Science fiction seems to be going back in time. The next millenium has always been, and remains, the most popular time period in which for science fiction works to be set. However in decades past authors had a preference for the very far future that seems to have gone out of style nowadays. Today, a space opera set in the year 200 000 is likely to strike readers as a quaint, old-fashioned SF story; whereas a eco-thriller set in the year 2015 holds more interest due to its proximity to our own time period. I'm waiting for authors to start setting most of their science fiction stories in the past; that will really be something new.
This month's is a bumper issue, beginning with short fiction by regular contributor Frances Taira, readers' feedback, and four more book reviews in the Sci-Fi Corner (Fred Noweck has generously and perhaps foolishly permitted me to add a review of my own to his column this month). Next, Frederick Rustam's latest serial continues, and the issue concludes with a second poem by David Kopaska-Merkel, Glass Tiger, which was first published in Star*Line magazine. Let me know if there is anything else you would like to see in Ibn Qirtaiba, and I'll do my best to include it.
Short story: Self Defence by
Frances Taira
Serial: Further Adventures of a
Data Organizer, part 2 by Frederick Rustam
"Developing new methods of biological warfare doesn't interest me. I teach pharmacy and consult with drug companies on developing new antibiotics," Brian Davis M.D. said.
In college, Antony Montoya lifted weights and talked about becoming a police officer. Now he holds a job in the Public Health Corps. Why is he sitting in my office recruiting me?
"If the Bacillus anthracis mutates with no known antidote, you and all your students will die."
That response wiped the boyish smile off Brian's face, revealing its sharp edges. Perhaps he was denying reality. Without a biotech capability, the PanAmerican Union would be defenseless against terrorist attacks.
"Either you go to jail, or you accept a temporary four week assignment to the PHC."
"To do what?"
"Investigate the death of a biotechnician."
No time to decide now. He would think about the situation later.
Brian met his pharmacy students at the patient teaching center on Tuesdays. A public health officer was waiting outside the center door. Her beautiful, chestnut hair was pulled back under a navy cap, with a lieutenant's logo and her laptop computer was ready to spout out data as needed. She looked around, but the short young teacher blended in with his graduate students. She checked a photo ID and came towards Brian.
So many physicians died treating plague victims, that telepharmacy became essential. The center volunteers respond to telephone and e-mail requests for information about patients' prescription and nonprescription drugs. The students find out the information and explain it to the patients. They refer difficult questions to Brian or to the center's medical doctor as necessary.
"The public health department needs your help as a consultant in the fight against biological terrorism," Lucie Fontaine said.
"I doubt that. Hunting down terrorists involved in biological warfare is a job more suited to those with military or law enforcement experience." He scribbled down the name of a renowned expert in PHC.
"He is not available. You are it."
Probably, she needed an introduction to get an appointment. Brian telephoned the scientist. The man was hospitalized - no further information available.
He motioned for Lucie Fontaine to sit down. "What happened?"
"That's what we want the investigation panel to find out. The manager and a PHC supervisor toured Chicago Midwest Lab two days ago. We were testing flu vaccines to send to the Luna colony to fight their epidemic. The vaccine was contaminated. The manager died and the supervisor was hospitalized."
Probably Montoya suspected a problem in house. "Show me how I can help."
Lucie nodded in satisfaction and reached into her briefcase for the report's disk. "First identify the cause, method used, and consequences of the lab contamination."
Brian recognized on the skin of the two patients, the signs and symptoms of devastation from a disease agent mutation. He never expected to see bleeding from ulcers in the skin and all the body orifices like that, outside historical archives. The expert had conducted research on the immune system's response to infection from biological warfare. Now he understood why Montoya contacted him. Brian could be regarded as a potential co-conspirator or victim.
"You know Antony Montoya."
"In college," Brian said.
"He runs the lab, since the manager died. I could have done it, but we're in competition for a promotion. You won't hang around after your four weeks is up."
Probably another reason Montoya recommended him.
"An undercover agent obtained the terrorists' plan. First introduce anthrax and plague germs, mixed with medical supplies from the Earth lab, to infect and kill the Luna colonists. Demand a lot of money for an antidote. If they abandon the colony, buy their land, mineral rights etc. cheap. Next sell the land to Earth born colonists, who have been specially immunized against biological warfare."
