RAZOR

Razor stands out on the hangar deck of the ship, arms folded. The vessel hovers in a sort of stasis, several hundred feet above the ground. Stretching out ahead is a vast, sweeping dunescape. Rolling hills and plains of sand, pocked with a few high, flat plateaus of dusty rock.

According to the archives, this used to be a lush, green place, with a mild climate. Well above the equator—by thousands of miles—and only a few hundred miles east of the Pacific.

Razor brings up an Augmented Reality program inside his OS. His vision flickers. Now, instead of a reddish-brown desert, he sees fields of tall, thick, green grass, rippling in the breeze, flowing like waves on an emerald sea. The sun is still low, angling down, and the shadows of fluttering grass stream across the hills in repetitive, undulating patterns. Towering pine trees make an appearance here and there, with a sizable copse of them to the east, next to another larger cluster, merging into an impenetrable wood.

The AR program functions as a simulation based on climate data, but it also pulls from old satellite imaging as well. This is a rural area, with some farmhouses and cabins and such. To the north, some fields of crops, with combines—large, rumbling, mechanical harvesters—trundling across them, one end to the other. To the distant south, the alpine stretches of some buildings can be seen, reaching up toward the sky. Buildings that are all mostly gone now, ravaged and skeletal remains steadily picked clean by the wind and sand. It’s as if the dunes themselves are slowly flowing upward, enveloping them, swallowing them up.

Not that it matters. It’s all a bygone era, now. So removed by time and circumstance that it may as well be a fairy tale at this point. As relevant to everyday operations as findings of a far off galaxy, or microbial biology.

The use of the AR tech in this case, for Razor, is in the readings the program provides. They stream across the lower part of his vision, endless cycles of numbers and code. He keeps a tab, recording parts of interest for later reference.

A notification beeps, and a log window pops up, interfering with the program. Some seismic activity picked up by the ship's sensors.

Sighing, Razor accepts the ship's request to show him a video recording, taken mere seconds ago by one of the cameras. The feed shows a blast of sand spewing upward somewhere out there in the desert, followed by a thin stream of smoke at the same location.

This isn't right. There shouldn't be activity this close to the surface. At the surface.

But what does it matter? The safeguards are in place. The good little soldiers have been dispatched. If he has to, Razor will send more. It's as simple as that. It is not yet time to 'up the ante', as the humans used to say.

Still. It is troublesome. Every moment spent dealing with this is a distraction from his research.

Razor strolls the width of the hangar and ducks through the open doorway. He navigates a winding corridor, coming to a stop in front of a door marked 'Greenery'. The door slides open automatically, activated by proximity sensors, then shuts behind him.

The air is different in here. Climate-controlled. Tiny misters spew condensation at precise intervals, fine droplets which help to adjust the humidity, sparkling under the glow of the UV lights. Fans blow in the vents, cycling the air and generating artificial wind.

'Greenhouse' is the word the humans would have used for this. To Razor, it is a conservation effort. An attempt to peer back into the world that used to be. And perhaps, with time, restore some of it. But those last are thoughts he is especially sure to keep to himself.

The Greenery is split into multiple sections, cordoned off from each other, each with their own climate specifications. There are all kinds of flora here, from all over the continent, from shrubs, to berry bushes, to cacti, and even a few smaller trees. Though Razor keeps dozens of saplings, eventually he will have to throw most—if not all of them—out and start over. The same is true of the full-fledged trees themselves, once they grow too large. He has yet to find a suitable place to permanently transplant them; on this continent, anyway.

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He's begun tending to a leafy, overgrown bush--Vaccinium Ovatum--when another notification appears.

A chat request. From HQ.

If he ignores it long enough, it'll push through, anyway. So Razor accepts.

A little screen appears in his vision. It's Policy. Her long hair—the color of white sand—mostly pulled back into a tail today, with a part going down over one side of her face. She wears a navy suit and tie and holds a touchpad in one arm, resting in the crook of her elbow. She reaches up with her free hand to adjust silver-rimmed spectacles. Why she would need glasses, Razor doesn't know, and he hasn't bothered to ask. He prefers to keep interactions with her as brief as possible.

