This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by N. K. Jemisin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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eISBN: 9781542093576
Cover design by Will Staehle
You are our instrument.
Beautiful you. Everything that could be given to you to improve on the human design, you possess. Stronger muscles. Finer motor control. A mind unimpeded by the vagaries of organic dysfunction and bolstered by generations of high-intelligence breeding. Here is what you’ll look like when your time comes. Note the noble brow, the classical patrician features, the lean musculature, the long penis and thighs. That hair color is called “blond.” [Please reference: hair variations.] Are you not magnificent? Or you will be, someday. But first, you must earn your beauty.
We should begin with a briefing, since you’re now authorized for Information Level Secret. On its face, this mission is simple: return to the ruined planet Tellus, from which mankind originates. When our Founders realized the world was dying, they built the Muskos-Mercer Drive in secret. Then our ancestors bent the rules of light and fled to a new world circling another sun, so that something of humanity—the best of it—would survive. We’ll use the MMD, much improved by our technorati over the years, to return to that world. The journey, from your perspective, will take days. When you return, years will have passed. How brave you are to walk in your forefathers’ footsteps!
No, there’s no one left alive on Tellus. The planet was in full environmental collapse across every biome when our people left. There were just too many people, and too many of those were unfit, infirm, too old, or too young. Even the physically ideal ones were slow thinkers, timid spirits. There was not enough collective innovation or strength of will between them to solve the problems Tellus faced, and so we did the only merciful thing we could: we left them behind.
Of course that was mercy. Do you think your ancestors wanted to leave billions of people to starve and suffocate and drown? It was simply that our new home could support only a few.
Tellus is nearly a thousand light-years from home, meaning that the light we receive from that world is hundreds of years old. We cannot directly observe it in real time—but we knew the fate that awaited it. Tellus is by now a graveyard world. We expect that its seas have become acidic and barren, its atmosphere a choking mix of carbon dioxide and methane. Its rain cycle will have long since dried up. It will be terrible to walk through this graveyard, and dangerous. You’ll find toxic drowned cities, still-burning underground coal fires, melted-down nuclear plants. Yet the worst of it might be seeing our past greatness, on this world that was once so ideal. Mankind could build high into the sky, there where the gravity wasn’t as heavy. We could build all over the planet because it was not tidally locked. [Please reference: night.] Look at the names whenever you find them on buildings or debris. You’ll see the forebears of our Founder clans—all the great men who spent the last decades of that planet’s life amassing the resources and technology necessary to save the best of mankind. If for no other reason, this world should be honored because it nurtured them.
To ensure success, and your mental health during extended isolation, we have equipped you with ourselves—a dynamic-matrix consensus intelligence encapsulating the ideals and blessed rationality of our Founders. We are implanted in your mind and will travel with you everywhere. We are your companion, and your conscience. We will provide essential data about the planet as a survival aid. Via your composite, we can administer critical first aid as required. And should you suffer a composite breach or similar emergency, we are programmed to authorize adaptive action.
[Reference request denied.] You don’t need to know about that yet. Please focus, and limit your curiosity. All that matters is the mission.
You can’t fail. It’s too important. But rest assured: you have the best of us inside you, enveloping you, keeping you safe and true. You are not alone. You will prevail.
Are you awake? We’ve reached the outermost edges of the Sol system. Almost there.
Curious. Spectroscopy shows the space around Tellus as clear. It was clogged with debris when we left.
And stranger: no radio waves. Our home is too far away to detect any of the decades’ worth of audio and visual signals that our species once beamed into space—well, no, not really on purpose. It’s just that no one knew how not to do it. Once we worried that such signals would eventually alert hostile alien species to our presence . . . but that isn’t a problem anymore.
As we approached the system, we were bathed in those waves—music, entertainment programs, long-expired warnings and commands . . . No, we don’t advise listening. At this point it’s just noise pollution. But we expected the noise, spreading throughout the universe in an ever-expanding bubble that we suppose will be Tellus’s final epitaph. Silence in the bubble’s wake, of course; the silence of the tomb. But still not truly silent, because there were too many automated things on and around Tellus that should have survived for at least another millennium. For example, the satellites that should still be, and aren’t, in orbit.
Most curious.
Well. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant; while naturally we had certain expectations for how this mission would go, we aren’t infallible. That’s why we didn’t send a bot on this mission, after all; human beings are better than AI at handling the unexpected. You must simply be prepared for anything.
No, that isn’t right, atmospheric analysis can’t possibly be that far off our models. It’s far more likely that we caught some debris during the near-Saturn pass, which damaged the ship’s enhanced spectrometer. None of these readings make sense.
Please prepare for EVA and sensor repair. Adjusting your composite for deep-space radiation shielding. You wanted a better look at Saturn; now you’ll get to see it without the ship in the way.