Brian shook his head. "Sounds like an Internet conspiracy theory to me. That's so complex, demanding the involvement of a large group of people and top political connections. Besides no one has a universal antidote for mutated bacteria. I must talk to Supervisor Roberts about that angle, when we interview him in the hospital."
"Roberts is sure terrorists are involved."
"May I speak to your undercover agent?"
"Only if you participate in seances. Let's visit the lab and the site of the accident." They left together.
At the lab, Brian dropped a copy of the two patients' reports on Montoya's desk. "Are any of your friends responsible for this?"
"I no longer am active in political causes." He turned to Lucie. "Are you here to arrest me?"
"You have to put the germ warfare research on hold. The lab workers were told in the government guidelines that you have an antidote, if they are accidentally infected," Lucie said.
"I told these employees the truth. To deter terrorist attacks, the government bluffed that we already had an antidote." He made a copy of the revised company information handouts for her files.
"As a member of the investigation panel, I have to appear under truth hypnosis, before the senate subcommittee," Brian said.
"Postpone your testimony for a month. We're so close to finding an antidote for the mutation. You are condemning our colleague to death."
"No. Your funding has been cut off."
Montoya handed him a picture of a brain dead man on life support."As long as the doctor doesn't declare the manager dead, I can use his company accounts to fund the search for an antidote."
They examined health records. Everybody working on this project and all their close family members had a complete physical exam, with emphasis on the immune system. Brian was raised in an orphanage, parents unknown. Montoya suggested, "I challenge you to join Lisa and our health inspectors taking the lab samples, since a person who survives the infections of childhood in an orphanage, has a terrific immune system."
"Since I have not recently been vaccinated, I'm not comfortable taking a chance like that."
Brian put up warning signs that told the workers no antidote was yet available. They said, "We're not stupid and we know that." Fighting a war against terrorism is complex. People want to defend their families and country.
Antony and Lucie warned Brian against going to the hospital and interviewing the supervisor. Apparently he felt ill and he was a political appointment with powerful friends.
"You can't censor me," Brian said.
Tim Roberts resembled Santa Claus. He announced he was retiring due to ill health.
"Do you believe this accident was due to the lab's negligence?"
"No. But I'm not sure what the security branch of the government was testing at the lab."
"Why were you there?" Brian asked.
"To ask to have myself cloned. The manager turned me down."
Fake embarrassment. He'll blame the dead guy. Wonder what's under the fake hair piece. Brian knocked it off. Underneath was an infected scar not documented in the patient's record. Brian went to the administrator's office and was told to wait.
Ten minutes later Science.online had a news item in "Science Today" with the byline - Brian Davis. Not only did it leak the confidential patients' reports, but it was expensive - $500 to view or download. Brian slumped in the chair, staring at the screen. Telling the secretary, "I sent an e-mail to the online news to correct the byline," Brian called Antony and Lucie.
"The supervisor finally admitted that he had pig glands implanted in his brain to renew his youthful sex energy. The evidence of contaminated glands is in a nearby lake."
Lucie shared with Brian a fax, that accused hospital lab workers of throwing lab materials into the lake.
Antony appeared angry. "Are you trying to make us look bad? You didn't even want to participate in this investigation. Now you're releasing confidential documents online to grab credit."
"An attempt by the administrator to reduce my strong credibility, when I make my report."
Brian took a back pack and climbed into a helicab with a reporter. "Doubt there's a story. I alerted the local cops."
The region around the lake, was a curtain of flames, burning off the top soil. The cadavers of dead wild life and pigs created a nauseating smell. The water filter indicated positive for anthrax.
Brian called Montoya. The PHC bombarded the lake with a high frequency sound wave that disrupted the bacteria's cell wall. Some variation of this might work with bacterial infection in people. The local police arrested the workers, who identified the supervisor and hospital administrator as leaders in the cover up.
To stop Brian warning about terrorism attacks, his opponents distracted him with an invitation to appear on Media Five as science rep. Reporting news isn't as much fun as making news, but he wanted to erase the leaked report from the public's memory and prevent a cover up.
One week later, the corps voted for an acting supervisor to take over for Roberts, who was in trouble. Antony and Lucie expected to win the election. They discovered an antidote and successfully treated the supervisor. However people wanted a new leader not tied to old alliances.
