Godlike Machines by Jonathan Strahan [Editor] Page B

keepsake,” I said, wondering aloud. “Something he was allowed to bring with him from the future. Something as ancient as the world he was aiming for. Something that must have been centuries old when he began his journey.”
    “Maybe,” Galenka said.
    I closed my own fist around the musical box. It was a simple human trinket, the most innocent of machines. I wanted to take my gloves off, to find out what it played. But I wondered if I already knew.
    A little later the chrome tide came to wash us away again.

    The men are waiting next to Nesha’s apartment when we return with her bread. I never saw their Zil, if that was how they arrived. There are three of them. They all have heavy black coats on, with black leather gloves. The two burlier men—whose faces mean nothing to me—have hats on, the brims dusted with snow. The third man isn’t wearing a hat, although he has a pale blue scarf around his throat. He’s thinner than the others, with a shaven, bullet-shaped head and small round glasses that bestow a look somewhere between professorial and ascetic. Something about his face is familiar; I feel that we’ve known each other somewhere before. He’s taking a cigarette out of a packet when our eyes lock. It’s the same contraband variety I used to buy on my ride into town.
    “This is my fault,” I say to Nesha. “I didn’t mean to bring these men here.”
    “We’ve come to take you back to the facility,” the bald man says, pausing to ignite the cigarette from a miniature lighter. “Quite frankly, I didn’t expect to find you alive. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to find you.”
    “Do I know you?”
    “Of course you know me. I’m Doctor Grechko. We’ve spent a lot of time together at the facility.”
    “I’m not going back. You know that by now.”
    “I beg to differ.” He takes a long drag on the cigarette. “You’re coming with us. You’ll thank me for it eventually, I assure you.” He nods at one of the hatted men, who reaches into his coat pocket and extracts a syringe with a plastic cap on the needle. The man pinches the cap between his gloved fingers and removes it. He holds the syringe to eye level, taps away bubbles and presses the plunger to squirt out a few drops of whatever’s inside.
    The railing along the balcony is very low. We’re nine floors up, and although there’s snow on the ground, it won’t do much to cushion my fall. I’ve done what I came to do, so what’s to prevent me from taking my own life, in preference to being taken back to the facility?
    “I’m sorry I brought this on you,” I tell Nesha, and make to lift myself over the railing. My resolve at that moment was total. I’m surrendered to the fall, ready for white annihilation. I want the music in my head to end. Death and silence, for eternity.
    But I’m not fast enough, or my resolve isn’t as total as I imagine. The other hatted man rushes to me and locks his massive hand around my arm. The other one moves closer with the syringe.
    “Not just yet,” Doctor Grechko—if that was his name-says. “He’s safe now, but keep a good grip on him.”
    “What happens to Nesha?” I ask.
    Grechko looks at her, then shakes his head. “There’s no harm in talking to a madwoman, Georgi. Whatever you may have told her, she’ll confuse it with all that rubbish she already believes. No worse than telling secrets to a dog. And even if she didn’t, no one would listen to her. Really, she isn’t worth our inconvenience. You, on the other hand, are extraordinarily valuable to us.”
    Something’s wrong. I feel an icebreaker cutting through my brain.
    “My name isn’t Georgi.”
    Doctor Grechko nods solemnly. “No matter what you may currently believe, you are Doctor Georgi Kizim. You’re even wearing his coat. Look in the pocket if you doubt me—there’s a good chance you still have his security pass.”
    “No,” I insist. “I am not Georgi Kizim. I know that man, but I’m not him. I just took