The apartment door unlatched, and Max Haiden entered. Illumination panels embedded in the plastic ceiling awoke from their rest state and obediently bathed the room in a soft, warm light. Haiden pulled the door closed behind him before shambling into his living unit like a somnambulant, stiff and sore from a long day’s work.
The apartment was small—standard issue for servants of the Central Services such as himself. Unlike a lot of his friends, Max didn’t have a flair for decoration. His accommodations were simple and efficient, and he liked it that way. A single potted Righa plant stood just inside the entry. The small domesticated plant detected the minute changes in the room’s air pressure as Haiden entered. Its slender stalks rotated broad leaves towards him as if reaching to embrace him, welcome him home. He brushed the palm of his hand deliberately against the rough bristled foliage, letting flakes of his skin be scrubbed off for the plant to consume. He noticed a mist of water speckled across its hairs and broad leaves—a servitor must have been here recently and cleaned the rooms and watered the plants. He was relieved, as he had left the place in a mess this morning and automation service levels had been reduced very recently due to the construction push.
He placed his pack on a ledge above the central table and sat down on his favorite padded stool. Exhaling heavily, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. After a day of work, it was nice to be home. Last night he and his friend, Palos Redfru, had visited Marco’s, the local Tak bar, and enjoyed a few rounds too many; they’d watched a rematch of Gunka vs. Hereia on the bar’s large holovid. It was the third and supposedly the final match between the two Preliator mechs: Gunka had been modified for brute power with two customized powerdrives, whereas the twice-defeated Hereia sacrificed such strength for agility, sporting twin Higgs accelerators and even a makeshift nullfield projector this time around. It had been a great fight, but the final outcome hadn’t been a big surprise for anybody—Gunka ended up taking the match, decapitating his speedier opponent after only fifteen minutes. Max and Palos had tried to get passes to watch the event live, but the match had evidently been sold out even before the beginning of Faran. But Max felt no remorse; they’d had a great time.
As it was, there were no plans to go anywhere this evening—Max intended to relax in the apartment and do some reading. A sudden and emphatic growl from his stomach reminded him that he’d consumed only supplements today. He could certainly use some real food, and he had enough credits saved for nearly an entire season. Reaching out and rotating the translucent multi-display around on its pole axis, he pulled up a menu and scrolled through the options for dinner. Though the list was somewhat shorter than normal, Haiden managed to find something that sounded palatable. The display flashed as he confirmed the order with a drag-flick of his finger. Calculating the wait to be more than a few minutes, he decided to check his messages. Tapping the option on the glass he noticed that there was indeed a message waiting for him, and it wasn’t one of his friends—it was from Central Services.
An odd mix of curiosity and fear trickled through his mind, and he felt the subtle probing of his geas monitoring the innocuous thoughts—but the message could be almost anything. Instead of reading it immediately, however, he rose from the stool and pulled a drinking bulb from the suspended rack. Filling the bulb with nutrient water, he wondered if perhaps this was some kind of joke or trick Palos was playing on him. After a moment he rejected the notion; even Palos wouldn’t be able to pretend to be CS; his own geas would have very nearly flayed him alive for even considering the action.
He drank down the cold fluid, refilled it and drank again before tossing the empty bulb in the washbasin. It hummed as if contented while Max reseated himself in front of the display. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. For a facilitator-class android, today was more physical than usual; he had been forced to join the metallics he had been overseeing on a construction site. Central had issued new format rail guides for the grav cars, and the stupid bots couldn’t assemble them correctly. It angered him—for all the allocation they spent keeping these colds working on the gravrail project, surely they should be able to adapt enough to learn to assemble things in a slightly different manner. Sometimes he would almost rather climb in a lift and do the work himself. besides—the lifts had much more affable personalities.
He missed those days before the cities were built—even before the forests, fields, lakes and oceans had been finished. Early in the days of terraforming, the “Brew Crew”—himself, Palos, Georgion, Fallow and Mika—would roam around in their lifesuits, tending the harvesters and seeders. There were only a few thousand androids on the planet at the time, and Haiden’s crew was responsible for, among other things, monitoring the gas mixtures of the seeders, a process referred to as ‘brewing.’ The engineers in their field division had nicknamed them the Brew Crew, which had stuck for thousands of years. Eventually the atmosphere had stabilized, and they had all been reassigned to other duties. Haiden had lost contact with Georgion, Fallow and Mika, but he still worked with Palos on the gravrail construction project.