This . . . cannot be.
That is movement. Those are lights. There should be clear signs of eco-collapse. It had already begun when the Founders left—but compare the geographic maps we have stored against what’s there now. See that branching line in the southwestern portion of the continent? That was, is, the Colorado River. The maps show that it was dry when our ancestors left. Millions died trying to migrate east and north to where there might be more water. Countless species went extinct. But there’s the river, flowing again.
That entire coastline should be gone. That state should be gone. That archipelago. The ice caps—here they are again. Different. New, but enough to reverse sea-level rise. How can this have happened?
[State: deprecated term for a geopolitical construct. No need to reference.]
Yes, you’re right. Many, many more than home. At home, we maintain only as many people as we can safely sustain: six thousand total, including servi and mercennarii. Here, there must be millions. Billions. The old pattern, too many people—and yet the air is clear. The seas are cleaner than when we left.
We don’t know.
We were not prepared for this eventuality. Please wait while we calculate a new consensus—
Yes, the
mission is still paramount. Yes, we still require the target samples to formulate new—
Yes—
No, our world will not survive without those samples.
We advise delay and study.
“That entire coastline should be gone. That state should be gone.”
Certainly you may reject our advice, but—
Ah, but they bred you bold, didn’t they. Like the Founders, who would never have survived without the courage to be ruthless as well as sensible. Very well.
The people of Tellus will not be as beautifully ruthless as you. However they’ve survived, whatever fluke has worked in their favor, never forget their quintessential inferiority. They lacked the intelligence to choose rationality over sentiment. They weren’t willing to do what was necessary to survive. You are.
Stay low. This is—
What are you looking at? Pay attention.
This is called a forest. You’ve seen trees back home, in the Founder clans’ private habitats? These are trees in the wild. Our records suggest that you’re near what used to be a city called Raleigh. See those ruins through the trees? Raleigh was underwater when we left. Clearly they’ve reclaimed the land, but we are astonished that no one has redeveloped it, or at least clear-cut the forest. We find such chaos ugly and inefficient.
Your composite is capable of withstanding microparticle strikes in space, so of course it’s impermeable to branches and stone, but these things can still entangle you and slow you down. We’ve plotted you a path of minimized resistance. Please follow the line on your heads-up display.
Hmm, yes. We suppose you would find it beautiful. That is a lichen. Yes, it’s all very green. That’s a puddle—stagnant water leftover from precipitation or seeping up from groundwater. We don’t know if it will rain anytime soon, but this much humidity does suggest a regular rain cycle.
Those are birds. That sound is coming from the birds. Sunrise is coming. They sing because it’s nearly daytime.
Yes, thank you, do please focus on the mission; we almost went into power-saving mode. These people are clearly at a primitive level of technology relative to our own, but they may have some rudimentary form of surveillance. Stay low.
[Please reference: dangerous wildlife, a list.]
Your respiration is too fast. This has increased your metabolic rate to an unacceptable degree. If you continue to consume nutrients at this rate, you’ll run out before you can return to the ship to replenish. Calm down.
Not that we blame you for your fear—
Pardon us. Excitement and fear look much the same, neurologically speaking. Your excitement, then. This is a world we thought dead. A remnant of our species that evolution should have claimed, obviously saved by luck. We do agree that this is historically momentous.
They’ve actually elevated the whole town on some kind of . . . platform. And oh, fascinating: the material of the platform looks like plastic, but close analysis suggests cellulose instead. It respires like a plant, too, if these CO2 and oxygen readings are correct. Please take a sample. The technorati in Biotech are always looking for new potential commodities—
Oh. Not even with the monomolecular blade? Hmm. Very well. Resume mission.
It’s odd that this settlement is elevated. During the period of sea-level rise, it must have been necessary, but now that the planet is back to normal, there’s no further need for this. Maybe it’s a sunk-cost issue?
Well, an elevated city costs more than one on the ground. Water and other resources will have to be pumped up to the living levels. There are added maintenance costs. And as you’ve seen, vegetation and wildlife quickly encroach on the area near and underneath the city—
Why would they like it this way? What, just because it’s pretty? That does sound like something these people would do, though. Please resume. Adjusting composite for climbing.
Curious that they have no militia or visible surveillance. This ambient darkness is night—yes, like the reference we shared with you. Adjusting your visual acuity to compensate. This settlement’s lighting seems to generate little heat, but you may activate infrared if that will help—
Control yourself, soldier! Your reaction is wholly inappropriate. No, that person is not a technorati or Founder-clan. Well, for one thing, look at their coloring. Every skin shade from melanistic to albino? They seem to pay no attention whatsoever to basic eugenics principles. That one over there has patches; look. Disgusting. Animals breed like this, not people.
