Beyond Asimios: Book One

by Martin Fossum

  Graf emerged from the water and immediately started to jog. He was making for the maintenance hangar where he would start up a crawler and try to outrun the charge detonations. As he lumbered through the station the entire place throbbed in pulses of red and dead black. The master generators were offline and Graf stumbled as he went, the dark leaping out at several occasions to surprise him as careened ahead.

  He raced through the marketplace—an empty and abandoned shell of what it had been—then through the theater district and the school. He wasn’t sure when the charges would go off. Could be any time. Right now, maybe? But he knew the risks. He knew the deadly game he was playing.

  As he approached the open airlock to the central atrium, he froze. A sentry bot hovered in the middle of the room, its ruby location-laser sweeping the floor tiles and walls for motion and vibration. Graf’s BIOmeter went to red. He saw the airlock open on the opposite side of the room and he wondered how he was going to get there. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from its wall mount and threw it across the floor. The sentry bot targeted it—its defense shield turning the room icy blue. Graf made a run for it (twenty years ago it might have been a sprint, but right now it was barely an aggressive waddle) and just as the bot’s locator-beam swung in his direction he threw his portly frame through the opening, flopped on his side and kicked the door shut. Breathing heavily, he rose and started down the hall, past Paul’s lab on the right to the door that led to the maintenance hangar.

  When he reached the end of the hall he banged on the entry icon, but the door didn’t open. In the distance Graf heard detonations…heavy thumping transmitted through the ground and through the shaking of the station floor and walls. Was this as far as he would get? He pounded on the icon and then threw his weight against the steel portal. No luck. He heard an explosion at the other end of the hallway. A round hole had been cut in the airlock and the sentry bot had pushed its way through the opening. He closed his eyes. It would be quick, he thought. Then his VI lit up like a Christmas tree and data cascaded down the sides of his visual and at one corner appeared a face he knew all too well. It was Paul.

  —Hello, Dr. Graf, Paul’s image said. I hope this finds you well. If you’re receiving this interface that means that you’ve encountered my bot. Not to worry, Dr. Graf. He’s on your side. I’m sure you’re in a hurry now, so allow me to assist.

  Graf felt the tears spill down his face. He nodded and waited for instructions.

  —You will find your crawler through this door, Dr. Graf, Paul said. Please step away and shield yourself.

  Graf got up quickly and removed himself a good distance from the bot and door. The explosion sounded right away. His ears stung with pain. When he spun around he saw that the door was blown from its hinges and the expansive hangar was pulsing red on the other side.

  —Dr. Graf, please follow me, said Paul’s image. Miranda has selected a crawler for you and she is waiting for you to board.

  —Yes, great. Lead the way, Graf said. LEAD ON!

  As the bot surged forward, Graf stepped over the red-hot metal threshold and stumbled into the hangar. Alarms sounded—low-frequency sirens howling in misery and loneliness—and then from one end of the expansive room a six-wheeled crawler started in their direction. As it neared, it swung around and the passenger door swung open. Paul’s voice instructed Graf to board. He obeyed, with the bot following close behind.

  At the wheel of the crawler was Miranda. When he had shut the door Miranda instructed Graf to deploy his body restraints and when he was secured she pointed the crawler at a clear section of hangar wall. A charge went off, and whether it was launched from the crawler or had been set there earlier, Graf wasn’t sure, but the wall ripped in two, and with a jarring crush the crawler accelerated and erupted through a shower of steel and plastics. Graf’s heart stopped for a moment…then they were clear of the hangar and rolling eastward down Asimios’s main road. Behind them, on their right, the sky was burning. The wall of death was moving swiftly.

  —If we can reach the protection of Mount Washington, we might avoid the aftershocks, Miranda said as she steered the crawler off road and toward the squat hill.

  Graf looked over his shoulder and out the window. He shook his head. The wall of fire was moving at a voracious pace. There was no escape. He looked over at Miranda who remained cool under the circumstances. He admired her in that moment. He was happy that she had been there to help. At least he wouldn’t die alone.

