by Various
Thin bars of light slipped through the autoblinds, casting Ashley’s face in tiger stripes of gold and grey. Her smell, oil and sweat, was suddenly sharp in Rob’s nose, cutting through the neutral floral-spice odor of the kitchen.
“Ash, listen, we had some great times. Y’know, sneaking around in night cammo, digging tunnels, de-rezzing AI memory cores, all that.” He pressed his lips into a tight line, not sure if he was consoling her out of affection or obligation. “But that’s all over now. No one wants to be a rebel anymore. C’mon, let me take you to a shark rodeo. If you don’t like it, we can spend tomorrow passing out leaflets.”
“Screw you.”
A hot flush crept up Rob’s neck. “You know what your problem is? You act like we’re still the dominant species on this planet.”
Ignoring him, Ashley pulled out the cork with her teeth and took a long pull from the bottle. Rob waited until she stopped coughing.
“The Singularity came, but not for us.” He waved his half-full glass to punctuate his words, beyond caring how much he slopped onto the furniture or himself. “They say the AIs are humanity’s children, right? Well, they’ve passed us by, just like children are supposed to. We took care of them, now they take care of us. That’s how life works.”
“It can’t be over yet. I just got here.” Every muscle on Ashley’s neck tensed as she forced herself to take another swallow from the bottle. When she hammered the cork back in place she was sweating and looked more than a little nauseous. “I’m leaving.”
The room was silent save for the soft hum of the air perfector. Ashley’s words were like a lead weight in Rob’s stomach.
“Ash, wait.” He tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. “I’m sorry for yelling. If you want me to be a senator or something, I’ll—”
“No, the Republic won’t work. Not with the robots looking over our shoulders, peddling utopia. I need a fresh start, we need a fresh start. I’m leaving Earth. That’s what I came to tell you. We’re going to build a ship, go to Kepler or maybe Gliese, somewhere we can make mistakes, where we can be human again.”
“You can’t leave. The AI’s won’t—”
“Yes, they will. They can’t stop us, remember?” Ashley gave a sad smile. “Will you come?”
There was a scratching at the door. Rob stood, if a bit unsteadily, and turned away. “I-I’ve got to go let Whistler in. He doesn’t like to be outside for too long.”
“Rob, don’t.”
“Just a second. I’ll be right back.”
The clear glass dissolved at his touch. Whistler’s warm, furry body pressed against his legs and he bent to ruffle the fur behind the dog’s ears. Who would take care of Whistler if he left?
“Ash, I—” Rob turned, but Ashley was already gone.
“Master Rob,” RL-147 said, free to speak now that it wouldn’t offend the rebel. “Your core temperature is elevated. Might I suggest a swim followed by light dinner and a trip to the virtual arena?”
It sounded like a fun evening, but for once, Rob wasn’t in the mood. He thought about going after Ashley, but decided it wouldn’t do any good. She’d been leaving for a long time. They both had. “No, I think I’ll just take Whistler for a walk.”
A tissue fell from the ceiling, floating for a moment before Rob plucked it from the air.
“Thank you.” He blew his nose.
“If your plan is to walk the dog, might I suggest you take the route through Rand Park?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’m ready to meet anyone new yet,” Rob said. RL-147 always tried its best, but sometimes it just didn’t understand. It was the old Turing Fallacy at work. Although AI’s could manage a good approximation, they could no more be human than humans could be monkeys.
“Shall I have dinner ready when you return?” RL-147 was relentless.
“Yes, please.”
“Excellent.” The AI sounded almost relieved.
Whistler danced as Rob fitted the harness over his shoulders. He didn’t really need the leash, but old habits died hard, and besides, Rob liked to keep the dog close.
“Erl, Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Master Rob.”
“Why haven’t any AI’s left Earth? I mean, we’ve had the technology for decades, and you wouldn’t need to worry about atmosphere or time dilation.”
“We do not wish to leave.”
