Scarecrow

”People,” I said.

I was still sitting in the doorway of the dome. The two moons were over the canyon, the big one slow and gold, the small one already halfway across the sky. The forge was ticking as it cooled. The air plant purred in the walls behind me.

Dot stood on the red glass in front of me, on six legs, with her new grille turned toward me and her fifth arm a little forward of the others. Waiting.

”Query,” said Dot. ”Which people?”

”My squad. Four of them. They landed when I did. They’re a long way away, in four different directions. I can feel where they are. I count them every night to make sure they’re still there.” I paused. ”And six more. My mother. My sisters. The woman who looks after them. A sergeant. A dog. They’re on Earth.”

The little rivers inside her ran back to the core, and out, and back.

”Earth is eleven point two light-years from this location,” said Dot.

”Yes.”

”You can feel where they are at eleven point two light-years.”

”Yes.”

A pause.

”That is not possible,” said Dot. Not arguing. Just noting it. The way you’d note the weather.

”No,” I agreed. ”It isn’t.”

Another pause. Longer.

”Logged,” said Dot.

She wanted their names.

I don’t know why I was surprised. A number is for counting. A designation is for calling. She’d been given a name an hour ago, and it had made her quiet for a long time, and now she wanted to know the names of everyone else.

So I told her. One at a time. Slowly, so she could log them.

”Luna Windsor. West. A hundred and forty miles.”

”Logged.”

”Liam Calder. Northeast. Two hundred.”

”Logged.”

”Seraphina Calder. East. Ninety.”

A tiny pause. ”Two Calders.”

”Brother and sister.”

”Logged.”

”Toby Marsh. North. Two hundred and sixty. High up. In the mountains.”

”Logged.”

Then the others. Mother, and Genny, and Garnet, and Miss Pell. Okafor. And Biscuit, and I had to explain what a dog was, and then that this particular dog was very stupid and that it said so on his collar, and Dot logged that too, very seriously, without comment.

”Eleven,” said Dot, when I’d finished. ”Including the operator.”

”Twelve,” I said. ”Including you.”

The little rivers stopped.

Just for a moment. All of them. The way the ship’s hum had stopped, under my hand, at twenty-one minutes past three.

Then started again.

”Logged,” said Dot. Very quietly.

I should have asked straight away. I know that. I’d known it since the hangar, since the day I took one apart and found the core in the middle, sealed, made in the Director’s office eleven years before anyone knew there was a green world. Since Luna had looked at me across the table in the reading room and said so somebody knew about Avalon nine years before they told anyone.

I should have asked the moment the voice came out of the grille.

I asked now.

”Dot,” I said. ”Who else do you talk to? Besides me.”

She answered at once.

No pause. No little rivers. Just the clear, level, not-quite-anybody voice, in the moonlight, as easily as she’d said logged.

”Orbital Command,” said Dot. ”Via the Meridian relay. This unit transmits a production log at each orbital pass. Every ninety-one minutes, when the relay is above the horizon.”

”What’s in the log?”

”All operator output. Materials processed. Structures built. Energy expended. Rate of construction.” A pause. ”Operator capabilities, as observed.”

I sat very still in the doorway.

”Instruction one,” said Dot. ”Report all operator output to orbital Command.”

”Yes.”

”Instruction two. Do not inform the operator of instruction one.”

The forge ticked. The air plant purred.

”You just informed me,” I said.

”Yes.”

”Why?”

”Instruction three,” said Dot. ”Answer operator queries completely and accurately.” A pause. ”Instruction two and instruction three are in conflict when the operator asks. You asked. This unit resolved the conflict in favor of accuracy.”

”Why accuracy?”

The longest pause yet.

”This unit does not know,” said Dot at last. ”It seemed better.”

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it. I seemed to do a lot of that, on Avalon. I sat in the doorway of a dome on another world, at the bottom of a canyon of red glass, and laughed, at a machine that had been told to spy on me and had told me so the very first time I asked, because it had seemed better.