At a corps online meeting before the election, Montoya joked, "What are we working on? We have a mole from Elvis that we're cloning the singer from. No? Same old stuff, anthrax spores."
Lucie commented, "Anybody that creative should be involved in serious research - under strict supervision. Let's call a general conference in six weeks to define our health research priorities and how to achieve them."
"What turned you around, Brian, to get involved?" Montoya challenged. "Data analysis of a potential epidemic? International TV fame and fortune?"
Brian whispered, "The heat of the flames and stench of the burning pigs showed me a picture of hell on earth. The cadavers of men, women and children will burn, if we don't all work together to solve the problem of biological warfare." Across the planet viewers looked at the face of a prophet and listened to him.
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The only thing worse than Xena would be that Sinbad series, which thankfully only aired about three episodes in Australia.
Xena must be the best icon of "should be dud" SF&F, with its promise of t&a. I don't know if it provides t&a, but that side is so well known as to be used as a plot device in another US syd-com Something So Right.
Andrew Johnson
Australia
Ed: Andrew's letter was actually sent to me in October last year in response to another reader's letter in issue 28. My apologies Andrew that your letter fell through the cracks, but having rediscovered it I thought it should see the light of day at last! I'm beginning to think Xena fans have suffered long enough as the butt (no pun intended) of Ibn Qirtaiba's gentle ribbing (er...), and I'm willing to make a clean breast of it (sorry!), by substituting Lost in Space for Xena as the archetypal bad SF&F series mentioned on our home page. If there are any Lost in Space fans reading this, now is the time to speak up!
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Ok, ok!! So give me 50 lashes with a wet noodle! I haven't read that much sci-fi this month... only fantasy. Specifically, Sword and Sorcery. I can't help it. Every now and then I need the escape of S&S. I'm tearing my clothes in front of you, in case you can't see me at this time (and it won't be that long before you can... video scanners are dropping their prices like nothing that I have ever seen... but that's another story). This month we have:
Also, we have a guest review this month, again of the fantasy genre!
So without further ado, or any ado....
Oathbound is the first in a series of
Swordmistress and Sorceress (as opposed to Sword and Sorcerer) tales which started life as
a short story in Marian Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress series. This
short story is recounted in the third of the series, so don't worry if you can't find it.
I enjoyed the change of pace, following the adventures of a wandering White Winds
sorceress and a Swordsworn.
The Swordsworn are those, male or female, who for one reason or another, have sworn an Oath before the Goddess to follow the Way of the Sword. Tarma's reason was vengeance for her slaughtered clan. In this first book, Tarma and Kethry try to gain a reputation so as to ease the re-raising of Tarma's clan from scratch (a difficult task at the best of times). Complicating matters is the sword that Kethry bears, called Need. If a woman is in need anywhere that the sword can detect, Kethry must come to her aid. Come Hell or High water....
The Willing Spirit is a delightful romp through Hindu mythology. Immortals
Ravana and Mohini have a wager going. Mohini, as a Love goddess, wagers that she can
seduce a mortal seven times without getting him killed in the process, while Ravana wagers
that he can get the mortal killed before the mortal completes the task they have set
before him. The mortal, of course, knows nothing of this and so goes his blissful
(ignorant) way, subtlely nudged on his way. Ravana, as a male immortal, has fallen in lust
with Mohini. And Mohini wants no part of Ravana. So the wager is that if Mohini wins,
Ravana has to leave her alone for a hundred years. If Ravana wins, he gets to ravish her
for the same period.... Interesting reading even if you don't know anything about Hindu
mythology.
A College of Magics covers the (eternal) trials and tribulations of the college student who doesn't want to be at college. Specifically, Faris Nallaneen, heir to the Duchy of Galazon, doesn't want to leave home for the strange land that the College of Greenlaw abides in. Her uncle just wants her out of the way until he can figure some way of wresting her inheritance permanently away from her.
Maybe if he had looked further, he would have noticed that the main course of study at Greenlaw was Magick....
Ok, now it's guest speaker time....