Looking at the flashing message on the console, he sighed inwardly; nothing for him to do but see exactly what it was they wanted him to do this time. If it was indeed another relocation and reassignment, he hoped it would at least be on the central continent. He’d gotten used to the sprawling chaos of large city construction and the commensurate amenities; life on the satellite continents—or worse, the islands—would probably take centuries to get used to. With a mental shrug he voiced on the message playback.
“This message is for Max Haiden,” the woman said. The console showed her full length so that it appeared a miniature version of the comms officer was imbedded in the display. She was solid and muscular—that look of so many in her life-class—and her longish red hair was appropriately braided on the right and pinned up. Her formsuit and vest bore the colors and insignia of Central Services: so much for this being any sort of joke. “You are being served with a notice,” the woman continued, “to report to the Barka hibernation facilities on the seventh ring at 0800 tomorrow morning.”
Max nearly fell backwards off his stool. Hibernation? Gripping the utility table for support, he watched in stunned silence as the woman’s avatar continued.
“We want to thank you for your dutiful and obedient service during the preparation of the planet. In an effort to preserve planetary resources, Chancellor Spar has issued a notice for thirty-five percent of all living personnel to be paused in cryofreeze until further notice. You have been randomly selected to participate in this valuable program to help make our mission a complete success. We at Central Services wish to thank you for your hard work and…”
As the woman continued with her emotionless soliloquy, Max climbed numbly off the stool and wandered into the central living area. The drone of the message increased slightly in volume, the console having detected that he’d moved away. He slumped into the living room sofa in a state of uncomprehending shock. He had been here since the beginning, and now they were going to put him in cryofreeze? The thought was repulsive; he had helped build the Barka complex. His knowledge of the facility was from experience rather than implantation, and he couldn’t help remembering the cold, clinical feel of the vast cryosleep chambers. He had never been in cryofreeze before, but he had spoken to those who had gone through it. He wasn’t looking forward to the experience.
“…leaving a work force more than large enough the handle the effort required before human planetfall.” The woman gave a final smile. The image froze, was overlaid with the Central Services logo, and then finally blinked off.
That was it? Maybe there was some appeal mechanism; perhaps he could apply to stay out of cryo so he could continue to work. He had seen this planet evolve from nothing, and the decision seemed arbitrary. Why choose him? Then he realized the decision probably was arbitrary. He reached across the sofa to a small datacom clip that was sitting on the half-table. It flickered to life as he rubbed his fingers across the display. He scrolled through the various news feeds looking for more information on the decision, trying to see if there was anybody he could contact. As he was browsing news channels, his dinner arrived; a serving trolley moved through the door as it opened, and an arm emerged from the lower casing. It gently placed the tray on the counter, said “Enjoy your meal,” with a mechanical falseness that only an emotionless cold could convey, then spun around and exited the apartment.
Finished with his search, at least for a while, he manipulated the controls of the clip. Palos Redfru appeared on the screen, staring back at him. A pointed chin seemed to pull his friend’s face towards the display, making the corners of his mouth appear tight despite the obvious smile tweaked with mischief.
“Eleh Max, what’s up?”
“Eh Palos, can you come over? It’s important.” Palos’ wry grin turned serious, seeing the look in Max’s eyes. “Sure, I’ll be right there. You eaten?”
Max pointed the data clip briefly at the tray of food growing cold on the half-table. Pulling the clip back, he saw Palos’ grimace of mock distaste.
“Jo! They still serving that waste? I got ribs from some railkill a friend of mine came across; I’ll bring some.”
Max thumbed off the clip, tossed it onto the table beside the food tray, and closed his eyes. He pictured the huge cryo facility, the vast rooms designed to house the slumbering workforce of which he was now a part. As a facilitator he would be reanimated just prior to human planetfall; the government infrastructure and inter-strata communications protocols would need fine-tuning before being handed over to the creators. Still, he would be dead to the world for centuries—‘paused’ as Central Services preferred it. Sitting here on his sofa, eyes clenched shut, he shivered as if the long, cold sleep were about to commence.
Copyright © 2004-2005 Jay and David Steele. All rights reserved.
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