“You should have called me, Ellen.” The automated caregiver moved the swivel table aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “I can feed you.”
“I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to feed me like I’m some kind of baby.”
“Why not, Ellen? That is why I am here. I am here to care for you, to do what you cannot. That is my function.” Owen took the spoon and scooped up a small bite of pureed vegetables. “Please, let me help you.”
Owen held the spoon out, but Ellen remained steadfast, refusing to open her mouth. Owen, too, didn’t move. Displaying the patience of its programming, the indefatigable property of its metallurgy, it held the spoon until Ellen relented and took it into her mouth. She swallowed the morsel as Owen cut into the portion of soy burger. With some reluctance, she took a second mouthful. It waited as she swallowed, then offered her a third spoonful. She wavered momentarily, looking up at Owen.
“It still tastes like crap, you know.”
Owen waited outside Ellen’s room as a facility doctor conducted the required biannual examination. Ellen had been pleading with the doctor for several minutes, and had begun to cry. The sound elicited a response in Owen. It was an impulse to hurry to her side—to care for her. However, Owen determined such action would be inappropriate and held its position.
“Please,” it heard her beg, “please give me something. Help me.”
“Now, Ms. Reiner, everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine,” the doctor responded, though the accent affecting his pronunciation made him difficult to comprehend. “Don’t worry now. You’re not going to die.”
“You’re not listening to me. I want to die. I don’t want to live like this.”
“Now, now. Of course you don’t want to die. You shouldn’t say such a thing. You’re going to live a long time. Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll give your caregiver the prescription for the anti-itch lotion, and then I want you to have a nice day. All right?”
The doctor passed Owen as if it weren’t there, making no attempt to input Ellen’s aforementioned prescription. Owen decided the doctor would likely file all the appropriate prescriptions when he had completed his examinations, so it stepped in to check on Ellen.
As soon as she saw Owen, she made a concerted effort to halt her tears and wipe away any evidence that she’d been crying. So Owen checked the medic monitor, giving her a moment to compose herself.
“It’s so hot, Owen. I can’t get this sheet off. Could you help me?”
“Certainly, Ellen. Would you like it pulled all the way down?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry the temperature is uncomfortable for you. The climate controls are not functioning properly, but a repair crew has been notified.”
“It’s so hot for June. It must be at least 80 outside.”
“The date is August 9th, Ellen.”
“It’s August already?”
“At last report, the exterior temperature was 92 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“August?” she mumbled to herself. “What happened to July?”
“If there is nothing else you need, I will tend to my other patient-residents now.”
Owen turned to leave.
“Don’t go!” Ellen called out. She hesitated, then said with less despair, “Please don’t go yet. Stay with me for a while.”
Owen contemplated the unusual request. Its atypical nature, coming as it did from patient-resident Ellen Reiner, required further consideration. However, its schedule necessitated it see to its other patient-residents’ needs. It began calculating the time necessary for it to complete its shift responsibilities, then abruptly ceased its computations.
“All right, Ellen. I will stay a while longer.”
“Oh, Owen, it’s so nice to be outside. You don’t know.”
The automated caregiver carefully maneuvered the wheelchair down the narrow cement pathway. A carpet of lush green grass extended away on both sides, and a stand of oak trees was several yards away. It was a clear day. The sun was high above, and the sky was bright blue.
The impromptu excursion outside the repository, though not unprecedented, required Owen to circumvent protocol. It was not wholly at ease with its actions, but found justification in the form of Ellen’s emotional transformation.
“I am glad you are enjoying it, Ellen. When I learned about this location so near the facility, I concluded you might appreciate a brief outing.”
“But not too brief, okay?”
“We will stay as long as we are able. I will have to return to my other duties soon.”
“This isn’t a day for duties, Owen. This is a day to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, to admire the color of the autumn leaves, and smell the flowers.”
“I am not equipped with olfactory senses, Ellen.”
“Too bad. But you can see, and you can feel the sun, can’t you?”
“I do sense the heat on my exterior overlay.”
“Oh look! Look there! It’s a little stream. Can we go down there by the water? Please, Owen.”
“I will attempt to move you closer.”
It gently pushed the wheelchair off the path and across the grass to a spot near the tiny waterway. It locked the chair’s wheels and stood patiently by.
“I could sit here all day. It’s so beautiful. Listen to the sound the water makes as it rushes by. Don’t you wonder where it’s going?”
“The question of its ultimate destination did not occur to me, Ellen. However, I could research the geography of the area if you would like.”
“No, no, it’s just the idea of imagining where it’s going.” She looked up at Owen, but there was no expression to decipher on its artificial face. “I’m sorry, Owen. I forgot for a second. You probably think this is all so silly.”
“I do not believe it is silly if it pleases you, Ellen.”
“It does, Owen. It does. Look! Over there—it’s a butterfly. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Though it understood the word, beauty as a concept was beyond its programming, so Owen didn’t reply. It stood impassively with its charge, watching the insect’s flight.
