Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 107 Read online

  Today I am Paul, and Susan, and both Nurse Judys. Mildred’s focus drifts. Once I try to be her father, but no one has ever described him to me in detail. I try to synthesize a profile from Henry and Paul; but from the sad look on Mildred’s face, I know I failed.

  Today I had no name through most of the day, but now I am Paul again. I bring Mildred her dinner, and we have a quiet, peaceful talk about long-gone family pets—long-gone for Paul, but still present for Mildred.

  I am just taking Mildred’s plate when alerts sound, both audible and in my internal communication net. I check the alerts and find a fire in the basement. I expect the automatic systems to suppress it, but that is not my concern. I must get Mildred to safety.

  Mildred looks around the room, panic in her eyes, so I try to project calm. “Come on, Ma. That’s the fire drill. You remember fire drills. We have to get you into your chair and outside.”

  “No!” she shrieks. “I don’t like outside.”

  I check the alerts again. Something has failed in the automatic systems, and the fire is spreading rapidly. Smoke is in Mildred’s room already.

  I pull the wheelchair up to the bed. “Ma, it’s real important we do this drill fast, okay?”

  I reach to pull Mildred from the bed, and she screams. “Get away! Who are you? Get out of my house!”

  “I’m—” But suddenly I’m nobody. She doesn’t recognize me, but I have to try to win her confidence. “I’m Paul, Ma. Now let’s move. Quickly!” I pick her up. I’m far too large and strong for her to resist, but I must be careful so she doesn’t hurt herself.

  The smoke grows thicker. Mildred kicks and screams. Then, when I try to put her into her chair, she stands on her unsteady legs. Before I can stop her, she pushes the chair back with surprising force. It rolls back into the medical monitors, which fall over onto it, tangling it in cables and tubes.

  While I’m still analyzing how to untangle the chair, Mildred stumbles toward the bedroom door. The hallway outside has a red glow. Flames lick at the throw rug outside, and I remember the home oxygen tanks in the sitting room down the hall.

  I have no time left to analyze. I throw a blanket over Mildred and I scoop her up in my arms. Somewhere deep in my nets is a map of the fire in the house, blocking the halls, but I don’t think about it. I wrap the blanket tightly around Mildred, and I crash through the picture window.

  We barely escape the house before the fire reaches the tanks. An explosion lifts and tosses us. I was designed as a medical assistant, not an acrobat, and I fear I’ll injure Mildred; but though I am not limber, my perceptions are thousands of times faster than human. I cannot twist Mildred out of my way before I hit the ground, so I toss her clear. Then I land, and the impact jars all of my nets for 0.21 seconds.

  When my systems stabilize, I have damage alerts all throughout my core, but I ignore them. I feel the heat behind me, blistering my outer cover, and I ignore that as well. Mildred’s blanket is burning in multiple places, as is the grass around us. I scramble to my feet, and I roll Mildred on the ground. I’m not indestructible, but I feel no pain and Mildred does, so I do not hesitate to use my hands to pat out the flames.

  As soon as the blanket is out, I pick up Mildred, and I run as far from the house as I can get. At the far corner of the garden near the creek, I gently set Mildred down, unwrap her, and feel for her thready pulse.

  Mildred coughs and slaps my hands. “Get away from me!” More coughing. “What are you?”

  The “what” is too much for me. It shuts down my emulation net, and all I have is the truth. “I am Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662, Mrs. Owens. I am your caretaker. May I please check that you are well?”

  But my empathy net is still online, and I can read terror in every line of Mildred’s face. “Metal monster!” she yells. “Metal monster!” She crawls away, hiding under the lilac bush. “Metal!” She falls into an extended coughing spell.

  I’m torn between her physical and her emotional health, but physical wins out. I crawl slowly toward her and inject her with a sedative from the medical kit in my chassis. As she slumps, I catch her and lay her carefully on the ground. My empathy net signals a possible shutdown condition, but my concern for her health overrides it. I am programmed for long-term care, not emergency medicine, so I start downloading protocols and integrating them into my storage as I check her for bruises and burns. My kit has salves and painkillers and other supplies to go with my new protocols, and I treat what I can.

