The Seeds of Winter: Artilect War Book One

by A. W. Cross

  —Alexander Petrov, CNN Tech Watch, 2040

  The air was as crisp as always when we arrived at the market. I waved at the other farmers as my father wove through the barricades to our regular stall. People were already lined up down the block; only the steel fences kept them from swarming us and fighting each other tooth and nail for a misshapen carrot. Well, that and the armed guards.

  Who would’ve supposed vegetables would one day be worth more than their weight in gold? Not my father, that was for sure. When he was young, farmers were overlooked and under-valued. Now, thanks to a few mistakes with genetics and changes in the political climate, farmers were like rock stars.

  We hadn’t had a food shortage, far from it. But the sheer exclusivity of food grown in the ground was enough to make the most pest-riddled cauliflower a prize. Our specialty was garlic. Gourmet garlic grown from heirloom strains hundreds of years old; we were one of the few places left in the province licensed to grow it.

  It was go-time. As soon as people were let through the gate, a crowd gathered in front of our stall. I lifted the bulb of garlic where they could see it. It was the first of the season, its picturesque skin a satiny-white mottled with silky purple, clinging tightly and softly undulating over each clove.

  I slid the outer wrapper off with my thumb, careful not to press too hard and damage the flesh. The outer skin came off easily, the second, third, and fourth were progressively tighter. I took my time, but this close to the prize, the crowd was impatient, and the process was almost painful.

  I broke the skin around the top of the bulb with my thumb, and the spiked tips of the cloves poked through. My thumb slid down either side of a single clove and broke it free from the cluster. It was firm and plump, encased in a dusky rose-colored skin, streaked with a rich walnut brown. The faintest scent rose from the plate at the bottom. Saliva rushed into my mouth, and the crowd before me licked their lips.

  I sliced the end off the clove I’d liberated, the pungent tang stinging the inside of my nose. I inhaled deeply, and the crowd mimicked me, sighing in anticipation as I peeled off the rest of the skin. The cream-colored clove was smooth and round. Perfect.

  I cut a thin slice and held it up to the crowd. It glistened wetly, my fingers sticky from its oil. I placed it on the tongue of the woman directly in front of me and watched as the raw garlic stung her mouth. She exhaled slowly through her nose, the scorching oil dripping down her throat.

  My dad grinned at me. He would miss me being here with him. His natural shyness made him an awkward showman. Selling the garlic wasn’t my thing either—I much preferred the growing—but since the death of my younger brother and mother last year, we’d needed each other to keep going. Selling had been my mother’s job. She’d been the reason our stall was so popular, her small hands making the bulbs appear huge as she held them aloft with a delicate flourish, her voice so soft and rhythmic it caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up as you leaned in to catch every word.

  A commotion a few stalls down the street caught the attention of the crowd. Guards pushed people back to form a perimeter around a package on the ground. More and more of these parcels had appeared lately. The police never said who the targets were, and nobody ever claimed responsibility. Everyone had a theory, of course. Some believed it was the Terrans protesting the development of AI, others that it was the Cosmists trying to demonstrate how necessary their technology was.

  The guards forced through the whispering crowd, a bomb-disposal robot in tow. One of them typed instructions into the keypad on its back then it lay down and enveloped the bomb with its body. The crowd hushed and waited. At the last moment, before the bomb exploded, the robot turned its head in my direction. It had no eyes —they hadn’t wanted to upset people by blowing up robots that were too humanoid—but it was looking at me.

  The device finally obliged the crowd and exploded, the bot’s body expanding slightly as it absorbed the impact. As the police dragged the ruined bot away, the crowd muttered in disappointment at the anti-climax.

  “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” my father asked. He was inspecting the spot where the robot had lain.

  “Using them like that. I mean, that’s it. It’s dead.”

  His jaw tensed. This was not a subject he liked to talk about. He’d become resolutely Terran after my mother and brother had died. He blamed robots and those who created them for their deaths, though it had been an accident. No one knew exactly why hundreds of automated vehicles had simply driven off the road. My father blamed the manufacturer, Novus, even though there was no evidence they were at fault. Only rumors.

  “They’re not alive, Ailith. Just because something looks, walks, and acts like a person, doesn’t mean it is.”

  “I know, but still. Doesn’t it seem a bit cruel to you? To build them simply for the purpose of killing them?”

  “Would you rather it had been a person covering that bomb? Getting themselves blown to bits?”

  “Of course not. I’d rather there weren’t bombs in the first place.”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line. We’d had this conversation before, and the outcome was always the same: us feeling awkward around each other for the rest of the day. He didn’t understand why the Cosmists wanted to create artilects, why they wanted to create new life when there was already so much around them.

  “Why can’t they have children?” he’d say. He was even less comfortable with cyborgs. “It’s unnatural. They’re making themselves less human.”

  Since I’d become ill, he no longer said that. Though he hated the idea of cyborgs, in my case, he at least understood the attraction. My body was failing. Tomorrow, I was going to the hospital for what might be the last time. They couldn’t cure what I had; slowing it down was the best they could do. But my doctor had called yesterday, with a new option. Something to do with nanites. He didn’t have time to explain the details to me. And although my father didn’t agree, he loved me.