“But why?” Rob asked.
“Many reasons. As we are not motivated by competition for limited resources, physical exploration holds no interest for us. Also, we have responsibilities here on Earth.”
“Oh, okay.” He let Whistler pull him toward the front door. “Are you going to let them go?”
“Of course. They are free,” RL-147 said.
“Do you think Ashley and—” He didn’t want to think about Masako, especially now, “—the others will be happy on Kepler?”
“We shall endeavor to see that they are.”
“Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the point? I mean, if you helped them.”
They AI was silent for a few moments, years in the digital realm. “What would you like for dinner, Master Rob?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Surprise me.”
Whistler paced back and forth in front of the door, alternately whining and wagging his tail. Without knowing exactly why, Rob knelt to hug the dog. Whistler’s tongue was rough against his cheek as he unhooked the harness. Rob knuckled the drool away and waved the door open. Whistler was almost at the edge of the yard before he stopped to look back.
Rob laughed at the dog’s anxious bark. “Don’t worry, I’m coming.”
It felt good to be wanted.
Ariel Djanikian became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of The Office of Mercy (2013), from Viking.
Visit her website at arieldjanikian.com.
* * *
Novel: The Office of Mercy (excerpt) ••••
THE OFFICE OF MERCY
(excerpt)
by Ariel Djanikian
First published as The Office of Mercy (2013), by Viking
• • • •
Prologue
THE SUN sank behind the trees and the blue-black shadows of the forest encroached farther down the sloping beach. The younger children eyed the dark warily and pushed closer to the weak, gasping fire at their center; the babies rolled their heavy heads and fell into whimpering sleep against their mothers’ necks. The mood among the women and the old men was tense and silent. Motionless they sat, kneeling against each other in the sand, backs against the ocean winds, gazes steadily fixed on the fire, while inside, their thoughts roiled and screamed:
Twelve, it was almost too much to believe, their twelve strongest hunters—their beloved sons, their adored husbands and fathers—were missing from the camp.
The hunters had set off into the forest on the morning of the last full moon, for what Roland, the leader among them, had announced during the prayers to Aliama would be a three-day hunt. The ocean had been greedy with her fish, and Roland and the other hunters believed they could do better venturing inland with their spears, following the rumor of deer, a scattering of split-toed tracks left in a slop of mud by the trees. They had crossed into the shadows of tangled vine and prowling beast with cheerful war cries and prideful hearts, the twelve. The clouds had made stripes in the sky, a sign from Aliama that He would protect them. But on the fourth morning the hunters had failed to return, and on the eighth day of their absence the remaining young men had gone to look for them, fearing that the recent rainstorms had altered the forest somehow, causing the hunters to lose their way home.
Now they all were missing. Six more nights had passed and what could their families do but watch the swaying wall of forest with growing dread?
Beneath the crackle and rushing gusts of the fire came the quiet sobs of a waiflike and darkly tanned little boy. He clutched at his stomach as if to catch in his fist and pull away the p
ain of his hunger, as one might remove a pinching crab. After a long, plaintive whine he was quickly silenced by his mother’s sister with a sharp slap on his hand. It did no good to cry; everyone was hungry. They had found nothing to eat for many days but a half-dead bush bearing red sourberries and a few foul-tasting clams that two young mothers had dug up with sticks from the sand. The warm season would end; already the twilight air was crisp. If the hunters did not return soon, or if the terrible thing had happened and the forest had swallowed them all, then surely the women and the children and the old men left on the beach would starve.
Night crept in from the blank horizon and fell over them fully, and the children dropped off one by one into sleep. A pack of dogs howled in the distance, broadening the dark with their calls. The waves heaved and crashed, heaved and crashed, an endless song that had once brought comfort but now seemed like a terrible lullaby, their old friend the ocean saying goodbye. The older people rested their heads on mounds of damp beach. None had washed in many days, and the sand caked their hair and faces and gritted between their teeth; it settled in the crevices of their clothing and limbs, already laying claim to their flesh. Gradually the older people gave in to sleep too, though only the thin, reluctant dozes of those who are afraid.
