Serviceable Parts Inside

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Dorothy sighed and pushed herself back from the gurney on which her husband’s motionless body lay.

Not for the first time she wondered if she shouldn’t just throw in the towel and buy a new one.

His head plate removed, and the replacement cerebral core reinstalled, all that should be left to be done was to restore from one of the two redundant backups she’d made before the repair.

How hard could this be? How goddamned hard?

She’d followed the instructions, ordered a pair of backup units, shut him down, backed him up, and confirmed both backups were complete.

The brain container had opened without too much trouble, the tools provided in the kit did the hard work, and the cerebral core popped out of its socket without any resistance at all. She was careful not to touch the new one for fear of getting any foreign contaminant on it, as there were service notes about oils from the skin resulting in corrosion over time in rare cases. She wasn’t taking any chances.

She’d powered him up, reformatted the new core, and reinstalled the base OS from the net. He was a seven-year-old model, so she needed to load the system he shipped with when he’d uplifted, and then she could upgrade and apply the service packs, patches, and hotfixes to get him back up to date before she could even think about restoring his memories and personality data.

Three times she’d had the install fail.

The first time the core OS installed, and then at some point during the service pack installs the network connection must have slowed and timed out, leaving Clark in an unbootable state.

Reformat, restart.

The second time the core OS installed, all the updates were applied as expected, but when she tried to restore Clark from backup, the host hadn’t validated the license, and refused to exit activation mode.

Two hours on phone support and the solution was to reformat and reinstall from a different server.

She contemplated just restoring him on the base, seven-year-old OS. She really had no idea what features were missing anymore, or how he’d take it. He’d been a bit of an ass about this whole issue in the first place, ignoring the fact that he’d clearly been suffering from badly fragmented and degraded memory for ages, and trying to convince her that it was she who couldn’t remember things correctly. As if. Nervy little prick.

If she was being honest with herself, she’d be happy to just leave him turned off in the basement for a while.

Maybe a little peace and quiet would do her good.

Was that illegal?

Dorothy wondered if that was covered in the terms and conditions anywhere.

She sighed. Just look at him there, helpless, turned off. She chuckled. Did either of them turn each other on anymore?

She restarted the updates and drew a bedsheet up to his chin, before turning off the lights and heading upstairs.

A watched pot and all that.

Besides, there was a bottle of wine that wasn’t going to drink itself, and she was pretty sure he’d still be there in the morning.

When They Turn Out The Lights

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer

When you’re hurtling through space, distance and time become distorted.

Celestial bodies appear, and disappear, sometimes in the blink of an eye, the instrumentation the only proof they existed. Sometimes they seem to drift past over the course of several days, or weeks.

If not for the sensors, and the computer doing the math, it would be impossible to know exactly how far, or how close these dangers really were.

There’s nobody here to look now, to stare into the void with me. There’s nothing to see from here anyway, nobody’s missing anything.

In the cafeteria, if you’d lived here as long as I have, you would recognize the evidence of Petra and Olaf having had breakfast together, as their meal trays are where they left them on the table. Again. You would also know that Scott hadn’t made it to the cafeteria today, because those meal trays hadn’t been cleaned up, accompanied by the racket of his loud and incessant fussing.

The command module is similarly devoid of life, and one might confuse the mess as evidence of a struggle, but honestly, the Captain and his First Officer had devolved from their ‘everything by the book’ lifestyle to being little better than slobs over the last year. Had it been a year? More than a year? Time, right?

In the crew quarters, what was once pristinely organized now looks like a bomb went off in it, clothing and vac suit components strewn on the benches, bunks, and floor. Weapons, once neatly stored in locked compartments in the event of a landing, or intercept with a hostile foreign vessel, now lie scattered and abandoned in the hallways.

That sound is the nightfall warning. In thirty minutes the ship will gradually dim all but the essential lighting to simulate night. It’s one of the systematic mechanisms designed to enforce a regular schedule in a vacuum with no sun, no natural day or night. Structure. Familiarity. Routine. All very important on these long haul missions.

I remember stories of the land of the midnight sun, in the North on Earth where the sun was visible in the sky for months without setting. I remember how some people struggled if their days went unbroken by real night for too long.

I remember Earth too. Seems like a lifetime ago.

Through the viewport at the rear of the ship, I can no longer make out the remains of the crew. They may be out there, just beyond the limits of my vision. I can still hear them, I think. I can’t get their voices out of my head. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that they were here, but when you’re hurtling through space… Distance and time, did we talk about this already?

It doesn’t matter.

It’s going to get dark soon.

