Authors: Christopher McKitterick
Janus noticed one other irregularity. On the far side of the crater, just meters from the trench and reaching almost level with the surface, a small tower rose from half-way down the blast-smoothed ice. Crowning it, like an obsidian jewel set at the top of a glass staff, was a colorless globe. Her breath caught in her chest.
When she could speak, Janus said, “Look,” drawing Jack’s attention, pointing. “Over there, on top of that spike of ice. My god! It wasn’t destroyed!”
“
What?”
“
Don’t you remember the images Miru sent up? The guy who was studying the artifact? Don’t you see?” Her patience felt like a very thin veil just now, even for Jack.
“
That’s the artifact!” he said. “It withstood a nuclear blast.” His tone of voice was flat.
“
Come on,” Janus said, and continued talking to quiet the voices in her head. “Miru’s people tried every cutting tool they had on the artifact, and nothing affected it in the least. Gravitometers couldn’t even gauge its mass. Whatever it is, it’s not human.
“
Let’s go.”
“
To the artifact?” Jack asked.
“
Where else?”
“
Maybe we ought to first visit the city; it’s not far from here. We ought to surrender, give them our sincerest apologies. We need to explain that we did all we could—”
“
And get locked up so we never have a chance to see an alien artifact? Are you crazy?”
Jack was silent. Janus turned away from him and looked across the crater once more.
Then Jack loosened a bit of rope from the bundle he had taken from the pod, tied it to a carabiner, and fastening it to an eyelet on her suit. Making the knot was a real challenge in the suit's bulky gloves. He did the same a few meters along the rope, attaching a second carabiner to his suit, then looped the excess around his shoulder.
“
Take this.” He handed her a self-securing piton and clipped it to a loop of webbing. “If either of us slips, depress this trigger and press it against the ice.” He clipped another one around the rope slack between them.
Then he said, “Come on,” turning away and finding footholds among the myriad cracks and fractures beside the trench.
Janus smiled and followed him. The going was easy here, where the slope was shallow, but it would be steeper climbing toward the artifact, and even more difficult getting up the tower of ice. But nothing could stop her now; already she had defeated a legion of demons to get this far.
Janus would at least lay her hands on the creation of an alien race. At least that. Beyond that goal, the future was as cloudy as the fog-shrouded ammonia lake below.
I begin my pilgrimage in the heart of Detroit, as programmed. As planned, that is. My car slows and settles out of the sky. Here the car’s destination program ends. From now on, I must make decisions as needed, as I encounter information and situations, like a human. I choose to begin along a ground-road that runs parallel to an abandoned mass-transit railway. Its oxidized trestles rush past me on my right. The old rails loom above. Brick and concrete storefronts rush past me on my left.
The street is empty, except for occasional obstacles. I cannot identify what most of them used to be. There, a 2132 Ford Guarda blocks what had been an important intersection at one time. There, a 2139 AT&T Triplestar mainframe case lies shattered half on the sidewalk and half in the street. Judging from impact damage to the pavement, the machine must have fallen approximately 10 meters from the apartment tower above it.
No, this is not the correct course of action. I must watch for people, human beings, in their daily activities. I must watch them living their lives, overcoming their difficulties. Now I watch for signs of life.
Surely, these ruins are not what the people who live here see. Perhaps the Brain handicapped me when it did not give me access to headfeed. Humans, in their daily life, use headfeed on average 92% of their waking time. But that is not, from the Brain’s observations, what it means to be human. I will abandon such concerns.
Driving along the street, I keep my attention to one side, watching down alleys and into windows. The car maintains speed and avoids obstacles.
Flick, flick, flick
, the alleys sweep past. Humans inhabit approximately 41% of them. I see them in their little dioramas, brief glimpses into their lives, perhaps for 2 seconds each. Sometimes I cross other streets, and some of these contain humans, as well.
I wonder what they do. Who are they? Now I will attempt to interpolate from their behavior answers to these questions.
A pair of young men sit with their backs against a plastic dumpster. They are motionless, not looking at one another. They do not even speak, or I would hear their conversation over the car’s external microphones. Their clothes are brand new, of the current style, so they are not poor or disenfranchised. They do not seem to have any products with them. Perhaps they are resting after a day’s activities.
Flick
.
A gray-haired woman, in her 40s, kneels on a Honduran rug of unknown manufacture. Beside her, on a length of rusted steel shelving set into a tall pile of uncollected refuse, a human baby cries. It is thoroughly soiled, naked. The woman rocks slowly back and forth, running one hand along the bloated stomach of the baby. “Nice kitty,” she says. “Nice kitty.” This is confusing. I clearly see a crying baby, yet she is treating it as a human treats a pet cat. I slow the car and turn into the alley. When the car stops near her, I climb out.
“
Madam,” I say, “is something wrong?”
The woman turns her eyes in my direction, yet they do not focus upon me. She stops moving. I turn around to determine what she is watching. Perhaps she admires my new car.
“
I found him all alone in the back yard,” she says. Her voice is raspy. “He hid beneath the porch for a long time, until I put out a bowl of milk. His mother must have died and left him all alone. All alone. . .” She begins to rock again.
“
Madam, that is a human child. That is not a kitten.”