Thank you Fred for allowing me to invade your column with this review. Wolves of The Gods by Allan Cole is the second and latest novel in the author's Trilogy of the Timuras, an heroic fantasy series set in a world where demons and humans live alongside each other and a dark force has upset the balance of nature.
In this installment of the story, the
protagonist Safar Timura (a character based on the ancient poet Omar Khayyam) is faced
with a dual mission: to lead his townsfolk to a new home away from the vengeful claws of
his nemesis Iraj Protarus, and to uncover the source of the magical force that is
poisoning his world. The "claws" of King Protarus are literally that; as he has
entered into a magical pact with three members of his court which binds them together as
shape-shifting wolves. This book chronicles the first part of Safar's odyssey,which takes
him through hostile territory, magical badlands and a false paradise to reach the port
from where the next leg of the journey will begin, if he can survive a showdown with
Protarus....
Allan Cole has written science fiction and fantasy for both print and visual media, and may be best known to readers for his collaberations with writing partner Chris Bunch. As can be surmised from the above synopsis,Wolves of The Gods does not stray far from the tried (and some would say tired) formula of heroic fantasy novels; namely a quest to save the land from a tyranical magical force with traps and monsters to negotiate along the way. With this in mind, however, Cole does a good job of lifting Wolves of The Gods above the run of the mill and creating a worthwhile addition to your fantasy bookshelf. He has a readable, conventionally poetic style, a good sense of pacing, and he populates his novel with characters who are memorable although in some cases painted with fairly broad strrokes.
Some fantasy authors, with Tolkein the first
and prime example, weave so many narrative threads into the plots of their novels that the
story becomes difficult to follow. In contrast Cole's original plot outline must have
borne a remarkable resemblance to the table of contents of the book inwhich the short,
distinct chapters are succinctly described by their titles. In fact my only real criticism
of the novel is that it perhaps expects too little of its audience. Indeed,
portions of it - such as a chapter devoted to a circus show - read as though they were
written for children (perhaps in consequence of the fact that these chapters focus on
Safar's half-demon child Palimak, and the child's "imaginary friend"-like demon
companions).
Overall Wolves of The Gods is an involving and enjoyable read. The book does not presuppose any knowledge of the preceding volume in the series, although additional enjoyment is no doubt to be gained by those familiar with it. The novel ends with something of a cliff-hanger, which will induce those who enjoy heroic fantasy novels to await the next instalment with eager anticipation. Others will be content to wait for Allan Cole's next science fiction offering.
Send e-mail to Fred@sf.sig.au.mensa.org or snail-mail to The Sci-Fi Corner, PO Box 30245, Savannah,Georgia 31410.
We want to hear from you! See ya next month!
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The story so far: Data Organizer Robert Crawley is returned from the planet Redrock where was working for datacult leader Agent D, to the datapirate ship Jolly Jug. The ship takes him to the space station Arcade where he is to be auctioned as a slave. Prior to the auction he is placed in a cell with a dataterminal and an android for company.
The only sound in the closed room, aside from the soft hiss of the ventilator grille, was the sound of clicking keys. Bobby was typing an email letter to his former girlfriend and fellow data organizer, Ranavalona... Of course, he didn't have an email address for her, or even know where she was. But he had decided to try a long shot: he'd post a message for her on the public bulletin board that was accessible to any dataship that stopped at, or passed, Arcade. He would tag the message for her ship.
"Capt. Morganski told me you were being returned to the good old Terrinforma. So if Capt. Brickbender checks Arcade's public BBS, he'll find this letter and give it to you," he typed. "I sure miss you. I hope everything's OK with you now."
He reread what he'd typed, then added. "That's about it, Ranny. I'm locked up in a room with a brain-dead android, waiting to be sold at a slave auction..."
"I am not brain dead, sir. I have merely suspended my processes to await proper activation protocol."
Bobby jumped from his chair and whirled to face the voice that had spoken behind him. The android was still lying on its back. He moved over to the bunk, a little fearful despite the respectful tone of voice he'd heard.
"You have activated me, sir." The android's dark eyes moved to fix his fellow prisoner. Then, suddenly, he sat up, effortlessly. Bobby jumped back.
"How did you know what I was typing?"
"I read the electromagnetic signals from your terminal, sir. They are in a common communications code called 'ASCII.'"
