Expendable

by James Alan Gardner

  After another minute of walking, the man turned to the outside wall of the dome and threw up his arms, shouting, “Behold, O Queen!” A moment later, a section of dome wall thirty meters wide and twenty high popped backward with a soft hiss. I tensed, fearing a deluge of water might suddenly pour through the breach. No such flood occurred; and as we watched, the wall dropped back four more paces, then slid sideways on guide tracks, revealing a large, well-lit chamber.

  Or more accurately, a large, well-lit aircraft hangar.

  Daggers Before Me, Handles Toward My Hand

  Five fliers stood in a perfect line before me, each fashioned to look like a chiseled glass bird. The closest was a goose, wings and tail outspread, head stretched straight forward; it ran twenty meters long, with space for two riders, side by side in the middle of the bird’s body. The next plane was an eagle, then a jay, then an owl, and lastly a generic songbird which the little man said was a lark. All were stylized, their feathers mere suggestions, their shapes trimmed and streamlined for better aerodynamics…but then, the same was true of Oar. Like her, these craft were Art Deco versions of living creatures.

  Yet they were also working airplanes: jets, by the look of them, though the tiny engines were artfully incorporated into the wing structures to look like fluffed regions of feathers. I counted four such engines on each wing, plus two more on the tail. Each was small, but their combined power must pack a kick if you really needed propulsion.

  Only one thing spoiled the planes’ sleek, birdlike appearance: each had four charcoal-gray cylinders mounted on their bellies. Fuel tanks? I wondered. No—they were impractically long and slender. Rockets for extra boost in emergencies? Sensor arrays?

  Then the explanation came to me—an archaic concept dating back to the earliest days of aviation. The cylinders were missiles. Weapons. Designed to be shot at other planes or ground targets where they would explode on impact.

  “Bloody hell,” I murmured. “Where did those come from?”

  “Fashioned at behest of the first generations,” the AI-man answered cheerfully.

  “That’s hard to believe,” I snapped. “The first generations must have been primitive hunter-gatherers. They didn’t wake up one morning, saying ‘We’d like some warplanes, please.’”

  “You have the right of that,” the man conceded. “But the League took in hand the education of those who came to this place. One generation followed hard on another; and within a handful of centuries, they advanced to devices like these.”

  He waved proudly at the killer birds.

  “You actually built them weapons on demand? Of course, you did,” I went on without letting him answer. “The synthesizers made that axe for Oar. As long as no one took weapons offplanet, the League didn’t care.”

  “They cared, O queen,” the man replied. “All violence cuts them to the very quick. Yet they grant each species the right to choose its course, within the containment of its proper sphere.”

  “So you helped this town build…wait a second. I thought you only followed instructions from people with skin. After the first generation, wasn’t everyone made of glass?”

  “By no means,” he answered. “Though many firstcomers chose to be so altered that their children gleamed with health, others held to the frailty of flesh. That path was hard; what mother can watch her child ravaged by fever without vowing her nextborn shall not suffer? What father can bear the bitter spectacle of his children continually bested by those swifter of mind and foot? Pricked by such thorns, more chose the way of glass with each passing year; yet not all. Not all. And those who walked with hollow-eyed Death bedogging their steps like a shadow, those stubborn folk of deliberately mortal flesh…why, they saw devils in every dust mote and knives in every open hand. What wonder that they demanded fearsome engines of war? Death was the currency of their lives: the only coin they had to spend, the only coin they could demand of their enemies. And so it continued until the last such purse was emptied.”

  I stared at him. “You mean the people of flesh warred themselves into extinction?”

  “That overstates the matter,” he replied. “They fought but little, for their numbers were small. Yet they forged their arsenals with the diligence of fear; and fear, more than all, became their undoing. Frighted people yearn to protect their families. What better protection could they find than immortality? Wherefore, as voices of war grew clamorous, more among their number claimed the gift of alteration…until there came a day when every child was glass, and no new flesh was born. The drums of anger fell into silence; and if the crystal children wished to continue their parents’ hates, I stopped mine ears to their cries. I and my kind do not serve them—they need no such service. But you, milady…you shall I serve and right gladly.”

  My mouth was open, ready to snap back a retort—as if I wanted an AI to put killer jets at my disposal!—but I stopped myself from hastiness. With a flier, Oar and I could reach the southern mountains in short order: no long days carrying packs, no frigid river fords, no confrontations with wolves.

  And (my stomach fluttered) I might be face to face with Jelca before nightfall.

  “Which plane can I take?” I asked.

  The AI-man beamed. “The lark, milady; the herald of the morn.”

  The First Farewell

  Short minutes later, I stole past the dirt-worn banners of Tobit’s home, hoping I could sneak in and back without being noticed. Through the glass wall ahead, I could see our equipment: my pack and the food synthesizer. I could also see the four Morlocks and Tobit, sprawled in comatose luxuriousness, passed out from drinking. It was just the way I wanted to leave them.

  Not that I expected them to stop us from getting away—they’d let the other Explorers go—but I didn’t want them to know how we went. The AI had kept the hangar secret because its planes were only intended for flesh-and-blood human use. But Tobit was as much flesh-and-blood as I was; if he detached his prosthetic arm, he could command the AI like a despot. Melaquin had enough troubles without a souse in charge of a fighter squadron.

