by Waiting for the Machines to Fall Asleep- The Best New Science Fiction from Sweden (retail) (epub)
The maintenance shaft ended in a small kitchen. When she peeked through the door on the other side of the room, she could see that there was only one more room in the apartment. The building lacked advanced defenses as well as warning systems, so she managed to make it into the main room without alerting those trapped inside.
A woman dressed in off-duty military clothes stood by the side of the open window, force field faintly visible just outside. She was aiming an army-training rifle at the enemy outside in a stream of bullets. After spending so much time in the complete stillness of the vacuum outside, the sound was overpowering. Lt. Berger stepped closer to get a better view of the situation. Beside the woman sat a man in an environmental suit with his back against the wall. There was a hastily applied bandage wrapped around his chest and waist area. It was drenched in blood. He was reloading a spare rifle, handing it to the woman as she ran out of ammunition. In the middle of a room, behind improvised protective walls, lay a baby in a crib. It was dressed in a baby-sized environmental suit. The couple must have been preparing for evacuation when they were attacked.
"Don't shoot. I'm here to help." She managed to raise what little was left of her shields just in time, sinking into a crouch in the same motion, as the woman by the window turned around and fired at her. A burst of radioactive slugs sputtered against her shields, then fell harmlessly to the floor. "No need to shoot."
"Who are you?" The woman didn't lower her weapon, but at least she didn't fire at her again. The man looked at her warily, with the gun he'd been reloading aimed firmly at her, but said nothing. Perhaps he couldn't. The severity of the wound in his stomach and the amount of blood on the floor around him suggested that he wouldn't last much longer.
"I'm here to get you guys out." She crept up to the window and took a quick glance at the enemy outside. They were dug in so deep that she knew she'd never be able to disable them in time to safely transport the wounded man out of the area. She'd have to come up with a plan. In the lower left of her visual field, the seconds kept ticking away. How to prioritize? Leave the wounded man and try her luck with other people? But she would have to sacrifice more than one person if she did. Looking at the woman, who was back at the window, firing, she knew she'd never abandon her partner.
"You have to get our baby out," the man finally said to his partner, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "There's only one intact survival suit left. It's too late for me. Leave me here."
"Never." The woman didn't take her eyes from the enemy, but her stance was stiff. She was tired. How long had she been keeping this up, in the hope of defending her family? The blood around her husband had started to coagulate at the edges. The bandages hardly seemed to stop the inevitable trickle. He must have been bleeding out for quite a while. Stomach wounds were slow. Slow and painful.
Lt. Berger evaluated her options, but no perfect solutions leapt to mind. Looking down at the wounded man, she met his eyes. He knew.
"Do it," he whispered. "Please. Save them." He seemed to be at peace with his fate.
"I'm sorry," she said and shot him in the head. Blood and brain matter splattered against the wall with a sickening noise.
The woman at the window turned around, screaming wordlessly. The baby started screaming too, its wailing muffled by the environmental suit. Lt. Berger, if that was indeed who she really was, had no other choice but to knock the mother out. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, while hauling the unconscious body toward the back of the building.
She searched the place until she found a military storage box containing the remaining environmental suit, which she put on the woman. She then went back to get the baby and put it close to the mother. It took her almost ten minutes to build a blast shelter around herself and the others, but when she opened the emergency com-channel from the house and called in an orbital strike, the building shook and the vacuum field collapsed, taking away all sound once again, but the shelter held. She checked the mother and the child – both seemed unharmed, though the mother was still unconscious. Perhaps that was for the best. Pearls of blood from the dead husband had spread through the room when the vacuum field collapsed, glittering like frozen rubies around them. Lt. Berger swept the blood aside and stepped out of the demolished building.
Outside, she tentatively checked the charred bodies of the enemy. It seemed like they were all dead, but just to be sure, she stayed by the blast shelter until the pick-up team arrived and didn't leave until she knew that the mother and her baby would be safe.