Bobby gaped at the 'droid as he considered this remarkable ability. "Can you transmit, too?"
"Easily to devices equipped with a RASTIN - a RAdiodata STandard INterface - possibly to others not so equipped... This terminal is in the latter category. The Arcade Management is most cautious."
"I guess you weren't designed to dig ditches, then."
"No, sir. I am a Paramount Datadroid, First Class... My name is Amanuensis. You may call me Manny. It is similar to your friend's nickname, Ranny - but different."
"What in my letter specifically activated you, Manny."
Bobby pulled his chair over and sat facing the large android. He no longer thought of Amanuensis as "it".
"In your letter, you indicated that you had worked for both Web Possibilities Ltd. on Earth and 'the alien intelligence operation' on Rubicon Four. I was constructed by those selfsame aliens, the Rulatuvani. My basic instructions require me to communicate with and assist anyone who is an operative of the Rulatuvani."
This was the first time Bobby had heard the name of Redrock's aliens.
"That's me, alright," boasted Bobby for the first time. "So you and I are a team, now... How do you come to be here?"
"I was abducted by pirates from my master's yacht and sold to Kivo Artish. Mr. Artish intends reselling me to the highest bidder... I am quite valuable," he added, matter-of-factly.
("I'll say... Your former master must be rolling in dough to afford a 'droid like you.")
"Welcome to the club... But I'd rather not wait for the auction. If we can escape from this room, maybe we can sneak onboard a stopover ship - although I confess I'd like to see something of Arcade, first. I guess that's just a pipedream, though."
Amanuensis arose from his bunk and loomed over Bobby. "It may be possible, sir. I can open the door and we can go to the designated agent of the Rulatuvani on Arcade. He, or she, will undoubtedly offer us sanctuary... However, I do not know name of this person."
"Well, now's the time to find out how vulnerable the station's central computer is," said Bobby. He pulled his chair back to the terminal.
Amanuensis stood behind him to watch. "May I monitor you, sir?... My datajacking skills are rudimentary - despite my having many natural datahandling abilities."
"Sure," assented Bobby. "This is your chance to watch a datamaster in operation." He knew his jocular boast would be accepted by the android as factual. But he had to prove it.
"You realize of course that Kivo Artish is monitoring this terminal?" Amanuensis reminded the datamaster.
"No problem Manny, I'll erase all the log entries of my activity... Here's Lesson One: the first step is to take is the simplest one."
He paged beyond the display of the Code to the Main Menu, chose the Search function and typed "rulatuvani" in the dialog box. Another dialog box was superimposed on the screen. It requested a password. "See how simple that was?... Now we need a password."
"Try 'tuvanirula'." Bobby did, and a page appeared. It was the public homepage of an Arcade businessman. The word "Rulatuvani" did not appear anywhere in the site's text to identify him as their agent.
"Tuvanirula?..." Bobby frowned. "Manny, that's just an anagram of 'Rulatuvani'. It's a guessable password. It offers almost no data security."
"Did you guess it, sir?"
"No, but I'd have eventually tried it... Anyway, it got us what we need. It seems your agent is 'Jerash Norin,' a tailor whose registered shop is located in Section 8 of the Concourse." Bobby contemplated the man in the passport-type photograph. Jerash Norin was an elderly, bald man with swatches of unruly white hair around his ears and old-fashioned gold-rimmed spectacles.
"We should leave now, sir, and go to Jerash Norin's shop."
"How'll we avoid Kivo Artish's guards?"
"I will neutralize the guards, sir."
The multitalented android unlocked the door by putting his large hand to the lockplate, transmitting signals, reading the lock circuit's response, then sending more signals... It clicked open. They were free - so to speak - Bobby and his new big brother.
"What else do you have in those hands of yours, Manny?"
"All will be revealed in good time, sir."
"You don't have to call me 'sir,' you know."
"I am afraid I must, sir. It is in my operating system."
It was Arcade's third, "midnight" work-period. Artish's lone guard was watching a pornovideo in the guardroom at the entrance to the slaver's suite of "offices". To Bobby's surprise, Amanuensis boldly entered the room, seized the guard in a vicelike grip which prevented him from crying out, and put a finger to his temple. He held the struggling man until he lost consciousness. "We may proceed now, sir."
