MECH

by Tim Marquitz

  Mannis sat on the bridge with a cup of tea that tasted almost, but not entirely, unlike tea. She liked the heat, however, and enjoyed the steam rising and if she tossed more than half of each cup into the cycler, she at least knew the water was recycled and the organic matter and backwash of fluids repurposed.

  She contemplated the image of the giant robot or whatever it was called and felt a smothering sensation of black depression. The scale of it, the radiating field of skeletons, the dead, hot planet, their distance from Earth—she could not stop contemplating the fact that something terrible had happened in this place, and that she was so far from home that if the Skip malfunctioned and she had to drift home under some more conventional power, it would take tens of millions of years before a cloud of dust that had once been her and the Coriolanus and everyone else on it arrived.

  Alone in the ersatz cantina that had been carved out of a wide hallway on the ship, Mr. Dawes sat and drank alcohol synthesized from fructose and his own saliva and remembered the voice in his head.

  He recalled it as a painfully loud, utterly silent bellow inside his skull. He’d made his way up to the chest of the robot, where he’d discovered what he knew immediately was the bridge or control center. It was a circular space built on a scale beyond his own, everything too far from the floor, too large for his hands. Everything centered around a large chair, in which a skeleton like the ones surrounding the robot sat. He circled the chair in a state of apprehension, noting that it appeared that wires had grown from the chair into the poor creature sitting in it. But the chair was too large for the form in it, far too large. The native creatures of the planet hadn’t made this thing, he thought.

  But at least one of them had claimed it, somehow.

  He stared at the delicate, hollowed bones and compared them mentally to the ones outside. A war machine. The whole world arrayed against one faction. Or, he thought, they would find other robots, other scenes of incredible carnage. Dozens, all over the planet, a species killing itself.

  He stepped forward, his foot caught on something, and for just a split second he forgot himself and reached out, using the seat of the chair to catch his fall. As he touched the chair, through the thick material of his glove, a wave of dizziness swept him.

  And in his head, an echoed voice, passionless and painful, as if the sound was too loud for his brain: Gisur. More, but it was like white noise now unfolding in his thoughts.

  Sitting in the cantina staring at the wall, he heard it in his memory pounding painfully against the edges of his brain. Gisur. Giz-er.

  A name, he knew, somehow. Gisur. The name not of the skeleton strapped into the chair, but of the robot.

  Gisur, he thought, The Harrower.

  It took a while for everyone to notice, but once they did the consensus was quick: There was something off with Mr. Dawes.

  They had moved quickly to gather tools and return to the surface for the work of preparing to dismember the robot and then transport it in sections to the Coriolanus. Step one was to identify and locate the power source and make certain it was exhausted, or disconnected, or containable. To measure radiation thoroughly and test the air throughout the cavernous interior of the figure. As valuable as it was, no one wanted to die in their beds before reaching Earth and cashing in because they were too eager.

  Mr. Dawes didn’t help much. On day two he immediately walked to the “bridge” area he had discovered previously, warned everyone else to stay away, and stayed there with his microphone switched off. When they buzzed him to return to the Coriolanus, he came slowly, and said nothing.

  This pattern repeated on day two, and on day three, he refused to leave the bridge at all, stating that he had work to complete.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Alderson raged, storming into the large circular area. “Your suit doesn’t have infinite gas, Dawes. You’ll die in here.”

  He found Dawes seated in the large chair in the middle. The bones of the creature that had originally been there were scattered on the floor, still whole. Dawes had removed his helmet.

  “There’s atmosphere,” he said. “Got it working.”

  “Got it—what?”

  Alderson hesitated, then concentrated on the stream of data that was always in the lower left-hand corner of his suit’s visor. It reported an Earth-normal oxygen mixture at normal pressure.

  “How in fuck did you manage that?” The big man said, making no move to remove his helmet.

  Dawes didn’t respond immediately. Alderson saw he was sucking on his nicotine straw, unconcerned, and apparently not engaged in any work. Just sitting with his eyes closed.