Neither spoke for some time, nevertheless, Owen could tell Ellen’s disposition had improved by a degree that was quantifiable. That generated within its systems the concept of a task adequately performed, a vague notion it could only define as fulfillment.
“I must return you to your room and resume my other duties now, Ellen.”
“So soon?”
“I do have other patient-residents I must attend to.”
“I understand.”
Owen unlocked the wheels and turned the chair.
“Owen?”
“Yes, Ellen?”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Ellen.”
The corridors of Repository Carehouse 319 were filled with the distant, muted sounds of revelry. So many patient-residents had tuned their video screens to the same programming that the festive broadcast echoed stereophonically throughout the facility. Owen understood it was the celebration of a new year—a new calendar decade.
The occasion seemed to call for much noise and frenetic activity, but it still had its duties to perform. Its patient-residents still had to be cared for. Soiled sheets still had to be changed, meal trays cleared, waste receptacles emptied. It began, as called for according to its self-revised routine, by checking on room 1928.
Ellen lay on her side, facing away from the entry. Unlike most of those in the facility, her video screen was inactive.
“Ellen, do you not want to watch the New Year’s festivities?”
When she failed to respond, Owen moved closer. Her eyes were open, but there was no sign of recognition in them.
“Ellen? Are you all right?”
Her eyes tilted upward, but she didn’t move.
“I can barely hear you,” she said. “I think I’m losing my hearing.”
Owen adjusted its audio output. “Can you hear this?”<
br />
She nodded.
“Everyone is watching the New Year’s Eve broadcast. Would you like me to activate your screen?”
She shook her head curtly and looked away. It was apparent to Owen that Ellen was not behaving normally. Her disposition displayed symptoms analogous to severe depression. Nevertheless, before resorting to a petition for psychological counseling, Owen resolved to draw her into conversation.
“It is unfortunate your family members were not able to visit you for the Christmas holiday this year. However, it was thoughtful of them to send that splendid videocard. I conjecture they will schedule a visit soon. Do you agree?” She didn’t respond, so Owen continued, “If you do not wish to watch the celebration here in your room, I can bring a wheelchair and escort you to the community room. It is my understanding there is an ongoing party to celebrate the coming year. Would you like that?”
Her head moved sluggishly side-to-side.
“Please leave me alone, Owen. I just want to be left alone.”
“All right, Ellen. I will leave you. However, I will return later. Perhaps you can instruct me in that card game you described.”
Owen waited for a reply, for some acknowledgment, but there was none. So it left her as she requested.
Owen’s internal alarm sounded, and it noted with unaccustomed distress that the alert originated with the medic monitor in room 1928. It hurried to the room, confirming the danger with the beeping medic monitor upon arrival. It was about to initiate the video record option but discontinued. Ellen was in her bed, eyes open and apparently fine though her breathing was labored. Owen went to her.
“Ellen, can you hear me?”
“Yes, but … but it’s hard to breathe.”
“Here, use this.” It detached the oxygen mask from its niche in the wall and placed it over her face. “Your blood pressure is diminishing. I am going to alert the emergency medical team.”
With the mask over her face she couldn’t respond, but she reached out as best she could and rested her gnarled fingers on Owen’s inorganic arm. Her motivation wasn’t clear, yet somehow, Owen felt it understood the meaning of her touch.
“If you do not receive immediate medical attention, you will likely suffer heart failure. I am required to summon assistance.”
Owen thought it discerned a slight sideways movement of her head, as if she were attempting a negative response. Her eyes implored, probing inexplicably into Owen’s systems, forcing it to reconcile the needs and desires of its patient-resident with its overriding program.
Ellen brushed aside the mask with the back of her crippled hand and tried to speak, but all Owen heard was a gasp for air. It reached down, placed its distal extremity reassuringly on her forehead, and left it there until her eyelids gave way and fell.
Owen checked the medic monitor, looked back at Ellen for a protracted moment, and then stepped away from the bed. It deactivated the monitor and exited the room to resume its duties.
It wasn’t supposed to be here—it was scheduled to perform a self-diagnostic. However, it had concluded that bypassing routine on this singular occasion would not be detrimental to its overall performance. Instead, it had chosen to exit Repository Carehouse 319 and retreat to a particular grassy mound, where it could feel the sun’s warmth on its exterior overlay, contemplate stored memories, and listen to the water as it rushed by on its way to destinations unknown.
Breakers
By James C. Bassett
It’s a dangerous life, breaking is. Months at a time in deep space, living in a cramped ship with nothing to do—or living in your suit for days or even weeks at a time when there is work. Dangerous, dirty, backbreaking work. Always dreaming of the one Big Score that will let you retire. Not many ever hit it … but then, not many breakers ever live to retire anyway.
Shipbreaking can be deadly in drydock, even on the lunar surface. Us freelance crews do it in the hard deep—if a torch slips, a jagged edge clips your suit, or even a micrometeorite wings into you, that’s the end of your run. No big rescue ops out here: medical is limited to whatever’s on hand and whatever the rest of your crew knows how to do. Some of the engines of the ships we’re salvaging are hot and dirty as well … and sometimes not just the engines, either.