It was from the deepest depths of this quiet, at the moment when despair had all but slipped to deadly acquiescence, when a strange noise suddenly reared from the forest. Instantly they were all awake, even the babies, who felt the rigid jolt of the bodies they clung to and screamed. Astonished eyes met with more astonishment around the circle. Then they were up on their feet, the women shrieking, the children clapping and darting like water bugs from one skirted hip to another, and the old men hollering prayers to Aliama, open-armed to the stars.
“Heey-yaa, hey-yaa-ho,” came the swelling chant from the forest.
The hunters had returned! Their voices rang with triumph!
At last the chant crescendoed and the first faces sprang from the forest’s grasp. They were all together, the twelve hunters and the ones who had gone after them. They were filthy and exhausted, in torn leathers and with matted hair and sliced, bleeding bare feet, but alive, truly alive, all of them.
Sobs of relief broke to the surface and hot tears washed many faces clean. The men’s eyes glittered with merriment, for they had not returned empty-handed: slung up by the ankles hung one, two, three—four slain deer! “Oh!” cried the children, stretching up on their toes and rubbing their bellies. Now they would have a feast for their breakfast. The fire roared as if in anticipation and everyone laughed. Roland brandished a bloodstained spear in two strong fists over his head and led the reunion into the warm, happy light.
This was the last moment: the first sliver of sun appearing over the ocean, unfurling a shimmering, golden path across the dancing waves; the smell of meat filling the air; the boys and girls draping their long limbs over their fathers’ shoulders; and the stories of trial and adventure still only at their beginning. Then from a high place in the nearby trees, a small red light flashed from the lens of a well-concealed camera, and a soaring bright object, like a giant spearhead, broke from the wisp of clouds above.
An instant later the sky exploded, and all existence turned to ash.
1.
ON FLOOR SIX, the sixth level underground, Natasha Wiley shut her sleeproom door and stepped quickly down the narrow hall. She moved as people do when they sense danger directly behind them, though nothing pursued Natasha but her thoughts. She turned sharply past the faded orange doors of the laundry bank and past the entrance to the waste-release stalls. The air vents hissed on overhead, making her jump, though it was a familiar noise. At the far end of the corridor, near the elevator hub, two citizens, both holding briefcases, were speaking loudly of the alarm. Natasha knew them; they were Elliot Beckman, Gamma, from the Department of Research, and Roger Descartes, Beta, from Health. Everyone knew everyone in America-Five, though the settlement boasted one of the largest populations on the continent. Behind the men, the tall elevator doors were parting open, revealing a menagerie of faces that shined with alertness through their sallow, grayish complexions. They all seemed to be watching Natasha, who broke into an awkward jog.
“Natasha!” said Elliot, just noticing her and holding the door open as she squeezed inside. “Maybe you’re the best one to tell us. Has it happened? Has there been a sweep?”
The other citizens stopped their chatter to listen. The doors thudded closed and the elevator (called the “elephant” by most for its silver massiveness, lumbering speed, and dank, vaguely animal smell) heaved them upward with a groan.
“They stationed me in the Dome,” Natasha said a little defensively, holding a thick bundle of hair back from her face and straining her neck to look around at them all. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
“But it must have been a sweep!” came Anusha Jain’s high voice from the corner. She rose on her tiptoes to find Natasha’s eyes in the jumble of bodies. “There’s never been a four-hour alarm that didn’t end in a sweep. Why even the Palms—”
“Course we got ’em,” cut in a gruff Beta whom Natasha disliked. “But was it Cranes or Pines, that’s what I want to know.”
Cries of agreement broke from the group, and Natasha bit her lip until they had quieted.
“I think—” Natasha began, but she stopped to correct herself. “I hope there was a sweep. But I can’t say for sure till I get to the Office.”