  But I don’t have oxygen, or anything to help with Mildred’s coughing. Even sedated, she hasn’t stopped. All of my emergency protocols assume I have access to oxygen, so I don’t know what to do.

  I am still trying to figure that out when the EMTs arrive and take over Mildred’s care. With them on the scene, I am superfluous, and my empathy net finally shuts down.

  Today I am Henry. I do not want to be Henry, but Paul tells me that Mildred needs Henry by her side in the hospital. For the end.

  Her medical records show that the combination of smoke inhalation, burns, and her already deteriorating condition have proven too much for her. Her body is shutting down faster than medicine can heal it, and the stress has accelerated her mental decline. The doctors have told the family that the kindest thing at this point is to treat her pain, say goodbye, and let her go.

  Henry is not talkative at times like this, so I say very little. I sit by Mildred’s side and hold her hand as the family comes in for final visits. Mildred drifts in and out. She doesn’t know this is goodbye, of course.

  Anna is first. Mildred rouses herself enough to smile, and she recognizes her granddaughter. “Anna . . . child . . . How is . . . Ben?” That was Anna’s boyfriend almost six years ago. From the look on Anna’s face, I can see that she has forgotten Ben already, but Mildred briefly remembers.

  “He’s . . . He’s fine, Grandma. He wishes he could be here. To say—to see you again.” Anna is usually the strong one in the family, but my empathy net says her strength is exhausted. She cannot bear to look at Mildred, so she looks at me; but I am emulating her late grandfather, and that’s too much for her as well. She says a few more words, unintelligible even to my auditory inputs. Then she leans over, kisses Mildred, and hurries from the room.

  Susan comes in next. Millie is with her, and she smiles at me. I almost emulate Mr. Robot, but my third part keeps me focused until Millie gets bored and leaves. Susan tells trivial stories from her work and from Millie’s school. I can’t tell if Mildred understands or not, but she smiles and laughs, mostly at appropriate places. I laugh with her.

  Susan takes Mildred’s hand, and the Henry part of me blinks, surprised. Susan is not openly affectionate under normal circumstances, and especially not toward Mildred. Mother and daughter-in-law have always been cordial, but never close. When I am Paul, I am sure that it is because they are both so much alike. Paul sometimes hums an old song about “just like the one who married dear old dad,” but never where either woman can hear him. Now, as Henry, I am touched that Susan has made this gesture but saddened that she took so long.

  Susan continues telling stories as we hold Mildred’s hands. At some point Paul quietly joins us. He rubs Susan’s shoulders and kisses her forehead, and then he steps in to kiss Mildred. She smiles at him, pulls her hand free from mine, and pats his cheek. Then her arm collapses, and I take her hand again.

  Paul steps quietly to my side of the bed and rubs my shoulders as well. It comforts him more than me. He needs a father, and an emulation is close enough at this moment.

  Susan keeps telling stories. When she lags, Paul adds some of his own, and they trade back and forth. Slowly their stories reach backwards in time, and once or twice Mildred’s eyes light as if she remembers those events.

  But then her eyes close, and she relaxes. Her breathing quiets and slows, but Susan and Paul try not to notice. Their voices lower, but their stories continue.

  Eventually the sensors in my fingers can read no pulse. They
have been burned, so maybe they’re defective. To be sure, I lean in and listen to Mildred’s chest. There is no sound: no breath, no heartbeat.

  I remain Henry just long enough to kiss Mildred goodbye. Then I am just me, my empathy net awash in Paul and Susan’s grief.

  I leave the hospital room, and I find Millie playing in a waiting room and Anna watching her. Anna looks up, eyes red, and I nod. New tears run down her cheeks, and she takes Millie back into Mildred’s room.

  I sit, and my nets collapse.

  Now I am nobody. Almost always.

  The cause of the fire was determined to be faulty contract work. There was an insurance settlement. Paul and Susan sold their own home and put both sets of funds into a bigger, better house in Mildred’s garden.

