"Zero," I say, looking straight into his eyes.
"Of course." Dr. Dimeji nods calmly and starts tapping at his tablet to make a note before he fully registers what I just said, and then his head jerks up, his expression confounded. "I'm sorry, what?"
"That contrivance is not my mother. It thinks things that she would but in ways she would never think them."
A grimace twists the corners of Dr. Dimeji's mouth and furrows his forehead, enhancing his reptilian appearance from strange to sinister. "Are you sure?" He stares right at me, eyes narrowed and somehow dangerous. The fact that we are alone presses down on my chest, heavy like a sack of rice. Morbidly, it occurs to me that I don't even know if anyone will come if he does something to me and I scream for help. I don't want to die in this ugly room at the hands of this lizard-faced man.
"I just told you, didn't I?" I bark, defensive. "The basic thoughts are consistent but something is fundamentally different. It's almost like you've mixed parts of her mind with someone else's to make a new mind."
"I see." Dr. Dimeji's frown melts into a smile. Finally, some human expression. I allow myself to relax a little.
I don't even notice the humming near my ear until I feel the sting in the base of my skull where it meets my neck and see the edge of his smile curl unpleasantly. I try to cry out in pain but a constriction in my throat prevents me. My body isn't working like it's supposed to. My arms spasm and flail, then go rigid and stiff, like firewood. My breathing is even despite my internal panic. My body is not under my control anymore. Someone or something else has taken over. Everything is numb.
A man enters the room through the still half-open door and my heart skips a beat.
Ah! Tunji.
He is wearing a tailored gray suit of the same severe cut he always favors. Ignoring me, he walks up to Dr. Dimeji and studies the man's tablet. His skin is darker than the last time I saw him and he is whip-lean. He stands there for almost thirty seconds before saying, "You didn't do it right."
"But it passed the regression test. It passed," Dr. Dimeji protests.
Tunji glowers at him until he looks away and down, gazing at nothing between his feet. I strain every muscle in my body to say something, to call out to Tunji, to scream— Tunji, what the hell is going on here? —but I barely manage a facial twitch.
"If she could tell there was a difference," Tunji is telling Dimeji, "then it didn't pass the regression test, did it? The human control is here for a reason and the board insists on having her for a reason: she knows things about her mother no one else does. So don't fucking tell me it passed the regression test just because you fooled the other pieces of code. I need you to review her test questions and tell me exactly which parts of my thought patterns she detected in there and how. Understand? We can't take any chances."
Dr. Dimeji nods, his lizard-like appearance making it look almost natural for him to do so.
Understanding crystallizes in my mind like salt. Tunji must have been seeding the memrionic A.I. of my mother with his own thought patterns, trying to get her to agree with his decisions on research direction in order to add legitimacy to his own ideas. Apparently, he's created something so ridiculous or radical or both that the board has insisted on a regression test. So now he's trying to rig the test. By manipulating me.
"And do it quickly. We can't wipe more than an hour of her short-term memory before we try again."
Tunji stands still for a while and then turns calmly from Dimeji to me, his face stiff and unkind. "Sorry, Grandma," he says through his perfectly polished teeth. "This is the only way."
Omo ale jati jati! I curse and I swear and I rage until my blood boils with impotent anger. I have never wanted to kill anyone so much in my life but I know I can't. Still, I can't let them get away with this. I focus my mind on the one thing I hope they will never be able to understand, the one thing my mother used to say in her clear, ringing voice, about fulfilling a human desire. An oft-repeated half-joke that is now my anchor to memory.
It's never the optimum. It's always just a little bit off.
Dr. Dimeji wearily approaches me as Tunji steps aside, his eyes emotionless. Useless boy. My own flesh and blood. How far the apple has fallen from the tree. I repeat the words in my mind, trying to forge a neural pathway connecting this moment all the way back to my oldest memories of my mother.
It's never the optimum. It's always just a little bit off.