I’m actually something of a legend for my longevity—nine years without even a close call. And don’t call it luck, either. Breakers don’t believe in luck … at least, not the ones who survive. Start thinking there might be such a thing as luck, something beyond your control, and you start getting careless. Nothing kills you faster than being careless. Breaking ships is dangerous enough without leaving anything to chance—anything at all.
So, we don’t believe in luck … but we do believe in opportunity. We were limping our way back to Chang’e Station after two months out, and we picked up a cargo ship heading almost straight for us—so we jumped at it. We were running low on everything from food to fuel to patience, but our hold and our racks were empty, all our tow cables furled—we’d had three unsuccessful runs in a row, two wrecks not being worth the work and the Shrike Nine beating us to the third by less than a day. If we didn’t snap at this bone, we’d have to reach deep down into the ship’s common fund to resupply.
A quick check showed that there were no other crews in striking distance this time. The ship was all ours—if we could catch it.
For us freelancers, catching ships in the deep is the key to our salvage rights, key to our survival. There’s not many ships that are worth the owners paying someone to break. Drydock fees are criminal, and the backlog runs about two years so drydock work is almost always on new ships, not salvage. Some owners down their ships on Luna or Mars, but even then, the cost of official labor, with all the safety regs and government interference, usually outstrips the salvage value. And of course it’s only the official breakers who keep up with all their payments—official and not—who can make use of the facilities and infrastructure. Even if there were a way around the unions, surfacing a ship also brings environmental and safety fines for the “accident” that make almost any salvage unprofitable for owners.
Thanks to all that, it’s almost always cheaper to just abandon a ship. But, leaving a dead ship in the spaceways comes with even bigger fines. So, most ships get boosted out of the ecliptic and aimed toward the sun.
We can’t afford to burn fuel across the solar system to reach a ship, so unless two crews happen to be in the same region when a ship is abandoned—as happened with us and the Shrike Nine—whoever is closest usually gets the salvage uncontested. It makes for less real competition, but also a shorter timeline. If you don’t want to spend three years slingshotting back home (and trust me, you don’t), you’ve got to burn fuel—and money—to boost out of the gravity well and get back directly. The longer we spend chasing and working a ship, the closer to Sol we get, and the more reaction mass it takes to return home. Wait too long to vacate, and you spend more on fuel than you make from the salvage. Or worse, you end up as salvage.
This ship was going to be a real trick. We had her to ourselves, but she hadn’t simply been abandoned—whoever had ditched this ship had turned it toward Sol at top speed. That was damned suspicious—even if an owner doesn’t pull off the remaining fuel when they evacuate their personnel, there’s absolutely no reason to burn it all off before the ship vaporizes—but we were finally in the right place at the right time, and we couldn’t afford to pass it up.
We weren’t expecting much. She was just a cargo ship, after all—not much different from our own Terrapin (the name a joke, based on the ungainly appearance of what is essentially a giant cargo hold with engines bolted on). You can always salvage the engine cores, though, if nothing else. Even if they’re not reactive enough to power another spaceship, they’ll still be plenty hot to run a home or a small flier. Then you’ve got adaptive electronics, precious metals, life support and safety systems. … And this ship obviously still had some fuel left, which our own dangerously low tanks were despera
te to swallow.
It took a good bit of what we had left to catch her. We were almost there when Saburo casually said, “Company on the way.”
We all glanced at one another. Fights between breakers are almost unheard of, but it’s that “almost” that’s the trouble. I know of three and they all ended badly. Very badly. A battle in the deep isn’t like what they show in action vids. There’s no laser beams and glittering explosions—there’s just a deadly game of chicken, two ships nudging together, trying to cause more damage to the other than they take themselves. And then … breakers fight dirty, and even a clean fight in space is nasty business. It’s hand-to-hand in suits and microgravity, and it’s all or nothing—you win or you die. Sometimes everybody dies. Usually. The fights I know of, there were only five survivors and only two of them survived long enough to be rescued. They were both executed for piracy and murder.
So I asked, “When does the party start, Cap’n?”
“Hard to say. It’s just a blip near Ceres right now. Not enough telemetry yet. Two weeks, maybe?”
Everyone looked around again, and burst into laughter.
“Two weeks?” Romy said, disbelieving. “We’ll be done by then!”
“Why would they even waste the fuel?” Parson asked.
Jokes and laughter continued as we came abeam and started our visual, but I stayed quiet. There was definitely something funny about the situation, but not the kind of funny that calls for laughter. There was no reason for another crew to be heading our way. No good reason.
If there was any good news, it was that our salvage seemed to be in perfect condition—as close to brand new as I’ve ever seen a ship. By the time we were ready to grapple on, Gillie had traced the registration and we knew everything there was to know about her—which was basically nothing.
She was unnamed and registered to a small shipping company owned by an empty holding company called Arkadian Enterprises. Beyond that, she was a black hole. No crew manifests, no cargo records, no dockage reports. The ship appeared not to have carried any cargo—or to have done anything at all. That explained why she looked so new, and why other breakers were so interested.
Therefore I Am - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 2 Page 6