  I was part of the settlement. The insurance company offered to return me to the manufacturer and pay off my lease, but Paul and Susan decided they wanted to keep me. They went for a full purchase and repair. Paul doesn’t understand why, but Susan still fears she may need my services—or Paul might, and I may have to emulate her. She never admits these fears to him, but my empathy net knows.

  I sleep most of the time, sitting in my maintenance alcove. I bring back too many memories that they would rather not face, so they leave me powered down for long periods.

  But every so often, Millie asks to play with Mr. Robot, and sometimes they decide to indulge her. They power me up, and Miss Millie and I explore all the mysteries of the garden. We built a bridge to the far side of the creek; and on the other side, we’re planting daisies. Today she asked me to tell her about her grandmother.

  Today I am Mildred.

  About the Author

  Martin L. Shoemaker is a programmer who writes on the side . . . or maybe it’s the other way around. Programming pays the bills, but a second place story in the Jim Baen Memorial Writing Contest earned him lunch with Buzz Aldrin. Programming never did that! His work has appeared in Analog, Galaxy’s Edge, Digital Science Fiction, and Writers of the Future Volume 31. His novella Murder on the Aldrin Express was reprinted in Year’s Best Science Fiction Thirty-First Annual Collection and in Year’s Top Short SF Novels 4.

  It Was Educational

  J.B. Park

  Student A is quite eager to see me. It’s good to see a reporter actually care, he tells me. His grip is hard and he has the kind of face composed by men who have no idea what normal human beings look like.

  We make our way to the university. Student A is accompanied by Student B and in the middle between them is Civilian C, who is similarly pretty in that cobbled together way.

  Gwangju is no cheery place. Figures are seen here and there doing things to simulate normalcy, it’s like the calm before a storm, with all the anticipatory jangle of nerves, their frayed ends stirring. Through the dim windows I see the occasional sign of movement, maybe a flash of white as some student lifts up a banner he has made. The signs are many yet the messages are uniform—death to Chun Doo Hwan, that sort of a thing.

  We arrive at the university and Student B begs for permission to go do whatever he has to do; he’s not too specific. On the grass I see a group of students filling up empty glass bottles with gasoline. Civilian C has disappeared. Student A apologizes, and leaves to find him.

  I hear loose bits of conversation, murmurs, the odd proclamation. The talk is stuff I’ve heard before in many other pre-war settings. The flavor is different, the languages vary, yet the tone always stays the same.

  Instead of opting for a speed-forward I choose to stay the night in simtime. Call it laziness. I get a cheap room and there’s a bottle of soju and a bowl of peanuts on the table. The TV is large, the bed is impossibly soft. The window faces the city and the night cloaks it under a muffled sort of darkness, dimming the lights, closing the eyes.

  I drink the booze and eat the peanuts and soon there’s a knock on the door. Dinner is served—a bowl of white rice, some danmuji, a bowl of clear beef broth with a speck here and there of meat floating in it. A single semi-translucent chunk of radish sits heavily in the middle. The server is quiet and I wait for him to leave before I start eating. Eating in virtual is always a little strange for me, despite the nutritionally absent luxury of it, or perhaps because of it—instinct informs you that you are not actually eating despite the texture of the food in your mouth, like the grains of rice, the spoonful of broth, or the unpleasant softness of boiled radish. No sound other than the slight noise of metal chopsticks rubbing against one another. I finish everything; I tell myself I am fed.

  I lie down on the bed. I turn the TV on and nothing appears on screen. I file a complaint about this lack of authenticity while noting that the attention to detail in some other aspects of my stay—the disappointing meal, so true to history—may perhaps benefit from a studious lack of attention. The meal didn’t need to be so poor.

  Sleep is perhaps the best part. You close your eyes, and when you open them it is morning. The transition is instantaneous. There are no dreams.

  I eat breakfast to the sound of gunfire. It’s begun, I think. I check to see if my admin privileges have been activated; yes, over the “night” I spent sleeping. At least that’s one thing still working. It’s a pain sometimes to wait for my credentials to go through.