Dr. Dimeji leans forward, pulls something gray and bloody out of my neck, and fiddles. I don't feel anything except a profound discomfort, not even when he finishes his fiddling and rudely jams it back in.
It's never the optimum. It's always just a little bit off.
I repeat the words in my mind, over and over and over again, hoping even as darkness falls and I lose consciousness that no matter what they do to me, my memory, or the thing that is a memory of my mother, I will always remember to ask her the question and never forget to be surprised by the answer.
* * *
A Gathering on Gravity's Shore
By Gregor Hartmann | 4614 words
We were introduced to Franden and his quest to get an artist's visa for the planet Zephyr in "The Man from X" ( F&SF , Jan/Feb 2015). He returned—five years later in the timeline of the series—to go "Into the Fiery Planet" ( F&SF , July/Aug 2015), where his creative talents finally made a difference for his adopted home. His newest adventure takes place only about six months after the previous one, and if he's better off because he's a little less naïve now, he's also grown more ambitious, which carries its own risks. Especially when a civil war is brewing.
MOVING SLOWLY SO AS NOT to spook the guards, Franden placed his oMo in the inspection machine. Trying not to fidget, he stood motionless while the guards scanned him. They were suspicious. His fancy uniform, his muscular body—Franden was obviously not one of the gracile Upheld. Why was he on the guest list?
He was afraid they would find some excuse to bar him. But finally they returned his oMo and let him enter the party. Acting as if they were doing him a favor. Jerks. Franden bet not one of them had seen Duvant naked.
He strode through a short passage in the thick wall. People glanced at him, at his uniform. Trying to ignore them, at last he entered Crestwood Gardens.
The meticulously designed grounds lay open to the sky and the sun was a tiny distant dot. Vado, the gas giant Zephyr orbited, was a wide grin directly overhead. The dueling rays of the sun and Vado clashed on a startling landscape.
On Zephyr, utilitarian plants were black in order to capture every precious photon. Only the decorative varieties dear to the ordinary citizen were green. At Crestwood Gardens the attraction was artificial species created on Tensen, so nature was not a constraint.
Crestwood had no pretty flowers, no bushes from which the average person might want to take a cutting. The organisms on display looked like someone had attacked a jungle with a biological weapon and crossbred the survivors. Or perhaps mad savos had mated atop a thorium reactor, and Crestwood was the asylum where their mutant vegetative spawn were confined.
Disturbing plants. But rare and prestigious on Zephyr, so the Upheld were oohing and aahing. Franden hid his unease and copied their respectful expressions.
Franden's knowledge of the Upheld came mainly via media. The only individual he knew personally was Duvant, who was not typical. Franden wanted to see what was true, what was propaganda. He appreciated a good fiction more than the average person, but did the Upheld really wash their faces using soap made with breast milk? That had to be a smear concocted by the revolutionaries.
Determined to meet someone, he set off along one of the paths that radiated from the checkpoint.
The grounds were filled with strolling Upheld of various ages, their political rivalries temporarily suspended for Duvant's ascension party. The young within domains had congregated in affinity groups. When one affinity came within range of another, their social wrappers changed hue and pattern in coordinated bursts, li
ke trees full of fireflies flashing in sync. Greetings? Rivalry? A game? Franden couldn't tell. The wrapper resolution was high enough for them to play clips of their favorite bands to challenge each other's taste.
Eager to join the fun, Franden positioned himself on a path where a Fragrant Gate affinity would pass. Duvant was Fragrant Gate; maybe others in that domain would accept him. He selected a woman about his age who looked approachable and made eye contact. She checked him out visually, then pinged him with her oMo. When she looked at the screen, her face hardened. She must have signaled the others; despite his eye-catching uniform, the group promenaded past Franden as if he were a post holding a street sign.
He tried affinities in other domains. Deep Circle, Bright Rock—same result. Anyone who pinged him saw the profile in his oMo and placed him in a flash. An ordinary citizen? A nobody, to the lords of Zephyr.