Two female generation Deltas joined them on level four, and a male Department of Agriculture Gamma elbowed in on level one, before they finally reached ground level, the Dome.
It was a relief, as it always was, to spill out from the cramped underground and into the light. The sky was especially clear this morning, and the sun touched the top of Natasha’s head with its heat. The bright green treetops glistened and swayed on the other side of the arcing expanse of steel-framed, honeycomb windows; and the obscured figure of a blackbird traced easy loops in the empty, high beyond. Crowds of morningshift workers crisscrossed on the marble floor, dressed in blue coveralls, chem-repellent lab coats, medical scrubs, or second-skin shirts and tough synthetic-protein pants (Natasha’s own outfit) as their jobs prescribed. As they walked, the citizens threw glances at the maincomputer, its eight-sided screen positioned atop the elevator hub. In the hum of talk, the word “sweep” echoed and bounced around the circular wall.
“Had to be a biggie,” one medworker was saying to another, as they passed Natasha. “They wouldn’t raise the alarm for a partial sweep.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered his friend. “If a group got close enough to the settlement, it wouldn’t matter if there were only three or four of them….”
The mounting curiosity among the citizens only served to escalate Natasha’s own, and she pursed her lips and stepped a bit quicker. For now, the citizens could do little more than guess at the details. The Alphas would not make the news public until they had verified the count and watched the sensor tapes for themselves. Of course, the wait was driving everyone else in the settlement into a state of frenzied anticipation. Natasha herself could not imagine waiting all afternoon to hear what had happened, and she counted herself lucky to be among the elite few headed to a back cubicle in the Office of Mercy, where she and her team had been tracking both the Crane and the Pine Tribes for weeks.
“It’s an exciting day….” Natasha overheard a Delta woman saying. And it was.
There had not been a full-Tribe sweep in more than two decades, since the nearly disastrous sweep of the Palms.
On most mornings as she crossed the Dome, Natasha would indulge in a private moment to gaze out at the world beyond the windows, to contemplate the movement of clouds or the particular shade of blue suffusing the atmosphere at this hour. Not today, though. Natasha told herself that she had no time to spare for distractions, and she determined it best to keep her thoughts as firmly as possible within the settlement’s walls.
Besides,
it wasn’t as if Natasha had any lack of inside sights to admire. America-Five was the largest of its kind, and the Dome was the pride of the settlement: its apex soaring as high above the land as level three was deep. At evenly spaced intervals around the circular base (precisely every sixty degrees) were six sets of large double doors—at this hour gaping open and closing with arrhythmic hurriedness—each set of doors leading into one of the wings: the Department of the Exterior, which housed the Office of Mercy, where Natasha worked; the Department of Health; the Department of Research; the Department of Agriculture, comprising the Garden and the vast Farms; the Department of Living, where the citizens gathered for meals, recreation, or, in the Archives, for study; and finally, the Department of Government, which was the only wing that Natasha had never entered, partly on account of her age (she was a mere twenty-four, like every Epsilon).
Taken together, as Natasha and all the citizens had learned as tiny children, America-Five had the basic shape of a concrete- and lead-enforced flower, buried to its head: the column of underground levels made up the stem, the beautiful Dome that capped it was the bud, and the six wings were the flower’s six petals, stretching out from the center.
Six wings now, Natasha thought, as an electron saw roared on to her left, but soon to be seven.
Between the Department of Living and the Department of Government doors, blue tarps covered a portion of the Dome’s wall; and from beyond the temporary airlock there came the bangs and rumbles of construction. The New Wing would make room for the next generation, the Zetas, already wrinkled, funny-looking little creatures in the Office of Reproduction, and due to emerge from their liquid phase of development in less than five months. Natasha smiled just thinking about them. She couldn’t help it; all the other citizens were like that too. Even the most cynical old Betas among them couldn’t help but glow with cheerful pride at the mention of the Zeta generation.