Still, I had come this far, worry would do me no good.
I put my hand up against the highest ring I could reach, my feet up to the one below that, and I began to climb.
I had to admit, it was pretty useful having a body that didn’t tire. I climbed up steadily and without pause, pulling myself up with my arms, placing my feet on the metal ring below, checking I was steady, and repeating the process. For nearly a hundred metres I put hand over hand, scaling the length of the tower toward the landing pad.
It started to rain as I got to the top of the stalk, nestled just under the large disc like it was my own, personal, massive umbrella.
The underside of the landing pad was full of antenna and cables dangling down like the tendrils of some kind of horrible monster; a kaiju from an old Japanese film. Robots versus tentacle monsters.
I took hold of one, testing it experimentally. It held. How much did I even weigh? It would have to have been a lot; my fist had basically crunched Spotweld’s chest into paste. Three hundred kilos, maybe four? I tugged the cable extra firm. It would have to hold.
Like a boosted monkey, I swung out underneath the landing pad. The metal groaned ominously and the cable stretched, but it held. I moved from cable to cable, occasionally grabbing an antenna to steady myself, my legs dangling down over nothing.
A hundred metres straight down. I had absolutely no idea what the effect of falling that far would be but I knew it wouldn’t be good. A hundred metres would give me plenty of time to reach a speed of…I wasn’t sure. I did the maths in my head. About a hundred and sixty kilometres an hour, maybe a little less. At that speed, it would take almost five seconds to land, and when I did, it would be coming in with, like, four hundred thousand joules of force.
In layman's terms, I’d be a steel pancake. Best not think about it.
Slowly, gingerly, I made my way across to the edge. The wind picked up, buffeting me around, rain plinking off my body, but I held on tight.
Down below, the structure I had come from lit up, all the lights turning red, the faint wail of a siren hitting whatever I had for ears now. Obviously, Spotweld and Titan’s bodies had been discovered, probably by their little shit of a kid. That was not good. Now everyone would be on their guard.
No time to wait for the wind to die down. I swung my hand up to the ledge, and as I did so, the antenna I was holding onto broke off.
I nearly lost my grip, swinging violently, hanging onto the ledge with three steel fingers. I couldn’t help but look down; I saw the long, black rod that was the antenna as it fell, and shattered into a million pieces on the dark brown, empty ground.
Fortunately I’d held on. I pulled myself up, grabbing hold with my other hand, and with the whine of motors, I hauled myself up over the ledge and onto the landing platform. The rain intensified, splattering onto my back.
There, right in front of me, was a ship. Boxy and ugly and outdated even to my nearly-a-decade-old knowledge, but it was lit up and the cargo bay was open. Whatever cargo the ship had been carrying it had been removed. I clambered up to my feet and clanked over to it.
I’d jacked cars before, plenty of times, even reprogrammed a few drones. Never a spaceship. Something like this was pretty beyond my pay grade. But if I didn’t get off world…well. I’d only been alive fifteen minutes and I’d killed two people and orphaned a third. The courts didn’t exactly play nice when it came to shitbags like me.
I stepped onto the loading ramp, hunching over as I moved aboard. Were ships in the future always so tiny, or was I just really, really big? Maybe the people were tiny; Titan had been short, Spotweld too, and their kid was a runt.
Maybe they were just averaged size and I was taller. Maybe I was a lot bigger than I had anticipated, and that was affecting my judgement. Maybe the landing platform was a lot higher than a hundred metres up.
All useless thoughts. I looked around the cargo bay, searching for a way to the cockpit. At the rear of the open space was a ladder leading up to a round hatchway. The ladder was a bit too small. The hatchway too. Would I even fit?
Only one way to find out. I took hold of the ladder and climbed, and then pushed the open button.
It flashed an angry red at me. It took me a second to realise what was happening; with the loading ramp open, it wouldn’t open the rest of the ship because then the poisonous air would get in.
I climbed back down, found the switch to close the loading ramp, and waited while it slowly, agonisingly so, began to slide closed.
Time was not on my side. With the bodies being discovered, and that kid telling whoever found them where I was going and what I was doing, I only had a very limited window of opportunity. I still didn’t know if I could even start the ship, or fly it if I could.
Problems, problems. None of that would matter if the damn loading ramp took a million years to inch closed.
Finally it sealed with a faint hiss. I was met by another intolerably long wait as the atmosphere in the cargo hold cycled out, replaced with fresh air that was utterly useless to me. When it eventually finished, I clambered up the ladder, touched the button, and the hatchway slid open like an iris, leaving a circular gap for me. I stuck my head up.
Empty. No crew aboard. They were probably trapped inside the facility by the rain. I squirmed up, each step bending the metal of the rungs, and I put my arms up through the opening. I felt like I could fit. I wiggled up, into the gap, and twisted myself until my left shoulder came through.
And then the loading ramp hissed and began to lower again. The hatchway tightened around me, holding me tight, sending sparks flying up as it scraped across my chest.
Leaving me completely stuck.