Rattled, he sat on a bench near a tangle of twitching blue vines that dripped aromatic mucus.
He was irritated with himself for being vulnerable to snubs. After all, he was still the same person he'd been before he was invited to the party, right? But that and other rationalizations failed to cheer him up. He felt like crawling away with his tail between his legs. He couldn't bail, though. He had a mission to complete.
Franden's invitation to the party came with a condition: He was required to give a speech praising Duvant. It would be recorded at the media center and posted in the cloud as part of the official record. While he was happy to honor his friend, the speech had been written by someone in the family. It was awful. Everyone who viewed it would think the sycophantic words were his.
He called Duvant, got a recorded imago welcoming the viewer to the party. It had been shot while Duvant was being fitted for his robe. He was standing on a low platform; the wigs he was considering hovered around him like furry little moons. Duvant's recorded message was chipper, but he looked overwhelmed. Franden laughed. "You asked for this, buddy."
He put his oMo away and wondered what to do next. The office was envious that he'd been invited to an ascension party. He couldn't admit the Upheld shunned him. He'd never hear the end of it. Unless he lied? That would be shameful.
A woman came along the path, frowning. Being alone was unusual. So was her costume. She was wearing a caftan made of iridescent scales, over long ultramarine harem pants speckled with gold dots. A hood with a fine black-and-white diamond pattern concealed most of her hair. She looked as if she couldn't decide between outfits, so had chosen items from several. No-tech wooden bracelets clattered on her wrists. None of her clothing was social; each piece remained inert, not reacting to Franden.
Exasperated, she halted and brandished her oMo. "Why isn't this working?" she complained.
Her assumption that Franden could assist compelled him to stand and accept her device. A beautiful piece of Mainline techne, it morphed to fit his palm, felt weightless. It had power but no cloud access. Technical difficulties , the screen said.
Two Crestwood security guards approached on gyro-spinners. From a safe distance they scrutinized Franden and the woman with facial recognition gear, then zoomed away.
"My, that was rude," she huffed.
Franden noticed that drones had been launched and were flitting overhead like avian sentinels.
Reluctantly, he pulled out his oMo (made on Zephyr, hence inferior and embarrassing, compared to hers) and checked the screen. His was offline, too.
Since Crestwood was hosting an Upheld event, tough security was in place. Everyone who entered the Gardens was thoroughly scanned. It was hard to imagine weapons getting through, but sympathizers might be able to sneak in and make a political gesture.
"We're under a security lockdown," he concluded. "Something must be happening. Crestwood is blocking communication so infiltrators can't coordinate with each other."
Instead of showing fear, her face lit up. "How exciting! Do you think our lives are in danger? Will you protect me, Captain?"
He was wearing a ceremonial dress uniform that Duvant's family had dug up somewhere. No insignia. She was wrong about his actual rank. Franden started to correct her, then saw by her impish smile that she didn't care. She was teasing.
With their oMos paralyzed, she had no way to profile him. He was a blank.
Cautiously, he bowed and steepled his hands. "Franden." She had to be Upheld, so he shifted to a flowery high register. "How delightful that our paths should cross."
"Maya. The day is brightened by this encounter."
For the moment, he was anonymous. No social context, no profile. As long as the lockdown lasted, he was not scum. But who was she? He tried to profile her the old-fashioned way: with his eyes.
Eccentric style, but expensive pieces. Flawless complexion, subtle makeup, good muscle tone, no wrinkles—based on appearance, she could have been anywhere from thirty to ninety. Going by her exquisitely modulated voice, she was either a singer or at the older end of that range. Her bracelets were interlocking beads carved—by hand, not a machine—from a single piece of fine-grained wood. They were the sort of souvenir a wealthy tourist picked up in the Forgan Archipelago. The perfect curls peeping out under her hood were probably a wig. What do you say to a woman so rich she can pay someone to grow hair for her? He hesitated.
Maya helped. "How do you know the guest of honor?"
"I was a sergeant in the Preservation Authority. Duvant served on my team."
