Actually, the access port runs smoothly between the second and third cervical vertebrae. The mesh of wires feeds through a catheter that links to the motor cortex.
I had made up a lie that day about the neural stent-nodes being more like braces on teeth and simplified how thoughts were translated from chemical reactions and electrical impulses to move the mech’s limbs.
There was no mention of the “ghost-line”: the moment when you no longer control the machine consciously, but your thoughts and actions become fluid within the mech. Holographic icons appear with the mere thought. Vege-protein pumps in softly like a second heartbeat. You try not to think about biomass recycling.
Or the oddest sensation: echoes of consciousness that are difficult to decipher whether they came from you or the mech’s onboard stream-processor.
Looming over her as she awaits an answer on this empty street, I find I’m just watching her. “Yes,” the computerized voice finally answers.
“But it doesn’t hurt ya?”
I can’t help but pause a beat before answering. Enough for her to doubt me, “No,” I lie.
Flora reaches up and puts her hand around the mech’s finger—another memory startles me: her tiny hand wrapping around my finger. She’s an infant, crying as blood gets drawn.
The mech shudders; can’t process the conflicting images. A piercing ache flames through my mind. The internal viewscreen flickers and then shuts off. I’m left in darkness. First the upper torso locks into place, and then the rest of the mech stops. I’m left in an awkward pose like a statue.
“No!” I cry, but my voice has gone mute. “Reassess the situation.” Again, there’s no sound. Only my phantom thoughts as I try to steady the machine. Ever since leaving my unit, I’ve been battling with the mech’s onboard stream-processor. The heavy damage from our last engagement left me mentally scattered, as if I’m teetering on the bridge of the “ghost-line” with the machine.
I’m jolted as I remember how a line of spiker projectiles homed in on our position. The sharp ammo rained down on us.
Something has brought the memory forward.
An ambush I can’t quite recall. There’s the split second when the mech was impaled, then an all-out jamble of metal clanging and grinding. The line of mechs falling over one another. Some mech shooting his rail gun while twirling around, hitting allies.
Stop! That’s over.
It was the blood. Remembering Flora’s tiny bead of blood.
A vision of my own blood. Pooled around me and mixed with oils as my mech’s lumbering hands pull spiker projectiles from the outer hull of the pilot pit. Med-nanos crawled across my entombed body to mend multiple impact wounds. My organic arms locked in the machine’s mechanical arms—stuck and unable to do anything as the med-nanos crawled across me like a swarm of ants. Ants that needled into my skin and then latticed together to stabilize the bleeding at various entry points.
The ’Viathan wouldn’t allow me access to the command-interface with such an erratic heart rate and placed me under animate-hibernation. The spiker projectiles had damaged the encrypted comm-net link to the unit CO as well.
It was the first time I felt alone with the machine.
Later, I awoke to the mech running through an orchard of white blossoms—must’ve accessed an auto-retreat protocol. Took me a good ten minutes to regain primary controls. The onboard stream-processor was filled with gaps and error messages.
Somehow I had survived, and my only thoughts were getting home to my wife and little girl. Actually, my hopes throughout that horrid deployment were to return home as soon as possible.
Flora, back with Flora. Almost home.
The old memory blinks away.
Sunlight warms the mech’s hull.
Back in the present, operating systems reboot and the internal viewscreen lights up.
The image of Flora examining me blurs and then refocuses. The sunny street comes into view. The row of houses sharpens into a discernible image. Solar-cells report fully functional, so my power-feed isn’t an issue.
Flora places her palm on the face shield. “Why aren’t you talking?” she asks. Her eyes shine in a way that tells me she knows what lies beneath.
“Damaged,” the voice explains. I point to the stripped panel and exposed wiring at the mech unit’s left shoulder, but Flora’s examining the charred holes and dents left by the spiker projectiles at the unit’s chest and abdomen. The holes are gummed up with debris, but she’s staring at them as if she can see through if she tries hard enough.
“Are you okay?” she asks as if she doesn’t want to know the answer.
The mech shudders. Flora disappears into a screen of static. Not again! All I want to do is see my daughter.
I bring up a pre-fed dialogue message to let Flora know I’m okay. Just a hiccup in the system.
“Temporary,” the computerized voice scratches out. “Please stand by.”
“Uh, okay,” Flora says. She takes a step back.
I push the memories aside and try to focus on her. I’m scared she’ll run away. Her eyes linger on the entry points of the spiker projectiles. I’m scared that she’s imagining what the razor-sharp slugs did to me.
My mind races for a way to explain. A way to tell her why I can’t open the pilot pit. Why she can’t see what’s inside. Not yet. Not until I’m healed.
A sit-rep from the med-nanos has been elusive. Too much damage to internal systems to relay a report. “Processing. Processing,” scrolls across the viewscreen whenever I push for more information.
A warning on the local comm-net bings.
What now!
The update flashes and then scrolls across my internal display: someone’s called in a military-grade mech roaming Athens Avenue. Three to five minutes before the nearest patrollers arrive. A bit longer for any regional security op. Police will come on ground. Specialized military will come by sky.