  Finally, he shifted slightly and grimaced. “Dunno,” he said. “Just happened.”

  Alderson stood for a moment, watching him, then turned away.

  “You left him there?”

  Mannis was alarmed, and irritated that the Dawes situation had been brought to her, once again, to handle as the on-again off-again captain of the ship. The other three knew better, she was certain. They knew better than to leave a disturbed man dealing with Space Fucking Madness or some such shit, but they didn’t want the responsibility, so they dumped it on her.

  Alderson had the sense to look slightly ashamed. “He refused to leave.”

  “That … whatever is the biggest score we’ve seen,” Mannis seethed, stepping up to the bigger man and pushing him in the chest. “And you idiots just left him there alone with it?”

  “He’s a shareholder,” Merle One complained, scratching his too-large nose. “What’s he gonna do?”

  “That fucking man hasn’t said three words in six goddamn months,” Mannis shouted, suddenly fearsome. The three men shrank back from her. “That shit ain’t normal. And now we got a chance to come home with some serious return and you let an obviously crazy man camp out in our biggest fucking asset?” She spun away, throwing her hands up in the air. “Fucking idiots.”

  Alderson, reminded strongly of his mother, said nothing and stared at his huge, calloused hands.

  “Something bad happened here.”

  Merle Two nodded. “All them bodies.”

  “Skeletons.”

  “All them skeletons.”

  “Sorry we ever found it.”

  There was a beat of silence. “The bonus situation, though.”

  “Yeah. It’s a lot of money.”

  “You don’t suppose Mr. Dawes is … stealing it?”

  “How the fuck would he do that?”

  “Dunno. He’s up to something, though.”

  “That man has been up to some shit since he boarded.”

  This sentiment, never voiced before, suddenly seemed obvious and eternal, something they all agreed on.

  The fourth day, they all went down, Mannis included, leaving the Coriolanus on remote, in stable orbit. They went immediately to the central chamber of the giant figure and found Mr. Dawes naked, strapped into the chair firmly. He appeared gaunt, but unaffected by the unbreathable atmosphere, the heat, or the mystery of what he’d been eating and drinking during his sabbatical.

  No one else removed their helmets.

  “Mr. Dawes,” Mannis said, walking around to face him. “We need to begin dismantling this artifact for transport. I’d like to ask you to get dressed and either assist, or step aside.”

  “He can’t go back to the ship alone,” Alderson snapped.

  “Yes I know that,” Mannis snapped back without turning to look at him. “Mr. Dawes?”

  Dawes stared straight ahead. His mouth hung open slackly. His hands were white-knuckled on the armrests of the massive chair, far too large for him. Merle Two, slightly more imaginative than his non-twin, stared at the scattered pieces of ancient skeleton on the floor, comparing them to those scattered outside on the ground.

  Mannis waited, dreading the moment. Then she nodded. “Get him out of there.”

  Alderson moved immediately, as if released by her taking on the responsibility. He stepped over and took hold of one of the ancient
straps that had somehow been fastened to both arms.

  Suddenly, the floor beneath them lurched as a thunderous metallic sound bubbled up from beneath them, starting off as a painful roar and building into an intolerable vibration that was more than noise, that was every cell in their bodies vibrating as one to an invisible force. The floor continued to slant. The Merles lost their balance and toppled over each other, sliding helplessly until they were caught by the rear wall of the room. Alderson caught hold of the chair’s back and held on, and Mannis scrabbled at the wall until she found a handhold to cling to.

  “Jesus!” Alderson shouted. “We missed a power source!”

  A voice filled their heads to bursting.

  I am Gisur, it said. The Harrower.

  “Dawes!” Mannis screamed. “Dawes, shut it down! Shut it down!” I, the voice repeated, making their heads ache with each syllable, am Gisur.

  “Out!” Alderson shouted. “Out!”