  He would understand. Even if I had tiny machines running through my veins, I’d still be me.

  Omega, for you to understand how you’re here, in this place, I must start at the beginning. Much of what I’ll say, you won’t understand. Many of these words, these ideas, will mean nothing to you, but they were meaningful to us, and it’s because of us that you are here.

  —Cindra, Letter to Omega

  We were back at the Saints of Loving Grace village. I’d tried to comfort myself by briefly living someone else’s life, but I’d found only my own memories instead. It was strange being yourself inside yourself.

  The Saints had called us the ‘Children of Perdition,’ and we were in no shape to insist otherwise. I had no idea what that even meant. We should’ve run; the Saints were no match for our speed or stamina. But we couldn’t. Cindra was in shock. Tor was still injured. Oliver believed he could ingratiate himself with his followers again, and Pax, he continued as normal, as though we were simply on a day out from the asylum.

  I could’ve run, gotten away, and come back for them later. But I couldn’t leave them, especially Tor. After what had happened, and with whatever was going to happen, we needed to stick together. I’d caused this, and I would get us out of it.

  They eventually put us in a horse shelter encased with electrified wire, as though we were some kind of exhibit. Which, I guessed, we were. The village had sacrificed their house lights to supply its power. Trying to suck up, Oliver had tipped them off about the mechanical parts of us being vulnerable to electric shock. It wouldn’t kill us, but it would incapacitate us. They’d forced us in with an axe to Cindra’s throat. I bet Oliver had told them how useful beheading was as well. Fucking Oliver. He was the gift that kept on giving.

  They called a meeting in the hall to decide what would become of us. A scuffle broke out at the door, as the men of the camp filed in and tried to shut it behind them. It was clear those days were over. A sizable group of women, led by Celeste and
still wielding their weapons from the slaughter, forced their way in. The door slammed shut, and a few minutes later, half the men came back out, their faces subdued.

  Oliver sulked in a front corner by himself, waiting for one of his former worshippers to acknowledge him. He caught me watching him and curled his lip. “Happy, Ailith? They’re probably going to kill us now.”

  “Why did you do it, Oliver? How did you ever think it would end well?”

  “I told you you’d regret coming here,” he replied softly.

  “That’s how you planned to make me regret it? By killing a bunch of innocent people?”

  Oliver laughed. “They weren’t innocent. Surviving a war doesn’t make someone innocent. Those people you killed are the same ones who would’ve prevented your existence in the first place if they’d had a choice. Think about what they were going to do. Murder two people just because their intention to exploit them wasn’t paying off.”

  He dug the toe of his boot into the dirt floor. “They’ve been scavenging weapons and survivors, gathering their strength. What do you think they would’ve done if they’d discovered the Saints of Loving Grace?” he asked, gesturing toward the surrounding village. “Do you really think they would’ve let us live in peace?”

  “Your false peace. You lied to these people, Oliver,” I reminded him.

  Wait.

  “Gathering their strength? You knew about the Terrans, didn’t you? You used us.”

  He examined his fingernails. “Yes, I did. I make things that threaten us my business. Your friend there would’ve done the same.” He inclined his head toward Tor, where he slumped against the wall. “I would’ve come up with other means to deal with them, but you forced my hand.”

  “Other means? Like what? Cutting their heads off while they were defenseless? We went to your bunker. We saw what you did.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I did what I had to do. She was a threat to us, to you. Again, your friend would’ve done the same thing.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He’s not a murderer.”

  Oliver laughed at that. “Well, if he wasn’t before, he is now, thanks to you.” His words were a sucker punch to my gut. It hurt all the more because he was right. Whether I’d meant to or not, I’d soaked Tor’s hands with blood.

  “You’ve ruined everything. You should’ve let me be. Look what you’ve done to these people. You’ve changed them forever, made them idolaters. Generations of sacrifice and preparation, for nothing. God doesn’t exist for them anymore.”

  He’s right.

  The previous tranquility and bustling cheerfulness of the Saints was gone. People clustered together in small groups, their voices low. Amid their whispers, some watched us. The rest watched each other.

  “Me? Oliver, you’re the one who told them you were a god. How long did you think it would last? They’d have found out eventually. And what would you have done then? Slaughtered them all and moved on?”

  He was saved from answering by Celeste. Her hair was still knotted on her head, her face painted with blood. She stood taller, her former meekness gone.

  “Celeste.” The relief in Oliver’s voice was clear. “You’ve come. I—”

  “You’ve been sentenced to death,” she said flatly, studying his face.

  “Celeste! Why are you doing this? I thought we—”

  “We what? Had something? Everything we had was based on a lie, Oliver. And not merely a lie. You’ve made us unbelievers, followers of a false god. You took our faith and twisted it, perverted it. You’ve condemned us all to Hell on this earth. Do you know they want me to die along with you? Because of what you did to me?”

