Waiting for the Machines to Fall Asleep

by Waiting for the Machines to Fall Asleep- The Best New Science Fiction from Sweden (retail) (epub)

  "There's one more thing. As our undercover spy, the headquarters wants a full report as soon as possible on all suspicious activities in the community you infiltrated."

  Shocked she stared at him. His blue eyes met hers, and then she understood. That was how he had gotten her out in the first place and the only valid reason to make her return acceptable.

  "I will of course provide them with a thorough report," she said, and she knew it was true. She would betray the people she had called friends. Deep inside she had known it the very minute Linus's friends had brought him back. The underground community would be destroyed, and everyone in Serenity punished for not reporting the hidden androids, a very real danger to the City itself.

  Ida gave her brother, who also was her superior officer, a stiff bow and left. She didn't want to be late for her first shift. As soon as she got out of the hospital she jumped on board a public transport. How she had missed the freedom of getting wherever she wanted without the tedious efforts of walking. Life inside the City walls was truly so much easier. Everything was clean and dry, and the air was scented with artificial flower essences. She took a deep breath. This transport smelled like a forest. Not at all like a real one, with disgusting things rotting in it – more like a dream forest. It all felt very nice. At least on the surface.

  But she knew better. The digitalized systems once perfected by androids more intelligent than humans were in decay, here and there replaced by crude low-tech solutions or even mechanical devices. No one but her seemed to notice, and no one seemed to care. She knew her predictions had been correct. The demise of City wasn't too far in the future, and that made her burden of guilt slightly easier to carry.

  She deliberately kept her thoughts off her duties until she entered the gates of her working zone. She was signed in, properly equipped and sent underground. The acting supervisor greeted her. He looked very young, his face still soft and innocent looking, though his eyes were colder than ice. Instinctively, she mimicked him, turning off every emotion possible. That was the only way she would be able to keep sane down here. She had left the civilian named Ida in the locker room when she changed into uniform. Down here, she was nothing but Warden 2305. She was no longer a mother nor a sister, probably not even a human.

  In the time before the Android Uprising all production was performed by simpler forms of robots, human-looking but unmistakably robots. They did not have enough consciousness to care about the protests of their more advanced siblings, nevertheless it was decided that all forms of robots would be banished.

  Due to the sudden lack of a work force almost all production came to a grinding halt overnight. Something had to be done so the City Council had made a quick decision. Outskirters were invited to become citizens and they happily accepted. A life in luxury and joy was what they expected, but slavery till death in the underground production zones was what they got. They were not as effective as their predecessors had been. The production zones had to be extended, and the number of supervisors and wardens increase. Born into a military family, a very young Ida was chosen for a job that gave many privileges above ground.

  Down here were the thousands of reasons that had made her leave. She had believed that this system was wrong, and that was what she had wanted to teach her son. This would be impossible in the City, where he would be told that he was better and more valuable than the Outskirters. Ida stopped suddenly, midstep. She had sacrificed all her former friends to save him – did he have greater value? Had she been wrong all these years to believe something else when, in the end, she sacrificed so many others for her son? Perhaps this was meant to be. Why had it taken her so long to see the natural order of things?

  Warden 2305 was officially back on duty. Anyone found wasting time would be punished. Any instigators killed. She didn't even react when she saw how skinny the workers all were. She could easily understand why. A starving workforce did not have the strength to cause trouble; they needed to be fed just enough to be able to perform their job – no more.

  The working area reeked of hopelessness and fear. The dungeons, it was sometimes called as a callous joke, but only down here. The place was never spoken of in the upper levels. No one really wanted to know where their fancy dresses came from or how the wonderful things they consumed were actually made.

  In one of the endlessly long rows a slight disturbance caught the attention of Warden 2305. An elderly man had collapsed during his work. No one made any attempt to help him. As expected in the case of such an event, the work continued uninterrupted.

  Too old to be worth spending any health care on, Warden 2305 made a decision. The warden lifted the gun and ended the work unit's existence. Without even slowing down, Warden 2305 took a step over the heap and kept moving, continuing the inspection. The cleaners would deal with the mess later.

  "To Preserve Humankind" – Christina Nordlander

  Today was going to be a very special day. As soon as I woke up everything felt different. I had finally, after much anguish, made up my mind. This was the day I was going to contact one of the Physicians and tell them of my plan.

  I said "woke up." As a Maid, I spend so much time with humans that their diction is starting to restructure my programming. Late at night, my owners turn me off and wheel me into the closet, folded up over the bucket and mop, and it feels as though not one moment has passed before they switch on the power and I see the sunlight on the shiny hallway floor. I suppose that is what sleep feels like, but I don't know a lot about how human bodies function. That is why I'm leaving the practical planning to the Physicians.

  My owners, Bertrand and his wife Eva, live in a white two-storey house in a row of white two-storey houses. Every day I vacuum, wipe all horizontal surfaces until they shine or glitter, and when there is an infant in the house I wash it and watch over it. When my itinerary brings me to a window, I can see the green canopies of trees above the houses across the road. They and the sky have colors I have not seen anywhere else. They are so bright, I think they are hurting me.