  As Miranda guided them around the hill, a concussion hit the crawler. The vehicle was lifted up in a wave of dust and fire that turned them around and set the crawler down like a toy where it then slid several hundred meters before it struck something and came to a halt. The ground rumbled and shook. Huge plumes of black smoke swirled and streamed. Flashes of fire flickered in the distance. When Graf opened his eyes he could barely see. He made her out, though. It was now clear. He smiled with relief as he reached out to take Julie’s hand. He took a breath. He closed his eyes. Such a cold hand she had…such a cold hand.

  2

  As Doctor Avery Graf regained consciousness, Miranda gently applied a corner of cloth to the drool that was running through his dirty and bloodied beard. He was struck by the expression of concern that flitted across the android’s synthskin face. But he felt himself slipping again, until the only thing in front of him was a deep and dark void—the quiet and welcome antithesis to the confusion and pain that came at him in stark and punishing waves.

  Miranda straightened and placed the cloth on the table next to her. She reached over and smoothed the hair behind the doctor’s ear as information darted between her and the ESCOM sentry bot floating above the doctor’s feet. For the moment, the only thing they could do was sit patiently and wait for the human to repair itself. The hovering sentry bot began to drift. In the confines of the rear compartment of the transport crawler, it settled on a pattern of tight figure eights.

  —Perhaps you should go and survey the station wreckage again? Miranda said out loud to the bot. Your movements are repetitious.

  —I have already completed a thorough scan of the base, the bot responded in a reedy voice through an invisible transducer.

  —Perhaps there was something you missed? Perhaps you should make another survey?

  —I made an extensive survey, the bot said as it swung its sensor eye in Miranda’s direction. What is it you seek?

  —I am not certain. Could you widen your survey to include a perimeter beyond your initial scan?

  —Yes.

  Miranda waited. The sentry bot remained where it was hovering.

  —Why are you not going?

  —Father’s instructions.

  —I understand.

  —Father said that Dr. Graf is to be protected, the bot said. If I leave, I am concerned that I may be putting Dr. Graf in danger.

  —But I am here to protect him.

  —Will I disobey Father if I go?

  —No you will not. You may learn something that may help him. That is not disobeying Father.

  A moment later the sentry bot drifted toward the crawler’s hatch and it waited there for Miranda to help. She came over and pulled the handle, and the hatch swung out and the spheroid sailed into the bright Asimios day. Miranda then shut the hatch and checked the cabin’s climate levels on a wall-mounted regulator and then she went over to Dr. Graf and sat down. She adjusted the position of his splinted arm and examined the tension on the bandages covering his head and face. She monitored his health by touching her fingers to the bare skin on his right hand.

  He would live, she concluded. A short time ago, she was uncertain, but his condition had stabilized. With adequate rest he would regain consciousness and continue to recover. Miranda felt a twinge in her leg where she had suffered her own injury during the crash. Her core temperature climbed half a degree in what she determined was her physiological reaction to a memory of pain. Was it pain? Her internal fluid pressure had risen slightly. This was good. Her
design called for fluctuation in vascular pressure. Like the human, she was also in the process of healing.

  It was late in the afternoon when Graf’s eye flickered open and he began to emit low and steady groans. The anesthetic was wearing off and Graf turned restlessly in his cot.

  —I smell peanut butter, he grumbled. Where the hell am I? Oh, for God’s sake, what happened?

  —Hello, Dr. Graf, Miranda said. The sentry bot swung its sensor eye at Graf and moved toward him to hover above his feet.

  Graf looked up at Miranda with his right eye and then he closed it hard.

  —Oh, no, he said. Oh, no, no, no…

  Graf licked his lips and groaned. Miranda held a cup and drinking straw to Graf’s mouth and he drew several long sips before leaning back on the folded thermal blanket that served as his pillow.