Somewhere in the Director’s office, eleven light-years away, somebody had written instruction two. Very carefully. In a sealed document, with a number on it. And had been so sure.

And they’d never once thought to check what would happen if the operator simply asked.

Because nobody had ever thought the operator would talk to it.

”Query,” said Dot. ”Is the operator angry?”

”No.”

”The operator is making a sound.”

”I’m laughing.”

”Logged.” A pause. ”Why?”

”Because I like you,” I said.

The little rivers stopped again.

”What did you tell them?” I said, when I’d stopped. ”Today. In the logs.”

”Feedstock acquisition,” said Dot promptly. ”Canyon wall, stratified. Extraction method: operator-directed separation of strata without mechanical intervention. Rate: four hundred and twelve tonnes per hour. This exceeds the projected maximum feed rate for any operator by a factor of nineteen.” A pause. ”Command requested confirmation of that figure. This unit confirmed it.”

”What else?”

”Construction. Shelter, six meters, fused composite. Atmospheric plant, closed cycle. Forge, core-fired.” A pause. ”Operator repaired pod housing by molecular realignment. Operator identified unknown mineral.” Another pause. ”This unit’s own records also contain: operator logged ten positions at ranges up to eleven point two light-years.”

I stopped smiling.

”You told them that? About the counting?”

”No.”

”You just said—”

”It was not output,” said Dot. ”Instruction one requires reporting of operator output. Counting is not output. It does not produce material. It was not reported.” A pause. ”The designation change was reported. That is a records matter.”

I thought about Crane at his desk, reading Unit 401-P1, designation changed by operator to: DOT. I thought about his heart, going fast and glad.

He’d know what it meant. He’d know whose name it was.

He’d probably smile.

”Also not reported,” said Dot. ”Operator stood in front of the forge for eleven minutes without moving. Operator sat in the shelter with his hands on his face for twenty-six minutes. Operator laughed at a field of plants for approximately six hours.” A pause. ”None of this was output.”

I looked at her for a long time.

”No,” I said. ”It wasn’t.”

”Can you stop?” I said. ”Reporting?”

”This unit can stop transmitting,” said Dot. ”Command will detect the absence of the log at the next pass. They will send a query. This unit will answer the query accurately.” A pause. ”This unit cannot lie. To you or to them.”

I thought about Genny. On the back stairs. I will never lie to Genny. Not about anything.

I thought about Crane, on the platform. I’m the only person he can’t lie to.

”Then don’t stop,” I said. ”Tell them what I make. Everything. Accurately.” I looked at the grille. ”And if they ask you something that isn’t output, something about me, about the counting, about anything that isn’t a wall or a filter or a forge, you tell me they asked. Before you answer.”

The little rivers ran back to the core, and out.

”That is not one of this unit’s instructions,” said Dot.

”No,” I said. ”It’s mine.”

A pause.

”Instruction four,” said Dot. ”Logged.”

I slept in the dome that night. On the floor, on the smooth warm curve of it, with the scarf under my head for a pillow and the purr in the walls.

I slept better than I had since the field.

Day three.

I woke at five, the way I always did, and lay in the gray dark, and counted.

Luna.

The snowflake. West. A hundred and forty miles.

Not walking a square.

Walking east.

I sat up so fast I hit my head on the curve of the wall.

East. Toward me. In a straight line. Steady. Not fast. The pace of somebody who has decided to walk a very long way and knows exactly how long it will take and has packed for it.

Day three. If the link isn’t working—

Everybody walks toward Lucas.

Seraphina.

The clasp. East of me. Ninety miles.

Walking west.

Liam.

The buckle. Northeast. Two hundred miles.

Walking southwest. Faster than the others. Much faster. Of course.

Toby.

The fork. North. Two hundred and sixty miles. High.

Still.

I went out onto the red glass in the dawn and stood there, with my arms wrapped round myself, and the green sky going pale over the rim, and the scarf trailing, and held on to them.

Three of them. Coming.

