Solaris Rising 2 (32 page)

Although there were other bots working at the port, I had been able to identify Alex easily enough. An old colleague at ManMade had told me where the boy had asked to be sent after the procedure, which coincided with the arrival of a new shiny laborer at the docks a few days later. Alex’s sparkling steel frame stood out among the slightly rusted, older-model bots.

I had filed a complaint with the authorities that triggered an investigation into Maddox’s treatment of the BL4s. He denied everything, of course, making it my word against his. And Alex was no longer available to testify, as Maddox had intended all along. Fortunately, agents uncovered a cache of hidden recordings that Maddox had made, recordings of acts so sick and cruel they could only have come from the mind of a sociopath. I’d always considered Maddox a bit eccentric, but that he could be capable of such sadism... How could I have let this go on right under my nose? How could I not have seen what was happening? To make matters worse, Maddox’s lawyer had argued persuasively that the incidents with the converts had taken place prior to the final passage of SERA, making the acts, at most, crimes against property. This resulted in a plea deal for Maddox to serve only a year of house arrest.

What did all of this say about humanity? I could almost understand Alex’s despondency. The only upside was that Maddox would never again work with AI conversions.

As I stood there watching the docks, a crate slipped from an older bot’s arms and crashed to the ground, breaking open. Something round and metallic rolled in my direction. Alex sped towards me to retrieve it. As he caught sight of me for the first time, I held my breath.

I thought I saw something in his cold lidless eye – an instant of recognition – but maybe it was just the glint of reflected sunlight. He spun around in silence and returned to work. I decided to walk back home.

I had assumed that the other BL4s with emotional problems had also been victimized by Maddox, but ManMade’s records, according to the authorities, revealed that neither Alex nor Milt ever had any interactions with them. This left me to wonder what could have made the others feel so desperate, so hopeless. What terrible secrets had tortured them so? Or maybe they had no secrets. Maybe just being human was torment enough. No, I refused to accept that. Everything I’d told Alex about experiencing the joy of life, about making a difference... I believed it. I honestly did. Maybe Alex’s reversion had finally brought him the peace, the serenity, he never found as a human being.

I arrived at home and spent the afternoon cleaning the living room and doing laundry. Later in the evening, after unsealing the bottle of Livorex and taking my meds, I boiled some water for tea, foregoing dinner. I poured myself a cup and opened the living room window, letting in a cool, salt-tinged breeze. The bruised moon now hung high in the sky and lit the dark room. I sat down on the sofa and sipped the tea while staring at the Steinway piano by the window. When the pill’s calming effect kicked in, I got up and walked over to Tim’s holos displayed on the piano.

“Tim,” I said, running my trembling finger along the edges of his image. “Oh, Tim. Why did you do it?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I breathed hard, gathered myself.

“Replay,” I commanded. I expected to hear Tim’s piano-playing, but instead Alex’s haunting performance, the last piece played on the keyboard, bloomed out of nowhere. It sounded the same, but somehow different. Still mournful, yet more tender and complex than I remembered. The melody repeated over and over like the mantra of a boy desperately struggling to find his soul. And in that struggle, the music he created sounded more glorious, more alive, than ever before.

THE CIRCLE OF LEAST CONFUSION

MARTIN SKETCHLEY

Martin Sketchley is a British science fiction author. He has had three novels published to date, as well as numerous short stories and articles. He also appeared on the DVD accompanying the 2012 reissue of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ album Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus. Tweet him
@MartinSketchley
.

M
ARK ROLLED OVER.
Kate was just stirring. The alarm on her phone had already been snoozed three times. It must be around seven by now.

Mark moved towards her, slid under the duvet and began to kiss her belly. Kate sighed and shifted, put a hand on his head and gently pushed him away.

Mark moved up the bed and began to kiss Kate’s neck and ear. “Morning,” he whispered.

She put an arm around him. “Morning.”

He continued to kiss her, began to caress.

“I’ve got to get up in a minute,” she said. “I need to wash my hair.”

“It’s only seven. There’s plenty of time.”

She gave another gentle push. “Mark. Please.”

He sighed, backed away from her and leaned on one elbow. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m not in the mood, that’s all. I’ve just woken up. And I really do need to wash my hair.”

“Okay. Well we can’t have you going another day without washing your hair, can we? You might be sick again.”

He threw open the duvet and walked out of the bedroom.

“Mark.
Mark
.”

He ignored her.

Kate sighed and stared at the ceiling. As soon as she could tell him, things would be so much easier.

M
ARK WALKED INTO
the bedroom as Kate was drying her hair. He took his keys from the bedside table then walked over to her. “I’ll see you later then,” he said.

She leaned forwards, but his kiss was flat. She turned and smiled and put her arms around him. He did not return her embrace.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you another time. Promise.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Kate looked towards the door. “What’s that noise?”

“David and Elanor having another argument.”

“Blimey, they’ve started early.”

“Yeah. Apparently he only thinks about himself. Doesn’t care what she wants.”

“And it’s taken her this long to work that out?”

“Seems so. Look, I’ve got to go. Otherwise it’ll be me who’s late. See you later.” He gave her another quick peck on the lips then left.

Kate placed the hair dryer on to the dresser, waited until she heard the front door close then went over to her own bedside cabinet. She pulled open the drawer, moved aside the bank statements and pantyliners and took out the box from the very back. She looked at it for a few moments, then went into the bathroom.

K
ATE LEANED BACK
with her head resting against the bathroom wall. She kept looking at her phone; it was the longest two minutes ever, but she was determined not to look for the result until the required time had elapsed.