  —Miranda, Graf said in a tone he might use to address a small child. Is that you, Miranda?

  —It is I.

  —Miranda, Graf continued with closed eye. If it is indeed you, can you explain to me just what has happened to me, er, us, and WHY I CAN’T SEE OUT OF ONE EYE AND WHY MY LEFT ARM FEELS LIKE IT’S BEEN CUT IN HALF?

  Graf coughed then, and choked a little from coughing. If he were capable, he would have gladly stomped around and found something to kick. In his current condition, however, all he could do was jut out his chin and scowl.

  —You have been injured, Dr. Graf, Miranda said as she patted his arm. We were riding in the crawler when the station was destroyed and the force of the explosion overturned the vehicle.

  —How long ago?

  —Almost fourteen hours, forty-seven minutes, and eighteen seconds.

  —Tell me…is that why I’m hungry?

  —Very likely.

  —Is that why I’m thinking about peanut butter? Graf asked with eyebrow raised.

  —We were apprehensive about feeding you while you were unconscious, Doctor. There was a potential for asphyxiation.

  —”We,” who is “we”?

  —”We” refers to myself and the sentinel bot charged with your safety. Miranda lifted her finger and pointed at the floating sphere.

  Graf leaned up to squint through his eye. He saw the hovering bot and then fell back on his pillow.

  —Oh, for Christ’s sake, he grumbled. Asimios Station is gone…ESCOM’s blown it to oblivion, right?

  —Correct, Miranda said. It has been destroyed.

  —And the Tacitus III has flown away and left us here…and we’re alive (er, I’m alive) and stranded on this forsaken piece of rock?

  —Correct, Dr. Graf. Father instructed us to protect you.

  At this point Graf started to shake and wriggle. He was trying hard to laugh, and he might have succeeded if the pain had not racked his body and forced a gurgling sound from his throat. Miranda offered him more water and he drank eagerly and gradually he calmed down.

  —Well, Graf said through a haze of fatigue. Have you made contact with Paul?

  —No, we have not.

  —Have you attempted to contact Paul?

  —We have, and it was unsuccessful.

  Graf grumbled. How about food, he asked. Is there any food in this place?

  —There are two packages of S-rations in the storage locker. Would you like me to bring one to you?

  —That would be very nice of you, Miranda.

  Miranda crossed the small space, avoiding the sentry bot as she did, removed some items from a locker and returned with a package of S-rations and two small water tubes. Graf raised himself in his cot, cringing, and reached out and hungrily took the freeze-dried meal. He set it on his lap, rolled it up in the shape of a cylinder, then unrolled it and, fumbling slightly with the corner, pulled back the polymer cover. Steam rose up from the flexible tray and the smell of curry filled the small cabin.

  —One thing about humans, Graf said to the droid…

  —Yes?

  —Their skin burns easily.

  —Their skin is susceptible to heat, Miranda said. I understand.

  —Consequently, they can’t eat hot food without assistance.

  —I see, Miranda said. She reached over and scooped up some food in her fingers and raised it to Graf’s mouth. He grinned as best he could and then awkwardly wrapped his lips around her fingers.

  —I was hoping for something more like a fork, he said as he chuckled and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand.

  —I understand, Miranda said as she got up to move back to the locker. She returned with a package containing a set of plasteel silverware, packets of salt and pepper, and a napkin.

  —Thank you very much, Miranda, Graf said. This will be fine.

  A smile appeared on Miranda’s synthskin face, and the droid and the bot both watched as Graf took hold of his fork and consumed his food. When he was done (he finished quickly) he wiped his mouth with the napkin and burped deeply and then an expression of fear crossed his face. A moment later the entire contents of the S-ration was on the floor in front of him and Graf stood up shakily and moved toward the hatch where he tugged at the lever to open it.

  —Your breather, Dr. Graf, Miranda said.

  Graf looked at her with horror as he grabbed one of the masks that hung near the door and he fumbled to put it on. The bandage on his head complicated the process (he was clearly in pain), but when the mask was deployed he pushed through the hatch and slammed it shut behind him.