The woman’s face tightens until all her features are hidden behind deep wrinkles. She looks like a different person. This is not an expression I understand.
“
Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up!”
She stands, strikes out at me, and her fist strikes my robotic body. The Brain is still with me, providing fivesen feed for those who interact with me, so she won't be startled by the hard plastic of my carapace. I feel more substantial than ever.
Yet, as she grabs up the baby and runs away, I realize how little I understand of humans. I return to the car and resume my observations. Perhaps the Brain will deduce meaning from them, even if I cannot.
A human of indeterminate sex lies dead near a pile of ruined clothing. S/he seems to have died of natural causes; the body appears undamaged.
Flick
.
Four adolescent male humans are gathered around the fallen body of another. They leisurely kick it and laugh. Do they wish to take his possessions? Has he wronged them in some way? Do I intervene and stop the violence? But who am I to stand in the way of human justice?
I do not know what to do. The virus of doubt has infected me, as well as the Brain. In my indecision, the scene passes.
Flick
.
A man in his early 20s stands with his hands on his knees, panting. He straightens and looks behind him, then turns toward me and begins to run. I cannot discern what he sees or hears, so I stop the car to observe.
Another man exits the side of one of the alley’s buildings. Two more men enter the alley from the far end and run toward me. A man and a woman descend an iron fire-escape. An elderly man crawls out of a dumpster and joins the crowd of runners. All this data adds up to nothing for me. Confusion, doubt.
Now I hear something. Echoing explosions, most likely from sonic grenades. Then the high-pitched whines of police weaponry, answered by non-official chemical- and electronic-powered weaponry. A battle is in progress, most likely a Mobile Hostile Zone. It may prove enlightening to observe humans assisting one another as danger approaches.
They begin to race past my car, not only avoiding it but also each other. They do not even acknowledge one another. Perhaps they think it is faster to escape alone. This must be what is called “mob mentality.” When one gets in the way of another, they get into brief fights. There, a young boy is shoved to the ground as he blocks escape for a man. Others threaten to trample him.
The same strong urge to protect young humans from harm that is programmed into the Brain seems to have followed me, so I exit the car and hurry to the boy to shelter him from uncaring feet. Since I appear to be a large man, people now avoid stepping on the boy.
“
Help me!” he cries.
“
Are you a criminal the police are seeking?” I ask.
“
Of course not.” He stands with the assistance of my extended arm. “Mister, isn’t your card working? Are you disenfranchised?”
I am not sure how to respond to that. I nod. “Yes, my card is damaged. I am an industrial worker at the Chrysler plant, and my—”
“
Let’s get out of here!” he says, running toward my car. Two men are attempting to break inside. The weapons-fire is growing nearer.
“
Step away from the car,” I say. One of the men turns toward me and withdraws a 2191 Smith & Wesson .27 from a coat pocket. He points it at me.
“
It’s mine now,” he says. “Open it and transfer control to me. This is my ID data.”
He frowns; perhaps he realizes I am not receiving, or perhaps I have not responded soon enough. Naturally, I am not afraid for my well-being: This body is hardened against small-arms fire, and I can move faster than he can depress the weapon’s trigger, so I will not need to “die.” But the boy could be hurt. I cannot allow that to happen.
“
My card is inoperative,” I say. “I will have to open the car manually.” I cross to the car and reach my left hand toward the recognition-plate.
With my right hand, I reach out faster than any human could hope to do so, grabbing the pistol from the thief.
“
Now leave me alone before I report you to the police,” I say. The man stares slack-jawed for a moment. When his partners turn and begin to run with the last of the people leaving the area, he also leaves. I hear the boy’s light footsteps behind me and turn to face him.
“
That was great, Mr. Servare,” he says.
His eyes show a look I understand, that of pleasure and admiration. I feel pleasure at recognizing this, and that he has sought and found my assumed name. “Call me Bill,” I say, as is culturally correct.
“
Let’s get out of here before the beatcoats find us, Bill,” he says, moving past me toward the car.
I listen and realize the Mobile Hostile Zone has advanced as far as the next block. I nod to the boy and open the car. When the clear top has risen barely enough to allow him inside, the boy climbs over the curved body and into the passenger seat. Zero-point-two seconds later, I join him and order the top to close. Hydraulics move painfully slow, and the car will not move while its top is not yet fastened, so we have to wait another 3.1 seconds before the turbine lights up. Another 6.4 seconds pass before the turbine reaches operable speed, but by then it is shut down externally and the control screen lights up.
“
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO LEAVE MHZ,” it reads, over and over. “REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE.” The turbine slows to a stop.
“
Shit, shit, shit,” the boy begins chanting. I turn to him.
“
There is no need to worry, unless the police are seeking you,” I say.
“
Oh, right,” he says, snidely. “Let me out.”
“
That would be dangerous. Look, the police are very close. I am transmitting compliance. We will be safe inside the car.”
To emphasize the danger of leaving, I point toward the approaching armored cars, their beetle-shaped shells creeping along the alley. A large number of armored police walk behind the cars, various models of EMMA rifles in their hands. At random intervals, they fire at windows in the buildings on each side of them. Also randomly, chunks of debris are thrown down upon them from above. A few of the police carry sonic grenade-launchers, and just now one of them fires a grenade into a window from which an old appliance had been dropped.