ARKTIKA.1 (Short Story) Read online

  There were three Citadel Security mercenaries—well equipped and well trained, just like you—assigned to us. One was instructed to remain with the driver until help could reach them. The other two were told to escort us to the warm waiting car and safety.

  We traveled light. Anything that could have helped the colonists was gladly left behind for their use, as Citadel assured my father that superior equipment awaited him at the company’s headquarters in Singapore. I had a small backpack, and my parents each carried two suitcases. That was all.

  One of the mercenaries took point. We were to follow in the trail he had made through the snow. The second brought up the rear. The storm had passed completely by that point, and the sky was clear. The moon was almost full, and the brightness of its radiance, as reflected by the spread of the white blanket of snow, was almost as bright as daylight. I, of course, did not think about how easily we could be spotted, slogging through deep snow in a wide-open space on such a night.

  The mercenaries should have realized it, though.

  But then again, why would they? We were out in the open, yes, making our slow way through an open field flanked by copses of dead trees on either side. But the biggest concern was getting through the thick snow, not watching out for snipers. We were in the middle of nowhere.

  To this day, Papochka has no idea how the killers found us. He suspects that they did not know who we were—two professors and their child. I was tall for my age and did not look like a little girl. They must have thought we were important people, politicians sneaking off to some secret assignation, perhaps. Or bandit leaders smuggling black market goods. Maybe they simply thought we had food in our suitcases.

  It does not matter what they wanted or what they thought. As soon as they opened fire on my family and me, they revealed their hiding positions. The two Citadel mercenaries took them out before the echoes of their gunfire even died away—or so I am told.

  But it was not in time to save me.

  The bullet missed my heart but pierced my lung. I remember being surprised at the pain. I had always thought pain a hot, bright thing, but this was cold, so very cold, as if I had been shot not with lead but with a bullet made of ice.

  I fell backward, my arms spread out, as if I were getting ready to make a snow angel. I could not move. I was aware of my blood melting the snow, and I saw steam rising from the puddles as I sank into the white drift. The cold pain turned very, very hot as the Citadel mercenary gathered me in his arms. I remember my parents shouting, sobbing my name, pleading with me to stay awake. To stay with them.

  They tried desperately to race through the snow to the waiting car, something that was impossible to do.

  Breathing was first agonizing, then impossible. I remember the taste of blood in my mouth and then…nothing.

  Later, I was told that I had died before they could even get me in the car. My parents insisted that my body come with them to the Equator. They absolutely refused to abandon their little girl to scavengers in that snow-covered field where my lifeblood had poured and steamed in the bitterly cold air. This was, I am informed, extraordinarily difficult, but my parents were adamant.

  I have visited my grave. It was almost as difficult to obtain a plot of land at the Equator, then and now, as it had been to take my body to it. But my parents are determined people. The grave is a small, sweet place, and there is even a fruit tree growing over it. My tombstone reads: “Viktoria Yakovlena Ivanov. Born 2073, Died, 2085, Reborn 2097. Winter’s sleep has claimed your body, but your mind shall live forever.”

  It is sweet, is it not?

  The first thing I saw after dying was a bright light. The first thing I heard was the calm beloved voice of my father. He asked me some questions. My memory recall was erratic, but I did remember who he was and who I was. I was Viktoria, and I was dead, and I was an android.

  Humans—real humans, as I was before I died—think this must have been traumatic for me when they learn my story. They tell me they would have expected me to have difficulty reconciling human memories with the knowledge that my brain was one of the finest computers in the world, that my body was not flesh and blood and bone but wiring and gears and power cells. But I think that is just them bringing their imaginations to the situation. It was…surprisingly easy. I think it was because both Viktorias were, in a way, “created” by the same man. He was my biological father, and he was the designer of the machine that housed both the memories and the new information.

  I was never led to believe that I was human, and I am appreciative of that. My father is a good and honest man and sometimes blunt; he would never try to deceive me even for his own happiness. Both he and Mamochka accepted that, although in very important ways I was their child, I was also a robot. None of us struggled to accept that reality. It was, perhaps, easiest for me. My positronic brain downloaded the information and processed it with little effort. So that is why I said when we began this story that I am dead but I am here.

  Everyone asks me how I can have the memories of a human girl when I am a mechanical construct. I wonder that myself, but that is confidential Citadel Security intellectual property, and I have no access to it. I will say that my brain is modeled on that of a human, which is why my father needed to work with specialists.

  You react as many react, I see. You are curious, repelled, afraid, and excited by the very thought that I exist. Perhaps you think it morbid of my father to model his first Citadroid—that is the name we must use to refer to me; it is stipulated by the contract that was drawn up between Citadel Security and Artika.1—after his dead child.