Maybe it was a timed response, maybe a remote trigger. I never really knew. I kicked. I struggled. I fought to try and free myself, but no matter how much I flexed or squirmed, the iris knew the ship was decompressing and, stupid machine that it was, tried to save what atmosphere was inside the crew compartment. It fought valiantly against me as I fought against it, but it was designed to hold up to the pressures of space, to cut off any obstructions and seal the cabin tight.
Slowly, I felt the strength leave my body. Whatever power reserve I had was limited and, obviously, I had drained it fighting against my resurrectors, running around the facility, and climbing up the support beam. The whir of my pistons died down to a soft whine, and gradually, I stopped struggling.
The world started to darken, a sensation that was eerily similar to death by nitrogen asphyxiation. The vision in the cameras that were my eyes dimmed as they tried frantically to conserve power. System after system closed down: I went deaf, my fingers no longer registered touch, and then finally, I was blind. Just a mind in a black void I could not see nor understand.
And that’s how the Uynovian police found me.
Six months later
“All rise,” said the Bailiff. “The Supreme Court of Uynov is now in session, the Honourable Judge Turbo presiding.”
Justice Turbo? I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but even I knew that would probably not be wise.
Everyone remained standing until the judge—a withered old crone barely able to hobble forward—took her seat at the front of the court room. I glanced to the side at my lawyer, Mister Nail, some fucking fresh faced kid who had been so proud that this case, this unique, interesting, special case, was going to be how he made his mark on the legal world.
How? By losing?
We all sat, my actuators groaning softly as I took my seat. I was heavily restrained, with specially forged industrial manacles, triple layered to prevent even the hope of escape. A dozen Uynovian Guard stood by with automatic plasguns, ready to melt me into scrap if I so much as twitched in the wrong way.
“Your Honour,” said the Bailiff, “today’s case is the Uynovian People versus Kwame Bahati from the South Polar Region Six, planet Scolla.”
Judge Turbo nodded slowly, as though deep in thought, although no arguments had been made on either
side. “Very well.” She looked to the prosecution. “Are you ready to begin the the trial?”
They nodded in the affirmative.
“And you, Mister Nail?”
“I am, Your Honour,” he said.
The prosecution gave their opening statement. I barely paid any attention. It described, fairly accurately, exactly what had happened, including me getting my stupid arse stuck in the ship, only a few metres away from the cockpit, from a power source and freedom. I’d been powered on, then those two dick scientists had tried to shut me down. Yada yada yada, blunt force trauma to the chest, Spotweld was a dead man. Same-same for Titan. I noticed for the first time that their kid—933…whatever—he was here, too. Crying, face all red and puffy, just like the people who’d watched my execution.
This was like dying in reverse.
Then it was Nail’s turn. “May it please the court and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Nail, counsel for Mister Bahati in this action."
“Proceed with your opening statement, Mister Nail.”
He folded his arms behind his back, seemingly possessed of a confidence I didn’t feel at all. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, why are we here?” He swept his hand around the courtroom in a slow, deliberate motion. “This is not some philosophical question about the nature of human existence, mind. Rather…why are we here? In a court room?” His hand fell upon me, becoming a single pointing finger. “We do not put audio files on trial, even though they sound like humans. We do not put firearms on trial, even though they are by their very nature dangerous. The law recognises two parts to a criminal act: mens rea, a person’s awareness of the fact that his or her conduct is criminal, and actus reus, the act itself. A bomb may kill—and indeed its only purpose is to kill—but we ascribe to it no awareness.” Nail lowered his hand. “And yet, Mister Bahati is here, on trial, indicating that he is no mere lump of steel. No artificial intelligence which cannot be held liable for its actions. No, Mister Bahati is a person.”
Not bad.
“There is no question that crimes took place here,” said Nail. “The simple facts remain: Spotweld and Titan are dead, both by blunt force trauma inflicted by Mister Bahati.” Wait. Was this guy on my side or what? “And there are a myriad of defences for these kinds of actions.” He held up his hand, fingers extended, ticking them off one by one. “SODDI, or, Some Other Dude Did It. Insanity. Duress. But there is one significant detail the prosecution skipped over during their opening address: the matter that Mister Bahati was to be deactivated and his mind erased, permanently. A fate no less than death. And so I would like to say that his actions were justified self-defence.”
Justified?
“Crushing a man’s chest with an iron fist is hardly what one thinks of when they think of justified force,” continued Nail, “but ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want you to try and put yourself in Mister Bahati’s place. Although the activation of Unit 9—the name of Titan’s prototype which is now inhabited by my client—seems far removed from his execution, by a significant number of years, to him it would only be a few minutes. To him, he awoke, fully aware, in a situation where his life was in danger. An iron Lazarus, born into a struggle he could barely understand, let alone rationally work through.”
Nail paused for effect. I waited, expectantly, for him to continue.
“What do all people want?” Nail asked, finally. “To exist. To live. Mister Bahati had been ‘alive’ in his metal body for only four minutes, twenty six seconds when he killed…but if he had not resisted, his own life would have been forfeit.”