She consulted her phone again: twenty-three minutes past eight. The two minutes were up, but she decided to give it a little longer anyway. Just to be safe.

She felt more apprehensive than excited. Mark had talked about kids for ages, but she had resisted, partly due to her own fears, but to some extent influenced by Liz and some of the other girls. They were firmly against kids. Could not bring children into this world of greed and war, they said. It just wasn’t right. More likely they were too used to having everything their own way. Did not want to give up their nights out, their shopping trips, their precious careers.

Was she like them? She was not sure. She and Mark had talked about kids on and off over the years. One evening when neither of them could be bothered to cook they had walked to their local takeaway. By the time they reached the restaurant they had convinced themselves that the time was right to start a family. By the time they got home again they had talked themselves out of the idea.

Although she continued to have concerns about the huge changes a child would bring, Kate had stopped taking the pill a few months earlier. She took the decision not to tell Mark until something happened: he would only fuss and fluster.

When she could wait no longer Kate put her phone on the windowsill and turned to face the toilet. The Clearblue tester lay on the cistern. She could hardly look at it.

She took several long, slow breaths, then picked up the tester and looked at the indicator without further hesitation.

T
HE
V
ITARIAT SNIPER
called Cairo climbed to the crest of the hill and crept through the trees into the ancient ruins that overlooked the Qrettic outpost. She lay on one of the derelict walls, settled herself among the decaying leaves and took the teleculars from her gear pack.

The war that had lasted three millennia and spanned two thousand light years had boiled down to a few pockets of resistance scattered on remote worlds; small outposts such as the one before her, spread out across a dozen solar systems. The destruction of every last soul was essential for complete victory, however time-consuming the task might be.

When this particular group had been detected there were reports that a notorious high-ranking officer – Orchestrator Lutz, head of the Qrettic Organic Development Module – was present. The unusually high level of security in such a remote location made the claim credible. The Orchestrator’s assassination had the potential to hasten the end of the war, so Cairo was assigned: an expert sniper experienced in the use of slipspace. Stealth was essential. Cairo had entered the planet’s atmosphere several thousand miles away and flown at low level to the landing site near the river to the south. The rest of her journey had been made on foot, with just limited rations, her weapons and a displacement unit. Avoiding detection had taken all of her skill. Getting away would be more difficult, but she had escaped from similarly challenging situations before.

She watched the base carefully through the teleculars. There was some activity, but she had only limited information. The laboratories were to the east, comms building to the west, kitchens and sleeping quarters on the northern side of the encampment.

Cairo lowered her teleculars and grasped the displacer that was attached to the front of her tunic. The blue sphere glowed gently in her hand. Using the device would push her into slipspace — the fragments of time between moments, the constantly shifting layers between adjacent dimensions. It was in this strange netherworld that she would be able to see combinations of future events, a variety of possibilities. Although the projections would be complex, Cairo was highly experienced in filtering such information, and although entering slipspace had its risks, the device was key to the mission’s success.

Cairo looked down at the Qrettic encampment, grasped the displacer and twisted the two halves of the device in opposite directions.

There was a click, followed by a tremulous whistling that rose in pitch and increased in intensity; when the sound of the device reached its peak, the visualisations began.

C
AIRO FELT THE
familiar rushing sensation. Voices echoed around her, a babble of disjointed words – spirits and half-lives and a multitude of ghostly existences that had once populated this ruin. The trees shimmered and distorted.

Cairo’s heart beat hard, but she could barely feel the rest of her body. She knew she could not spend too long in this indeterminate state, and would have to focus carefully to prevent the displacer pushing her too far into the future: the next few minutes was all she needed, and the further she went the more difficult it would become to analyse the information correctly, even for someone as highly trained and experienced as she. Cairo raised the teleculars to her eyes again and looked down at the enemy encampment.

Just minutes into the future she saw several figures emerge from the laboratories. She recognised Orchestrator Lutz immediately. Given his swagger, he had presumably made another notable advance in the development of his organic technologies.

Surrounded by a sizeable entourage, Lutz walked across the courtyard, past the truck, then took a short flight of steps and, shrouded in ghostly slipspace duplicates, entered another building at the base of the communications assembly. Cairo observed carefully as the displacer reset.

She watched as the same group emerged from the same building. They followed an identical route to the first visualisation until they were half way across the compound, at which point they climbed aboard the truck. The engine started, then the vehicle proceeded to the gate and left the base.

The device reset once more. A moment later the scene repeated, but on this occasion the party split into two groups: the one which included Lutz continued towards the communications building on the other side of the courtyard, while the second group turned and retraced its steps. As this second group approached the building from which it had emerged, another identical group appeared and met it head-on.

The two groups became a collection of doppelgangers and duplicates that mingled and mixed, flickering and distorting in the strange slipspace twilight, possible scenarios for the next few minutes combining and looping. Cairo had to concentrate hard to identify the most likely chain of events. She determined that if Lutz had made a notable development he would want to inform his superiors as soon as possible. The communications building represented the most likely course.

Despite Cairo’s training and ability to focus, the intensity of the slide began to cause disorientation. Recognising the warning signs, the sniper deactivated the displacer and withdrew from slipspace.

The sounds of the woodland abruptly returned; the cold stone of the ruin upon which she lay, the scent of damp earth. She felt a snap of nausea, could feel sweat across her brow, took a few deep breaths to return herself to a rested state.

The possibilities and opportunities now clear to her, Cairo did not have long to wait.

K
ATE’S PHONE BUZZED.
She leaned down from her desk and took the handset from her bag. It was Mark. She thumbed the
Accept
button.

“Hi,” said Mark.

“Hello.”