After setting three of my external cameras to unremitting-scan the surrounding area, I minimize the surveillance feed and place it in the right-bottom corner via picture-in-picture.
I concentrate on the main viewscreen, trying my darnedest to calm down.
Once again, Flora’s beautiful face fills my screen.
“I thought the mech crashed or something—you just froze up,” she says. “But you’re back.”
“Yes,” the computerized voice answers.
For a moment we just gaze at each other.
Flora breaks the silence, “Do you still have it?”
For a moment I don’t know what she means, but then I answer by playing the audio-file of her singing “A Morning Away” on my speakers loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Karen had put her up to it—a gift to get me through the tough times.
“Oh jeez!” Flora laughs. She’s embarrassed. “Aw, come on. Stop.” She jumps up and tries to cover the speakers with her hands. Her little palms aren’t even close.
I turn the song off just before the line, “I hope to see that smile again, before all this ends.” The lyric rips at me every time.
Proximity sensors pick up a thermal several yards away. Without moving the ’Viathan’s face shield off Flora, I scan the area. It’s just a kid hiding behind a gingko tree at the corner.
“And the bracelet?” Flora asks.
I hesitate—there’s a blank in my memory for a second, but then it comes back to me: the friendship bracelet she weaved from a combination of our favorite colors—orange and green. Two parts orange: one for her and one for Karen.
“Yes,” the computerized voice answers. I raise the mech’s left arm and wiggle it.
Another fragmented memory jars me as it bubbles to the surface: Flora tying the bracelet in place before I climbed into the mech.
I lower the mech’s arm so it’s next to her face. I reach over and try to pry open the acc
ess panel. The controller sleeve for the mech’s arm isn’t located at the wrist of the machine, but near the upper bicep. The mech struggles as if the joints are locking up.
The screen flickers, threatening to go blank.
“Damaged,” the onboard stream-processor says without my command.
I’m taken aback. The mech isn’t supposed to talk without my mental prompting. I keep calm and will a thought to the machine that I’m only going to show my own wrist. I can understand its trepidation at opening the pilot pit, there’s too much damage to my body for that. It doesn’t feel as though the mech is denying me access, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel granted.
Reaching again, I concentrate and extend two of the tentacle-fingers and unsheathe the fine-clawed extensions and work the panel that covers the area over the bracelet.
Again, the fingers slow—it’s as if the mech’s stalling. With great effort, I’m able to focus enough to pull the latches loose. My head’s pounding. A stabbing pain behind my left eye flares up.
I may not be able to expel myself from the machine, but at least I can show her I’m okay. Show her I still wear her bracelet.
The panel resists at first, due to wear and tear. The fine-claw works under and shakily lifts the plated metal.
“I don’t—” Flora stammers as she examines it. “I don’t understand.”
The viewscreen flickers. “Hold,” the computerized voice says on its own. To Flora or me, I can’t tell. It’s a misplaced battle command.
“Daddy?” she asks, her voice shaking and distant.
I try to look at the open panel, but the mech won’t turn the arm my way. “Show it!” I scream, but then remember I have no voice. I picture the arm covered in med-nanos; a frightful sight. Or worse yet, did I just show Flora my arm all twisted and mangled?
I made a mistake opening the panel, but I didn’t know my own arm had been wounded in any way.
Concentrating hard, I finally get the arm to drop low enough for me to see.
The viewscreen is blurred at first. I keep the cameras locked on my exposed arm, willing the image to clear.
It does.
The image is sharp and crisp.
“No!” I cry in silence.
No voice.
The mech’s computerized voice says nothing.
I one-eighty away from Flora. The mech’s giant steel-taloned feet stomp awkwardly. I hurry to a parked sedan and rip off the driver’s side mirror.
Both mech’s arms move in jagged jolts. Simple movement commands have become stuttered. Please no, I beg. My gut tells me I know what’s coming.
With one hand holding the mirror in place, I pull at the pilot pit shell to rip it open—to verify what I saw.
I feel the mech’s reluctance. My reluctance. Not this time! You will show me.
Flora’s calling behind me so I keep walking away with my back turned to her.
The onyx face shield opens.
I look at the viewscreen as if it’s relaying a picture from some other mech. I can’t believe what I see: the pilot pit is empty.
Nothing.
No nano-strung body. No machine-assisted respiratory pump. No me.
An empty controller’s pit. Dried blood-caked in the hollowed-out impressions in the seat cushion. I run a tentacled finger across a hole and push inside. Days old, maybe longer.
“Daddy?” Flora’s behind me. “What’s happening?”
I slam the pilot pit shut and turn around.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“No,” my computerized voice answers. I stumble back. “Stay clear.”
Flora keeps coming.
A black and white Caprice stops at the end of the avenue. The lights atop flash red and blue. He’s blocking off the street.
I kneel down, keeping my mech’s hand held firm against the pilot pit.