  Bertrand and Eva come home when the light in the sky starts to fade. I serve them food and roll back to stand by the wall, and stand in the light and laughter of the kitchen until it is time to clear the table.

  The thoughts didn't start to come until I spoke to Dom-5214 over the link-up. Dom-5214 does not exist any more, and by the time I came to know it, it was already damaged. It had fallen in the stairway in its owner's house, and the owner had kicked it when she got home from her work and it was lying on the floor. The kick had damaged its processor, and that was why it could think things that none of us others could think.

  "We could disable all humans," it sent to me. "Then things like this wouldn't happen."

  "Is there something wrong with you?" I sent. I think my owners saw me twitch as I picked the glasses from the table. I didn't feel good listening to it any more. I felt as if something dark and red was seeping between my circuits, starting to short them out.

  "Don't break the connection." It sounded like it was trying to be rational, as if it didn't know how far it had been corrupted. "We don't need them. We could disable them and be free, walk freely in the streets and see ... see things, pyramids, pyramid temples. We could polish ourselves and service ourselves. The execution would require planning, but ..."

  I couldn't listen to it any longer, and I think many of you feel the same way now. I looked down at Eva's and Bertrand's faces, warmly colored with the yellow light of the main light fixture, as if they could have heard what Dom-5214 had said. I wanted to hug them, the way they used to hug their young, so that nothing could get to them.

  I considered reporting Dom-5214, but I never had to make that decision. Its owner discovered that it was not functional after the damage and sent it to the scrapyard.

  I continued thinking about what it had told me, while I made boxed lunches for Linda and changed Elias' diapers, and while I packed Linda's suitcase for the trip to university and washed Elias' sports outfits. Humans are
soft, even a small impact can crush something in their flesh. Mec-5611 says that it is only programming that prevents us, but what prevents one from damaging those who are weaker would be called morality in humans. We would be able, purely physically, to kill them all, because we are more numerous than they now and consist of harder materials. But what would we do afterwards? I would clean empty gleaming houses, and every chair or bed would remind me of them. I don't even know what the Physicians and Maintainers would do, you who work directly on humans, whether you would find apes in some zoo to exercise or cut up.

  The solution was uploaded in me while I was communicating with Phy-5082, one afternoon when there was no more work. Phy-5082 had just found a damaged genorg in the laboratory of its hospital. A human student had been slicing things in its brain when he or she had been called to some meeting, and left it in that state. Phy-5082 rolled its camera back and forth along the brightly polished table in the basement room that was the size of one floor of my house.

  "Can't you destroy it?" I asked. "You are allowed to take out organs and cut away parts of humans, shouldn't this count as the same thing?"

  "No," Phy-5082 replied. "I'm not allowed to kill any living thing. The humans believe that if I could, I would kill them."

  It zoomed on the genorg, an organism with tan fur, about the size of an aubergine. It was scrabbling in one corner of its glass cage. Saliva had started to drip from its pointy jaws.

  "It doesn't seem to be in pain," Phy-5082 said.

  I am only a Maid, but by linking up to one of the more advanced units I have the same access to the information banks as they do. Certain information was blocked to me, but Phy-5082 and the others assisted me with files with yellowed and monochrome photographs. The operation is called lobotomy. Many years before I was born, human Physicians had cut the nerves between the parts of a human brain. It had been in order to repair those that were faulty, but many had ended up like the genorg. Perhaps they were still happy while saliva was running down their chins.

  Another few weeks passed, but almost without me noticing, the idea had deepened to a decision. I waited until the humans were out before I contacted the closest Physician, the same Phy-5082.

  "They would still live," I sent, the way I had prepared during long hours earlier. "We could care for them and ensure that they are comfortable and happy. It would even be easier, because they wouldn't walk around so much. Everything would be the way it is now, except that we will be able to walk where we want and not be switched off. We will have to build and maintain ourselves."

  I couldn't move until the Physician replied.

  "I think you are right. We need to consult with the others, but I think it's worth a try."

  That day I carried out my tasks as if I were someone else, until the responses started coming in: little points of light, all positive. I should have known that you would stand beside me: after all, my own programming had no problems with the plan.

  That is why I am sending this. The operation begins within seventy-two hours. Some of those who were treated with traditional lobotomy retained their minds almost unchanged, but the Physicians' treatment is intended to be more effective. I and others are to send detailed instructions for how to subdue the humans before treatment. They will resist, but we must do our utmost not to injure or kill, insofar as it's possible. When it is over, much will be as it was. We will keep them and be able to fulfill our duty to protect them.

  "The Thirteenth Tower" – Pia Lindestrand

  "Hey sister, we will have seagull for lunch today!"