  My pack was close to the door of the room; also close to a Morlock woman with a slosh of booze in her stomach. Tendrils of brown extended threadlike through her abdomen, the alcohol slowly becoming part of her, diffusing into the background transparency. The zoologist in me felt fascinated, curious to stay and watch the complete process of digestion—but the prospect made me queasy. How could these people watch such a thing happen to themselves?

  But they didn’t watch it. They were out cold.

  Or so I thought.

  “Leaving so soon?” asked Tobit as I lifted my backpack.

  He lay spreadeagled on the floor. He had not moved a muscle except to open his eyes.

  “I have the chance to go,” I told him. “I thought I might as well.”

  “Another shark came in?” he asked. “Or is it two sharks: one for you and one for your…friend.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “You can keep the sharks from leaving if you want to spend more time resting from the road. There’s a toggle-switch on the airlock door; flip it and the machines won’t go till you’re ready.”

  “Still…” I said.

  “You want to leave,” he finished my sentence. “Of course you do. There’s nothing that interests you here.”

  He lowered his gaze to the floor. A good actor could have made the moment poignant, but Tobit was too drunk for that. The line between tragic and maudlin is too thin.

  “You can leave too,” I told him. “Hop a shark. Go south. The other Explorers will be happy to see you.”

  “You think that, do you?”

  “Phylar,” I said, with a trace of anger, “don’t blame the world for your own sulkiness. If you’re feeling lonely or hard done by, it’s because you deliberately choose to isolate yourself. There’s nothing genuinely wrong with you. You’re perfectly all right. Stop bitching about your lot in life if you never make an effort to fix things.”


  He stared at me for a moment. Then he broke into deep gut-busting laughter, not mean or forced, but sincerely spontaneous. “What?” I demanded; but that just sent him into fresh gusts, long and loud—as if this was the first time in his life he’d been totally delighted.

  I couldn’t understand it. With burning cheeks, I heaved up my pack and stormed out the door.

  Essential Maintenance

  By the time I returned to the hangar, the place buzzed with service drones of all types: everything from an automated fuel truck filling up long-dry tanks to a bevy of chipcheckers no bigger than my thumbnail, crawling like beetles over the lark’s hull in search of structural flaws. A gray haze around the craft showed there were nanites at work too, microscopically reconstituting any systems that had rotted or corroded since the last time such repairs had been made.

  I wondered how often this flurry of maintenance had taken place over the past four thousand years. Once a decade? Once a month? High-tech equipment has a half-life comparable to fast-decaying radioactive elements—even in a sealed, climate-controlled storage chamber, components willfully break down as soon as you turn your back. Still, the AI in charge must have done its best to keep the craft functional over the centuries: replacing a circuit here and a rivet there, until each plane had been rebuilt completely several dozen times. The service checks taking place before my eyes were a matter of form, not necessity…I hoped.

  (In the back of my mind, I couldn’t forget how the AI’s holographic projection had flickered that once. There were glitches in the system. I crossed my fingers that the nanites clouding around my plane were repairing faults, not causing them.)

  Something beeped impatiently behind me. I stepped quickly out of the way of a flatbed dolly that wheeled itself under the glass goose. Already waiting there were a frame-mounted pair of robot arms, patiently holding a missile they had detached from the plane’s belly. With commendable gentleness, the arms lowered the payload onto the dolly then went to work on the next missile. As newly anointed queen, I had given strict orders to the AI: no more weapons, now or ever. The missiles were to be removed and dismantled as fast as safety allowed. For all I knew, their firing mechanisms might already be dead—a team of nanites could gut several kilos of wiring in seconds.

  The naked man bloomed into existence in front of me. “All proceeds apace, milady. You and your daughter may soon depart.”

  “And you’re sure I’ll have no trouble piloting?”

  “Do you but speak your smallest wish, and on the instant, your craft will obey.”

  “Good.” I had no objection to voice-controlled flight. My teachers at the Academy claimed there was no technical barrier to creating an automated starship that would outperform human operators on every scale. However, the Admiralty would never allow such a ship to be developed. If you did away with Vac crews, you couldn’t help seeing that the only essential personnel in the Fleet were Explorers.

  ECMs. Essential crew members. I liked the sound of that.

  Flightworthy

  Oar stood against one wall of the hangar, her eyes wide at the sight of so much hustle and bustle. I walked over and said, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “I do not like machines that move,” she answered. “Especially the small ones. They are like stupid little animals.”

  “They aren’t so stupid,” I told her. “They’re making sure we can fly.”

  “We will fly inside that bird?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far can we fly, Festina? Can we fly to your home in the stars?”

  “These craft look strictly atmospheric,” I answered, “but you bring up an interesting question.” I motioned to the hologram man. “If I asked you to build a starship, could you do it?”

  “Nay, good queen. That is forbidden me. Those who dwell on this planet are rightly granted dominion over their native land and seas; but to step beyond, into the vasty deeps of night, you must make your own way.”

