2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  Milla’s eyes followed him for a moment, but Stephen just shrugged.

  “Some boys shouldn’t have some toys,” Stephen said in mild irritation. “If I zoned out like that in my fighter, I’d have been dead years ago.”

  He knew Milla didn’t really understand the meaning behind the words, but found it endearing that she imitated his shrug as they continued walking. “This is a very… busy city.”

  Stephen smiled, noting the hesitance in her words. “It’s pretty small compared to your cities, I know. But we like it—some of us, anyway.”

  “It seems to have so many people, but I was told that there are only a few million?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” Stephen shrugged, then frowned slightly. “I’m not really certain how many though—course, DC’s not my hometown.”

  “Where are you from, then?” Milla asked.

  “Small town down in West Virginia,” Stephen replied with a slight smile. “Haven’t been back there in… Well, I think it’s been over a decade now.”

  The last time he’d been home, the town was on its last legs, most of the wartime income from the labs that built the Archangels had dried up, and what had been a bit of a boomtown for a few years was reduced to an almost ghostlike atmosphere. People still lived there, of course, a few like his own family who had been there for generations and likely would be there for generations more, but so many buildings and homes had been abandoned and shuttered that it felt empty all the same.

  “You do not go home?” Milla’s curiosity turned to puzzlement.

  “Me and the folks don’t get along much,” he told her with a shrug. “And I’ve been pretty busy as well, so…”

  “Ah,” she replied in a tone that made it clear that she didn’t understand but wasn’t going to push.

  Stephen “Stephanos” Michaels just smiled softly for a moment, then pointed out the Washington Monument in the distance and guided his charge through the throng of people toward it.

  NACS Odyssey

  Earth Orbit

  CHIEF PETTY OFFICER Rachel Corrin snorted as she watched the next shipment of equipment destined for the Odyssey’s stores come trundling off the shuttle at the behest of one of the automated loaders. Whoever was signing off on this mission wasn’t taking any chances with the stores. Where the Odyssey had left on her maiden voyage with a heavy inclination toward exploration, this time she was definitely packing heat.

  She RFIDed the crate with her reader, identifying the package as yet another preloaded high-velocity missile (HVM) magazine, and made certain that the loader had scanned the right information. That done, she just stepped aside as the trundling loader stomped off across the deck toward the ship’s magazines with its current payload.

  It could be worse, she supposed. The fleet could use nukes or something equally insane.

  The HVMs were lethal, certainly, but they packed all their killing power in pure kinetic energy, so they were as safe to store as anything else on board and a damn sight safer than some. She was on her way to RFID the rest of the cargo to make sure that it all matched her manifest when a call from across the zero-gravity deck turned her around.

  “Chief!”

  Corrin looked over her shoulder, frowning when she recognized one of her petty officers waving her over. “What’s going on, Jeffrey?”

  “Loader here don’t know where to store these things.” He pointed to a stack of crates a previous shuttle had offloaded.

  Corrin grimaced, shaking her head. This shit is ridiculous. I like that they’re sending us all this stuff, but I’d like it better if they’d tag it with the right transmitters.

  “What’s in it?” she asked, walking over.

  “Looks like more HVMs,” the petty officer replied. “But the staging numbers are all wrong, and I can’t find them on the manifest.”

  “Great.” Corrin sighed. “All right, we’ll have to pop the case and eyeball the contents.”

  The petty officer nodded and ordered the loader to back off and do just that. When the big machine popped the seals on the can, Corrin stepped up and yanked the sides down.

  “Those aren’t HVMs,” the petty officer said simply as they stared.

  “No shit,” Corrin replied, sighing. “Hang on, I’ll put a call in to the duty officer. Maybe they’ve got the manifest code for these things up on the bridge.”

  It wasn’t supposed to work that way, she knew, but mistakes happened even with the “miraculous” inventory management system and the most advanced computer networks.

  “Bridge? This is Chief Corrin. I need a data check on an inventory serial,” she said into her induction piece. “That’s right. Just came aboard a couple hours ago. Serial number alpha-niner-dash-twelve-four-bravo-sixteen-three-two-niner… That’s right… I’ll hold.”

  She looked over the crate of munitions idly as she waited for the check to come back, eyeing the slim rocket-shaped items with only mild curiosity. “You know, PO, these look like they might be for the Archangels.”

  The petty officer glanced at the weapons for a moment, then scratched his head. “Well, they’re sure in the wrong place, if that’s the case.”

  “No shit,” Corrin snorted, then stiffened as the bridge contacted her. “Yes, I’m here, Bridge.”

  She nodded, then shook her head. “That’s fine, we’ll stock them aside until someone figures out what they’re for. You might want to check with the Archangels and see if they’re missing a shipment. These things might be for them.”

  With that, she signed off and shook her head. “What a cock-up. We’ve got shit being delivered here that even the bridge don’t recognize.”

  “What do we do with it?” the petty officer asked, eyeing the twenty crates sitting there.

  “Standard procedure,” Corrin replied, a little harshly. “Seal this one back up, and grab a couple Marines to stand guard on the shit until we find out what it’s for. If we don’t get an answer back before the last shuttle goes out, we ship it right back to the brass and let them figure it out.”