  The TV is working now. Two people are dead—police officers. Their bodies are carried behind the lines of their still-alive comrades. Some unidentifiable number of civilians line the street with their bodies. A bus burns nearby, and as the mob disperses into the various buildings and alleyways, teargas canisters dog their steps and obscure their fleeing forms.

  One of the dead is a real human being and he has filed a review of his death. It was fast and I had time to watch as my stomach pumped out blood onto the ground. Glub glub, he had noted, jotting down the onomatopoeia. Head trauma didn’t feel real when I got clubbed. Felt more of a clobbering just getting up this morning.

  I shift back in and the footage on TV is now of the army rolling into the city. I look out the window and there are plumes of smoke dissipating above the roofs of the buildings.

  There is a bit of compression; eight days are folded into one, because no one has the patience to wait out the slaughter over the standard period of violence.

  Now in recorded history there was steady escalation then decompression, set over the course of many days; even in the heaviest fits of fighting some normalcy had remained. Pockets of them, of people holed up waiting for the storm to pass.

  However that was boring and thus the tourism board had deemed it fit to retool the attraction into an excitement-friendly version of events, where everything was supposedly more fun. This was what I was here to inspect.

  The soldiers had been given a sleek new design, their uniforms patterned after the robot troopers of a recent sci-fi hit, all of them decked out in gleaming black metal. And as I watch, a troop of these soldiers march toward the first of the barricades, made of overturned cars and garbage and broken remains of furniture. Someone at the top of the barricade yells, they’re coming, they’re coming! Immediately a few molotovs sail over the barricade, aimed right at the progress of the troopers. They in turn raise their shields and pull out their handguns. The molotovs keep coming and at one point the soldiers march through a roaring mass of flames, the collective accumulation of dozens of bottles that had smashed and exploded. Their boots crunch on shattered glass as they reach the barricade, drop their shields, and begin to climb. I tab one—a construct—but the one next to it is yet another human and I monitor her heart-rate (acceptably brisk) and other such vitals before focusing on the action again. The first of the soldiers had scaled the barricade only to be knocked back by a student wielding an iron pipe. He reaches out with his left hand and barely stops himself from falling; with the right, still holding a gun, he aims at the student’s face and fires. The head disintegrates.

  The students retreat, as the soldiers continue to give chase, firing as they run after their targets. They’re not all that accurate, but it’s
enough to fell more than a few of those fleeing. I spot Student A among those who still live; they reach the gate, but find it shut. Ah, I think, drama.

  “Open up!” Student A yells. Others add their voices. But the gate doesn’t open, although those students manning the walls (which has grown in size since the night before, resembling some medieval fortification now—I make a note that creative liberties are fine and all, but they should be less obtrusive) fire on the soldiers closing in with rifles of their own, long stubby things that spit out bullets with furious speed. About half the troops reach the gate still, and there, after a brief melee, what’s left are the bodies of kids like split watermelons. But the soldiers have been diminished even further by that point: those manning the walls have been firing away for quite some time. What’s left of the soldiers run for it, and in the end about ten reach the safety of the barricade.

  I check the rating again: “Supervision required for ages eight and below.” I note that they should consider raising this now.

  Meanwhile hundreds of taxi cabs and buses try to get into the city, hoping to join in on what they still think of as a protest. There’s a stoppage somewhere up the road and the drivers are honking and the general temper is volatile. Then the ground begins to rumble, a vibratory approach that they all feel; some climb to the top of their vehicles to see what’s coming.

  The tanks are coming. The cars have nowhere to go, backed up as they are on the road. From somewhere and nowhere, thunderous music, very cinematic, begins playing. The comic fury of it all, the sheer absurdity of it—the drivers scurry away like insects as their cars are crushed. The machine-guns attached to the tanks open fire and those still fleeing are gunned down as they run. The bullets whack into them with such force that for a brief moment before they burst they are lifted into the air.

  Note: while educational, I do not know if it’ll capture the attention of the audience in the same way that, say, Cambodia did last year.