don’t take this personally, but if someone as far down the food chain as you knows, everyone in the city with an email address and a heartbeat knows.” He looked up at Ngoyi. “There was a microphone in the comms booth, right?”
“No, the geek who mans the desk is President lissouba’s police chief ’s half brother. The police are full of lissouba men who were exonerated by the General Amnesty after the Armistice.”
“Shit. Shit. What are they doing, now they know?”
“‘Emergency measures are being put in place to contain the problem’. That’s all they’d say. Oh, and there are already orders out for your arrest For Your Own Safety. But they didn’t know which hotel you were staying in. One of them was trying to find out when he rang me.”
Mativi walked in aimless circles, holding his head to stop his thoughts from wandering. “I’ll bet he was. God, god. And you didn’t tell them where I was. Does that mean you’re, um, not particularly serious about killing me?” He stared at Ngoyi ingratiatingly. But the gun didn’t waver – at least, not any more than it had been wavering already. Never mind. It had been worth a try.
“It means I couldn’t take the chance that they really did want you arrested for your own safety,” said Ngoyi. “If a UN Weapons Inspector died in Kinshasa, that would throw the hand grenade well and truly in the muck spreader for the police chiefs, after all.”
“I take it some of them are the men who originally installed the containers. If so, they know very well full amnesties are available for war crimes – ”