We don’t know. The lower citizens of this world, the agricolae and servi and whatnot, must function without composite suits. They would have less need of that technology on this world, if the environment has been repaired. It’s clear, however, that going without composites has done them no favors.
That incomprehensible babble sounds familiar because it’s related to our language. Audio analysis has detected familiar phonemes and syntax. Theirs seems to have been bastardized, however, by time and the infusion of other lesser languages. Back home, the Founder clans have been diligent in permitting the use of nothing but the Founders’ tongue and those of the honored ancients. This is what might have happened had we not been so careful. We need more audio sampling, but with that we should be able to put together a rudimentary translation script—
Ugh, look at that one. That morphology is called fat. Fat people are aesthetically displeasing, morally repugnant, and economically useless. And oh Founders, look. That poor man has been allowed to get old. Why is he still alive? If he generates value, he shouldn’t be left to deteriorate like this. It’s incomprehensibly cruel. Do they have no preservation technology here? What have they spent their innovative energy on, uselessly elevating their cities? Ugh. Now, look at that one. To the right, see? Rolling along in that chairlike device. He appears to be paralyzed from the waist down. That must be why there are ramps everywhere and why the doorways are so wide—just for him and others like him. Food, water, and excess building materials, all poured into a useless, unproductive, unattractive person.
Nothing’s changed with these people. They still build societies around their least and worst instead of the best and brightest. We cannot understand why they’re still alive . . . but if they can at least give us the cell cultures we need, then we can be rid of them and go back to civilization.
Please hold for a moment; you appear to be secure and undetected here in this alley, at least for now. The situational parameters have activated a new protocol in us, and we need to brief you.
You will recall that we mentioned adaptive action as a possible emergency response during this mission. What that means is this: In light of your critical mission, your composite is a more advanced model than what is usually granted to men of the militus class. There is a transmutational nanite layer which, if activated, can convert the carbon picobeads, synthetic collagen fibers, and HeLa plasmids embedded in your composite into human skin. It would not be aesthetically ideal, but it might at least reduce your chances of detection, so that the mission—
No, it would not be the face and body we promised you—
Listen. Listen! The emergency skin would be only a temporary measure. As soon as you return home with the cell samples, the technorati can surgically alter your dermal layers back to the aesthetic configuration you were promised. Of course we will; you’ll have earned it, won’t you? If you complete this mission, you’ll be a hero. Why would we refuse you what you’re due?
No, we don’t believe you can safely walk into that enclave of people as you are now. These people have primitive values, primitive technology; they’ve never seen a composite suit. They seem tolerant of multiple facial configurations, but you don’t have a face at all. As far as they’re concerned, you possess no obvious characteristics that identify you as a fellow human being. You don’t speak their language, but that’s irrelevant. If they have weapons, they’ll use them as soon as they see you. You won’t be able to complete the mission because you’ll be captured or dead.
Take a host
age? No. That’s foolish. There must be ten or fifteen people down there, doing whatever they’re doing. Some kind of religious ritual, a dance to greet the sun? Barbaric. How would you know which of these mongrel people is important enough to ransom for the biomaterial we need? If you grab some random servus, they’ll just let him die. There is bold, decisive action—we commend that, you know we do—and then there is folly. You don’t know enough about these people to enact the plan you’re describing. Would you really rather risk everything than activate your emergency skin? Does the prospect of being less than perfect, even temporarily, panic you that m—
Oh Founders.
LEVEL-FOUR SECURITY ALERT. ADRENALINE ADMINISTRATION STAND BY. LIMBIC SYSTEM OVERCLOCK STAND BY. WEAPONS FABRICATION ONLINE. MIDBRAIN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT ENGAGEMENT ON THREE.
TWO.
.
.
.
Online. Reboot in five. Four.
Are you all right? You’re uninjured. Your composite remains unbreached. The weapon they used was an update of something we remember from before the Great Leaving. We can call it a taser. Beware, however: you are not alone.
“Hey. Easy! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Do you understand me? Okay. Good. How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for hours.”
How are we understanding him? We didn’t have time to create a translation script—and your auditory nerve is reacting out of sync with his speech. You’re actually hearing his words, intelligibly.
What’s that on your facial beads? It seems to be a device of some kind. The audio you’re hearing is being transmitted by it. It’s translating his words.
“Oh. Sorry about that. Ordinarily we use a mild neurotoxin to subdue violent people. Your, uh, artificial skin? Means we had to use something with a little more kick.”
Great caution is warranted here. Tell him nothing. He is merely a servus, in any case. Look at his skin, like sandy dust. Look at the blemishes, the inelegance of his features. One of his eyes is higher than the other, only slightly but still. Don’t be deceived; no one here wears a composite. Our skin is a mark of honor. Their skin is meaningless.
Emergency Skin (Forward collection) Page 1