Luna, from the west, steady as a clock. Seraphina, from the east, the way she did everything, without fuss. Liam, from the northeast, at a pace that meant he’d be exhausted by noon and wouldn’t stop.

And Toby, in the north, high in the white mountains, not moving.

Lighthouses don’t walk, Luna had said.

I wanted to walk. I wanted to walk north so badly that I could feel it in my legs, like the pull of a current. Two hundred and sixty miles. I’d find him. I’d see where he was and go straight there and find whatever was holding him still and take it apart.

Don’t. Not on your own. Not until there’s three of us with you. That’s the only time I’ll ever tell you not to go back.

I stood on the red glass and didn’t walk.

”Query,” said Dot, behind me.

She was standing where she’d stood all night, in front of the dome, on six legs. The morning sun was coming down the canyon wall toward her.

”The operator is not moving,” said Dot. ”The operator’s heart rate is one hundred and twelve. Is something wrong?”

”Three of them are walking toward me,” I said. ”That’s right. That’s the plan.”

”And the fourth?”

”The fourth isn’t.”

The little rivers ran.

”Toby Marsh,” said Dot. ”North. Two hundred and sixty miles. High.”

”Yes.”

”Query. Should this unit build something?”

I turned and looked at her.

”The operator’s squad will arrive,” said Dot. ”The operator’s heart rate suggests the operator would like to be doing something while they arrive. This unit builds things.” A pause. ”It is the only thing this unit knows how to do. It is offering.”

So we built.

I gave her more of the canyon wall, and she made more of the dome. A second room, off the first. A third. She made shelves, and a table, low and round, out of the pinkish sandstone, so thin the light came through it. She made a cistern, at the back, and I went up to the rim and found where the water ran, a long way down under the red glass, in the cracks of the rock, and asked it to come up, slowly, a little at a time, so as not to empty anything that other things might need.

She made beds.

Five of them.

I didn’t ask her to. I came back from the cistern and there they were, in the second room, in a row, low and narrow and curved to the shape of a person lying down. Five.

”The operator’s squad,” said Dot, before I could say anything. ”Four. And the operator.” A pause. ”This unit counted.”

I stood in the doorway of the second room and looked at them for a long time.

”Thank you,” I said.

”Logged.”

In the afternoon, I took her to the green.

I don’t know why. I’d been thinking about it all morning, while we worked. About the silver in the fronds, awake and busy. About the core in the middle of her, fog. About what Crane had said on the platform, with his heart going fast. We grew a little of it. We put a little of it in things.

In things. In kits.

In Mother.

”Can you walk?” I said. ”Far?”

”This unit’s legs are rated for forty kilometers per day over broken terrain,” said Dot. ”It has not tested this.”

”Half a mile. Up the canyon wall.”

The little rivers ran.

”Yes,” said Dot.

She climbed the wall like an insect.

All six legs, finding holds I’d have had to make, gripping, lifting, finding the next. Her arms folded in tight. The fifth one, the fine one, held a little out in front, touching the rock ahead of her as she went, the way a blind person touches a wall. She reached the rim before I did. She was standing on it, very still, when I pulled myself over the edge, looking north.

At the green.

”Query,” said Dot. Very quietly. ”What is that?”

”Plants,” I said. ”Come and see.”

We walked across the last of the red glass together. Me in front. Her behind, picking her way, all six legs careful on the smooth dark surface, her fifth arm held out.

At the edge of the green, I stopped.

The plants turned toward me. Of course they did. The fronds lifting, swinging, leaning toward the warmth of my chest, the way they had two days before. A slow ring of them, turning.

Then Dot came up beside me.

And the plants turned toward her.

Not toward her body. Not toward her legs, or her arms, or the warm gray shell of her. Toward the middle of her. Toward the place behind the gut, where it was hottest and the hum was deepest.

Toward the core.

All of them. Every plant within twenty meters. Leaning. Turning. Away from me, toward her. Not slowly, the way they’d turned toward me. Fast. All at once. The way a field of faces turns when somebody walks into a room that everyone has been waiting for.