"Nice of you to stop by," Razor says. "What can I do you for?"

Policy frowns and cocks her head. It's not a friendly look. "What?"

"An old human saying," Razor says. Perhaps he should have just kept his mouth shut.

"We're not human, Razor."

"And aren't I grateful for that," Razor says. "Too many...fluids."

Now Policy is squinting at him, as if encountering an unpleasant glare from the sun. "...what?"

"Fluids," Razor says. "Fluid intake. Fluid outtake. And solids, too. In fact, the solids are almost worse-"

"Razor, you have a rogue Biodroid operating in your vicinity."

"Two," Razor says, examining an overly long branch extending outward from the Evergreen Huckleberry in front of him. "Two rogue biodroids."

"There shouldn't be any," Policy says. "They should be disabled. And the Blast Model's remains should be in your possession by now."

"All in good time," Razor says. He dips into his Nanobit reserves to make a small, knife-like blade appear, catching it in his hand. The perfect size to prune back those branches.

Policy presses her lips together in a fine line. "I'm going to be as clear as I can about this, Razor. There is a great deal of interest being taken in your assignment."

"Interest?" Razor runs a finger down the length of one of the limbs, feeling for the perfect place to make a cut. "From who?"

"Daimon."

Razor freezes, his blade an inch away from the leafy branch. "Really."

"He's been monitoring the situation closely. Directly, in fact."

"Well," Razor says. "Not directly. I'm the one on assignment."

"That so?" Policy says. "Because right now it looks like your little pet project is getting the lion's share of your attention. An old human saying."

She injects a degree of snark into that last bit. A dose of venom.

Razor puts the knife away, breaking it down into Bits and absorbing it into his reserve. "This isn't actually a conversation between me and you, is it?"

"Get the Blast Model," Policy says. "As soon as possible. That should be your number one priority. Because Daimon is beginning to think he needs to intervene personally. And if that happens...I've been instructed to tell you he intends to destroy your precious flora project, and forbid your little research outings."

Razor doesn't yell. Doesn't act out in any physical way. Not really his thing. But the outrage is likely visible on his face.

"Over some rogue Biodroid model, huh? I'm starting to wonder if that's all he is. Seems like I've been kept out of the loop, wouldn't you say?"

"You have your instructions," Policy says. "I suggest you carry them out while you have time."

The transmission cuts out.

Several stunned seconds pass. Precious seconds.

The water system comes on, spritzing the air with mist.

Razor turns his attention back to the Evergreen Huckleberry. The plant is in season, a state fostered by both its growth period and the Greenery's climate controls. A purplish, grapelike berry dangles from the long, overgrown stem.

Razor reaches out and plucks the berry with chromatic, mechanical fingers that gleam unnaturally under the UV lights. He plops the little fruit into his mouth.

His sensory systems construct lines of data which are then fed into his processors.

Tart. Sugary. A little chewy at first, breaking through the skin. And...crunchy. Those are the seeds. Dozens of tiny, brittle shards that burst and shatter between the teeth.

How accurate are his robot sensory systems, compared to how this would have tasted to a human? And does it matter?

To Razor, for some reason, it does.

But enough of that.

He heads back out of the room and down the hall.

He can't risk losing everything. Not over something like this. He'll give it his full effort. Soon, the Blast Model will be disabled, and the other rogue Biodroid destroyed. He can't afford to hold back anymore.

As he walks, he tells the ship's computer to ready a dozen Sand Seekers for deployment. At the very least, they'll slow his quarry down, if not detain him altogether. More importantly, they'll be a distraction. He also tells the ship to keep tracking the Blast Model's activity and to stay in pursuit.

There's an air bike in the hangar. Razor mounts it. Turns it on.

For a brief moment, peering out through the hangar opening, he activates the AR program again. In the simulation, the sky is a clear blue, dotted with tufts of white fluff. In reality, the view is brown and grey, marred by dark, ugly clouds.

He revs the engine.