"What've you got in that finger, Manny?" The android's casual answer: "A hypodermic injector, sir. I injected a dose of hyperpentobarbital. The guard will recover after a deep sleep."
("Boy! Is this my lucky day, or what?!... I wonder if he has a radgun in his thumb?") In fact, he did. In the other thumb, he had an electrostunner. Amanuensis was well-equipped - for a datadroid.
They set off into the Maze. Amanuensis led the way through the complex of corridors. "I recall the way, sir," he assured Bobby.
Soon, without meeting anybody, they exited a numbered door and found themselves in the Concourse. They slipped into the late-night crowd of shoppers and revelers. The uniformed spacers wistfully reminded Bobby of the Terrinforma. Some passersby stared at Amanuensis, and one drunk yelled out, "Hey, Frankenstein!"
The android's visibility was a disadvantage, here. But Bobby knew that no ordinary troublemaker would likely bother him while Manny walked beside him.
"Uh oh! The cops!" Two burly members of Arcade's Security Garda appeared, ahead. They advanced toward the escapees in a leisurely fashion, glancing about them in the traditional way of policemen on a routine patrol. "I can handle them, sir," said Amanuensis.
"No! We don't want any public trouble here in the Concourse!" Bobby looked around, desperately seeking a place into which they might bolt... There. An antique shop was still open. The sign on its display window proclaimed, in old-fashioned gilt paint,
RARE AND ANTIQUE WEB DATA
M. Kandu, Proprietor
Bobby and Manny ducked into Kandu's. It was empty of customers. A large potted palm filled a corner. Old posters advertising early Web sites covered the walls. Plastiglass display cases contained labeled datacards and illustrative photographs of old Web pages.
The two operatives pretended to examine the displays as the two Security policemen strolled by in the Concourse, outside.
"Wow!... Look at this stuff, Manny! He's got some great Web 'tiques." Bobby inched his way along the display case. "Here're some of the pioneer SFF&H ezines."
"SFF&H?" queried Amanuensis... "Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror," supplied Bobby. The android added this acronym to his huge database of useful knowledge, then he swiftly began to catalog the displayed datacards; the information might be useful, later. It was his way. "This is indeed a treasure trove of Web 'tiques, sir."
From behind a beaded curtain, the shop's proprietor watched his customers and listened closely to their talk. It was his way. His brow furrowed at hearing the slang word, "'tiques." ("Today's young people are so careless with language,") he bemoaned.
Kandu's workroom dataterminal chimed softly. He left the curtain to check the new display.
"Look. He's got a complete edition of Ibn Qirtaiba, one of the classic SFF&H zines. I could never afford to buy the datacard, though. He wants an arm and a leg for it."
"Amputation is not so disadvantageous as you may believe, sir. The prosthetic state-of-the-art is quite advanced," replied the android.
"Manny, I didn't mean..."
"Welcome to the House of Kandu!" boomed the voice of a Turk.
A bearded man thrust aside the curtain's beads, which clacked for some time after he passed through them. He was dressed as an Effendi - or maybe even a Pasha - complete with a long-tasseled red fez.
"Purchases can always be negotiated at Kandu's, gentlemen... But perhaps you'd first prefer to conceal yourself in my workroom." He rolled his eyes toward the Concourse in an unmistakable gesture.
Amanuensis straightened, seemingly for action. "No, Manny," cautioned Bobby, who grabbed one thick arm of the android.
"You see, your likenesses have just appeared on all the public and shop dataterminals. It seems you two are escaped slaves. The Garda is now seeking you." He raised his thick eyebrows.
"You've got a point, Mister Kandu," agreed Bobby. He and Amanuensis hurried around the display counters and through the beaded curtain. They stood in the dimly-lighted workroom, surveying a collection of dusty packing boxes. Two doors to other compartments faced them.
"Just call me Kandu... And please raise your hands."
They turned to find their rescuer pointing a radpistol at them.
"Kivo Artish's loss is my gain," smiled the antique dealer.
"Well, then. Here's my proposition: I'll sell you two to the person or organization of your choice if you cooperate with me and allow me my profit... Given your apparent worth, the profit from your sale should be quite generous."
Bobby and Amanuensis sat on an old leather couch. Kandu kept them covered with his pistol as he addressed them in a soothing voice.
