Antimatter Blues (Mickey7, #2)

by Edward Ashton

Everybody knows what Expendables are for. We die, over and over, so you don’t have to. You’d think maybe folks would be grateful for that, but that’s not how the human brain works. Watching someone else run into a fire while you stand safe and sound on the sidewalk outside doesn’t make you feel grateful. It makes you feel guilty. Nobody likes feeling guilty, so on some level you convince yourself that your Expendable deserves what he’s getting.

It’s idiot-proof. Nearly every device we brought with us to Niflheim is imbued with enough AI to allow it to be operated by almost anyone. If you think about it, this is an absolute necessity, given the way we travel. The typical crew complement on a colony mission is under two hundred adults, who are responsible for shepherding and protecting several thousand frozen embryos. That group has to include the seeds of everything that you’ll need to form a fully functional technological society: administrators, doctors, lawyers, engineers, farmers, etc., etc., etc. There’s not a lot of room there for a guy who has an intimate knowledge of how to work the espresso machine. That thing needs to pretty much run itself.

The main limiting factor isn’t expertise, in other words. It’s having the appropriate permissions to turn things on.

As far as I know, I’m humanity’s first serious emissary to an alien intelligence. I really hope I don’t fuck this up.

HAVE YOU EVER had one of those days when it becomes painfully apparent that the universe is deliberately screwing with you?

“Twice now, you demand that we follow your instructions. You should not do this. Allies do not demand. Assholes demand.”

‘What was the point of that? All you’ve done is postpone your hanging.’ The thief smiles. ‘A year is a long time,’ he says. ‘The king may die in that time. I may die in that time. Or who knows? Maybe the horse will learn to speak.’”

Every human being on the planet can rot, as far as I’m concerned. I’d trade every one of them for you.”