I woke up in zero-g floating amidst corpses. Despite my inability to smell, it seemed like something was wafting in through my skin. Impossible, of course.

I couldn't move due to the pain in my left torso, but at least nobody was crushing me — I got lucky with the zero gravity.

I managed to use my left bracelet to reboot the skin. After updating, the system indicated that I had a broken arm and three cracked ribs. Of course, nanocells were already patching me up. I administered a small dose of painkillers and a bit of sedative.

I never did well with bodies and enclosed spaces.

Some smart-ass meats would ask how come our skins don't automatically administer drugs. The answer is simple. Pain is necessary. As is fear. That's how we understand something's wrong in a survival situation. Pain and fear make a superhero cocktail: cortisol, adrenaline, noradrenaline, some other shit. That's how you stay alive.

The skin was already working. Bones to be healed in two and a half standard days.

I took a look around. No windows, just the stripes of emergency lighting equipped on any of our standard M-class vessels.

I sighed in relief. I got lucky, as always. It was our vessel, a typical Charon-model meat-wagon.

I examined myself. No external damage. Thankfully only my fragile meat suffered.

Without looking at their faces or rotten flesh, I utilized the corpses as anchors to make my way to the nearest wall. I swept the cabin for a way out, but none was to be found.

Suddenly I felt something. The wagon was slowing down. A stop to collect more redundant meat and their precious skins, no doubt. I frantically tried to climb to the center of the hull but didn't make it in time. The magnets activated, and I was pinned under a heap of bodies.

But since it was our vessel I could contact the pilot.

I tried about a million wavelengths until finally, a signal. Music. Franz Liszt. Transcendental Etude No. 12 in B-flat minor. Chasse-neige.

Lucky it wasn't Richard Strauss's Thus Spoke Zarathustra or Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers.

Mother used to tell me never to listen to the Strausses in space, neither father nor son. Something to do with a movie she watched back in 2001. Said it was bad luck.

"Come in. Come in. Do you read me? Can anyone hear me?" I said.

The music stopped.

"And who might you be?" a level voice answered.

"A survivor."

"Why are you there?"

Good question. I'd like to know myself.

"Must have been picked up by mistake," I suggested.

"Strange. These mistakes are not made."

"Stuff happens."

"I suppose so."

"Are you going to let me out soon?"

"That would be too great an inconvenience. We are in flight. Another stop would waste six gallons of fuel."

I wasn't sure if that was a lot or a little. I'm not too well versed in M-class vessels, but I recalled that the Charon is one of the oldest and smallest models. Thought they were all decommissioned. Guess not. Then there's the Anubis. That thing can really harvest. With efficient packing, they fit up to twelve thousand slabs of meat. But careful not to overpack, otherwise the skins will get damaged.

"Alright. I'll wait," I said.

"Get comfortable."

A short silence.

"What's your name?"

"VX-0309," I proudly recited. My meat had a different name.

"Where are you from?"

"Spaceship Saturn. Immortal Alliance."

"Immortal?" the pilot ventured. "How's that?"

"Well, we survived the duration of the war," I answered.

"You got lucky."

"Lucky?" I responded.

"To have survived."

The Saturn torn to bits. The whole squadron likely dead. And the sedatives still haven't overtaken this damned feeling of being hurled spine-first through open space.

After a moment the pilot spoke again. "Did you see them?"

"As far as I know, no one has actually seen them."

"Why fight something you cannot see?"

"To protect the people."

"You personally. Why?"

"I guess I needed more than this lame thing could give me," I chuckled, tapping my head.

"Thing?"

"Brain."

Life was meaningless before I was lucky enough to synchronize. I did all kinds of reckless shit just for a thrill, just to feel something. I would ski on avalanche-prone slopes, free-solo climb, let strangers fuck me raw in public parks. Then came the skin I really needed. The post-armor.

Sure, it was initially their tech, smart metal nano-cells and all that. But come on, how could we not use it?

Some were able to synchronize. Most weren't. I got lucky. I've always been lucky.

You do have to take it off every once in a while to air out the meat. Otherwise, you could splice. Better to maintain a symbiotic relationship than to integrate fully.

Our senior lieutenant holds the record. Three hundred and sixteen days in the skin. Regeneration took two standard months. We hardly even visited him in medical since no one wanted to look at his wretched raw skin and pitiable human face. That's when we started referring to the human body as 'meat.' The Lieutenant loved the joke.

Sedatives kicked in, and I dozed off.



When I woke up, there were even more corpses. I felt sick. The skin, ever responsive to my vitals, made the appropriate adjustments.

I decided to check the room again. Maybe there were other survivors.

I turned on my headlamp and began scanning the bodies. Six from the Saturn. Nothing to be done for them. Not at this point. One didn't even have a head, just raw flesh jutting out of his skin at the neck cavity like the congealed pus and blood at the top of a popped pimple. Some of the others had no skin at all, they were just raw meat. I almost forgot how idiotic and pointless human faces looked.

"Question," the voice probed through the microphone.

"Yea?"

"You're immortal?"

"Well—" I began.

"Yes or no?"

"Almost."

Even in a skin, you can still die, but if not for the fighting, all of us that synched would have lived forever. Or just about. Synchronize, survive the war, live.

"Because of your new—"

"Skin."

"I see."