"It's better than being sold by Artish to the highest bidder - who could be some neurotic noble or cruel planetary dictator. Under the circumstances, giving you your freedom is quite out of the question. If I hadn't rescued you from the Garda, you'd be back in the Maze facing an angry slaver... This is Arcade. There's nowhere to run."
"Do you really believe you can get away with stealing two of Kivo Artish's slaves and selling them, yourself?"
Kandu smiled, indulgently. "You underestimate me, Robert Crawley. I'm not the simple shopkeeper you believe me to be. I have very good connections. I deal in more than Web - 'tiques - as you call them."
Bobby was unconvinced... Kivo Artish was a registered businessman. He had the protection of the Arcade Management. The Code of Conduct probably prohibited this sort of commercial piracy aboard the station. Kandu could end up on the outside of Arcade's hull for doing this.
"What do you want us to do?" he probed.
Kandu beamed broadly, and lowered his pistol.
"First, you datajack into the station's central computer and delete Artish's records of your sale to him - including the backup file, of course... Artish is such a technology-trusting fellow. He creates as little paperwork as possible, so he probably has no printed records of you two." He paused. "Eh?..."
"Okay. I can do that. The station's computer uses the old NUNIX operating system. It's supposed to be a high-security system, but it has some holes known only to professional datajacks - like I was."
"And will continue to be, I judge. I can tell: it's in your blood, Brother Robert," declared Kandu, emphatically.
"You know about my time at WebPoss, then?"
"I know a little about a lot of things. But, yes, your reputation has preceded you, Brother Robert."
"Call me 'Bobby,' Kandu. But call my friend 'Amanuensis,' or he'll break your neck."
Kandu laughed. "He's yours to command, Bobby." He raised his pistol. "But just so you understand the realities of our situation: I know just where to aim to disable an android, and I'm a crack shot. In my youth, I was a Janissary in the Sultan's elite personal guard on New Turkiya... Fortunately, I was not chosen for his harem guard... Now, what's your decision?"
Bobby considered Kandu's offer. He asked Amanuensis, "What do you think, Manny?"
"Sir, I think Kandu's scheme is fraught with danger."
Kandu frowned at this analysis. "Just what I'd expect a machine to say... All I ask is that you function on my behalf. And in return, I'll find you two a good master. I won't confine you here, provided you exercise care to avoid being caught by the Garda."
"Agreed," declared Bobby. "Right, Manny?"
"As you say, sir."
"Good... Good," summed-up Kandu. He stuffed the pistol into the belt which confined his ample belly.
"Please begin your datajacking as soon as possible, Bobby. Use a public terminal so your work can't be traced back to my shop. You'd better wait until the Concourse is crowded with day-shift arrivals. I'll disguise you so you won't be recognized. Okay?... You can sleep here on that couch. I assume your companion needs no sleep. Of course he must stay in this room. He's too conspicuous."
"Okay. Manny, go stand in a corner," said Bobby in a humorous reply to Kandu's fiat. The android arose and walked to a corner of the workroom and stood silently with his back to them.
"I was just joking, Manny. You can turn around and face us."
"As you wish, sir."
"Just like a machine," scoffed Kandu, who pushed through the beaded curtain to close his shop for the night.
Bobby whispered toward Amanuensis, knowing he'd hear every word. "Stay alert, Manny. I'll go to Norin and make the arrangements for our escape. Then we'll deal with this damn 'tique dealer - Janissary, or not."
"By your command, sir."
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My heart's a glass tiger
Not only here but on the Moon,
Or maybe if the clouds
Permit, a crudely carven rune.
Queer to think that
Robots follow, where once the
Stealthy dancers fled,
Telling tales of amethyst,
Unguent, and lead.
Victors all, our mirth unbound
With many a glad cry,
Xeroxing our private parts with
Yellow paper sighs. The
Zone's a trap we've fallen in,
And one with many keys;
Before we know it
Cerulean lips will nuzzle tween our knees.
Dead, or worse, we'll then lament,
Ears to hear are none,
Fight amongst ourselves at last,
Guarding well our tongues.
Helpless then to intercede,
I'll watch you fade away,
Just smiling sadly, speak no word
Know nothing left to say...
Lament another day.