  “Pity,” I said, though his answer didn’t surprise me. The League views interstellar space as sacrosanct—closed to undeserving races. If you weren’t advanced enough to reach space on your own, it was only logical that the League wouldn’t help you. Transporting ancient humans to a safe haven on Melaquin was one thing; giving them the means to gad about the galaxy was something else.

  “How much longer before the bird can take off?” I asked.

  “But a moment’s time,” the hologram replied. “Mayhap you would care to enter now, that your departure can be more swift.”

  I gave Oar a look. “Ready to get in the plane?”

  “Will we truly fly?” she asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “Milady,” the hologram said with a chiding tone, “how can you doubt me? My heart beats to the rhythm of the League of Peoples; shall I then place sentients in harm’s way?”

  I didn’t answer. An AI of the League would never invite a sentient to board a plane that wasn’t safe…but did that really guarantee anything? The AI was not in perfect repair. Would it even know if the aircraft was flightworthy after four thousand years? Or would the sculpted glass wings fall off before we hit cruising speed?

  As if you ever expected to die in bed, I told myself. “Come on,” I said to Oar. “Let’s board.”

  Straps

  The cockpit had two swivel seats, with enough space between them that passengers wouldn’t block each other’s view through either side of the glass fuselage. To aid in sightseeing, there were no clunky controls to get in the way: no steering yoke, no pedals, no levers or dials or switches. That lack disturbed me; voice operation was one thing, but no manual backup was something else. I had no skill flying aircraft, but if we were crashing, I wanted the chance to wrestle blindly with the controls.

  It would give me something to do.

  Oar plopped into the right-hand seat; I helped buckle her in before I took the other chair. “These belts are interesting,” she said, plucking at the X-shaped bands crisscrossing her chest. “Can I make them very tight?”

  “If they’re too tight, you won’t be comfortable.”

  “How tight is too tight?” She yanked on the drawstrap hard enough to jerk her back against the seat. “Is this what wearing clothes feels like?”

  “Depends on the type of clothes,” I answered diplomatically.

  “Perhaps I should have some clothes. The other fucking Explorers said that clothes were a sign of civilization.” She gave another yank on the drawstrap.

  I swiveled my seat away. Although I tried to concentrate on the activities of the maintenance bots outside, from time to time I heard a soft grunt as Oar jerked the straps tighter.

  Ventilation

  The hologram man suddenly appeared beside me, hovering a centimeter above the floor. Bad sign, I thought: evidence that the AI hadn’t accurately calibrated the image to match the height of the cockpit.

  “Gird ye for takeoff,” the man said. “All is in readiness.”

  “How is this going to work?” I asked.

  “Thy carrier bird will ride chariotlike to the next chamber,” he answered, pointing toward the far end of the hangar. A set of doors had begun opening down there; the room beyond was pitch black. “From thence you will pass into the waters that surround this, mine abode.”

  Obviously, the far room was an airlock—a staging point before plunging into the river beyond. “How well does the lark work underwater?” I asked.

  “It was fashioned for that very purpose. Your craft will ascend full fathoms five ’til, cresting the surface, it cleaves the air and soars on high. Once safely borne upon the wind, you may speak to it, guide it, wheresoever you will.”

  “Good,” I nodded. “You’ll shut the door to the main dome once we’re gone?”

  “As you have commanded.”

  “You can’t close up any earlier?”

  “Alas, no. This your conveyance exhales fierce vapors which must be allowed exit into the larger space beyond.”

  “Ventilati
on—fair enough.” I glanced out the window and saw maintenance bots scurrying away. “Looks like we’re ready to launch.”

  “Just so,” the man bowed. “Now prepare thyself. The lark is ready and the wind at help, thy associate ’tends, and everything is bent for the Southland.”

  He winked out instantly. The next moment, the room erupted with the roar of engines.

  An Open Door

  The sound was enough to deafen granite. Instinctively I slapped my chest, right where the MUTE dial was on a tightsuit. If I’d been wearing my helmet, it would have begun generating a similar roar 180 degrees out of phase with the original, canceling the thunderous noise. Without that protection, all I could do was cover my ears and yawn in an attempt to equalize pressure.

  Oar had her mouth open too. I think she was screaming, but I couldn’t hear.

  I prayed for the lark to start taxiing toward the airlock chamber. Once we were surrounded by water, the din would be muffled to a more tolerable level.

  But the lark didn’t move.

  It’s just warming up, I told myself. I tried to remember if jets had to reach a certain heat to operate or if that was some other type of engine. Too bad the Academy avoided giving us even a rudimentary introduction to aviation. Vacuum personnel wanted to keep their monopoly on aeronautics knowledge.

  The roar continued. It must be raising an unholy ruckus in the main part of the habitat—a booming clamor echoing off the dome, reverberating in the closed space.

  “Shit,” I said without hearing my voice. “Tobit will wake up for sure.”

  I faced the main door, my hands pressed hard against my ears. Maybe Tobit would dismiss the sound as a delusion—some DT nightmare, to be avoided, not investigated. But the Morlocks would wake too, asking, “What’s that noise?” in whatever language they spoke. Tobit would know he was missing something.