  “Right.”

  Corrin eyed the munitions until the petty officer sealed them back up, then went back to her job.

  • • •

  Topside, in officer country, Ensign Lamont was stalking through the knee-knockers and door locks with her tablet in one hand and a computer’s location report in the front of her mind. Her prey wasn’t carrying his induction unit, and so she had to get ahold of her man face-to-face. Up ahead of her, she heard a familiar voice calling out and quickened her pace to catch up.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, how come you’re still on board?”

  As she passed through a lock, she saw Lt. James Amherst pause in midstep as he finished throwing on his flight jacket and glanced around to the speaker. When he saw Chief Sittler, the Archangels’ crew chief, approaching with a friendly smile, he returned it easily. “Just getting ready to take off. You?”

  “I’m on duty until we finish loading for the mission,” Sittler replied with a smile. “I’ll be Earth-side in a couple days.”

  Amherst nodded. “Glad to hear it. You guys need the break.”

  Sittler laughed. “We do OK.”

  “Better you than me,” Amherst replied, pulling the zipper up on his jacket, though it wasn’t cold. He was about to say something more when Ensign Lamont made herself known.

  “Chief Sittler, I’ve been looking for you,” she said, sounding a little put off.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the chief replied, coming a little straighter. “I was about to take a shower and hit the sack, so I tossed my induction set a while ago. What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got a shipment on the parking deck that looks like it might be one of yours, but we can’t identify it,” she said, relaxing slightly, and handed him a data plaque.

  “I can see that you’re all busy, so I’m off.” Amherst grinned, turning around and heading for the door while Sittler frowned at the information. The chief never noticed him leave.

  “I d
on’t recognize these numbers, ma’am. Hang on a second while I check our manifest.” Sittler sighed, grabbing another plaque from his thigh pouch and punching up another set of numbers.

  “No… No, it’s not… Hang on…”

  “What is it, Chief?” Lamont frowned.

  “I’ve got a blacklisted number here,” Sittler told her. “Could be your mystery package. With all the new work and gear we’ve been getting, some of the clearances haven’t passed through the computers yet. I’ll just send a request—damn it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll have to get back to you on this, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry to mess up your sack time, Chief,” Lamont said, actually sounding sorry. “But you’ve only got two hours; then we ship those crates back where they came from.”

  “Got it, ma’am.” Sittler nodded. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Very good, Chief. Carry on.”

  Jonas David became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “Deathday” in Daily Science Fiction (Jun. 2012), edited by Michele-Lee Barasso and Jonathan Laden.

  Visit his website at www.jonas-david.com.

  * * *

  Short Story: “Deathday” ••••

  Short Story: “Three Seconds” ••••

  DEATHDAY

  by Jonas David

  First published in Daily Science Fiction (Jun. 2012), edited by Michele-Lee Barasso and Jonathan Laden

  • • • •

  THE DOOR slid open and Cobalt hobbled out of the elevator, leaning to keep the weight off his deformed right leg. The mechanical prosthetic grafted on at the knee helped with his balance and mobility, but not with the pain. He winced as he made his way through the room. His one good eye scanned the various robotic arms, legs and other body parts on display in the shop. He reached the front desk and pressed on the buzzer.

  “Bismuth?” he called out. “You here?” His voice was thin and reedy, like a young child’s.

  “Ah, there you are, my boy!” A familiar, handsome face popped around the corner. “Come on back here and I’ll show you the newest models.”

  The blond hair, blue eyes, and strong square jaw of Bismuth’s face were the pinnacle of fashion several generations ago when Bismuth had selected his body. Cobalt thought the look was very campy, and could almost be seen as ironic. These days, new citizens were choosing a more slim, streamlined, androgynous look for their bodies.

  “Okay,” said Cobalt. “But I’ve already picked what I want out of the catalog.” He worked his way around the desk and followed Bismuth into the back room. Several bodies were standing on display. Their perfect proportions and smooth skin sent Cobalt’s blood flowing.

  “You must be excited,” said Bismuth wistfully. “The Second Step is always the most exciting.”

  Cobalt nodded. His experience with the First Step, procreation, had been dull. Soon after his thirteenth birthday he was paired randomly via a lottery. The partner selected for him lived more than one-hundred kilometers away, so they agreed that he would mail her his seed instead of performing the act in person. These days, the First Step was only celebrated by females, as the act of bearing a child was still very monumental for them. Cobalt would likely never meet his child or its mother. The Third Step was being assigned to be caretaker of a new child. Due to the low number of children, not everyone completed this step, and it was seen more as an honor than a requirement. Bismuth had been Cobalt’s caretaker.

  “Yes,” said Cobalt, “Thallium is having her Second Step in a few hours, so I don’t have much time.” Thallium had been his best friend since they were very young. They were born in the same year, and by chance their celebrations were scheduled one day after the other.

  “Ah, of course,” said Bismuth with a forced laugh. “Can’t miss your best friend’s Deathday!”