  I do not think so. Do we not look at pictures of the dead so that we never forget their faces? Watch recordings to once again see their smile, hear their laughter? Keep things that were special to them and recall how they touched them, how they looked when they wore or held them? Some even keep clothing to which the loved one’s scent still clings. I am told that this is how we keep the dead with us still, in memory. In our hearts. And though I know that my papochka created this Viktoria—the one before you now, the one named for winter—to honor his biological child, he had another purpose in mind, too.

  He wanted me here.

  My parents did not forget the home they left behind or the people there. The colony may be forced to do without them, but they could have me. A Viktoria who had been born, as it were, to be a unique member of the community, who could help those who remained have better, happier, safer lives. Papochka did not want to send them a cold machine. He wanted to send them an old friend.

  I have been monitoring your reactions to my story so far. Your heart rate has fluctuated. Your breathing has quickened. Perspiration has broken out. Your pupils have been expanding and contracting as your emotions change while you listen.

  There is no other android on the planet as advanced as a Citadroid, and there are only four of us so far. The other three have been assigned to what was once London, Tokyo, and San Francisco. They all have been given the personalities of someone who once had lived in the area. Papochka wanted each colony to have someone familiar with it. But thus far, I am unique in that I am the only one modeled on someone who has died.

  Misha can tell you that when I first arrived here, everyone felt the same way you are feeling right now. I understand why humans fear androids and, in particular, why I was regarded by some with anger and disgust. We Citadroids are more intelligent than humans, and we think as fast as a computer. We are physically stronger and faster. We cannot die; practically any damage done to this frame can be repaired. But we pose no threat to them. There are over 47,222 different, independent protocols in place to prevent us from attacking humans, so the odds of that happening are—

  Oh. Misha says you probably do not care about that. I will continue.

  The odds are, to put it simply, extremely high that Citadroids will not “go rogue” or malfunction in any dangerous manner. But there was one thing my papochka knew that was even more important. And that was that his lit
tle girl had loved the people of this colony. She herself would never do anything that might cause them harm. She had friends here, and I remember those friends, because I am Viktoria. I have been carefully programmed to be their protector. And my memories, my…heart…is such that I love them. So I am not merely as safe as a programmed robot or as safe as a native of the colony. I am as safe as both.

  It took a little while for the others to understand this, and both my parents and I accepted that. There were long conversations with the duma—a group of citizens who had been elected to represent the colony in all interactions with the outside world. They were highly suspicious of me to begin with. They grew yet more mistrustful that I, personally, could not defend them. My programming against harming humans extended to all humans, so I could not stand against the groups of bandits that almost constantly attacked us. And, I must admit, Citadel was not keen to shoulder the costs of repeatedly repairing damage done to me.

  Misha, I think, had the hardest time of any of them, but now he is my dearest friend once again. It was several years after the original Viktoria had been murdered that I arrived. The colony had grieved and moved forward. I later would learn that Misha had taken the news of his friend’s death badly. So when I, Viktoria Yakovlena Morozov, arrived, looking so very much like his friend little Vika all grown up, he was at a loss for how to react.

  He would test me constantly by asking me if I remembered a certain incident. And, of course, when I did, he would only get more upset. This made no sense to a positronic brain like my own. It was his wife, Ana, who took me aside one day and tried to explain it to me.

  I have feelings, but they are more like programming than what humans understand as emotion. Say, for example, you are out fighting bandits and it does not look good. I might say, “I am worried about you.” What that means is that I have estimated the outcome of the battle based on current information that incorporates data such as your skill, the number and location of hostiles, the temperature, your line of sight, and the various weapons that are being utilized. If this scenario results in your death 83.7% of the time, my programming to keep the colonists and the Citadel mercenary defending them safe is being severely challenged. And so I become “worried.” When you survive, I am “happy.” If you are tricked by the enemy, I become “angry.” The memories of the flesh Viktoria blend with my programming, and that is how I am able to experience emotions.

  It took Misha’s firstborn—little Marya, who is not quite so little anymore, is she, Misha?—for him to understand and accept me for who and what I am now. Ana, like almost everybody here at Arktika.1, remembered me, too, but she was more curious than afraid or suspicious. Yes, sweet Ana, I speak of you! You are like a little cat, always wanting to find out things! And Marya follows right in your footsteps.

  Marya was, what…two? Three? Two and a half, yes. She is a precocious one! She was sitting very nicely in her mamochka’s lap, playing with a little fabric toy, when Ana asked me if I remembered love.

  I replied that the answer was yes. Moreover, I did not only remember love, I had felt it as an android. That was when I explained what I have just described to you. How I process information as it pertains to my primary program directive: to protect the citizens of Arktika.1. I remembered what the first Viktoria had felt toward her friends, her parents. And in the remembering—or, more technically, accessing my memory databanks for pertinent information—I found that I did not simply remember love. I could experience it now, here, the love of a friend, as I watched the mother and the child together.