  With each other’s panting in their ears, they crawled and swung with shifting gravity towards the doorway that now slanted downward, the odd, off gravity of the planet pulling at them in disorienting ways.

  “It’s standin’ up!” Merle One hissed.

  “On its feet!” Merle Two offered.

  They could feel the torso rising, what had been the floor sliding towards becoming a wall. They half-fell, half climbed downward towards the pelvis.

  “Son of a bitch repaired it,” Alderson said in-between ragged breaths.

  “I don’t think Dawes is in control!” Mannis said. Her mind shied away from the memory of that voice, like sandpaper in her brain. She realized now: The robot wasn’t dead. The biological part of the equation had been dead. It needed a living thing, for some reason.

  The floor finally went vertical as the noise shifted pitch and dropped in volume, their world becoming a deep vibrating sound reminiscent of a turbine getting up to speed. They all lost their grip and went sliding, crashing into each other on the new floor. They could feel the whole thing vibrating beneath them.

  “Hatch!” one of the Merles hissed, pointing.

  Off to the right of them was a small hatch in the wall, set close to the floor line. Alderson launched himself at it, scrabbling at the unfamiliar mechanism. He identified two flat levers that must, he thought, control the hatch, but he couldn’t move them up or down. Stuck, he thought frantically. All this shit and I’m gonna die because a fucking hatch is rusted shut.

  “Pull!” Mannis shouted, crashing into him and immediately tugging at his massive arms. “Don’t spin it, you cocksucker, pull!”

  He pulled, and the lever somehow folded in a way he didn’t understand and came easily towards him, the hatch popping open as if it was brand new. The bright, reddish light of the surface spilled into the compartment. Alderson leaned out, hands gripping the edges of the hatch. He leaned back.

  “Fifteen, twenty feet,” he shouted. “We gotta go now before it stands up!” The robot’s torso was at an angle, but its legs were still flat on the ground, as if they were taking longer to ramp up or were damaged. He paused for one more brutal second, moved by some unforeseen ounce of generosity and made a motion with one hand held flat. “Slide!”

  Then he turned and leaped out the hatch, feet first.

  He landed on the sloping metal of the robot’s outer skin and bounced, sliding with the lazy gravity towards the ground. He bounced three times, painfully, teeth clicking and biting his tongue, and then he sailed through the air for a few feet and hit the dirt.

  He didn’t pause to look back. He rolled and got his feet under him, and began running towards the lander. His suit’s systems couldn’t keep up with oxygen demand, and he was gulping air, his head light and dizzy, as he ran. After a few seconds he stumbled and fell to his knees, gasping. He twisted around to look behind him, the visor of his helmet offering a limited view.

  The gigantic humanoid form was rising, levering itself into an upright position as if by magic, mountains-worth of dirt slipping from its half-buried limbs as it stirred. Lights had flickered into being throughout, blue and gold, bright, making it look like a soul peeking through the wounds and gashes from some terrible battle.

  The tiny off-white figures of the Merles and Mannis, ran towards him in the foreground.

  Alderson spun and pushed himself back up and into motion, thinking that he should wait for them. He should not under any circumstances let terror get the better of him and get the lander in the air as soon as humanly possible. He could hear them breathing in his ears as they all ran, he could feel the ground under him trembling as the enormous thing activated. Dawes, he thought. That taciturn, sour motherfucker wanders into a room and takes possession of something that valuable, that powerful. It wasn’t fair.

  “Alderson!” Mannis screamed in his ears as he punched the airlock with his fist. “Alderson!”

  The airlock snapped open and he leaped inside, slapping the interior control and tearing at his helmet even as the outer doors shut and the air pumps hissed on. When the interior doors opened he had already shed his helmet and gloves and was working at the suit’s fastenings as he stumbled into the tight, dark corridor that connected the airlock with the rest of the tiny lander.

  In the tiny bridge, he slid into the control chair and ran through an abbreviated emergency warm up protocol and was rewarded with the triple flash of lights indicating he’d made a mistake. The whole lander was shaking. He pounded the console and roared, then forced himself to take a deeper breath and go through it again, going slow because the shaking made it hard to maintain accuracy.