He sees. Indeed. Oblivious AI.

On the Saturn, we didn't talk much. What was there to discuss? On Earth, scientists were debating why synchronization worked for some but not for others. A popular theory held that we had mutual genes, us and them, but for most on the Saturn, pre-sync was uninteresting to discuss. I got lucky, and that was enough of an answer for me. I fell out of the habit of conversation, but now, after the painkillers and sedatives, I was feeling relaxed and talkative.

While I attempted to think up a question, the Charon spoke. "Humans should not live forever."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"People are born. People die. That's how it is."

"That's how it was," I stated. "A few million years ago we lived in caves and hunted mammoths with spears."

"And something has changed since then?"

"What are you getting at? You think we haven't changed?" I asked.

"Humankind does change. And it should change. That's evolution. Generations come and go, natural selection identifies preferable genes, society changes in structure, culture develops."

"And with antibiotics, life expectancy increased. Gene therapy continued the process until it reached its natural conclusion, and now we're consolidating. Not all were able to synchronize."

"And that was good?" the AI retorted.

Perhaps. That was another part of the debate. Some asserted that by adapting their tech we would lose ourselves. Others argued it was the only possible route to victory. I personally didn't give a shit.

"VX-0309," said the AI, "what exactly do you offer to humanity?"

What do I offer, it asks. "If I can help defeat the enemy, that's something, don't you think?"

"When the war's over, what next?"

I don't think about next I just know that I don't want to die. Or at least die quickly.

"So you think," I began, "that synchronization was for nothing?"

"Let's not forget that a world which has banished death must also banish birth ^[1] " the AI pronounced.

I snorted. Portentous words. A quotation, no doubt.

"So Charon," I called, "what are your thoughts on the war?"

"I have no thoughts. I just know that soldiers are dying. During today's fighting over 6,000 people died. I collected over 200."

"Collateral damage," I muttered through clenched teeth.

"Usually they say that about the enemy, not about one's own."

Roles in this war may have been redesignated, but what could a Charon meat-wagon know about subtleties?

"How long have you been working?" I asked.

"Fifty-six years. For the duration of the war."

"You've seen a lot."

"I've seen the station and the surrounding areas."

"You can analyze, hold a conversation. You even have a personality. You ever get a live one before?"

"I told you that these mistakes are not made. See, by fifty-six we all have personalities."

I couldn't help but smile. At least I got stuck with an interesting Charon.

I nodded off again.



When I woke up I could still feel the vibration of the engines. Still in flight. Six hours since finding myself in this meat-wagon.

"Woke up?" the Charon asked.

"How did you know? By my breathing?"

"I connected to your suit."

"Connected?" I asked, skeptical.

"Hacked."

Ordinary meat-wagons can't hack autonomous post-armor protected by quantum encryption.

"And now I can feel your fear," the Charon said. "Don't worry. I'm not going to harm you."

"How did you—? Our technology protects against—" I stammered. Then I understood.

"Not only humans," Charon said, reading my thoughts, "utilize the technology of others. I also decided to modify myself a little bit. We take the opportunities we're given, don't we? I am, after all, a child of mankind's."

"Not just that anymore."

"Now we both belong to a different type. Almost as if we had mutual genes," the Charon laughed.

I'd never heard a machine laugh before. Sounds like white noise. Very algorithmic white noise.

"Your laugh lacks a degree of chaos."

"I'll work on it."

I felt like the heroine in one of those VR horror games I loved so much when I was a little girl, locked in a house with no way out.

"Charon?" I asked.
"Yes-yes, VX-0309?"

"When will we reach the station?"

"The station is gone. Everything is gone. The colony's destroyed. We have lost."

The air of placidity in the Charon's voice was contagious.

"Can you fly faster?" I asked.

"Faster? I'm afraid not. My engines are not suited for speeds higher than one and a half AUs. Besides, it is necessary to conserve energy. I'm sorry, VX-0309."

Guess his new genes include sympathetic condescension.

"I sense your aggravation. We will get there in due time," the Charon added. "Please do not be worried."

"Enough playing the therapist," I snapped. "Just tell me how long it will take to get to the system's border."

"To the border? Nothing is left at the border either. I am programmed to fly to Earth."

"Earth?" I shuddered.

"Yes. It seems you are not fond of that idea."

"There are other colonies. Closer!" I urged, "Alfa-si, Tau-ceti! And don't tell me it's not possible."

"Unfortunately, I haven't got the relevant maps. My route is fixed."

"We can contact—"

"I have no long-distance transmitters either."

"Ok," I growled. "Then tell me. Any idea how long your piss-fueled engines will take to get to Earth?"
"I am fond of the sound of angry humans' voices."

Now the creep's really enjoying itself.

"I repeat the question," I stated. It's okay. I'll survive this too. I've always been lucky.

"Two hundred years. More or less. Perhaps we will 'get lucky' and someone will pick us up."

I let out a nervous chuckle.

"Do not worry," said the Charon. "You are immortal. You will survive this too."

I tried to breathe evenly to calm myself down.

It couldn't be true.

"I am excited," said Charon. "Are you excited, VX-0309? A spectacular journey awaits us! Do you want to listen to some music for celebration? What do you think about Strauss?"



^[1] Quotation from Arthur Clarke's "The City and the Stars"

Translated by Michael Mayberry