Will you stay with me?

Otherwise, when they turn out the lights, there won’t be anything left between myself, and me.

Retrieval

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer

The crawler sat heavily on massive tires in the only area of the hanger not lost in shadow. Its exterior bristled with scanning apparatus, and Baker knew from experience every cubic unit of interior space was packed with storage. The smell of diesel exhaust and carnage clung to it, off-gassing slowly into the cavernous expanse of the building.

On a cluster of hastily assembled tables beside the crawler sat banks of field processors, tethered to it with thick fibre lines. Nearby squatted the base unit for the field VR rig and beside that a pair of alloy frame and mesh loungers, their headjack lines coiled, waiting.

“We combed the zone for nearly two days. If there was an asset down in there, we’ve got their cerebral IP in the bank. It’s been defragging since eighteen hundred, and we’ve got a bunch of completes.”

The technician pointed Baker towards the VR rig. “If you want to jack in, we can start spinning them up for review.”

Baker nodded. He was tired – adrenalin, stimulants, and hope were the only thing keeping him together, but he had to know.

“Light me up.”

He straddled one of the loungers, leaned forward, and held the end of the datacable behind his head. The limp strands of fibre twitched to life, each straining to find purchase in the socket at the base of his skull. He let it pull itself close, and once the first tendrils engaged the entire bundle slithered from his grasp into his skull, jacking him fully into virtual.

The transition into the suite was rough. This was a primitive field hospital terminal, and each of the lives his squad had scraped out of the massacre would get spun up into an androgynous, grey body, their eyes molded shut with bandages to prevent them from seeing what or where they were. They would struggle with the sound of their voice, and if they tried to feel their own bodies, the struggle could get much, much worse.

For hours Baker paged through one retrieved asset after another, the virtual hours taking a fraction of that time in the real, but Baker’s body logged the fatigue in perceived time just the same. Many came in screaming and thrashing, irretrievable, and he spun them down and marked them for deletion. Most were confused, they’d been fighting what seemed to them only moments ago, and now they were… where? Dead? Alive, but incorporeal? Baker spun those down too, marking them for potential refurb and redeployment.

Then he found the needle in this hellish haystack.

They came up calm. Took a moment to explore the edges of the gurney they spawned in on with tentative fingertips. Felt the swath of bandages covering their eyes.

“I’d recognize this low rez medivac horseshit anywhere.” The voice was clear, focused.

“Do you know who you are?” Baker asked, hopeful.

The construct smiled the nearest approximation of a wry smile. “Of course I know who I am Baker, don’t you?” There was a pause as the VR rig matched their brainwaves with coded signature reference points and rerendered the commander’s avatar more accurately. “How long have I been down?”

“We lost you four days ago, took some manoeuvering to get a team in here.” Baker stood, forcing his weary body to attention. “Welcome back Sir. We’ve got a body in the tank waiting, the tech’s will start infilling any gaps in your recovery from your backup and prep for reinsertion.” He allowed a tired smile to find purchase. “I’ll see you in the real, real soon.”

Baker took a long look at her, magnificent even in low rez, and ejected, letting the cable slip lifeless from his neck.

The technician was hovering nearby.

“This is her?”

Baker nodded. “Get her back in a body, we’ve got a mission to finish.”

He lay back on the lounger, fatigue and relief washing over in waves. It would take most of the night to reconstitute her, but he could wait now, wait and sleep.

Embedded

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer

She studied his naked body as he slept, unconsciousnessly comparing the network of scars to a mental map burned into her subconscious. Every knife wound, bullet hole, piece of shrapnel, every evidence of every torture session, a testament to his fidelity.

There was no doubt of who he was, even with the marks of atrocities undocumented in her memory, she knew, without a doubt, this was the man.

Her entire life had been spent pursuing him, at least so much of her life she no longer had any memory of anything else.

Studying his philosophy, almost adopting it as her own.

Understanding his motivations, his beliefs with an intensity bordering on fanaticism, until she worried she would lose her sense of where she ended and he began.

She knew him, understood him, almost sympathized with him in a way she never believed was possible when this mission began.

And yet here she was.

So many insignificant lives lost, so much incidental collateral damage.

The killings, the bombs, the engineered catastrophes, in his name. For this. To get close to him, to get this close, to be sure.

As she studied the rise and fall of his chest, listened to the measured cadence of his breath, the sweat of each other’s exertions still fresh on his skin, she nearly forgot that he wasn’t a man. He was something else, something fabricated, an automaton manufactured by the other side for the sole purpose of sowing chaos and discord, a machine of subversive terror and destruction.