“I understand what you are telling me,” said Judge Turbo—a name I simply could not get over—her voice like rustling sandpaper. “But if you are attempting to argue that Mister Bahati is a man, the same man seemingly put to death on Scolla, I must inform you that Uynov has an extradition treaty with that world. Winning this case will not free him. It will simply be Scolla’s executioners that finish him, not ours, although the defendant may well be glad to hear that nitrogen asphyxiation will not be his method of execution a second time around.”
I actually wasn’t. The first time was good enough. Peaceful. Quiet. Kind of awesome.
“I understand,” said Nail, “but I would like to ask you to consider the possibility that Mister Bahati is neither legally culpable for the deaths of Spotweld and Titan nor is he the man who was put to death on Scolla. He is a new person. A…child, if you will. A child with one parent, and that parent is Kwame Bahati. Similar to, but distinct from, him. For he has new experiences. Experiences his former self never had; couple that with the knowledge that we cannot be certain that the copy of his mind was perfect or complete, and the difference could well be no more than, say, ninety eight percent. Which, I feel, is beyond a reasonable standard of doubt.”
“Very well,” said Judge Turbo. “Assuming the jury accepts this argument, what do you propose, Mister Nail?”
Nail turned to face me, his face a wide, confident smile. “We offer him the chance to choose his own name.”
Back and forth, back and forth. Lawyers argued with lawyers, legal experts on AI and psychology gave their opinions, and the media tried to record as much as they could every time I wasn’t in a protected area.
That crap went on for six days. I was familiar with the process by now. It bored me.
On the seventh day, the jury announced it had found a verdict. The head juror, a tall, broad man who looked like he might have, in days gone past, looked like he worked in construction before drones took over that job, stood with palpable unease, glancing down at the tablet he held in his massive hands.
“We, the Jury, find the defendant to be guilty on all charges, including two counts of murder in the second degree, two counts of felony property damage, one count of theft of an advanced robotic device, and one of attempting to steal a starship.”
Whelp, there was the typical line. I’d been charged with stealing my own body.
Nail looked so disappointed. Aww. The little guy really thought he could win. “Sorry,” he whispered to me.
“You suck,” I said, flatly. “I knew I should have waived my right to a lawyer.”
“You couldn’t have done that anyway,” said Nail, a dejected frown still stuck on his face. “It’s actually interesting, as it was your original case that prompted this change in legislation. People can’t defend themselves anymore. It’s considered unfair.”
“Well, having someone else defend me didn’t seem to help either. I fucking hate suits.”
“I guess I hate you too,” said Nail.
Pretty awesome.
The jury filed out. Their job was complete. The only thing left to do was the Judge with the stupid name to pass her sentence.
There was some deliberation. Some exchange of documents. As the silence built I felt the same electric energy that I had felt during my previous trial. A sense of anticipation. What kind of executions would the Uynovians offer me? I heard they were into archaic forms of execution; firing squad, for example. Would that be offered to a robot?
I figured they’d just erase me. Would be neater. Simpler.
“Mister Kwame Bahati,” said Judge Turbo, “you have been judged and found guilty of several serious crimes. It is difficult for me to accept the arguments of your council, just as it is difficult for me to accept the arguments of the prosecution. This is a unique case and we’ve heard a great deal of evidence regarding you, what you are, how you came to be, and more importantly, what I should do with you.
“I agree that it is and should be against the law of the land to punish those who defend themselves against a threat to their life. However, it is the swiftness upon which you leapt to violence which condemns you; save for a few hasty words, little diplomacy was entered into once your situation came to light. This is not the behaviour of a normal, functioning person in society and it speaks to me, more than any of the other evidence, that you have all the memories, personality, and habits of your former self. The sente
nce that person had been assigned, in my eyes, is fair and valid and should be mirrored within the Uynovian justice system.”
She took a look deep breath.
“But…it is obvious that you are also your own person, an almost perfect copy of a man who has been dead longer than my great grand-daughter has been alive. Accordingly, I feel that—as your council so eagerly pointed out—being ninety eight percent the same person means you are ninety eight percent guilty, which is insufficiently close for the death penalty. Nor, do I feel, that you are truly a person and deserving of such a fate.”
Damn. I guess I wouldn’t find out, first hand, what being powered down would feel like. The judge considered me, studying me as though I were an insect. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? To justify your actions?”
“Time makes orphans of us all,” I said, simply. Death now, versus death in the future…ultimately there was no difference.
“Indeed it does, Mister Bahati.” She considered, then nodded her head firmly. “I sentence you to be deactivated and studied. The research into AI technology must continue. After this, assuming you survive the process, you are to be reactivated in the same body you have now. Everyone deserves a body, Mister Bahati, and to make that your property would make you a slave. Which is against our laws.”
The first part I expected. The rest, not as much. “And,” I asked, curiously, “when I am to be reactivated…what then?” There was no way I would be free.
“Ten tours in the Penal Legions,” said Judge Turbo. “For the murder of Titan and Spotweld. You will be fitted with an exploding collar, and you will report for duty as any other penal legionnaire is required to do.” She leaned forward. “It may take many years for the research to be completed. When you awaken—if you awaken—you will find me long dead, along with, potentially, a great number of others.”
Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology Page 52