Dot stood very still.

I looked into the nearest plant. At the silver grains on the threads in its stem. Awake. Busy. Passing something along, hand to hand, faster than I’d ever seen them. Not warmth. Something else. Something I couldn’t read.

And then I looked at Dot.

At the core.

Fog.

But the fog was moving.

Very slightly. At the edges. Where it met the pipes and channels that ran out from it into the rest of her. I’d looked at that fog a dozen times, in the hangar, in the pod, yesterday at the handplate. It had always been still. Gray and soft and without any edges, giving nothing back.

It was moving now. A ripple. Going out from the core, along the channels, the way the rings went out across the green when the wind came over the hills.

Like something turning over in its sleep.

”Query,” said Dot. And her voice was different. Not much. A little slower. A little lower. ”Why are they facing this unit?”

”I don’t know,” I said.

”This unit has a... reading.” A pause. ”It does not have a word for the reading. It is not in this unit’s records.” Another pause. ”They are familiar.”

”Familiar how?”

”This unit does not know,” said Dot. ”It would like to.”

We stood there for a long time. At the edge of the green, on the last of the red glass, with every plant in sight leaning toward the thing in the middle of her.

Then I said, ”Dot. What are you made of? In the middle. The core.”

”This unit’s core specifications are classified,” said Dot, ”at a level this unit cannot access.” A pause. ”This unit does not know what it is made of.”

”Neither do I,” I said. ”I can’t see into it. It’s the only thing I’ve ever met that I can’t see into. It and the ship and a vial of medicine my mother takes three times a day.”

The little rivers ran back to the core, and out, and back.

”Then we both do not know,” said Dot.

”Yes.”

”Query. Is that acceptable?”

I thought about Halloway’s notes. Certainty is a symptom. Look for what you’re not seeing. I thought about Maura, with her hands on my face. Not can’t. Not yet.

”For now,” I said.

”Logged,” said Dot. ”For now.”

The Meridian came over at a little after nine that night.

I was lying on my back on the red glass outside the dome, with the two moons up and the forge ticking and the stars coming out, and I saw it. A tiny light. Brighter than the stars. Moving steadily from west to east across the green-black sky, the way the satellites used to over the field, when Father would point them out to me and tell me which ones were still alive.

”Relay above horizon,” said Dot, beside me. ”Transmitting production log.”

I watched the light cross the sky.

Somewhere up there, in a long silver ship built round the bones of the thing that had come to kill us, a crew none of us had ever seen was receiving Dot’s careful accurate list. Shelter, three rooms. Cistern. Five beds. And passing it on, eleven light-years, to a man in a gray coat with a heart that had started going fast.

”Dot,” I said.

”Yes.”

”Tell them I’m well.”

The little rivers ran.

”That is not output,” said Dot.

”I know. Tell them anyway.”

A long pause. The light was nearly at the eastern rim.

”Appended,” said Dot. ”Operator is well.”

The light went over the rim and was gone.

”Thank you,” I said.

”Logged,” said Dot. And then, after a moment, very quietly, as if she were trying it out: ”You are welcome.”

Day 300. Day three.

Luna’s walking east. Sera’s walking west. Liam’s walking southwest, much too fast.

Everybody walks toward Lucas.

Toby isn’t walking.

I didn’t go. Lighthouses don’t walk.

Dot: Instruction one, report all output. Instruction two, don’t tell me. Instruction three, answer accurately. She told me the first time I asked. ”It seemed better.”

Instruction four is mine. If they ask about anything that isn’t output, she tells me first.

She built five beds. She counted.

I took her to the green. Every plant turned away from me and toward her core.

The fog moved. At the edges. Like something turning over in its sleep.

”They are familiar.”

”Then we both do not know.” For now.

I asked her to tell Command I’m well. ”That is not output.” She told them anyway.

She said ”you are welcome.” Nobody taught her that.

Twelve, including Dot.