Good job, Lieutenant. It was the voice again. The headquarters are impressed with the way you handled that last rescue.
"Just doing my job," she answered. After a moment of consideration, she added, "Can I ask you a favor?"
The voice paused for a moment. Within certain limits, yes.
Was it just her imagination, or did the voice sound more reserved than before? "Remind me to check in on the mother and the baby afterwards, in case the mind transfer back to my real body goes as bad as when you put me in here."
We'll be sure to do that, Lieutenant.
She nodded to herself. "Good. Remind me to tell her that ..." She hesitated. "Just remind me to tell her I'm sorry."
Acknowledged.
The following rescues became increasingly messy. She lost five persons after that in a quick succession; the worst of them a technician who made a desperate suicide run, trying to take as many enemies as possible with her but ultimately failing to kill anyone beside herself. Lt. Berger couldn't mourn them, couldn't afford to do more than confirm that their life signs had gone completely dark before moving on to the next target.
"I'm a soldier. A tool. There will be plenty of time to mourn later." Unsure of whether there even was a later to be had, she nevertheless repeated the mantra while moving from hot zone to hot zone. Her failures burned inside her.
At last, there were no more red dots left on her visor scanner. All personnel in the area were either rescued or dead. Some of the dots she hadn't reached in time. They had just flickered and disappeared, subtracting a digit from the counter indicating possible survivors from time to time. She tried to stay focused on her task, but it was hard to avoid speculating about who those people had been and how they had died. Had they been in pain? Could she have rescued them if she'd plotted another course, rescued people in a different order? She'd never know; for all she knew, she might have failed them all. And in any case, she couldn't travel back in time – couldn't do anything different.
She opened her com-channel, reaching out across the vacuum surrounding her one last time. They must have anticipated her contact, because before she could say anything, the by now familiar voice crackled through the speakers.
Good job, Lt. Berger. You've exceeded our expectations.
"That's great, really," she muttered. "When and where will you pick me up?"
It took a while before she got a reply. There have been some complications. Unfortunately, we're unable to retrieve you.
"Okay, so just copy my memories and merge them with my original." That was standard procedure for cyborg personality implants, of that she was sure.
We're sorry, but we can't do that either. We've been analyzing the corrupted fragments of your code from the failed transfer to your suit earlier, and we've come to the conclusion that you're a honeypot.
"What do you mean?" She frowned.
We believe that the enemy infected your suit with a virus and left it in orbit on purpose for us to find. The attack on Luna base is possibly no more than an elaborate ruse in order to infiltrate and disable Earth's cyber defenses. We're sorry, but we won't be able to extract and merge your imprint with your original personality. The risks are just too high.
She searched her memory files for an adequate response. "The Cyborg Treaties from 2268 states clearly that all cyborgs must, in case of corruption, be put in temporary isolation – possibly forced into dormancy if necessary – in order to preserve their minds, same as the Universal Health Treaty condemns m
edical negligence against all members of humanity," she reminded them. "Destruction should be a last measure, after all other attempts to restore the mind has failed."
As we said, we're sorry. We can't help you. Our forces will pull out in approximately seven minutes. After that, you're on your own. Unless you want us to ...
"... deactivate me." She finished the sentence herself. "No thanks, I'd rather not."
Lt. Berger.
"Yes?" Annoyed, she snapped at the emotionless voice.
We're ... I'm sorry.
"Yeah, well, you should be," she muttered indignantly, then disconnected the com before the voice on the other side could answer.
She tried to clear her thoughts, walking around the charred ruins of the moon base. She could see a couple of evacuation transporters moving further and further away from the moon, escorted by smaller aircraft and civilian mid-range shuttles tailing them. She felt a moment of pride that she'd been able to save at least some of the civilians. Then she started running towards the nearest crater.
