Fear to Tread

by James Swallow

There was no memory of the self beyond the command, the deed and the completion of the action. If memory had once existed, then it had been excised by deft application of scalpel blades and laser cutting beams. Slivers of brain matter sliced out or burned away to render down a self into nothing. Or something more than nothing, perhaps, if one were generous. Was a tool a worthy thing? Was a lifetime locked into servility commendable? Perhaps, but only if such service was selfless. When shackled to it, made slave and helot in the name of service, then it was another matter entirely. Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s work tables for the day started and ended in this place, a commander’s lavish tent erected on the southern face of the Great Triumph’s stage. A light wind ripped the shallow peak of the pavilion overhead, but the servitor only registered the atmospheric effect in the most vague way. Perhaps if the weather changed it would be required to modify its operating parameters to reflect the circumstances, but so far there was no sign of such a thing. It did not possess the self-awareness to act upon data such as that; if a change was to be made, a fresh directive meme would be broadcast into the implant module that took up a full quarter of Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s skull. The module’s outer skin was made of brass polished to a brilliant amber lustre, and it matched the buttons on the servitor’s brocaded coat, the buckles on its boots, the multiplicity of additional finger...