  Cobalt smiled and nodded. It seemed all the citizens referred to the celebration in that distasteful manner. He supposed it must be because your flesh body was left behind as a dead shell once your consciousness was moved into your new mechanical body, but he liked to think of it as a second birth, not a death.

  “What was yours like, Bismuth?” he hesitated to ask, as what happened inside the Changing Room was considered a personal experience, and people generally did not talk about it.

  Bismuth turned away to caress one of the models. “It was like… falling asleep. And waking as someone new.”

  Cobalt knew that much. At the few Deathday celebrations he’d been to, he’d always been warned that the new citizen would come out of the changing room disoriented, confused, or even frightened. It usually took some coaxing before they joined in the celebration. He hoped he would be able to comfort Thallium when she completed her transformation.

  Bismuth stared silently for a while, then snapped out of his reverie. “Well now, let’s get your order in so you can be ready for the big day tomorrow.”

  • • •

  Cobalt held Thallium’s shriveled hand in his as the car carried them gently down the path. A flat expanse of grass stretched out around them in all directions, pristine and level. Clean, white buildings rose out of the green in seemingly random locations; some were specks in the distance and some towered over them, just off the path. Their heights varied, but all had the same cylindrical shape, and none were ever closer than one-hundred meters from each other.

  The car glided toward the programmed destination, floating slightly above the flat stone path. It was not scheduled to rain for several days, so Cobalt opened the roof, and the warm air tousled his thin, wispy hair. Thallium had never been able to grow hair, but she pulled back the hood of her ceremonial white shroud and let the wind caress her skin.

  “Can you believe it, Coe?” she said. “After tomorrow, we’ll both be citizens. Do you think we’ll be able to get our housing units placed close together?”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” said Cobalt.

  The car turned off the path and hovered over the grass, moving toward a short building ahead. A small crowd of people surrounded it, all friends and classmates of Thallium. The car drew to a halt near the crowd and Thallium’s caretaker, Indium, approached to greet them.

  “Everything is ready for you,” Indium said as she helped Thallium down onto the grass.

  Cobalt followed. “If you are scared afterward, come talk to me, okay?”

  She nodded and gave him a hug, then was led through the crowd toward the small white structure. Cobalt limped into the sparse group of people.

  “Do you think there will be an Error?” he heard a boy next to him whispering.

  “No, that never happens, I don’t think that story was even real,” came the reply.

  Cobalt shook his head, wondering how such rumors persisted. Most everyone heard the story of the Error at some point in their childhood: a terrifying account of a transfer gone wrong. The hushed stories were of a boy named Astatine, who awoke after his Deathday ceremonies to find himself still in his flesh body, and his new mechanical body walking around on its own, a soulless abomination. The machine was destroyed, and the boy sent away, told that the transfer could not work on him. Cobalt thought such stories were ridiculous, but he still could not help but have a murmur of fear in the back of his mind that it might happen to him. Or Thallium. He watched anxiously as the Changing Room door closed behind her. It would not open again until the change was complete.

  When the door closed, the crowd began to clap and sing the Transfer song. Those in attendance—both citizens and children—dressed in long, flowing black dresses or robes, as was traditional. Cobalt did his best to keep up with the dancing, but his mind was focused on that white building. Thallium was inside, going through the biggest change in her life. Tomorrow, he would do the same.

  It was not made clear by the citizens what exactly went on inside. He knew there would be two chairs; one would already have your new body seated in it, and you were to sit in the empty one. Then, you lost consciousness, and woke in you
r new body. As for how it worked, no one seemed to know or care. When Cobalt asked Bismuth, he said only that it was built long ago, and then changed the subject. Cobalt resolved to pay close attention when his time came tomorrow.

  The song ended, and the crowd grew still and silent. All eyes were on the door. Cobalt heard a faint beep and a click, then the door swung open. He held his breath as he waited for her to come out. He knew she would, there were never any errors, yet the whole crowd seemed tense with anticipation.

  A silhouette filled the doorway. Then a tall, full figured woman with long black hair and fair skin stepped into the sunlight. It was Thallium. Cobalt had been with her when she selected her body. He found himself cheering with the rest of the crowd.

  She looked about frantically for a moment, then spotted Cobalt and pushed through the crowd toward him. Long thin fingers gripped his shoulders hard and he looked up into vivid green eyes.

  “I loved you—I love you,” she said. Cobalt felt his throat tighten, trapping his words. Indium and another citizen appeared at her side and gently pulled at her.

  “Let’s go talk, we need to make sure you are okay,” Indium urged.

  Thallium squeezed harder, her eyes demanded his attention. “Just know that I’m sorry,” she said, “and, goodbye.” She released her hold on him and let herself be led away from the group.

  “Wait!” he called, the word burst from his mouth like a freed animal. “Thallium?” She did not turn around.

  Later, during the burying ceremony, she did not look at him and moved away when he tried to approach her. He watched her stare silently at her old body as it was lowered into the ground. He could not decide if the look on her face was one of sadness or fear.

  • • •

  Cobalt did not sleep well that night. Thallium would not answer his calls, mails, or messages. Bismuth assured him that it was normal, and that she would be ready to talk to people in a few days, but Cobalt couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong.