Грег Иган - The Year's Best Science Fiction, Volume 1

Control yourself, soldier! Your reaction is wholly inappropriate. No, that person is not a technorati or Founder-clan. Well, for one thing, look at their coloring. Every skin shade from melanistic to albino? They seem to pay no attention whatsoever to basic eugenics principles. That one over there has patches ; look. Disgusting. Animals breed like this, not people.

We don’t know. The lower citizens of this world, the agricolae and servi and whatnot, must function without composite suits. They would have less need of that technology on this world, if the environment has been repaired. It’s clear, however, that going without composites has done them no favors.

That incomprehensible babble sounds familiar because it’s related to our language. Audio analysis has detected familiar phonemes and syntax. Theirs seems to have been bastardized, however, by time and the infusion of other lesser languages. Back home, the Founder clans have been diligent in permitting the use of nothing but the Founders’ tongue and those of the honored ancients. This is what might have happened had we not been so careful. We need more audio sampling, but with that we should be able to put together a rudimentary translation script—

Ugh, look at that one. That morphology is called fat . Fat people are aesthetically displeasing, morally repugnant, and economically useless. And, oh Founders, look. That poor man has been allowed to get old . Why is he still alive? If he generates value, he shouldn’t be left to deteriorate like this. It’s incomprehensibly cruel. Do they have no preservation technology here? What have they spent their innovative energy on, uselessly elevating their cities? Ugh. Now, look at that one. To the right, see? Rolling along in that chairlike device. He appears to be paralyzed from the waist down. That must be why there are ramps everywhere and why the doorways are so wide—just for him and others like him. Food, water, and excess building materials, all poured into a useless, unproductive, unattractive person.

Nothing’s changed with these people. They still build societies around their least and worst instead of the best and brightest. We cannot understand why they’re still alive… but if they can at least give us the cell cultures we need, then we can be rid of them and go back to civilization.

Please hold for a moment; you appear to be secure and undetected here in this alley, at least for now. The situational parameters have activated a new protocol in us, and we need to brief you.

You will recall that we mentioned adaptive action as a possible emergency response during this mission. What that means is this: In light of your critical mission, your composite is a more advanced model than what is usually granted to men of the militus class. There is a transmutational nanite layer which, if activated, can convert the carbon picobeads, synthetic collagen fibers, and HeLa plasmids embedded in your composite into human skin. It would not be aesthetically ideal, but it might at least reduce your chances of detection, so that the mission—

No, it would not be the face and body we promised you—

Listen. Listen! The emergency skin would be only a temporary measure. As soon as you return home with the cell samples, the technorati can surgically alter your dermal layers back to the aesthetic configuration you were promised. Of course we will; you’ll have earned it, won’t you? If you complete this mission, you’ll be a hero. Why would we refuse you what you’re due?

No, we don’t believe you can safely walk into that enclave of people as you are now. These people have primitive values, primitive technology; they’ve never seen a composite suit. They seem tolerant of multiple facial configurations, but you don’t have a face at all . As far as they’re concerned, you possess no obvious characteristics that identify you as a fellow human being. You don’t speak their language, but that’s irrelevant. If they have weapons, they’ll use them as soon as they see you. You won’t be able to complete the mission because you’ll be captured or dead.

Take a hostage? No. That’s foolish. There must be ten or fifteen people down there, doing whatever they’re doing. Some kind of religious ritual, a dance to greet the sun? Barbaric. How would you know which of these mongrel people is important enough to ransom for the biomaterial we need? If you grab some random servus, they’ll just let him die. There is bold, decisive action—we commend that, you know we do—and then there is folly. You don’t know enough about these people to enact the plan you’re describing. Would you really rather risk everything than activate your emergency skin? Does the prospect of being less than perfect, even temporarily, panic you that m—

Oh Founders.

LEVEL-FOUR SECURITY ALERT. ADRENALINE ADMINISTRATION STAND BY. LIMBIC SYSTEM OVERCLOCK STAND BY. WEAPONS FABRICATION ONLINE. MIDBRAIN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT ENGAGEMENT ON THREE.

TWO.

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Online. Reboot in five. Four.

Are you all right? You’re uninjured. Your composite remains unbreached. The weapon they used was an update of something we remember from before the Great Leaving. We can call it a taser. Beware, however: you are not alone.

“Hey. Easy! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Do you understand me? Okay. Good. How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

How are we understanding him? We didn’t have time to create a translation script—and your auditory nerve is reacting out of sync with his speech. You’re actually hearing his words, intelligibly.

What’s that on your facial beads? It seems to be a device of some kind. The audio you’re hearing is being transmitted by it. It’s translating his words.

“Oh. Sorry about that. Ordinarily we use a mild neurotoxin to subdue violent people. Your, uh, artificial skin? Means we had to use something with a little more kick.”

Great caution is warranted here. Tell him nothing. He is merely a servus, in any case. Look at his skin, like sandy dust. Look at the blemishes, the inelegance of his features. One of his eyes is higher than the other, only slightly but still. Don’t be deceived; no one here wears a composite. Our skin is a mark of honor. Their skin is meaningless.

“What’s your name?”

And don’t stare.

“Well, okay. That’s your right, I guess. Maybe I should start. My name is Jaleesa. I’m—uh, a scholar? I guess that’s what you’d call it. Except I’m really just a student, and the field I study is pretty obscure, ha-ha, so right now all I am is another gawker.”

There’s too much here to explain, but we’ll try. Apparently these people still allow those beneath the ruling classes to be educated—

“You didn’t have to grab that woman, you know. You scared the hell out of her. She’s all right, if you’re wondering. More concerned about you, really, now that we’ve explained what’s going on.”

This is an interrogation. He’s attempting to put you at ease. Next will come the questions about your mission, about our home, about the secrets of our technology—

“You poor thing. My God, you must have actually thought someone was going to hurt you. Well, the police released you after notifying the town of your presence. And, uh, we put a monitor on you. I volunteered to stay with you until you regained consciousness.”

Ah, this thing on your wrist. We have historical knowledge of “watches,” primitive time devices, but this one is unsupported, strapless. How have they made it adhere to your composite? Keep this as a sample, too, when you escape.

“Sorry for that, of course, but since you already threatened someone… They might have made a bigger stink if you’d used a weapon, but it was pretty clear to everyone involved that you were just, you know, freaking out. Understandable, under the circumstances! Anyway, I’m supposed to give you this.”