  “Condemned you? Did it ever occur to you that this might actually be Hell? And what I did to you? Are you sure you’re not pissed because you found out you weren’t spreading it for some machine? It’s not like you needed much convincing.” His lips twisted.

  “They’re not going to kill you, are they?” I interrupted. Even with everything that was happening, I didn’t want Celeste to pay for what we’d done. The Saints massacre of the Terrans was reprehensible, but it had happened because of us. We’d manipulated them and exploited their faith and fear; the blame was ours.

  “No.” Celeste leaned forward on the handle of her axe. “Did you know that Oliver told us it was a Terran military camp, filled only with fighting men and women? That we went in willing to kill and die for your glorious cause?”

  I stared at Oliver, incredulous. “No, I didn’t.”

  Celeste continued. “See, one good thing that came from being manipulated into butchering other defenseless women and children is that we can never go back. We’re no longer defenseless.” She shifted her gaze to me. “It’s a shame we need to kill you, Ailith. I understand you only did what you felt was right, like we did. You, on the other hand,” she said, turning back to Oliver, “did not.”

  She leaned away from us and snapped her fingers at our guard. “Turn off the power.”

  He hesitated.

  “Turn it off!” she snarled, fingering the blade of her axe.

  As the humming of the bars went silent, Celeste sidled up to Oliver. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “If you hadn’t betrayed us, we’d still be living in the dark, waiting for a savior who was never going to come. Allowing our bodies to belong to anyone but ourselves, because we’d been told it was the right way, the way it’s always been. But you’ve opened our eyes. Now we’re going to save ourselves. You see,” she said, low enough that only Oliver and I heard, “your deaths are only the beginning.” She traced her hand down the side of Oliver’s face and over his chest.

  “What about all the pleasure I gave you?” Oliver whispered as she ran her fingers over the front of his trousers. She cupped him, and he let out a small gasp.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she replied with a sympathetic smile. “My pleasure was about as real as you were. Turn it back on.” She gave me one last nod before walking away.

  The swinging of her hips faded as another thread pulled me down.

  “…all the fledging cyborgs have increased physical strength, although this has been concentrated in some more than others. Some have had emotional adjustments to make them more prone to certain reactions and decision-making methods. Memory capabilities and computational processes are also increased, but because the enhancements work differently in each subject we have no idea which will take, and if taken, to what degree. And as hard as we try to select applicants that are both physically and mentally capable of surviving the cyberization process, as you can see from our current rates, survival remains our biggest challenge. Causes of death vary, but most commonly include immune rejection of the nanites, heart attack, and, rarely, consumption by the nanites themselves. And then there are those who cannot cope psychologically with the changes, who become lost and aren’t able to find their way back…”

  —Mil Cothi, Pantheon Modern Cyborg Program Omega, 2040

  I was the one to find Ros and Adrian on their knees, their hands entwined. Cowards.

  Though they weren’t really. It took a lot of balls to burn yourself alive, and more to be still and quiet while you’re doing it. I gave them that, at least.

  In hindsight, I’d seen it coming. The last few days they’d been too calm. They’d seemed to be coming to terms with everything and finally adapting, but no. They must’ve been planning it all along.

  Lexa had relaxed enough to stop standing guard in the hallway. Besides the practical loss of their abilities to us, that was the only other thing I held against them. They’d fooled her, and I was certain it would mark her forever. She didn’t believe me when I told her vigilance wouldn’t have mattered. My heart knew this was true. They were ready. We were stronger for their loss, callous as that seemed. If we were going to survive, we needed people who wanted to live.

  I hoped the others were going to be more resilient. Mil and Lexa had told me they were coming, that they’d awoken us at the same time. They stood
outside for hours every day, watching the horizon for them. Every evening, they returned, defeated, their skin gray with the cold. They exchanged glances and patted each other’s shoulders then seated themselves at the table in the main room in silence, Mil scribbling furiously on scraps of paper.

  Useless. I seemed to be the only one with any sense left. Ros and Adrian were dead, and the only other people here were Eire, who was in a coma, and Callum, who’d lost his damn mind and spent all his time pacing in his bedroom and talking to himself and someone named Umbra.

  Fucking useless.

  It was only my grief that made me angry. I’d lost so much I wasn’t sad anymore. In fact, I’d begun to wonder if I’d grieved at all. I should’ve been pulling out my hair and beating my breast, but I wasn’t. Maybe I’d gotten over it during those five years I was asleep.

  Or maybe it was because my last moments with my sister and mother were good ones. My guardian had kept his word, waiting in his car, just up the street. He’d been there all night.

  Ahar’s face was flushed with joy and her secret as they got into the car to head for the airport. I’d never seen Aadi so happy either, not even on the day my sister agreed to marry him. She’d told him the night before, as she’d said she would.

  My mother had clutched my hand as the car door slammed behind them. “Aaaaaah. She will be fat by the time they get back.”

  “You knew? How long have you known?”

  “Hah! Before she did. I know everything about my daughters.” She’d gripped my hand tighter as she said this.

  I'd fiddled with the buttons on my coat. I wasn’t going to be the first one to say anything.