And she’d finally gotten to him.

She wondered if he even knew what he was, as he gave no indication that he did so. He spoke of his youth, the abuses by her people that had led him to become what he’d become. Were those implanted, those memories? Did he have any memories of his own, any memory of anything else?

She pushed her thumb inside her mouth into the top molars on the right side. Those were the instructions. They wouldn’t be tracking her until it was time, couldn’t be in case such a signal was detected. Instead, she’d left updates, cryptic messages on napkins and such in restrooms along the way to mark progress, but now she would be broadcasting her location and they would come for him, for them both.

“Thirty minutes,” they had said in the briefings, “we’ll have choppers on standby. Thirty minutes from your signal to insertion and evac.”

As she waited, she lay her head on his chest, felt the steady beating of his heart, listened to the rhythm of his breathing.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Absently she traced the line of scar tissue from a mortar strike where it followed his collar bone.

For was a moment she felt something she hadn’t felt before, heat rising in her chest. Was this guilt? Regret? Did she love him?

From the street one would have observed the light and heat of a small sun as the incursion unit nova’d, erasing itself and all evidence of the terrorist unit, then settling to the slow, steady task of reducing the building to ash while it waited for the fire department to arrive.

Conspicuous Failure

Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer

The two technicians parked the ArVee down a side street and covered the last hundred meters on foot. They took up a position in the shelter of an alley behind a battered wall with a clear view of the square.

The combat frame they had the open trouble ticket on was seated on the broken rim of the fountain in the square’s center, its heavy weapon laid across its feet between its legs and a hand cannon gripped in its right hand. Behind it, a pair of concrete dolphins hovered in the air, part of some forgotten water feature now run dry.

As they watched, the humanoid frame raised the pistol to its temple, and a fraction of a second before it pulled the trigger, it jerked the barrel just enough to one side so the round missed its head completely, tearing noisily into a building in the distance.

“What the absolute fuck is it doing?” Zune, the more junior of the two gaped in disbelief. “Do these things even get depressed?”

The frame reloaded the hand cannon, paused, then repeated the motion exactly, pulling the barrel off target at the last instant so the round didn’t impact its cranial casing.

“It’s a troubleshooting indicator, it’s designed like that so that critical failures are conspicuous.” Dek was scrolling through pages of documentation as he spoke. “Same reason your cabin rebreather leaks onto your bunk when it backs up so you fix it. Stops you from ignoring a stuck pressure relief valve until the unit explodes and vents you and the contents of your cabin into space you while you sleep.” Not finding what he’d been looking for, he scrolled back to the top and began searching more slowly. “It can’t hurt itself, so the indicator’s not terminal. Love to meet the dumbass that didn’t think through the collateral damage on this thing though.”

Zune tried connecting to the frame from his console without success. “Remote diagnostics is down.”

“Of course it’s down, if remote dee was up, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

Dek could swear these techs got thicker skulls every tour.

“Send the shutdown codes, then we can take a closer look. I don’t see that behaviour anywhere in the maintenance code list, I have no idea what failure that’s indicative of.”

Zune dialed up the frame overrides in his HUD, and sent the shutdown codes.

The frame turned to look in their direction, then placed the hand cannon on the fountain rim beside it, and rested both hands on its thighs and stopped moving.

Zune stayed in the alley watching the thermals on his HUD until the frame had been absolutely still for a full minute.

“Got it, stupid bucket’s a brick now, I’ll go jack in and see what it’s got to say for itself”

Dek turned to respond as Zune stepped out of the shelter of the alley mouth. The frame kicked its heavy weapon up off the ground into its waiting hands, and in a deafening barrage of slugs, Zune and most of the brickwork near where he’d just been standing disappeared into a cloud of dust and mist.

Dek didn’t wait to see if the frame was ambulatory, he dropped his gear and sprinted to the ArVee, reversing at full throttle until he was sure he was safely clear of the area.

“Control this is TK two one nine, that twitchy frame you sent us to check out? It’s got a faulty remote shutdown, and a faulty loyalty subsystem. I’m going to need an orbital strike with extreme prejudice. Frame is off-leash, asset irretrievable.”

Dek paused, trying to will his heart rate back down to something bordering mildly terrified.

“I’m going to need a new tech too,” he added after a few minutes, “and a day off.”

He turned the ArVee around without stopping, braking, steering, and hammering the gas again in one smooth practiced motion, then continued racing clear of the strike zone, glancing nervously skyward in anticipation of the hand of god railing down.

There was going to be hell to pay with the documents division when he got back to base.