Элизабет Бир - Machine

It was a gobsmacking accomplishment. Not only was it huge, it was intricate. Different systers had different environmental and gravitational needs, and environments were stacked from hub to rim of the spinning station to accommodate them. The apex of the enormous station was pointed toward the Core; the nadir lay in sheltering shadow.

I didn’t at all blame the administration for being in a blistering hurry to get the new artificial gravity installed throughout the environment. It was an infinitely better solution than trying to balance the gravitational needs of different systers with various rates of spin. Although there might also be safety concerns with the artificial gravity.

Probably. Technology can always break. The question is always, when it breaks, how does it break? What does it do? And what failsafes can be installed to keep it from killing anybody?

I turned to Helen. “When we dock,” I told her, “people are going to come on board and get your crew members and the sample of the machine. They are going to try to help, and you need to let them. Do you think you can manage that?”

“They’re going to help my crew,” she repeated, as if fixing it in memory.

“They’re doctors,” I said. “Very good doctors. If anybody can help, they will.”

It didn’t seem advantageous to mention that if her crew were past recovery, it was probably because she’d force-frozen them.

Sally brushed against the docking ring, matching velocity and vector so precisely we heard nothing. And felt nothing, until the docking bolts shot with a thud that reverberated through our hull. Suddenly, my limbs were sore, as we fell heavily back into the embrace of simulated gravity.

The warm feminine voice of Linden, Core’s wheelmind, broke in. She could use magnetic resonance to communicate directly with many types of sentient brains via hallucinations one could not ignore, but she felt it was more polite to talk to people when possible. I had to admit, I agreed.

We’d tightbeamed ahead to let her know what we had coming, so I wasn’t surprised when she said, “Welcome home, Sally, Doctors, Nurses, Pilot. Welcome to Core General, Helen. Helen, I’m Linden, the wheelmind here, and I will be in charge of making sure that you are comfortable while my staff begins care for your crew. Do you require treatment also?”

“Yes,” Tsosie said, while Helen was still grinding through her decision. It was technically a bit sketchy of him to speak on her behalf, but she’d have other chances to refuse, and the lags she was running were a pretty good argument in favor of her need.

Helen wanted to hover as we started moving the coffins out, and was absolutely and entirely in the damned way. I managed to convince her that the airlock worked better when she wasn’t standing in it, and Loese—who was off duty once we docked, so it was service above and beyond—led her out into the receiving bay to stand next to the triage nurse and do her worrying where she could see the end stage of the process.

I ducked through to treatment, past the milling crew surrounding the cryo pod being offloaded from that private ship. I glanced over my shoulder, but Tsosie wasn’t in view, or I would have gloated at him over the pod: evidence that somebody was actually pretty darn sick or hurt.

So there.

To my enormous relief, my old friend Dr. Rilriltok was on duty in Cryonics. It was a Rashaqin trauma recovery specialist, a job classification that included cryo fail and other injuries often sustained during rescue and transportation. It spotted me and fluttered up through the big, echoing bay, flying because the spin gravity in this trauma bay was light enough to be safe for it to do so, and because the floor was covered with swarms of doctors, nurses, and techs of about sixteen different species.

Despite the madhouse of people sliding coffins around on lifts, I spotted it coming a long way off: it was hard to miss, being airborne and about a meter long. The drone of its diamond-faceted wings was equally distinctive, having a tendency to set my back teeth buzzing against each other.

“Hey,” I said. “Nice sash. Is that jewelry? Did you get promoted?”

Rilriltok hovered, the wings a blur. Portable gravity nullifier, it said, stroking the sash with a small manipulator. Koregoi tech. Now that the hospital has begun retrofitting, they’re issuing these to all fragile staff members. For safety, in case of a gravity emergency. Greetings, friend Brookllyn. Have you eaten? Are you well?

Rilriltok had been my mentor/liaison when I did my training rotation at Core General, and we’d hit it off brilliantly. It was a Rashaqin male, which meant that it was possessed of a dizzying array of limbs, two compound eyes, enough simple eyes that I’d have to point to each in sequence to reliably count them, and layers of chromatophores and iridophores that it could use to disappear effectively into almost any background. The females of its species were much larger and more aggressive, without the adaptations for color manipulation, and in pre-Synarche times had been known to occasionally eat the males during mating if they weren’t already sated.

As a result, the males were incredibly diplomatic, empathic, and polite. And prone to repeatedly offering food to anybody they had to deal with in a social or professional situation. Especially if the situation was somewhat tense.

Rilriltok, in short, was a delight.

Rashaqins were also exoskeletal—they looked like praying mantises with a few extra limbs—and had evolved on a much less dense, higher-oxygen world than humans had. This meant that fair amounts of Core General, especially around the rim, were off-limits to any Rashaqin that did not wish to be squashed. It also meant that they usually wore supplemental breathing gear threaded around the spiracles on their abdomens, because their mix was rich enough to present an unreasonably large oxidation risk if used as a general atmosphere.

I’d been to Rashaq once, when I was still in the Judiciary. Things on Rashaq tended to spontaneously burst into flames.

The entire planet was saved from being a constant firestorm mostly because it also never stopped raining. I’d spent three standard months on the surface in my duty rotation. I only ever saw its pleasant yellow sun from aircraft. My skin was fantastic the whole time, though—soft and supple and very well-moisturized.

I pointed to the stream of coffins coming in. “Have you had a look yet?”

The first one is being hooked up to the diagnostics. Shall we go?

Rilriltok perched on my shoulder—its personal antigravity device seemed to be working, as it weighed less than my exo—and let me carry it through the crowd, safely raised above the bustle. Under other circumstances, I might have shied from the raptorial forelegs as long as my arms, folded neatly away beneath the level torso. Whatever else it was, Rilriltok was an extremely large bug.

It was a large bug that I was perfectly accustomed to, however. And—Hhayazh aside—I’ve always been fond of bugs. Actually, I’m fond of Hhayazh, too, but don’t tell it I said so.

I stood still and served as a perch for the even more motionless Rilriltok as it scanned the readouts being sent to our senso. Odds for the occupant of the cryo casket didn’t look great to me—the numbers were too cold, too weird—but I wasn’t the expert. And to my vast relief, I wasn’t currently wearing a specialist ayatana, either. Much easier, saner, and safer to let somebody who had their own knowledge handle the diagnosing when I had one standing—or perching—right there.

At length, Rilriltok buzzed faintly. I couldn’t tell if the emotion it was experiencing was exasperation or relief.