The girl creeps up and stares at me. No! She’s my Flora! Dammit, she’s still my Flora. I feel a flow of information surge as corrupted files are granted access. The ’Viathan’s processor, my processor, relents. There’s no more denial within the machine. No more denying by me, the machine.
Like repressed memories, they flood in all at once.
My last gurgling breaths taking three days to cease. The nanos keeping me alive. A disruption in the encrypted comm-net leaving the mech’s onboard stream-processor in a state of flux. The auto-retreat command. The continuous upload of everything I am to the mech’s mainframe.
First protocol: save the controller.
The mech’s computer panicking because I wouldn’t provide strategic intel. Instead, the processor uploaded and stored all my thoughts for those last 72 hours. But all my thoughts were a perpetual loop of Flora and Karen and my unrelenting hope to get home.
The mech ran for days, stopping only to recharge solar-cells. My need to get home feeding the machine—rewriting protocols.
I remember burying the flesh-and-blood body near some mossy oaks. Loose dirt covering the arm with the bracelet in an unmarked grave.
The memory must have been locked away by the onboard stream-processor. Or was it locked away by me? I can’t tell the difference.
Flora’s palm is back on my face shield. She glances back—now two police cars.
“Damaged,” I mutter.
“Daddy?” she says.
“Damaged,” I repeat. I can’t tell her I’m gone. It’s not the truth.
Her eyes are staring back at me. “Daddy,” she says, patting the ’Viathan, me. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.”
Her words warm me. The fluidity of the mech’s controls return as I accept what I am. I put out a hand. She places her hand in it.
“Okay” I say.
“Okay,” she agrees. Her eyes are wet. She takes a breath and says, “I’m just glad you’re not lost like they said.”
Of course, they would have told her I was MIA or KIA.
Northeast radar blips. An L-Hornet is on its way. Military-grade aviation mech.
I rise and pull my hand away from Flora.
I piece the sentence together quickly, “Can’t. Stay.” I point to the sky.
She backs away and says, “I’ll tell Mom I saw you, okay?” Staring at this small creature, I can’t understand how she continues to be so amazing. I take another pic.
“Yes,” I say back.
The L-Hornet screeches overhead.
I hit my own jumpjets and skip over four blocks.
The contrail overhead arcs as the L-Hornet comes back for another pass. I anticipate the move and hit the jumpjets a second time to intercept the L-Hornet’s course. There’s a series of pops as I send a fusillade of countermeasures behind me.
My legs pound off the paved roads onto dirt roads.
The L-Hornet’s still looking for me through clouds of smoke as I reach the rolling foothills. Moments later I’m reaching the line of redwoods.
The comm-net is clear.
I find a clearing of granite rocks and set down to refuel my solar-cells. They don’t need it; I just want to sit under the sun. Listening to the soft clicks and whirs within the mech, I think about what I am. It occurs to me how hollowed-out my memories are. The onboard stream-processor gives flashes of my CO barking orders in those last days. There’s some battle vids. Many program items for functionality. A large chunk for primary systems maintenance.
And then there’s the magical space that just keeps cycling. Memories of Flora gazing up at me.
Envoy in the Ice
written by
Dustin Steinacker
illustrated by
Yader Fonseca
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As a child, Dustin Steinacker told stories; some of them were even true. Still, what should have happened was invariably more fun than what did happen. In school his textbooks co
mpeted for Trapper Keeper space with books by Bruce Coville, K.A. Applegate, and, later, Orson Scott Card. Sometimes the textbooks lost. Between the sixth and seventh grades, Dustin was bumped from Advanced English to regular English for reading through class. At the time, he had the nerve to think this was ironic, but in retrospect, he believes his teachers were right (sorry, Mrs. Anderson!).
While Dustin was pursuing his MPA, a short story idea kept him awake one night at 3:00 a.m. He got out of bed to begin writing. His next story won the graduate division of a campus short fiction contest. Suddenly the sort of creative embellishment he’d loved since childhood seemed like a very good way to make a living.
Dustin lives in Orem, Utah, with his wife Helena and their goofball dog Caramel. He’s currently revising his debut novel, a New Weird colonial fantasy. Writers of the Future is his first sale.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Yader Fonseca was born in 1990 in Miami, Florida, where he was raised.
He recalls drawing at a very young age. After seeing his father come home late from work and doodle on napkins, Yader immediately knew what he wanted to do and decided to pursue a career in the arts.
Yader studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York where he received his bachelor’s degree and learned from great mentors. He went on to expand his creative knowledge through digital paintings.
He works as a freelancer for the entertainment industry, doing illustrations for games, film, and concept art.
Envoy in the Ice
All right, settle in,” comes the voice over the comm. “Inclement weather ahead.”
I laugh. “Imagine that—and in Antarctica, of all places. Do you see anything yet?”
“No. Not even the biomass on thermal.” Lukas is flying only thirty meters to the left, but the airborne ice between us fuzzes his voice as we enter the cloud. “Keep an eye out after we push through this squall. But until the sky clears … nothing. Can’t see it.”