  Marya had been listening, and she began to squirm in her mamochka’s arms. “Vika,” she said, and reached out to me to be picked up. I accepted that precious weight in my arms, which can hold up to 1,500 kilograms. She stood on my lap, placed her hands on my shoulders, and looked deep into my eyes.

  “I love you, Vika,” she said, and then pressed herself against me, her arms going around my neck.

  My heart melted, as humans would say. My heart, such as it is, is a battery wrapped in silicone and wires. It did not melt. But it did surge. I could tell. And when I hugged her back, I said, “I love you, too, Marya.” I felt a strong stability that meant that I was in perfect alignment with my programming.

  The next day, Misha made the trek all the way out from the colony to the control tower to talk to me. Yes, I am going to tell this story about you, so hush and let me tell it to our new friend.

  He said that he was sorry. He did not understand that when he was cold or insulting to me, it distressed me. He did not realize that in my own way I had “feelings.” Misha missed the Viktoria he remembered, and he did not like the idea of a “fake robot Vika”—No, my friend, those were your exact words! You know I have a perfect memory!—coming to our colony and trying to take the place of his childhood friend.

  But when Ana recounted how Marya had gone to me and how I had reacted, he realized that maybe he had been wrong about me. That I was not, could not be, the human Viktoria. But I was, and could be, a Viktoria that had survived death to emerge changed.

  I told him that I understood his reluctance to accept me, but I was so very glad that his daughter, a little girl he loved, had shown him that in many ways he had not quite lost another little girl he had loved.

  Once Misha had accepted me, it was not long before the rest of the colony let down their guard. I began to be invited to partake in dances and dinners. I cannot consume food, but I remember well what it tasted like, and I enjoy helping prepare it and watching others eat. And as for dancing, I was not programmed with those skills. But I have learned them since.

  I may not be able to attack our enemies directly. But I can help those skilled mercenaries that Citadel Security sends, like you. Did you know that Citadel Security used to send a team of ten to protect the colony? And that the average life span of those ten Citadel mercenaries was a mere six months? Alarming, is it not?

  But since I was sent to Arktika.1, that has changed. Over the last three years, we have reduced the team to a single mercenary, and we have lost only one. That improvement is directly due to me. I constantly analyze and assess threats, and that information goes directly back to Citadel. With this information, they can provide improvements to weaponry, armor, and training. When you leave to go on your assignments each day, you have a supercomputer who can watch, monitor, and advise you. The odds of your successfully completing your year here are…well, a lot higher now!

  And there is more. My father is not a psychologist, but he worked closely with those who were. There is a component in all this that cannot properly be evaluated, and that is morale. Because mercenaries like you can now protect us more efficiently, resulting in many lives saved, including, of course, your own, it is all right for us to befriend you. And for you to befriend us.

  Before I came here, I am told, the mercenaries kept to themselves. And the colonists did the same. There was little connection between the two groups. Between this and the…attrition…of the mercenaries, most of them never met the people they were dying to protect, and the colonists never even knew their names. The mercenaries were precisely that in all respects: hired guns with their own survival and their own pockets to motivate them.

  My parents knew this community bone-deep. They knew that it was connection, not separation, that enabled the colony to survive despite the harsh conditions and the violence. Like nearly every community, this one endured so much upheaval and violence. We even had the extra burden of the yagas causing our numbers to dwindle and creating fear of what lurked in the darkness. My father understood that if he could somehow find a way to bring both the colony and the people who defended it together, everyone would benefit.

  So, with a Citadroid that not only wants to protect the colony but also loves it dearly, Citadel was able to send fewer, better mercenaries. They were, of course, free to keep to themselves, but the ones who have chosen to interact with us…to, as you do now, sit across a fire with us, sharing food and drink and laughter and stories…t
hey are healthier, mentally and physically, and the colony is safer.

  It is a harsh and bitter world. The snow and ice claimed many. But it did not claim us. We are a people who draw strength from adversity and from one another. We are a community. And if you wish to be part of that community, you will be welcomed with open arms. Maybe Marya will even give you a hug.

  I am glad you are here tonight, Jack Mitchell. Very glad indeed.

  About the Author

  CHRISTIE GOLDEN is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including Star Wars: Dark Disciple and the Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi novels Omen, Allies, and Ascension. Her media tie-in works include launching the Ravenloft line in 1991 with Vampire of the Mists, Fable: Edge of the World, more than a dozen Star Trek novels, and multiple World of Warcraft and StarCraft novels, including World of Warcraft: Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects and StarCraft II: Devils’ Due.

  christiegolden.com

  Twitter: @ChristieGolden

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