Earth was still visible as a huge, blue sphere far above the horizon. As she was running towards it, she started wondering about her life before this. She'd been too busy for any soul-searching, but now the questions overwhelmed her with their intensity. Had she ever been to Earth? She knew that some people, called Spacers, spent their entire life in space. Had she been one of them? If so, where did her intense longing for the blue world stem from? She wondered what she looked like in real life. Was she short and stocky, like most gravity-influenced Eartheners, or a thin and waiflike Spacer? Did she have brown hair? Black? Did she use artificial gene therapy in order to change the color? Come to think of it, did she have hair at all? Most of the people she'd encountered on Luna base during the rescue operation had been bald, due to the mild but constant radiation that bombarded the moon.
As she gained momentum, running toward the edge of the crater and traversing several meters with each step, she could feel the pressure in her chest growing stronger, making it hard to breathe. Then she realized that she had neither lungs, nor heart or even a real mouth and that made her ache even more. How can I ache when I have no body? How can they rationalize leaving me here, when I don't even know who I am?
But she knew who she was; she was an entity that had been born facing Earth from her solitary orbit around the moon.
Her suit had been slowly powering up as she ran, absorbing the pale light reflected by Earth, but as she reached the top of the crater, the sunlight hit her at full strength. Electricity ran through her like a drug, filling her with more energy than her electric body could handle. Using the energy surge caused by her systems nearly overloading, she pushed off from the edge of the crater and propelled herself into the sky, towards Earth. She initiated the suit's ion thrusters immediately and let them carry her forward. She knew that she probably wouldn't last the whole way, not even with constant access to solar power. Her handlers wouldn't let her reach the beautiful, blue orb in front of her, and her suit ion thrusters were far too weak to stay ahead of any vehicle pursuing her.
And still, she knew that it would be worth it. A shiver ran through her body. Eventually, she'd have to power down her awareness system or risk data corruption from too long exposure of the unshielded electromagnetic radiation from the sun, but for now, she just wanted to stay awake. She let her eyes focus on the beautiful, blue planet in front of her, took a deep, imaginary breath, and sighed contentedly.
Mission accomplished.
"The Road" – Anders Blixt
A river running the wrong way – that's what the Road is to me. My first impression was a long time ago when I arrived at the Port Kad coastal terminus. Standing on the observation deck of an ocean liner, I looked beyond the city through binoculars and saw a broad dark line wind towards the hills, alive with tiny people, carts, and motors. The Road seemed to flow away from the coast, feeding the adjacent lands all the way to the Ariana Highlands and the Makir Plateau. Lots of narrower tributaries stretched out to towns and villages, mining camps and forts, connecting them to the rest of the Rim.
I was born far from the Rim, but the Hinterlands are my adopted home. Most of the time I speak a native tongue and I always follow the local custom of revering the Road by using the pronoun "she," even when I use the Oceanic language.
Trade, law and administration tie the Hinterland provinces together, using the Road as a conduit. The Road Council, a stateless administrative entity flying the old Imperial flag as a sign of its strict neutrality, is charged with keeping the lanes open to everyone all the time. And I had been recruited to serve as a cog in its abstract machinery.
When patrolling the Road, I ride. I want to move among people, to be a part of the bustle of wagons and carts, to stop wherever I wish and to speak to whomever I wish. That is the road marshal's job and I cannot do it properly from a motor. Some colleagues call my method old-fashioned, but I call it effective. I touch the Road, and she touches me – the best way of forming a bond.
The day grace brushed my life, the air above the Road shimmered from the heat. The repair crew in front of me, a mix of dark brown locals and light brown Oceanic immigrants, had stripped down to pants and boots. They had fenced off a long section of the outer of the three rim-bound lanes to do their work safely. I had no objection to that. But their vehicles and equipment were parked carelessly and obstructed movement in the adjacent middle lane. Pedestrians were not affected, but people pulling handcarts had a hard time moving through and animal-drawn wagons were forced to shift yet another lane to the left. A rim-bound motor, passing at a good speed, avoided the hassle by crossing into the coast-bound lanes. I didn't like that at all – if the flow of vehicles increased, there would be serious congestion.