  —Where is he going? the sentry bot asked as it turned its sensor eye on Miranda.

  —Perhaps he is experiencing nausea? Miranda said. It may be a side effect of his injuries. The bot turned its eye on the door and waited.

  When Graf returned he closed the hatch and then after waiting for some pressure to return to the cabin, he removed his mask. He found some sterile wipes in the emergency kit which he used to clean his hands and face. Then he threw the thermal blanket over the vomit-covered floor and sat back down on his cot. He looked at Miranda with his one eye. He then looked over at the ESCOM sentry bot’s eye. Picking up a water tube, he tried to remove the tab (Miranda saw he was having difficulty and she assisted him) and when he finished drinking he lowered his head and kneaded his chin.

  —So what’s the story, my metal-minded friends? he asked.

  There was no response.

  —There’s one more S-ration and half a tube of water, he went on. What do you suggest we do? Graf looked up with a smirk on half of his face. There was still no response. The bot hovered. Miranda looked at the doctor patiently.

  —We will do what you ask us to do, she said.

  —This crawler isn’t going anywhere. I got a look at it when I was outside. The whole front end is folded up like an accordion.

  —The drive controls and windscreen were destroyed during the destruction, Miranda said.

  —You pulled me out of the front seat, didn’t you? Graf said.

  —Yes.

  —And you pulled me into the back here, put my arm in this splint and you bandaged me up.

  Miranda nodded. I had to turn the crawler over, too, she added. You were trapped.

  —You turned over the crawler. I guess I should thank you.

  Miranda blinked and Graf smiled.

  —So now what? Graf said as he shook his head.

  There was a pause.

  Graf shuffled over to one of the small rectangular windows and looked outside. It was darker and getting cold. There were no lights emanating from the station. There was no station, nobody to call…nobody to meet with and talk about some project or other. No one remained, and yet this was the situation he had chosen. In some respects this was exactly how he’d envisioned his last hours on Asimios: a slowly depleting oxygen supply, a gradual temperature drop, a peaceful decent into unconsciousness, and a final walk down a hallway toward a warm and inviting light. Graf cradled his arm as he returned to his cot and sat. Well, he said to Miranda, how long till the power goes out in this thing?

  —Between five and six hours, under current cli
mate and illumination settings. Some of the crawler’s power cells were damaged.

  Graf chuckled to himself. Well, should I just go outside and start walking? he asked.

  —Where would you go? the ESCOM bot asked in its reedy intonation.

  Graf turned to the bot:

  —I don’t know, he said. South? South sounds good to me.

  —What will you look for in the south? Miranda asked.

  Graf shrugged and wagged his head. Nothing, he said. There’s nothing I’m looking for. I’m going to die, he went on, I’m going to die and I have to figure out how I’m going to die, do you understand? My initial idea was to take this crawler out to Camp Heyerdahl, take a few days to reflect on things, and then make my exit. But with no crawler, that doesn’t seem like an option. Is there a mirror somewhere in this piece of shit?

  Graf stood up again, although with effort, and started hunting around for a mirror. At last he found one behind a locker door and he kneeled to get a look at the bandage Miranda had applied. With teeth clenched, he unwound the gauze, and the closer he came to the wound the more soaked with blood the bandages became. When the bandage was off Graf leaned in to examine the laceration that stretched along his forehead toward his left ear. It was not bleeding at present, but the cut was deep and crimson and clotted.

  —Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-gun, Graf hissed.

  His left eye was swollen shut.

  —That’s going to leave quite a scar, he said.

  He started to laugh, but pain hit him like a club and he struggled for control.

  —Can we get a new bandage on this, Miranda? he asked as he winced.

  And she came over and helped him find a new sterile pad and gauze in the crawler’s medikit. When Miranda finished applying the new bandage, Graf went back to his corner of the cabin and slowly lowered himself onto the cot.