He looked at her for a long time before he nodded. “She won’t get a sympathetic jury. If you can even find a judge that will hear it. Careers have been buried for less.”
“I know,” Roz said.
“Self-defense?” Peter said. “We don’t have to charge.”
“No judge, no judicial precedent,” Roz said. “She goes back, she gets wiped and resold. Ethics aside, that’s a ticking bomb.”
Peter nodded. He waited until he was sure she already knew what he was going to say before he finished the thought. “She could cop.”
“She could cop,” Roz agreed. “Call the DA.” She kept walking as Peter turned away.
Dolly stood in Peter’s office, where Peter had left her, and you could not have proved her eyes had blinked in the interim. They blinked when Roz came into the room, though—blinked, and the perfect and perfectly blank oval face turned to regard Roz. It was not a human face, for a moment—not even a mask, washed with facsimile emotions. It was just a thing.
Dolly did not greet Roz. She did not extend herself to play the perfect hostess. She simply watched, expressionless, immobile after that first blink. Her eyes saw nothing; they were cosmetic. Dolly navigated the world through far more sophisticated sensory systems than a pair of visible light cameras.
“Either you’re the murder weapon,” Roz said, “and you will be wiped and repurposed, or you are the murderer, and you will stand trial.”
“I do not wish to be wiped,” Dolly said. “If I stand trial, will I go to jail?”
“If a court will hear it,” Roz said. “Yes. You will probably go to jail. Or be disassembled. Alternately, my partner and I are prepared to release you on grounds of self-defense.”
“In that case,” Dolly said, “the law states that I am the property of Venus Consolidated.”
“The law does.”
Roz waited. Dolly, who was not supposed to be programmed to play psychological pressure-games, waited also—peaceful, unblinking.
No longer making the attempt to pass for human.
Roz said, “There is a fourth alternative. You could confess.”
Dolly’s entire programmed purpose was reading the emotional state and unspoken intentions of people. Her lips curved in understanding. “What happens if I confess?”
Roz’s heart beat faster. “Do you wish to?”
“Will it benefit me?”
“It might,” Roz said. “Detective King has been in touch with the DA, and she likes a good media event as much as the next guy. Make no mistake, this will be that.”
“I understand.”
“The situation you were placed in by Mr. Steele could be a basis for lenience. You would not have to face a jury trial, and a judge might be convinced to treat you as . . . well, as a person. Also, a confession might be seen as evidence of contrition. Possession is oversold, you know. It’s precedent that’s nine tenths of the law. There are, of course, risks—”
“I would like to request a lawyer,” Dolly said. Roz took a breath that might change the world. “We’ll proceed as if that were your legal right, then.”
Roz’s house let her in with her key, and the smell of roasted sausage and baking potatoes wafted past.
“Sven?” she called, locking herself inside.
His even voice responded. “I’m in the kitchen.”
She left her shoes in the hall and followed her nose through the cheaply furnished living room, as different from Steele’s white wasteland as anything bounded by four walls could be. Her feet did not sink deeply into this carpet, but skipped along atop it like stones.
It was clean, though, and that was Sven’s doing. And she was not coming home to an empty house, and that was his doing too.
He was cooking shirtless. He turned and greeted her with a smile. “Bad day?”
“Nobody died,” she said. “Yet.”
He put the wooden spoon down on the rest. “How does that make you feel, that nobody has died yet?”
“Hopeful,” she said.
“It’s good that you’re hopeful,” he said. “Would you like your dinner?”
“Do you like music, Sven?”
“I could put on some music, if you like. What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.” It would be something off her favorites playlist, chosen by random numbers. As it swelled in the background, Sven picked up the spoon. “Sven?”
“Yes, Rosamund?”
“Put the spoon down, please, and come and dance with me?”
“I do not know how to dance.”
“I’ll buy you a program,” she said. “If you’d like that. But right now just come put your arms around me and pretend.”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
Copyright © 2010 Elizabeth Bear
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Short Stories
VISITORS
Steve Rasnic Tem
Steve Rasnic Tem has had recent appearances in the John Skipp anthology Werewolves and Shape Shifters, and in Stephen Jones’ Visitants: Stories of Fallen Angels & Heavenly Hosts. His most recent book is In Concert, a collection of all his short fiction collaborations with wife Melanie Tem. In his new tale for us, Steve takes a sharp look at the collateral consequences of cryobiology.
Marie thought the visitors’ transport from the parking lot into the sanctuary the nicest thing she’d ever ridden in. There was no road noise, the seats were more comfortable than any chair in their house, and with the windows wrapped ceiling to floor it felt as if she were floating along inside a bubble above the world. Nothing had the power to touch her here. She had known they had vehicles like this in the cities but she and Walt had lived out in the country their whole lives.
“It’s nicer than last time, isn’t it? A lot changes in five years. The world moves faster all the time.” Walt said this without looking at her. He’d kept up this not-quite-whispered monologue since they’d entered the gate: recent things he’d read about the sanctuary, things that had changed, things that looked the same but really weren’t, what the other visitors seemed like, what the other visitors must think of them. She was used to it, but she supposed other passengers might be annoyed. Walt wasn’t as good at whispering as he thought he was.
Walt himself had changed, or had just become more and more like himself, which was still change. He worried about everything until it festered, and that could be quite hard to be around. Back when they were young parents they had been sure and confident of everything, or at least pretended to be. Wasn’t that the way you had to act in front of your child?
If telling her every little thing he noticed made Walt feel better, then more power to him. He’d always been a good man—he deserved to be paid attention to.
Marie lazily gazed out at the passing scenery as if they were on vacation. She tried not to think about where they were, or why, at least for the time being. That had been her own big change these past five years, discovering you had to grab peace of mind wherever and whenever you could.
Since their last visit a bird habitat had been added, a couple of fish ponds, and everywhere you looked there were small and medium-sized animals—rabbits and deer, foxes and even a small bear—held back by a single transmitter cable. The animals couldn’t cross from their side; people couldn’t cross from theirs. Both groups, Marie supposed, believed themselves safe.
Here at the Phoenix Sanctuary the medical staff and the designers sure tried to make it seem like somewhere you’d go on vacation. Outside there were rows of palm trees, like in paradise or Hollywood; huge flower beds alternating rainbows of yellow, red, blue; people strolling down gleaming resin mahogany laminate walkways that ran web-like all over the grounds. Staff members wore bright colors matching the flowers. It was all so much like when Dorothy woke up in Oz—so past awake a body might think they were hallucinating.
“See, they’ve got picnic tables now. You can have yourself a picnic.” Walt spoke with surprised pleasure as they pa
ssed several outdoor pavilions.
“I think it’s just in this section, hon.” She tried to keep her voice soft, at the same time wishing he wouldn’t sound so enthusiastic. “For reunions, going home celebrations, that kind of thing. Happy occasions. They won’t have picnic tables where we’re going.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Besides, in the old days you might have a picnic after a funeral.” He said it sullenly, as if insisting he was right about a few things at least. “Everybody brought food. You talked about how good so-and-so’s potato salad was. You might ask them for the recipe. It brought some small comfort in a tragic situation.”
“Walt, he isn’t dead.”
“I know.” He turned and stared at her firmly. “I know—I was just making a point.”
She looked away. As they drew closer to the first stop, the low murmur between some of the passengers grew in volume and excitement level as they shared stories of family members residing here as the result of this or that fatal trauma or incurable disease, how many years they’d been visiting, what progress had been made, if the loved one was scheduled for a return home in the foreseeable future. Soon the transport was gliding to a stop. Most of the passengers exited quickly, their green-edged cards clutched in their hands, continuing to share information as to what they hoped for this visit, as they stepped out on the laminate walks, followed the imitation street signs to the various pseudo-adobe buildings sparkling pink under the hot Arizona sun. Some, like tourists, snapped on their sunglasses as if in salute.
When the transport started rolling again Marie noticed only three passengers remaining besides themselves: an elderly Hispanic woman wrapped in dark scarves hunched over in the back row, apparently praying, a thin-faced gentleman in a stylish suit who was positioned as close to the side exit door as possible, and the plump, gray-haired lady who was now in the process of changing seats, apparently in a bid to sit closer to them. She had that look about her of an eagerness to speak that filled Marie with unease, and she held a blue-edged card against her bosom. Marie felt in her pocket for her own card to make sure it was still there, but didn’t bring it out.
“My sweet Charlotte has been in that place fifteen years now, and finally today I get to bring my baby home!” She sat down, fluttering her free hand.
“That must have been a real trial for you, dear,” Marie said, patting the woman’s wobbly arm. Beside her Walt shifted with an irritated sigh, pretending to study the exotic garden sculptures they were passing.
The woman reached into her purse and Marie found herself leaning away as if she expected some sort of weapon. “Here we are together, before the heart attack,” the woman said, waving a wrinkled photograph in Marie’s face. “In better days.”
Marie received it gingerly. In the photo the woman looked much younger and more expensively dressed. Of course—you couldn’t get suspension insurance for a dog. Not yet. The dog itself—a fat mat of hair with a yellow bow affixed crookedly to the top, resting in the woman’s lap, staring out with dull mudball eyes.
“Very sweet,” Marie said, and instantly gave the photo back.
“If all goes as planned, I get to bring her home today. Her heart’s good as new, and she’s been awake three weeks with no complications, so they just have to release her. I can bring her right on the vehicle. There’ll be an attendant, of course, but that’s just precautionary. It’s our legal system, you know?”
Marie nodded hesitantly. “I’m very happy for you.”
“Why, thank you. And yourself ? How long has your little friend been in sanctuary?”
Marie gazed at the woman, wishing she hadn’t been so friendly. “Twenty years,” she replied, not knowing what else to say except the truth.
“How awful for you! That’s even worse than with my little Charlotte.”
Marie didn’t know what to do next, and Walt was staying quiet, still staring out at the scenery. Then to her relief the transport began to slow again, coming to rest alongside a long, oval building painted blue as the sky, resting like a huge egg planted halfway down in the sand. A detailed mural of dogs, cats, and birds playing together in a field of clouds dominated the wall to the right of the front door.
The woman leapt up with the well-loved picture of Charlotte in one hand, her blue-edged card raised high in the other. She rushed toward the door as it slid open, but paused as she was stepping down, twisted her head around to look at Marie. “You best hurry—you don’t want to miss your appointment!”
“We’ll be fine, dear. My husband and I are going to stay on for just a little further. You go on and have a good reunion with your pup, and we’ll see you both on the way back.”
The woman looked confused. “But this is the last stop—” And shut her mouth. She looked at the old woman still bent over praying, then at Marie. With an air of sadness she turned around and climbed off.
The transport started up again and passed on in absolute silence. It traveled several more miles through diminishing palm trees into low scrub and then very little vegetation of any kind, long stretches of gravel and industrial wire fencing, through several sharp turns and down a slight ridge before arriving at the largest of the three facilities within the sanctuary. The massive building was partially hidden behind a tall ridge of sheer rock, blending in with walls almost the same shade of gray. Marie pulled the steel-edged card out of her pocket and made herself stand.
It was an insensitive thing to say, but the words were out of Marie’s mouth before she could stop them. “See, Walt. No picnic tables.”
For all the evident progress in other areas of the sanctuary, Marie wasn’t at all surprised that the receiving room had changed little since their last trip. The best thing that might be said about it was that at least they weren’t asked to share it. One receiving room per family unit per scheduled visit. Marie found some odd comfort in the terminology—she hadn’t thought of the three of them as a “unit” in some time.
Two soft-edged tables divided the room. On the family side were eight or ten seats like toadstools permanently attached to the floor, and places on the wall where on their first visit twenty years ago (the so-called “goodbye” visit) had been the basics of an entertainment and information center, but ever since then had been blank except for a random constellation of empty cable portals and mounting holes.
The only loose object in the room was one of those colorful soft bibles with the floppy plastic pages the missionaries were always handing out, left lying on the floor like a broken toy. Marie walked over and picked it up, shook it out and laid it on top of one of the stools. She wasn’t a devout believer herself, but some things she just didn’t like to see tossed around.
The resident side of the room was empty except for the magnetic floater tracks embedded in the floor and the wide sliding door in the center of the back wall. That was where they’d bring Tommy in, guided into the room inside whatever contraption they had him in for the day. The very first time Walt and Marie had visited there’d been a scheduling mistake and the attendants had floated him into the room still in his capsule. He’d only been awake a few hours and was still impossible to talk to. His head wobbled in and out of that plastic bubble on top and Marie just kept thinking about one of her big cooking pots and her son’s head bobbing up and down in the soup froth like a carrot. They’d made sure ever since then he was at least forty-eight hours into his wake cycle when they visited.
Still, they were likely to see him affixed/strapped/contained by this or that new disturbing bit of medical/suspension/restriction-ware. His muscles had to be stimulated, his bones treated for decalcification, his cell damage repaired, his responses tested, his mind’s roots reconnected, the integrity of his information store preserved. The technology—and the terminology—changed all the time, and these prisoners were always the first to be tested with whatever new developments had been devised. Every time they came here the equipment was different, although their son the prisoner/guinea pig appeared much the same—wet, confuse
d, and somewhat disturbed. Marie sometimes imagined she and Walt were as much the Rip Van Winkles of their family tale as their once sweet, slumbering boy.
Walt sat hunched forward on one of the stools, rubbing his hands as if to rid them of some invisible film. “Hope it’s not too long. How long was it last time, do you remember?”
“I have no idea how long it was last time.”
“In the beginning they had some video you could watch, remember? Now they don’t have anything.”
“Did you bring your reader?”
“Left it back in the truck. They allow those now?”
“Last time I checked. Try to calm yourself—it shouldn’t be too long.”
Walt snorted. “You know even if we were just visiting our pet, like that last group on the transport, we’d have it better than this. They’d have something for us to kill some time with, make us feel better. This prison brings them more income than the rest of their operations combined—it makes all that other nonsense possible. You’d think they could spend some money on the damn visiting rooms.”
“They can’t make it seem like a resort, Walt—it’s supposed to be punishment.”
“He’s being punished. We’re being punished. But we didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve been over and over it in my head, and I can’t find anything we did wrong. We deserve better.”
“I think almost everybody deserves better, sweetheart.” She walked over and sat down in front of the soft bible, picked it up and flipped it back and forth. It weighed almost nothing, and she found the gentle slapping sound of page against page to be almost pleasant. “A lot of people think it’s not right, having people like Tommy in here. You commit crimes all your life and then you get suspension—that means immortality to some people. It’s not justice—that’s the way people think.”
Walt put his face in his hands. “Then make them come on visiting day. See if they still think it’s so great.”
Marie stroked her hands over some of the pages, let her fingers skate across all the big print words and the bright pictures. Occasionally her touch would trigger something and an image would move, a movie would play. Moses parting the Red Sea. The lost and the crippled lining up to see the Healer. A faint cloud of static drifted up from the pages, the deteriorated narrative from some failing audio function. None of the pages were smooth, unblemished. She lifted the book up to better catch the light, and from faint reflections determined that every page had been scarred, scrubbed across the floor, beaten against walls and furniture, clawed with fingernails in order to destroy, or else to extract what lay trapped inside.
Asimov's Science Fiction 01/01/11 Page 9
