Adam-Troy Castro - Emissaries from the Dead

The long minutes went by, my breath slowing, my phobic reactions giving way to a kind of vague distress.

Have you ever spent a protracted period of time among a species not your own? I have. On Bocai, they had been vast extended family. In other places, they had been enemies, allies, or assignments. Here they were part of the landscape. I could smell the musty scent of their fur, and hear the soft rumble of their breath, and detect something of their personalities in the way they sighed and moaned and shifted position all around me. I could sense the rhythm of their strange, topsy-turvy lives and the connection they shared with their surroundings every second of every day. I could even sense their feelings toward me, the distasteful intruder in their midst: strange, alien, possibly even foul-smelling, so completely at odds with everything they considered normal. I could just imagine their reaction to being told that the human beings aboard One One One were here to help them. They couldn’t find the news heartening. What would they feel instead? Confusion? Amusement? Horror? Disgust? Rage? Malice? Maybe even something different from all of that, something that appeared on no human spectrum? Maybe anything but comfort. That, they wouldn’t feel. They called us Ghosts, after all, and Ghosts have always been incapable of putting the haunted at ease.

The truth was, whatever else may have been involved here, the AIsource had played a practical joke on us. They had arranged for our ideals to lead us into a world where our ideals were just plain irrelevant, a world whose inhabitants we would be honor-bound to help even though they got along fine if just left alone.

We considered them owned, but they had no frame of reference to measure freedom. We considered them prisoners, but they couldn’t live anywhere except with their captors. And we considered them slaves, but their only labor was to do what was natural to them. All the debates were just abstractions to those who actually had to live it: less relevant, even, than subtle discussions of color to creatures born blind. And whatever mazes they were driven through, whatever great dramas they played out for AIsource amusement, were likely destined to remain just as opaque to us. Our two races were like two parades marching down the same street to the same drumbeat, blind to one another until the moment of collision.

I was still wondering whether that was the whole point when the Heckler spoke, somewhere very close to me.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

As before, the voice was neither male nor female, young or old, mad or sane: just a slick, measured voice, flensed of everything that might have given it character. Nor was it that odd not-a-voice-but-I-heard-it-anyway used by the AIsource.

This was once again human, with the humanity removed.

I was neither surprised nor alarmed. I would have been more concerned had the Heckler not shown up tonight. But since I was surrounded by Brachiators, who I didn’t want mistaking our more unpleasant exchanges for an attack on them, I activated my hiss screen before continuing. “Yes, I know that. Can you hear me?”

“As clearly as I’ll hear your screams when you fall.”

My ability to feel fear was currently operating at full capacity and wouldn’t bear any additional weight. But I smiled, to show appreciation for the snappy answer. “It’s been a while since I heard from you.”

Whatever leeched the emotion from the Heckler’s voice also defanged a clear attempt to snarl. “I thought you’d be smart enough to know you were on the losing team.”

“And I would have imagined you smart enough to recognize that I don’t join teams.”

“We’re all owned, Andrea. We all belong to one side or another. We may not always recognize what side that is, but that has more to do with our own blindness than with our stupid illusions of remaining neutral. In truth, we function only as much as we’re allowed to, by those who really pull the strings.”

Something shifted in the darkness. Something that seemed to move faster than any Brachiator had a right to move.

“Most of us are less than pawns. We just take up space and complicate the play for those who make a difference. Even those of us with a part in the game are just moved back and forth across the board, scoring our little points, working toward that one moment when we manage to score our side a momentary advantage. It’s not any way for a sentient person to live.”

“And that’s why you’re after me?” I asked. “To put me out of my misery?”

The Heckler emitted a sick, anguished laugh, as much self-loathing as malice. “I said most of us, Andrea. I only bought myself a longer leash.”

I freed my right arm, fumbled for my belt, opened something I’d taken from my bag in case I needed to defend myself, and cursed with disgust as it slid from my fingertips and tumbled forever into the darkness. Well. That was inconvenient.

“I knew about you,” the Heckler continued. “I’d read up on you. I’d learned all about how hated you were and how little you cared. I considered you a hero of mine. I didn’t want you working against me here. When I learned you were coming, I did what I could to drive you off.”

That would be the first of the messages I’d received after Intersleep.

I removed something else from my belt: a tiny disk, about the size of my knuckle, which even in this nigh-total darkness found enough ambient light to glisten. I swung it before me in a clumsy arc, not knowing whether that arc hung between me and the Heckler, and sweaty with the knowledge that it barely mattered.

“Am I supposed to think that’s some kind of weapon?”

I kept my voice level. “I don’t care what you think. I care what you know. And by your own admission, you know the kind of person I am, the kind of things I’ve done, and just how little I care. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to set off an explosion capable of incinerating everything within a hundred meters of here, as long as that meant getting rid of you too.”

Silence. Then: “That’s ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t matter that it’s ridiculous. What matters is that it’s also not out of character. What do you think? Is it out of character for me? Am I not the kind of person who’d walk around with a bomb all her life, on the off chance she might find herself in the kind of situation where it made sense to blow herself up? If you honestly believe I’m saner than that, then keep coming. If you don’t, then rest assured I’ll give you another chance to kill me by this time tomorrow.”

The empty space before me lit up with another of the Heckler’s images: this one a naked, emaciated version of myself, displayed on a darkened stage as I danced for the amusement of unseen puppeteers. My pierced wrists and ankles were swollen, semi-healed scabs. My face was painted clown-white, with bright red cheeks and a gobbet of glistening meat in the same place where a clown would have worn a rubber red ball for a nose. Hooks pulled my lips back into a ghastly, fixed smile belied by my eyes, a pair of lost, despairing orbs blinded by all the tears they had shed.

Then the image vanished, leaving purple afterimages on my retinas.

Then came the final words, no longer soulless, no longer an altered voice intended to hide the killer’s true nature, but the voice of the murderer, provided without any further masks. “You have no friends, Andrea. Not in the Dip Corps and not on One One One. Just allies, and enemies, and cylinked pets doing what their owners have ordered them to do.”

I waited.

Another cackle. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hearing the truth about what they are?”