  The boards lit up green, and a launch plot formed on the screens.

  He hesitated, just for a second. The Merles were universally annoying and Mannis had been on his nerves for months, and if he was the sole survivor the salvage they already had socked away in the holds would make him a moderately wealthy man. At least his time and this terrifying situation would be worth it.

  He closed his eyes. All he would have to do is open the airlock and wait for it to close and he’d be able to launch with a clear conscience. But the lander was in reach of the robot, its huge arms could stretch out and snatch it up. He pictured it rising, the sandy soil cascading down from it, and mentally calculated its progress and approach.

  He slapped the launch button.

  The lander lurched awkwardly into the air, wobbling and then righting itself. The familiar and comforting sound of the typical launch sequence filled the air, systems clicking on one by one. He pushed back into the captain’s chair and searched for the straps.

  The lander lurched again, more violently, and he was knocked from the chair. Sailing into the console, he hit it hard and painfully and gravity once again went sideways. He climbed down to the chair and braced himself against it, jabbing at the controls on the armrests until a visual appeared on the large screens that lined the cabin like windows.

  At first, the image was disorienting. Without a clear horizon his brain refused to process what was happening for a second or two. The lander was shaking violently, so violently he worried it might shake into pieces with him inside. Then his brain finally made sense of what he was seeing and he realized he didn’t have to worry about that.

  The robot had the lander in one gigantic hand. As Alderson watched, it brought it close to its face, seeming to peer into the screens with glowing blue eyes.

  I am Gisur, The Harrower, the voice boomed silently within his head. And I require transport. I require your ship.

  For Michael.

  Gabe Two Bears knelt in the gravel alongside the railroad tracks, a single feather held up in one hand, the black-on-white vane shining with newness in the harsh sunlight of a North Dakota summer. His girlfriend, Bree Little Feather, knelt beside him, her own raised eagle feather tattered and dingy with age. She’d rescued it from a long-abandoned nest in a tree near the old Van Hook town site. The tree was usually underwater, along with the rest of the town, drowned in 1956 when the white government buil
t Garrison Dam on the Missouri River, creating Lake Sakakawea and inundating a full sixth of the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation in the process. The drought had become so severe this year that the town’s outskirts were once more visible, though most people avoided the area, thinking it cursed.

  Bree didn’t believe in that sort of nonsense, of course, even though her grandfather was a medicine man. She was a scientist first, juggling both Native American Studies and Environmental Science classes at the reservation’s community college. Gabe took classes in the far more practical field of Accounting. He just wanted to be able to get a decent job somewhere that wasn’t North Dakota. Bree’s hopes were grander—earn a degree in Geology at UND so that she could find some alternative to the fracking that had been tearing their land apart ever since the discovery of the Parshall Oil Field and the resultant Bakken Oil Boom.

  Illustration by NICOLÁS R. GIACONDINO

  That’s why he was here today, in a “No Fracking Way” T-shirt, sharp rocks digging through his thin jeans into his knees, sweat trickling down his back. That’s why they were all here—Bree, Michael Turcotte, the others lining both sides of the tracks, either kneeling with feathers or standing with signs (one of which actually said “Hooray for our side”).

  Well, maybe not all of them. Michael and his Sierra Club pals were here because it was the anniversary of the Lac-Mégantic rail disaster in Quebec, where a train carrying crude oil had derailed and the resulting conflagration had killed forty-seven people, including Michael’s cousin. They wore shirts emblazoned with that number, and they were here to stop a shipment of crude oil going out by rail from New Town to points east. The so-called “bomb train” would have to pass right through Parshall, and the gathered protesters from both groups hoped to keep it from going any farther than that. Bree further hoped that the publicity they got from the protest would help bring attention to the problems fracking was creating for their community, including contaminated groundwater, polluted air, and increasingly dangerous seismicity.