"Is that why you're wearing that absurd uniform? You're more flamboyant than some of the plants in here."
Franden nodded ruefully. "I've mustered out—I have a job in Rockville now—but the family insisted I come in uniform. They want to remind everyone what a great patriot Duvant was. In the field we wore yellow coveralls, not this froufrou stuff. Bright yellow. So if a volcano killed us, our bodies would be easy to find."
By law, every citizen of Zephyr had to spend two years with the Preservation Authority doing ecological restoration. Hard, monotonous work. The Upheld always hired a substitute. When Duvant was summoned, he had whimsically decided to do Service personally. A lark, he claimed, although Franden figured it was a good excuse to get away from his father. At the time the family was furious, but it turned out his gesture was appreciated by the masses. As the crisis intensified, the domain was using his Service for political advantage.
"You're a prop," Maya declared, not unkindly.
He nodded. "I have to give one of the speeches."
"Isn't that an honor? You don't look thrilled."
"Someone in the family wrote it. I have to say that Duvant was awesome. He started earlier and worked longer than anyone else in the team. He inspired everyone to plant record amounts of bindweed. If there was stinkbush to cull, he always volunteered."
"Laudable. In reality?"
"We called him the Great Slacker. He paid other team members to take his shifts. And hedonistic? He could score hapium in the middle of the Heller Sea. And sex? When I roused the team in the morning I never knew who else I'd find in his bunk."
Maya's laugh was as delightful as her speaking voice.
"To give credit where credit is due, Duvant was fun. He organized some fabulous stunts. Once? We had a dinner party at a table on the rim of an active volcano. After each toast we threw our goblets in the caldera. The sulfur smell was awful, but we made it through four courses before we had to run for our lives."
Belatedly, it occurred to Franden he could be speaking to one of Duvant's relatives. Hell, he could be speaking to Duvant's mother . Damn. He had just spilled a huge wad of gossip to a stranger.
Maya didn't appear to care. She was keen to see infiltrators. An eccentric older woman was not who he'd hoped to meet, but since he wasn't getting anywhere with people his own age, Franden decided to accompany her. At least he wouldn't be wandering around alone, like a loser.
The party was in turmoil. Upheld guests were confronting Crestwood managers, demanding that cloud access be restored. What was the point in being at an ascension p
arty if they couldn't stream it to their followers? Meanwhile, security guards were accosting the staff, looking for troublemakers. Most of the workers and entertainers were Rockville locals. Waiters, musicians, spark artists—probably a lot of sympathizers, if not outright revolutionaries, in that stratum.
The situation was volatile because Tensen, the world that owned Zephyr, was being sucked into a Mainline war. As part of the strategic maneuvering, Tensen was considering "releasing" Zephyr. The Upheld, the high stratum whose power dated back to the Tenser Conquest, were divided. Some domains would benefit from release but others would lose power. On Tensen they were lobbying. On Zephyr they were negotiating alliances to prepare for a shock that might or might not come. The political structure that had prevailed for centuries was crumbling, and revolutionary energy was bursting through the cracks.
Security guards converged on a juggler, hooded him, marched him away. Servos clustered, muttering, ignoring guests who were trying to get a drink. Workers were sneaking off behind a greenhouse; it wasn't clear if they were shirking or preparing to attack.
Franden was impressed by the nonchalance of the Upheld guests. That morning there had been a demonstration in Rockville calling for their overthrow, yet here they stood, calmly exchanging quips. He observed how an elegant young man was standing and copied his pose. Meanwhile, he tried to think of something safely nonpolitical to discuss with Maya.
She said, "How do you feel about independence, Captain?"
Damn.
Franden made a conflicted head roll. "Independence is good. Generally speaking. Theoretically. Nobody wants to be ruled by someone else." Especially not by your crowd , he thought. "But it makes no sense economically. If Tensen cuts us loose, the adjustment will be hard. All the things we have to import—how will we pay for those? So, I don't know." He shrugged.
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