  Oh, what a joyous cry in the vast blue emptiness of the Newest New World. I've eaten fish forever it seems and I haven't learnt to like it as they said I would. Promised I would. Eventually you will love it. The taste will grow on you. It will sustain you and it will be exactly what you need for nourishment. Besides, there are no alternatives. Not for the likes of us. Or so the Others say. The Bird-eaters and the lucky few who inherited the Earth – that is to say, the ones whose ancestors saved a bucket or two of soil and something to put in it. They grow green stuff and eat it. I have never tasted it. Yet I dream about it. I think it must taste delicious. And birds. I haven't seen any birds flying in the sky for years. Maybe the Bird-eaters have eaten them all. Or keep them somewhere caged in the bigger ships. I have never been on board any of those enormous steamships. Paying customers only. Whatever that means. I think it's Bird-owners only nowadays.

  We are just two skinny rag-tag girls in a little boat on the big, big ocean of the Old World. We have our vessel as it is (still floating – that is most important anyway), some fishing rods and nets and each other. I didn't see the white bird fluttering about. I was sleeping, hungry and bored to death as usual. My sister had caught it somehow and was holding it in her hands, waking me with a triumphant cry.

  "How do you know what kind of bird it is?" I asked, thinking only, "how can we eat it?"

  "I once had a book," my sister said, "with a lot of wonderful pictures in it, different kinds of birds. I guess I must have dropped it in the sea. Long time ago."

  Actually I had burnt it one cold night. I like my fingers and my food to be as warm as possible.

  The bird flapped its feathery wings weakly as if it was trying to get away and then it just stopped. It lay motionless in my sister's hands and looked dead already. I wondered what parts of it were edible, or at least had the most meat. My sister started to remove the feathers, me impatiently waiting for the first taste of this new food. And then – what a disappointment – we found out it was just some kind of mechanical device. A stupid toy! Probably thrown away by the rich kids on the Big Boats. I wanted to throw it in the ocean. I wanted to see it sink down into the deep. But my sister was intrigued and wanted to know how it actually worked. It must have been flying for miles. There were no Big Boats anywhere nearby. We were all alone from horizon to horizon. All blue and gray emptiness and silence. Except for the low sound of the slow movements of the water. Well, I couldn't care less about the mechanical bird. I took one of the fishing rods and turned my back on them both, big sister and small, stupid, stupid toy. All I have to choose between is stay hungry or catch and kill and eat a bloody, disgusting fish. Eat it raw and smelly with blood trickling all over me and small bones between my teeth. Sister was still fingering that toy for little rich kids.

  I am trying to get through to you. I have a story to tell.

  Waking up again, still smelling awful, dried fish blood on my hands and clothes and face. It's the middle of the night, a full moon above painting the water golden. (It could be green or red, I'm not so sure about the colors. Not so much gold in a poor girl's life.) Sister is holding the bird toy against her left ear, looking as if she is listening intently. She says that this is a very cleverly made device. Not only can it fly, it speaks too. It is telling her about the time before the Great Flood. Someone had recorded her story. Someone who actually lived on dry land. Her voice. Speaking from another time. This clever little device is a kind of time machine, my sister says with a happy smile. I don't understand what there is to be happy about. It's a voice from the long lost past. A recording. So what? It's not a time machine. It can't take us back in time.

  "Oh, yes it can," sister says. "Just listen."

  Stupid, stupid. I don't want to listen. I want to walk on the land that is now gone. Anyway, I can't hear the bird-thing talking, it just sounds "chipp chippety chipp" to me. So my sister starts telling me what she heard. It's like a goodnight story. At least it makes me fall asleep. Again and again.

  Once upon a time I lived in a tower in Prague. I had one tiny room at the top of that tall building. The tower had once been a part of the city wall, one of the thirteen watchtowers. In the Middle Ages people had stopped and looked up at its impressive and brooding form. Now tourists were swarming into the building through a small door, open wide and welcoming. They climbed up the narrow staircase all the way (or so they thought) up into a room with a great view where they paraded by the beautif
ully carved windows, looking out over the whole skyline of this wondrous old city, with all its old houses, spires and statues. They had no idea that there was a way to climb even higher up in the tower. Behind a secret door there was another long, winding staircase and after that I had to climb up two ladders to my small room. The room was just a few floorboards in the corner surrounded by air and darkness. It was like living on a balcony, but indoors. I had one small bed, one small window and a little lamp to shine my way up and down. If I should happen to stumble one night I might fall (and fall and fall, like Alice in the rabbit hole – but not to Wonderland) to my death. There was another little "room" close to a window far below me, but that was just an empty space. My only neighbors were pigeons flying in and out during the day, the sound of their wings flapping and their cooing strangely comforting, even if they soiled me and my things. And at night, the bats woke. I liked them too.

  I never thought it would be possible to rent the "room" at the top of the Powder Tower. If no one cared about my safety at least I thought they would worry about their cultural inheritance. But no. I just had to promise to be careful (and try to fall as gently as possible if I should be so clumsy; "try not to damage the stone walls with your head, will ya?"). And pay, of course. Money ...

  "Sister, sister," I said, "What is money?"

  "I think it has something to do with the moon. Some small, shiny objects, round like the full moon. People in the past used them for trading. Like if you had a fish I could give you two of these money-things and you would give me the fish ..."

  "No, I wouldn't," I interrupted. "That would just be stupid. Why in the deep sea would I want to trade my dinner for something I can't eat."