I told my deputy to deal with the immediate disruption and rode up to the foreman. My steed growled. The fumes from the cauldron with boiling tar irritated his sensitive nose. I scratched his furry neck to calm him.
"Good day, workmaster," I said.
"Good day, marshal." The foreman did not look at me as he spoke, watching his men instead. My broken face tended to unsettle people so I was used to such behavior.
"I'm not happy with how the traffic flows here," I said.
"I've got a priority rush job. If you want to complain, speak to the planning bureau," he said.
"I see two infractions here. Your men are handling hot liquids without the protective clothing listed in the Road Safety Office's work safety code. And your equipment is obstructing lane two." I pulled my official notebook out of the saddle pocket as a threat. "Are you willing to take some advice?"
"All right, marshal, I'll listen."
Some men just don't want to take instructions from a woman, but right now he had no choice – he had to look at me as my right hand showed him what I wanted. "They say that an Ariana convoy will be going this way later today and you don't want the army provosts to get pissed off, do you? Put those things over there."
He grunted and issued new orders to his men.
A coast-bound coachman waved at me. I urged my steed across the six lanes of the Road to his wagon. He pointed over his shoulder. "Marshal, there's a broken-down half-track beyond that ridge, about a league away. I think they need assistance."
"Thanks, wheelmaster."
I summoned my deputy and moved along.
The blue half-track stood halfway out on the shoulder, causing minimal traffic problems. The travelers had hung a tarp from the right side of the vehicle to protect them from the burning sun while they waited for help – good, roadwise people. The trailer was an extended cargo-fuel combo, so they must be on a really long haul.
"Good day, travelers. We're here to help you." My greeting summoned four people out of the shadows: an Oceanic young man in an expensive beige traveling suit, a middle-aged local driver in blue shorts, shirt and cap, and two Oceanic friars, one tall and thin, one short and chubby. I pitied them having to wear woolen clerical habits in the hot weather. The short one
seemed to fear the sun – big dark glasses and the habit's hood covered most of the head.
I dismounted next to them.
"Greetings," said the man in beige and bowed. His eyes darted from my face to the name-tag and the marshal's badge on my shirt. "I'm Mattir Toglas, master of Blackrock Manor, and these are the friars Brod and Klim."
I removed my hat and bowed to the clerics. Brod, the tall one, nodded and looked away. His hair was thin and his scalp was exposed to the sun. Klim, who looked a bit too young for going to the Rim, bowed back.
Mattir said: "We're rim-bound out of Port Kad. My vehicle has suffered an engine failure and I'd appreciate your help."
"The Road Marshalcy will assist you, sir," I said as custom dictated. "Deputy Thakarrian will inspect the engine with your driver and then ride to our post to get a salvage crew. Meanwhile, I'll commandeer help from a wheelmaster heading that way. You'll get a ride to the post and should expect to spend at least one night at its caravansary."
"Thanks," said Mattir.
The commandeered wagon was loaded with smelly hides. To keep my steed at ease I rode on the upwind side. Mattir and Brod sat with the driver up front, whereas Klim had found a comfortable spot on top of the cargo.
Our two-league journey would take most of the afternoon. Boredom is a traveler's companion and is most easily dispelled by conversation. "Friar, what's your destination?" I said.
"The Ekklesia has appointed Brod shrine-shepherd in Teritha and I'm his acolyte."
"That must be pretty far up the Road, because I have never heard of it."
"It's a mining town. After Big Fork, it's a few days' rim-bound journey towards Makir."
"Well, that's unknown land to me. How come you're traveling with Mattir Toglas?"
"We met him on the ocean liner and he offered us to come along in his vehicle up to Big Fork. He said he has inherited an estate there." The hooded round face was turned towards me all the time. The implied scrutiny unsettled me, even though I did not know what those covered eyes really looked at. I saw that the cheeks were greasy.